The Weaver and the Witch Queen E-Book

Genevieve Gornichec

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 691

Beschreibung

Two stepsisters encounter the gods and giants of Norse mythology, as they face their intertwining destinies and an ominous prophecy in this powerful novel from the acclaimed author of The Witch's Heart. Oddny and Gunnhild meet as children, and they could not be more different. Oddny longs for a quiet, peaceful life. Gunnhild, on the other hand, burns for power, secretly longing to harness the magic that flows inside of her, and one day become queen. But after a visiting wise woman makes an ominous prophecy that involves them both, the girls take a blood oath to help each other always. When Oddny's mother is killed and her sister kidnapped by Viking raiders, she finds herself set adrift from the life she imagined. Gunnhild, who fled her home years ago to learn the ways of a witch, is on her way to her exalted destiny. When they find each other again, their bond will be tested in ways they could never had imagined in this rich novel of magic, history, and sworn sisterhood.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also by Genevieve Gornichec and available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Part One: Early 900s CE, Norway

1

2

3

Part Two: Twelve Years Later

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Part Three

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Part Four

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

Author’s Note

Appendix

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“Intimate and sweeping, richly detailed and propulsive, tragic and uplifting, The Weaver and the Witch Queen proves Genevieve Gornichec really can do it all. Oddny and Gunnhild’s story is epic, timeless, and most of all honest in its portrayal of the indomitable strength of women, the joys and pains of sisterhood, and the limitless power of love in all its many forms.”

Vaishnavi Patel, New York Times bestselling author of Kaikeyi

“An epic novel about magic, sisterhood, and the bonds that can both bind and break us. This story stayed with me long after I finished reading.”

Alexis Henderson, author of The Year of the Witching

“Beautifully woven and achingly human… a masterful tale about sisterhood, destiny, and what we’re willing to do for the people we love… I loved it.”

Allison Epstein, author of A Tip for the Hangman

PRAISE FOR THE WITCH’S HEART

“A beautiful and fleshed-out story for the jötunn Angrboða. Genevieve Gornichec both acknowledges her erasure and resolves it, giving Angrboda a life beyond her relationship with Loki, even as she explores their love story in detail. We see Angrboða as a powerful witch and seer, a devoted mother, a lover and friend, and most importantly, as a woman at the heart of her own story at last. I’m very grateful for books like this one.”

Samantha Shannon, New York Times bestselling author of The Mask Falling

“The Witch’s Heart is a vivid and enjoyable journey across the vast wilderness of nordic mythology. Angroboda’s story is a delightfully nuanced, queer, and powerful reminder of love and survival on your own terms. Read this book when the world is ending; read this book when you are looking for the world that comes next—I’m so very glad I did.”

A.J. Hackwith, author of The Hell’s Library series

“The Witch’s Heart is a unique novel that transforms the faceless names of an epic tale into living, breathing, sympathetic characters. With a witty and spirited protagonist, this book will surprise and delight from beginning to end.”

Louisa Morgan, author of A Secret History of Witches

Also by Genevieve Gornichec and available from Titan Books

The Witch’s Heart

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The Weaver and the Witch Queen

Print edition ISBN: 9781803361390

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803361406

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: July 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Genevieve Gornichec 2023

Published by arrangement with the Ace, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC

Genevieve Gornichec asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For the friends who walk beside us, and the ones who take another path

PART ONE

EARLY 900s CE, NORWAY

1

A horn sounded across the water in two short bursts.

Upon hearing it, Gunnhild Ozurardottir dropped her spindle and distaff and ran, ignoring the admonishments of the serving women she’d been spinning with under the awning. They would scold her later, but she cared little.

Her friends were about to arrive. And at such times she found it hard to care about anything else.

Gunnhild rounded the corner of the longhouse and sprinted up the hill, making for her father’s watchman on the eastern side of the island. He was stationed on a small platform overlooking the water and always had a blowing horn on hand.

“One ship!” he called over his shoulder at the other men milling about, not noticing as Gunnhild hiked up her dress and scrambled up the platform’s short ladder. “It’s Ketil’s!”

Before he could protest, Gunnhild grabbed the horn off its peg and blew it twice. As she lowered it she heard noises of disappointment coming from the children on the incoming ship, and she pumped a fist in victory. “Yes!”

“Oi!” the man said, snatching the horn from her. “That’s only for emergencies!”

“This is an emergency,” Gunnhild replied with gravity. She pointed to a dark shape in the water. “As soon as they pass that big rock in the bay, they blow the horn. And if I don’t respond before they dock, I owe them a trinket. Two blasts for ‘hello,’ three for ‘goodbye.’”

“Aren’t you a little old for games, girl?”

“Not when I know I can win!” With that, Gunnhild scampered back down the ladder and ran for the shore, leaving the watchman shaking his head.

As she approached, Gunnhild could see Ketil and his son, Vestein, tying up their ship at the rickety wooden dock. Three other people disembarked: Ketil’s wife, Yrsa, and their daughters, Oddny and Signy, whom Gunnhild practically tackled in a hug. Sighing and shifting the bedroll in her arms, Signy rummaged in her rucksack and handed over a single glass bead, which Gunnhild snatched up with an air of triumph and stuffed into the pouch at her belt.

At twelve years old, Gunnhild was exactly between the sisters in age—Signy a winter older, Oddny a winter younger—and the girls rarely got to see one another except at gatherings, which made this day even sweeter.

“You’re too fast,” Signy complained as Gunnhild threw an arm around each of her friends and herded them up the hill toward her father’s hall.

“Or maybe you’re not fast enough,” Gunnhild said, “because when I visit you I still win. I have a collection to prove it.”

Oddny sniffed and picked at one of the furs in her bedroll, her thin shoulders hunched, her pinched face looking more so than usual. “Maybe we’d win every once in a while if Signy ever stopped daydreaming and paid attention.”

“Hush, you. I pay attention,” Signy said lightly, but her green eyes were brimming with mischief. Gunnhild appreciated that about her: Whether it was stealing oatcakes from the cookhouse or pulling a well-timed prank on the farmhands, Signy was always up for a little fun, whereas Oddny was more likely to sit back from whichever of her chores she was dutifully performing and give them a disapproving look. Oddny wasn’t much fun, but at least she never tattled on them.

As they entered the longhouse, Gunnhild saw that preparations were well underway for the ritual and feast taking place that evening. Near her father’s high seat at the far end of the hall, a small square platform had been raised for the visiting seeress to sit on, so she could look out over the crowd as she revealed their futures. It sat just under the wooden statues of the gods Odin, Thor, and Frey, which loomed beneath the jutting lintel above the entrance to the antechamber where Gunnhild’s family slept.

Gunnhild had never seen her father’s hall looking quite like this: buzzing with activity, the air charged with excitement. The seeress’s impending arrival had turned the entire household upside down, and Gunnhild considered herself lucky to have escaped from her spinning in the chaos.

A knee-high platform ran the length of the hall on each side, where guests would feast and then sleep. By day, light streamed in through the holes in the roof above the two center hearths; by night, the longhouse would be dim and smoky, lit only by the hearth fires and by the lines of oil braziers hanging from the posts that ran down either side of the hall and divided the seating areas into sections.

“Where is our family sitting?” Oddny asked her as they neared the center of the hall.

“My mother assigned the seats,” Gunnhild said. “We can ask—”

As if on cue the woman in question came out of the antechamber, already dressed to welcome the guests in her finest brooches and beads, and with a gauzy linen head scarf knotted at the nape of her neck. Before Gunnhild could so much as speak, her mother was upon them.

“What mischief have you been up to, Gunnhild?” Solveig demanded. “Why aren’t you spinning with Ulfrun and the others? They’re supposed to be keeping you out of the way.”

They didn’t tell on me, Gunnhild thought with short-lived relief, for the look on her mother’s face was nothing short of hostile.

Oddny and Signy moved in fractionally closer on either side of Gunnhild, Signy’s arm tightening around her friend’s back, and even Oddny—a paragon of submitting to parental authority—stiffened as if bracing for an attack. Solveig would never dare strike her daughter in front of guests, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done so in private, and both Ketilsdottirs knew this. They had seen the proof more than once.

“I—I heard the horns,” Gunnhild said at last, her friends’ presence giving her strength, helping her find her voice. “I had to win.”

“Not this silly game again,” Solveig said scathingly, and she echoed the watchman’s earlier sentiment: “Aren’t you girls a little old for this?”

“It’s only a game.” Gunnhild raised her chin. As she stared her mother down, Oddny and Signy held their ground beside her until their own mother entered the hall.

“Hello, Solveig,” said Yrsa with forced politeness. “Are my daughters causing trouble already? We’ve only just arrived.”

Solveig plastered a look of equally strained courtesy onto her face. “Not so. I only suspect that mine is, as always, up to no good.”

Yrsa’s voice turned cold. “Gunnhild just came down to the dock to escort us to the hall. Why does this offend you?”

“I feel compelled to remind you, Yrsa, that you are a guest in my home,” Solveig said stiffly. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion on the way I choose to deal with my own daughter.”

“Of course.” Yrsa’s eyes narrowed, but she gave her host an insipid smile. “Before we get settled in, is there anyone in need of my services?” There was usually no shortage of sick or injured people on any given farm, and Yrsa was a skilled healer.

“Not that I know of. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” Solveig gestured to the section of the platform two spaces down from the high seat, then looked to Gunnhild. “Clean yourself up and get ready at once.” She made to breeze past them but stopped to hiss in her daughter’s ear, “And do not embarrass me tonight.”

Then she was gone, and Gunnhild could breathe again.

Yrsa’s keen eyes followed Solveig as the woman went to greet the next guests. “Oddny, Signy—why don’t you help Gunnhild get ready?”

The sisters dumped their bedrolls and scurried off with Gunnhild to the antechamber. Her parents slept on the right side, and behind a curtain on the left side were two wooden bunks with thin straw mattresses atop them.

Gunnhild had once shared this room with her sisters, but as they were much older and had long since been married off, she now bunked with Solveig’s most trusted serving women, and she was glad to see that none of her aged roommates were present. Besides the bunks, the only other fixtures were a few small chests, one of which was Gunnhild’s. She opened it and added the bead Signy had given her to the little pouch full of smooth skipping stones, seashells, and other baubles she’d won over time from the Ketilsdottirs. Then she took out a bone comb and began to assault her thick dark red hair.

Gunnhild’s feast clothing was already spread out on her bunk: a linen dress soft from years of use; a woolen apron-dress, faded and threadbare but woven in a fine diamond pattern; and a pair of tarnished oval brooches with a simple string of beads. All had been handed down to Gunnhild from her older sisters.

“Mother asked to foster you again at the midsummer feast, last time we were all together,” Signy said as she sat down on the bunk with the clothing on it, the beads clinking together at the movement. “Your mother refused.”

“She said you were too old now.” Oddny sat down on the opposite bunk. “As if she hasn’t been asking forever.”

Gunnhild grimaced, but this came as no surprise; she knew there was no escape for her. She’d tried to run away once or twice, slipping out during the commotion of a feast after stealing some finery from her parents’ chests to pay her way to . . . Where? If not to Ketil’s farm—the first place they would look for her—where could she possibly go? Each time, she’d ended up returning in the dead of night, putting her parents’ things back where she’d found them, unpacking her bag, and slipping into bed.

She had thought that nothing would frighten her more than Solveig, but it turned out that the unknown was more terrifying still.

“Of course she refused,” Gunnhild said hollowly. She loves to deny me anything I could possibly want. “And on top of everything else, I’m not allowed to have my fate told tonight.”

Signy had been running her hand enviously over the diamond twill of the apron dress on the bed, but her head snapped up at this. “What do you mean, you’re not allowed to have your fate told?”

“My mother decided it.” And, as usual, she hadn’t offered an explanation besides because I said so. Her father, however, had been a bit more willing to talk after a few drinks and a prolonged exposure to Gunnhild’s whining. “But Papa said it’s because I had my fate told when the last seeress came through.”

“But you were three when the last one was here,” Oddny said with a frown. “That’s not fair. You can’t possibly remember what she said.”

“Of course I don’t.” Gunnhild crossed her arms. “And no one will tell me!”

“For once, I agree with Oddny Coal-brow,” Signy said, and her sister hmphed at the nickname, earned because Oddny’s thin eyebrows were a much darker brown than her fine, mousy hair. “What if you just came with us when our mother calls us forward? Solveig can’t make you sit back down without embarrassing you both. People would want an explanation.”

“She’ll make my life even more miserable this winter if I disobey her,” Gunnhild said glumly, and neither of her friends disagreed.

Gunnhild braided her hair into a thick plait, donned her dresses, and pinned her beads and brooches in place. When she was done, Signy gave a sigh of admiration and Oddny gave a nod of approval. Neither of the sisters owned a set of brooches. The two wore faded woolen gowns—red for Signy and dull yellow for Oddny—and Gunnhild knew Oddny’s was a hand-me-down, for the younger girl had it tightly cinched at the waist with a thin overlong leather belt.

Nevertheless, their dresses were free of stains and didn’t show any obvious signs of mending or patching, so Gunnhild knew that these were likely the best garments her friends had; even their mother’s weren’t much better. And yet, though the family had so little to their name, Yrsa was still adamant about bringing their neighbor’s mistreated daughter into their home.

Gunnhild swallowed the lump in her throat and sat down beside Oddny. “Let’s stay out of the way until the ritual starts.”

“Otherwise Mother might put us to work,” Signy said, disgusted, as she flopped onto her back on the bed. “I want to go one single day without picking up a spindle. Is that too much to ask?”

“Just because you pick up a spindle doesn’t mean that you get anything accomplished with it,” Oddny said under her breath, and Signy stuck out her tongue.

To keep themselves busy, they decided to rebraid Oddny’s and Signy’s hair, which had become windswept during the crossing. By the time Gunnhild had fixed Oddny’s twin plaits and Oddny had done the same to Signy’s, they could hear more and more voices coming from the main hall.

“I suppose we should go before our mothers come looking for us,” Gunnhild said at last, standing. The ritual would begin at dusk, and by now the sunlight outside was spent; the start of winter was almost upon them, and the days were getting shorter. Soon the sun would barely rise at all, and she’d be trapped inside this hall, weaving and sewing by firelight, completely under her mother’s thumb.

But not yet. Tonight, she had her friends by her side, and the future awaited.

***

The hall was full and the braziers had been lit, and the seeress herself was the last to arrive, borne north by King Harald’s tax collector and his retinue.

Along with the neighboring farmers, Gunnhild’s father’s friends among the Sámi had been invited to attend. They clustered together at the back of the hall, although Gunnhild saw that a few of the women had wandered over to chat with Yrsa in Norse. Ketil and Ozur had stopped to talk with the Sámi in their language, and Gunnhild heard Ketil’s roaring laugh from across the room as the largest of the men clapped him on the back with a grin.

Gunnhild would have to go sit with her parents once the feast began, but for now she sat with Signy and Oddny, content to watch their fathers conversing in a tongue the girls didn’t understand.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Signy said.

“I wonder what the Sámi will think of the seeress,” Oddny replied. “Did you know Papa said their men are more likely to be seers instead of the other way around? I’ll bet their rituals are much different, too—”

Signy batted her sister’s arm. “Shh. It’s starting!”

A hush came over the hall as the seeress finally appeared. The old woman was frail and peculiar, from her lambskin cap and gloves to the multitude of mysterious pouches at her belt. But what drew Gunnhild’s eye most of all was her iron staff, twisted at the top, its brass fittings gleaming in the firelight.

The girls couldn’t help but stare. Gunnhild’s hands clenched into fists on her lap, and her heart felt ready to beat out of her chest.

While the rest of the people in the hall watched with a mixture of fear and respect as two of the tax collector’s men helped the hobbling old woman to the platform, the Sámi looked on with unveiled curiosity. The seeress’s stool—a plain piece of wood with three short legs, topped with a feather-stuffed cushion—had been assembled atop the small platform. The room quieted as she broke away from her escorts and straightened her spine, then ascended the steps and took her seat.

“Will those willing to sing the warding songs come forward?” she said. Her voice was surprisingly commanding, booming from her small body like a thunderclap.

Yrsa, Solveig, and the rest of the women stood and formed a circle around the platform.

Signy grabbed both Gunnhild and Oddny by the arm and whispered, “One day, that’ll be us up there.” Oddny shushed her, but Gunnhild nodded. Yes, their mothers had taught them the songs, and it was likely that one day when they were older, the girls would be called upon to assist in rituals just like this one.

But Gunnhild could not imagine herself as one of the singing women. The power the seeress commanded by her mere presence—as if she could change their fates on a whim instead of simply being the messenger of what was to come—was more appealing to her. It was downright intoxicating.

The seeress looked out over the women. “Your agreement to assist me must be given freely, so I ask you again: Are you willing to help me summon the spirits tonight? Will you raise your voices together to call them here, and to keep out any who mean us harm?” They expressed their agreement, and the seeress said, “Then let us begin.”

When the women began to sing, the sound sent a thrill through Gunnhild’s bones. There were no words to these songs, but the melodies made the hair on her arms rise. After a few moments, the seeress closed her eyes and, tucking her iron staff under her arm like a distaff, began to mime spinning.

Gunnhild let out a small gasp. As one of the old woman’s hands pinched and pulled invisible wool from her staff, the other hand flicked an imaginary spindle, and Gunnhild saw that a thin thread was forming between her fingers, pulsing with a strange white light.

No one else seemed to be reacting to this impossible sight.

“Do you see that?” she whispered to Signy and Oddny.

“See what?” Signy whispered back.

“The thread,” Oddny breathed. “I see it, too.”

“What thread? I don’t see anything,” Signy said, raising her voice, which caused her to be shushed again, this time by several nearby adults.

The girls turned their attention back to the ritual. The seeress suddenly dropped hold of the invisible spindle, the other hand clenching her staff tightly and pulling it from beneath her arm. The end of the glowing thread reached from her chest to twirl around the staff, then dropped down into the floor; and now it was taut, as if something pulled it from below.

Gunnhild’s stomach twisted.

The seeress opened her eyes—which had rolled back into her head to reveal only the whites—and intoned in a voice that was much like her own but not quite: “Would those who wish to know their fates come forward? Be warned: We’ll say only what we wish, to whom we wish.”

“That’s a spirit talking through her?” Signy said in a loud whisper, and Oddny shoved her and said, “Hush.” Gunnhild ignored them both; she was transfixed by the spectacle, the warding songs humming in her bones as the women continued singing, more quietly now so the seeress’s words could be heard.

One by one, people approached—some on their own, others ushering their entire families toward the platform, and the circle of women parted to receive them. The seeress, keeping her chin raised and her unseeing gaze distant, told them that their harvests would be good, that their children would be healthy, that the livestock they didn’t cull would make it through the winter.

For some, the seeress hesitated a few moments, white eyes flicking around as if searching. For others, the spirits seemed to come more readily. The Sámi murmured among themselves, but none of them came forward to hear their fates.

“Is there anyone else?” the seeress asked the assembly when it seemed as though most in the hall had had their turn, including each of the singing women.

Yrsa turned and looked at her daughters, her eyebrows raised as she subtly jerked her head to beckon them, and Signy and Oddny stood and went to the center of the room. Signy cast a look at Gunnhild over her shoulder as if to say Come on before she and Oddny took their places in front of the seeress, and the circle of women closed around them.

Gunnhild’s eyes bored into the back of her mother’s head, anger rising in her. It’s not fair that I can’t hear my fate when no one will even tell me what the last seeress said about me.

But maybe this one knows, too. Her outrage gave her a sudden burst of courage. So I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.

She hesitated a moment longer before she stood and bolted after her friends, pushing through the circle until she was standing next to Oddny and Signy. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her, could feel the rage coming off her in waves, but Gunnhild didn’t turn to look at her.

Up close, the fires of the center hearths and the braziers gave the seeress a haunting look, the dancing orange light intensifying the deep wrinkles in her skin and glinting off the brass casings on her staff. She seemed to have been about to speak—until the moment Gunnhild stepped up to join Oddny and Signy. Then the old woman faltered, scowled, sucked her teeth.

Oddny was shaking. Gunnhild took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Beside them, Signy bounced on the balls of her feet.

Then the seeress finally spoke: “One of you clouds the futures of the others. For better or worse, your fates are intertwined.” Her features contorted again, this time in fear and confusion. “I dare not say more.”

Gunnhild heard a collective intake of breath around them, followed by shocked whispers, but she could scarcely hear them over the blood roaring in her ears. Oddny seemed equally distressed, her fingernails digging half-moon ridges into Gunnhild’s skin; but Signy, undaunted as ever, was the one to finally say: “What do you mean?”

But the seeress offered nothing further. She seemed suddenly tired, and much older than she had a moment before. “I have said enough tonight, and now I shall be silent.”

She slumped forward on her stool, her chin falling down to her chest, and Gunnhild watched as she yanked up the glowing thread as if it were a fishing line. As soon as she did, her body jerked, her eyes opened, and her pupils and irises returned. The tax collector’s men stepped up to help her down from the platform.

And Oddny, Signy, and Gunnhild stood perfectly still, all eyes on them, until Solveig stepped out from her place among the women, whose singing had halted the moment the seeress had awoken. With a thin smile, she announced that the feast would now begin, and the hall filled with hesitant chatter, soft at first before growing in volume.

Then Solveig turned back to her daughter.

And Gunnhild would never forget the way her mother looked at her then, as though she were sorry that Gunnhild had ever been born.

2

Gunnhild avoided Solveig as best she could after the ritual, though she still had to sit by her family during the feast, dread simmering in the pit of her stomach all the while. Luckily, Ozur and Solveig soon became too busy playing host and hostess to take notice of her. The servants and thralls gave her pitying looks every time they passed with pitchers of ale and trays piled high with smoked meats and flatbreads. The only other person who dared look her way was her father’s friend, an ancient farmer whom the children called Old Man Skuli, who sat with his bickering wives and unruly children one section over.

Gunnhild pointedly did not acknowledge him. She’d caught him leering at her before the ritual, but now he stole fearful glances at her, as though she were a snake about to bite. She didn’t know which looks should worry her more.

Her older brothers, on the other hand—swaggering young men, red-haired as herself and their mother—had either missed the implications of the seeress’s prophecy or were ignorant of her troubles as always, for they came to bother her as if nothing at all had changed.

“Why do you look so sad, Little Gunna?” Alf asked as he plopped down on one side of Gunnhild, a full horn of ale in hand.

Eyvind took his place on her other side, his own cup overflowing. “Yes, you do realize this is a party, don’t you, little sister?”

“What are we celebrating?” Gunnhild asked as she picked at her stew, which now looked more like porridge. She hadn’t eaten a bite of it and had started taking out her nervousness on its overcooked root vegetables. “The joyful fates of everyone here except for me?”

“Oh, you know how seeresses can be.” Eyvind waved his cup. “So vague.”

“I’m sure no one thinks anything of it,” said Alf.

Eyvind took a long swig of ale. “Cheer up. It’s not so bad.”

“Yes, it is. Mother is furious with me,” Gunnhild said sullenly.

The twins exchanged a look over her head as she mashed up another turnip in silence. They could never understand. The youngest of Gunnhild’s older siblings at ten winters her senior, Alf and Eyvind had been largely absent from her life. They’d left to go make names for themselves as raiders the moment they were old enough. Gunnhild had hoped that the arrival of her only brothers and their summer’s worth of plunder several days before would soften their mother, but she’d been sorely mistaken.

“Oh, come, now,” Alf said. “Do you really think she’s so cross about you jumping in during the ritual? We disobeyed her all the time when we were your age.”

Gunnhild eyed him. “She told you she was forbidding me from having my fate told?”

“We assumed,” said Alf with a shrug. “Especially after last time.”

Gunnhild sat up straighter and gave Eyvind—who seemed to be the drunker and therefore the more pliable of the brothers—a look. “What does he mean, ‘last time’?”

“Last time a seeress came through,” Eyvind slurred. “Do you not remember?”

“I was three winters old,” Gunnhild said, whirling back to face Alf. “What did the last one say about me?”

The twins looked at each other again, and Eyvind shook his head and made a show of draining his cup, hopping to his feet, and declaring, “More ale!”

“Never mind, Gunna,” Alf said hastily. “We shouldn’t have said anything.”

Gunnhild seethed as they went to seek out the nearest servant girl for a refill. As she stood to follow in hopes of wheedling more information from them, Oddny came up beside her, clutching a thick shawl about her shoulders, and whispered, “Come—the boys started a fire outside.”

The girls slipped out of the noisy hall and made their way toward a small bonfire surrounded by dark shapes. As they got closer, Gunnhild recognized the girls’ brother, Vestein, and a few other local children sitting on blankets and pelts.

Gunnhild and Oddny hunkered down next to Signy and listened as one of the boys, who fancied himself a skald, recited a poem about Valhalla: where those who were slain in battle would fight and feast until Ragnarok, the final confrontation between the gods and their enemies. The other children listened intently, though they’d surely heard the poem many times before. Soon they’d be old enough to go on the raids themselves and seek their own fame. Many of them wouldn’t return; Gunnhild’s brothers were some of the lucky few, well on their way to becoming career raiders, which made them akin to legends among the children of Halogaland—most of whom would go on a handful of raids and, if they lived, settle down on a farm to live a peaceful life unless a local hersir, like Gunnhild’s father, called them to muster on the king’s behalf.

Gunnhild found her mind wandering during the poem. Ragnarok—as well as her own destiny and that of her friends, according to the seeress—was an abstract problem. A future problem. Her mother’s punishment was going to be more immediate and more tangible. What would Solveig do to her once she didn’t have to behave like a decent person in front of guests?

The winter was long and the possibilities were endless.

Feeling the sudden urge to vomit, Gunnhild stood and stalked away from the fire. Once she was far enough from the other children, she plopped down on the rocky strand, drew her legs up to her chest, and folded her arms atop her knees. She kept her eyes closed until the wave of nausea passed, then took in the scene before her: Moonlight glimmered on the dark water of the strait, and beyond it, the northern lights danced against the jagged mountain peaks of the mainland. It was a dazzling sight, but the beauty of her home did nothing to soothe her, so she buried her face in her arms.

The crunch of pebbles behind her told her she wasn’t alone. Moments later, she felt a blanket drop over her shoulders as Oddny and Signy settled in on either side of her.

“My mother is going to kill me.” Gunnhild raised her head. “And there’s something my family is keeping from me. My brothers told me it had something to do with what the last seeress said. It makes me think that I—thatI’m the one clouding all our futures. I shouldn’t have disobeyed my mother. I’ve ruined everything.”

“People are already starting to whisper about us. And no one came over to speak with us during the feast,” Oddny said. “Mama already overheard people saying we’ll never get married now.”

Gunnhild put her head back down and groaned into her arms. “See?”

Signy scoffed. “People talk all the time. It hardly means that Gunnhild is some harbinger of doom. And besides, is ‘not getting married’ the worst thing that could possibly happen to us? You’ve seen your sisters’ husbands, Gunna—old goats, the lot of them.”

“Maybe we should ask the seeress to tell our futures again?” Oddny suggested, wringing her hands.

“You saw her,” Signy shot back. “She wouldn’t say what she was so frightened about then, so why would she say now?”

Oddny glared at her. “But our reputations—”

“Are now one and the same, thanks to that old lady.” Signy brightened. “We should take a blood oath!”

“We’re already blood sisters, you fool.”

“I meant we should take one with Gunnhild. Why not fulfill the prophecy right here by binding ourselves together?”

“Even though one of us has an ominous destiny that’s going to ruin things for the other two?” said Gunnhild, again with an awful certainty that she was speaking of herself.

“But one of us could also be the next Queen Asa, for all we know. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together,” said Signy with feeling. “What do you say?”

Gunnhild supposed she could play along. She affected an overly regal bearing and said in her most dramatic voice, “If I didn’t know better, troublemaker, I’d say you were trying to make the future most powerful woman in all of Norway beholden to you.”

“I mean . . .” Signy raised her hands as in praise as she turned to Gunnhild and intoned, “O Future Most Powerful Woman in All of Norway! Please take a blood oath with us, and make yourself obligated to us forever!”

Gunnhild snorted, but Oddny said, “No blood oaths.”

Signy dropped her hands with a flourish. “Why not?”

“I don’t see a problem with it,” Gunnhild found herself saying. The sisters fell silent and turned to her: Oddny blinking furiously, Signy’s mouth widening into a grin as she drew her small utility knife from the sheath at her belt.

“Then let’s do it,” Signy said. “Let’s promise that we’ll always be there for each other, even if we don’t walk the same path.”

“Signy, no,” Oddny said crossly, and made a face as her sister sliced a shallow cut across her palm, then passed the knife to Gunnhild. “That’s going to be such a pain to heal.”

Gunnhild imitated Signy, flinching as the blade bit into her skin. Then she handed the knife over to Oddny, who eyed it and said, “You’re really going along with Signy’s foolishness?”

“Be careful,” Gunnhild warned her. “You could be talking to the future most powerful woman in all of Norway.”

Oddny pursed her lips and snatched the knife away. “Fine. But I’m already obligated by blood to clean up Signy’s messes. I’ll swear myself only to you.”

It was Signy’s turn to roll her eyes, but Gunnhild said, “All right.” And once Oddny had cut her hand, they pressed their palms together.

“We’ll always be there for each other,” said Gunnhild quietly.

“Even if we don’t walk the same path,” Oddny finished.

Gunnhild clasped bloodied palms with Signy next.

“There,” said Signy when they broke apart. “Now we’re all sworn sisters.”

Something nagged at Gunnhild then—something she’d noticed during the ritual and had subsequently forgotten in the wake of the troubling prophecy. Once they’d bound their cuts with scraps cut from the blanket, it came to her and she said, “Signy—is it true that you really couldn’t see the seeress’s thread?”

“There wasn’t any thread,” Signy said stubbornly. “You two must’ve been imagining it. Don’t you think people would have reacted if there had been? Mother, Papa, and Vestein didn’t see it—I asked, and they looked at me like I was mad. But still, the fact that you both had the same hallucination . . .” She feigned astonishment. “Oddny, I can’t believe you have an imagination.”

“I’ve had enough silliness for one night,” Oddny said, standing. “I’m going to bed.” She headed back to the longhouse, clasping her bound hand against her chest and looking thoughtful.

Signy turned to Gunnhild. “I’m going back, too. Are you coming?”

“I’ll stay up awhile longer.” Gunnhild drew her knees to her chest once more, wrapping her arms around her legs and tilting her head back to look at the aurora dancing in greens and purples above. She lost track of how long she sat there, alone, contemplating.

By the time she slipped back inside, the hall had quieted and most of the guests were snoring. She tiptoed by the tax collector and his men, past the Sámi, past where Signy and Oddny and their family slept. As she went, she scanned the sectioned platforms for signs of the old seeress, but the braziers had been put out and the fires were burning low, so she had no luck.

As she approached the antechamber, she looked up at the wooden statues of Thor, Odin, and Frey and sent up a silent prayer that her parents were also asleep so she wouldn’t have to face her mother’s wrath tonight.

Her plea was granted: When she slunk through the door, Solveig and Ozur were sleeping soundly, and she mouthed Thank you to the gods as she crept to her own bed—only to find it occupied by none other than the seeress.

Behind her, the old servant Ulfrun rolled over and whispered, “You’re to share with me, lamb. Your mother’s orders.”

Gunnhild made a quiet noise of acquiescence and undressed in the flickering light of the soapstone lamp that sat atop one of the chests. She kept her woolen dress on over her linen shift for extra warmth, then crawled into bed with Ulfrun, who rolled over to face the wall.

She waited until her bunkmate had dozed off again before she crept out of bed and across the narrow chamber to the seeress, whose slack, wrinkled face was cast in sharp relief by the lantern light. Although her eyes were closed, she wasn’t taking the slow, deep breaths of one asleep.

As Gunnhild crouched beside her, the woman cracked open one eye.

“I saw your thread,” Gunnhild said in a low whisper.

The seeress opened both eyes now. “Oh, did you?”

“Yes. And please—which one of us is it, from your prophecy? The one who will spoil things for the others?”

The old woman remained silent.

Gunnhild thought again of the power the seeress had demonstrated during the ritual, the honor she’d been shown, and the silver she’d received as payment for her services. The only way Gunnhild could ever expect to gain such wealth was if her father and future husband both paid an exorbitant dowry and bride-price, respectively. Her value would depend on what others deemed her to be worth.

I wonder what it’s like, Gunnhild thought, not to have a mother or a husband telling you what to do all the time. I wonder what it’s like to be a woman respected on her own, for her own skills, and not who she’s related to.

And then it occurred to her: a way to find all this out on her own, escape her mother’s wrath, and distance herself from Oddny and Signy, who had already been tarnished by her stepping into the circle with them.

“Will you teach me to be a seeress?” Gunnhild asked.

The woman squinted at her. “And why would you wish to be a seeress?”

“I wish to be feared and respected. I wish to be seen.”

“I would put this from your mind if I were you.” The seeress sounded agitated, and Gunnhild heard a hint of fear in her voice, just as during the ritual.

Gunnhild balled her fists. There was still something she was not being told. “But I want to be like you. I want my life to be my own.”

The seeress stared at her a moment longer, then sighed and rolled over to face the wall.

“Will you teach me?” Gunnhild said to the woman’s back. “Please?”

The seeress did not stir at her words. Gunnhild made a defeated noise and crawled back into bed with Ulfrun.

Sleep did not come easily, but when it did come, Gunnhild dreamed that she was the one atop that platform with an iron staff clutched in her hand, gazing out over an enraptured crowd.

In her dreams, her fate was hers and hers alone.

3

Gunnhild awoke with the knowledge that the punishment for her behavior the night before was drawing nearer with each guest’s departure from the island.

Ketil’s family was among the first to leave, claiming a long day of farmwork ahead. Gunnhild kept her head down except to bid Signy and Oddny farewell. She didn’t respond when they blew the horn three times for goodbye; she’d owe them each a prize later, but that was the least of her worries.

Finally, at around midday, the king’s tax collector and his men were the last ones left, as they were staying an extra night—more time for Gunnhild to agonize over what her mother was going to do with her. Her only spot of hope was that the old seeress had disappeared from her bed. There were whispers that she was sitting out on the far side of the island. Nobody knew what she was up to, but Gunnhild listened to the servants’ speculations as she hid in the cookhouse and helped prepare supper, thus managing to avoid her mother’s wrath for a second night.

The seeress reappeared the next morning as the family and their guests were settling in for breakfast, after which the tax collector and his crew would ferry her along to their next destination. The old woman entered the hall silently and hobbled over to the high seat to look upon the heads of household, who were seated on their elaborately carved bench atop the platform.

“Ozur Eyvindsson and Solveig Alfsdottir,” the seeress said, shoulders squared as she planted both hands firmly upon her walking stick, “your daughter Gunnhild expressed to me her wish to learn the ways of a seeress from me, and after thinking upon it, I wish to take her under my tutelage.”

Gunnhild spat a mouthful of porridge back into her bowl.

Her parents did not speak, and the light chatter around the hall ceased as all heads turned to the hersir and his wife: Ozur seemed flabbergasted, but Solveig looked murderous. Gunnhild, sitting across the hall from them, swallowed heavily.

“I . . . am not sure what to make of this,” said Ozur as he looked to his wife. “Solveig?”

“We already have an arrangement for Gunnhild.” Solveig’s eyes flicked over to where her daughter sat. “As of yesterday, in fact.”

An arrangement?! Gunnhild set her porridge aside, her appetite suddenly lost. Whatever her mother had in store for her—had she been sold as a servant? Betrothed to a man so old he’d probably die before she came of age?—it wouldn’t be something Gunnhild wanted for herself. That much was clear from the smug look on Solveig’s face.

“May I inquire as to the nature of this arrangement?” the seeress asked.

Ozur said, “I talked to my old friend Skuli just before your ritual, and we’ve come to an agreement that we think will be beneficial to all of us. In three winters’ time, Gunnhild is to marry him.”

Old Man Skuli?! Gunnhild thought, horrified. Buthe’s—he’s—no,this can’tbe—

“But he’s old,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “He’s got three wives already and twelve sons between them, and they’re already fighting over their inheritance—”

“Skuli is extremely wealthy, Gunna,” said Ozur. “You’ll be well taken care of. It’s no less than we’ve done for any of your sisters.”

I don’t want to be taken care of, Gunnhild wanted to scream. I want to be free.

“Would that we could be rid of her sooner, useless daughter that she is,” Solveig added. “Trust us, Heid—you don’t want this girl. She’s been trouble since the moment she was born.”

The old woman raised her sparse eyebrows. “Oh? How so?”

Solveig’s lip curled. “Her brothers were to be my last children, but this body of mine had other plans. I hadn’t even known I could still conceive, and her birth nearly killed me. Yet she’s an ungrateful little whelp. She’s stubborn and insubordinate and balks at the auspicious marriage we’ve secured for her. She should be ashamed of herself.”

“Solveig,” Ozur said sharply.

Gunnhild felt Heid’s eyes upon her, studying her. Heid: so common a name for a seeress that it seemed more of a title. She wondered what the old woman’s true name was.

“So this is my punishment, Mother?” Gunnhild asked through clenched teeth. “For my behavior at the ritual?”

Solveig’s eyes flashed with anger. “You deliberately disobeyed me. You should be grateful we’re not selling you into servitude instead of marrying you off.”

“What’s the difference?” Gunnhild fired back. “And why didn’t you want me to hear my fate in the first place? Alf and Eyvind said it was because of something the last seeress told you.”

Solveig cut a withering look to her only sons, who suddenly became very interested in the floor.

“I have a right to know, Mother,” Gunnhild said.

“Is that so?” Solveig whirled back to face her. “You are twelve winters old. You have a right to nothing at all save what your father and I deem fit to give you, which is already more than you deserve.” And then, sensing an opportunity for cruelty, she smiled. “But since you’re so intent upon it—when you were small, yes, another seeress passed through here during a storm, so only our household heard what she had to say: that a terrible future awaited you. We would’ve never been able to get rid of you if anyone else knew, so we swore everyone to secrecy.”

Gunnhild’s breath caught. A terrible future?

“I’m only thankful that you decided to run into the circle with your little friends,” Solveig went on, “so it wasn’t clear who the prophecy concerned. Now you’ve doomed Yrsa’s girls, but at least you already have a match—you’re lucky your father shook on it with witnesses before the ritual even began, so Skuli can’t back out.”

“I’m lucky?” Gunnhild echoed.

Solveig continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Nothing will save your friends’ reputations now, for the seed of suspicion has already been planted. We’ve spared you that pain. You should be thanking us.”

Gunnhild’s vision blurred with tears. She hated to admit it, but Solveig was right about what would become of Signy and Oddny. Even at her age, she knew that once people got a superstitious idea into their heads, it was hard to shake even when presented with evidence to the contrary.

“You truly are a vile woman,” Heid cut in, her dark eyes fixed on Solveig. She ignored the subsequent noise of outrage from the lady of the house and turned her attention to Ozur. “Whatever Skuli is paying for her bride-price in three winters, I’ll pay double right now, provided you also give her a dowry to take with her on our journey.”

Gunnhild could not believe her ears.

As Solveig sat seething, Ozur looked to his youngest daughter. “I’m sorry, Gunna. As your mother said, Skuli and I have already shaken on it. The deal has been made.”

“Then the matter is settled,” Solveig said, smiling, showing too many teeth.

Heid inclined her head and said coldly, “Then I respect your decision, and your unwillingness to break the oath you’ve sworn your friend.”

No. She’d been so close. Horror welled up from the pit of Gunnhild’s belly, but as she turned to run from the hall, she caught the twinkle in Heid’s eye.

A twinkle that clearly said, as if the seeress were speaking in her own mind: This is not over.

Gunnhild pretended not to notice. She shot her mother a doleful look—Solveig smirked back at her, satisfied—and fled to the bunk room instead.

The chest that the seeress had brought with her sat open in the middle of the room, empty save for her deconstructed stool and some spare clothing. Gunnhild was peering at it, considering whether she was small enough to fit inside, when the woman herself parted the curtain and swept into the room.

“I see now why you wish to leave this place,” Heid said after a moment. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be a young girl with few prospects, forced into a marriage she doesn’t want.”

Gunnhild hung her head.

“And worse yet,” Heid went on, “was to see how you’re treated here, not because of anything you’ve done but because of the prophecies of one of my sisters. For that, I apologize.” She reached over and put a shaky hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You are not a bad child. You are not a burden. I’m sorry that you’ve been made to feel that way.”

Gunnhild had never thought that anyone would say those words to her. It took everything in her power not to cry as she looked up at the old woman.

“I understand now, too, why you wish so badly to become a seeress,” Heid added. “No matter what your parents say, I wish for you to leave here with me today.”

“Really?” Gunnhild’s dark blue eyes were huge and pleading. “But my father would be furious. You’d be making an enemy of a hersir. You would really do that for me?”

“I fear no man,” said the seeress. “And as for your mother, she didn’t tell you the whole truth.” A sigh. “But then again, neither did I. There are things I held back last night.”

Gunnhild felt cold as she waited for Heid to continue.

“Your fate is intertwined with that of your friends; that much was true. As for you, Gunnhild Ozurardottir—I see blood in your future. Blood and terror,” Heid told her. “But I also see greatness. These things are, in many ways, inseparable from one another.”

Gunnhild committed her words to memory.

“And my friends?” she whispered. “Will this—will the blood and terror—will I hurt my friends?”

“That, I don’t know,” Heid said sadly. “That’s why I refused to say more when you stepped into the circle. Sometimes saying nothing at all is better than speaking without seeing the entire picture, and I hadn’t seen enough to rule one way or another. I didn’t wish to curse you, and yet it seems I’ve done so anyway.”

Heid considered her for a moment. “Gunnhild Ozurardottir, if you come with me, I can teach you not only how to gain the knowledge of the spirits as a seeress does but all manner of witchcraft I know: how to curse and to heal, to conjure storms and befuddle enemies, to cast charms to protect and destroy, to use the runes for magic, and to travel out of body. But I won’t lie to you: It’ll be difficult. Nothing in this life worth having comes easily. You’ll spend many years with me in isolation, but at the end, you’ll be a seeress and a sorceress both. You shall be a witch. Do you understand and consent to this?”

The shallow slice on her palm started to burn a little as if in warning, and Gunnhild winced. How could she leave Oddny and Signy behind after they’d vowed to always be there for one another? But her mother had been right—their prospects were ruined now, thanks to her. Perhaps the best thing she could do for her friends was disappear.

The seeress—thewitch—was still staring at her.

“Yes, I consent,” Gunnhild said fervently. “Take me with you. I wish to learn.”

Heid gestured to her chest. “Then pack only what you need, and we’ll hide you away in here.”

Gunnhild made to do so, but then hesitated. “But, Heid, if my future is to be terrible, why take a chance on teaching me? Aren’t you afraid that I’ll—that I’ll harm you?”

“If I thought I had anything to fear from you, child, I wouldn’t be making this offer. Only time will tell how your story goes. There’s nothing that will cause you greater grief than trying to fulfill or avoid a prophecy.”

“I don’t understand,” Gunnhild said weakly.

The old witch bared her yellow teeth in a wide grin.

“Oh, my girl,” she said. “You will.”

PART TWO

TWELVE YEARS LATER

4

On the early-autumn morning that her life changed forever, Oddny Ketilsdottir woke up with a stabbing pain in her lower abdomen and a curse on her lips. She curled up into a ball, gritted her teeth, and braced herself to begin another day.

“Ah. Mother figured that was why you slept in,” came Signy’s voice from above her. “She told me to let you sleep, but how could I let you miss such a delicious breakfast?”

Oddny took a deep breath and tried to muster the will to sit up. “Give me a moment.”

“All right, but guess what we’re having,” Signy said. “Ah, I’ll spoil it for you—it’s curds.”

“What’s spoiled is you, sneaking cheese all summer at the dairy,” Oddny grumbled.

Signy put her hands on her hips. “Well, with Mother about to preserve the vegetables and Vestein about to cull the herd, you’d think we’d be able to eat something fresh. But no, it’s curds. It’s always curds for breakfast and fish for dinner. You know I actually start missing pickled turnips at this time of year? And porridge. Gods, I wish I could have some porridge right now.”

“You’ll be glad of it when we have enough food to eat come winter.” Oddny heaved herself to a sitting position and doubled over. The pain was worse today than it was yesterday—her blood would be upon her soon.

Signy sat down beside her on the bench where she’d slept. “Do you want me to ask Mother to make your tea?”

Oddny shook her head. “I’ve been making it myself.” But I need to go foraging for some of the ingredients. Get them dried to last the winter, too, along with the last of the herbs from Mother’s garden.

“Look at you. Mother’s little prodigy.” Signy nudged her sister playfully with her elbow. But then she sobered. “And speaking of which, before you ask, we haven’t heard news of Solveig.”

Oddny grimaced. She’d been learning the art of healing from Yrsa since her early teens, and the two of them had been monitoring Gunnhild’s mother’s illness all summer. When they’d last visited Solveig a few weeks ago, Oddny had been stunned at the sight of their patient: cheekbones jutting, eyes sunken, red-streaked silver hair falling out in chunks.

Though Oddny had little love for the woman, she remembered the pall that had fallen over the room when they’d entered and seen Solveig’s state, remembered the lantern burning low, remembered an unseen bird tittering away in the rafters. Most of all, she remembered the shock she’d felt when Yrsa had withdrawn a smooth, flat stick of wood from her pack in lieu of her usual supplies.

“Runes?” Oddny had asked. She’d seen her mother use them only a few times. Yrsa was more likely to employ physical implements when healing: potions, salves, teas. Magic was a last resort, because it didn’t always work.

Then again, nothing else had improved Solveig’s condition so far. Yrsa had been desperate.

“Watch me closely, Oddny,” she’d said. “Anyone can carve runes, but not everyone has a strong enough will to make them do what you want them to do.”

Oddny said, “So why not just use them for everything? Isn’t that what Odin got them for when he sacrificed himself to himself?”

“Because there’s too much room for error. They must be carved precisely and with specific intent so they can work on your behalf while you’re not present. If they’re wrong, at best they’ll have no effect, but at worst they’ll kill the person you’re using them on, even if their illness or injury wasn’t life-threatening to begin with.”

Then Yrsa had sung the runes under her breath as she carved them into the wood, and stuck the stick under the sick woman’s pillow.

Oddny knew there was more at stake here than just Solveig’s life: Her mother’s reputation as a respectable healer was on the line. Yrsa and Solveig had despised each other privately for years, but the enmity between them had become public knowledge after Gunnhild vanished. Whenever Yrsa heard people whispering that the disappearance of the hersir’s daughter was a result of the prophecy dooming the three girls, she was quick to correct anyone who would listen—and not just for the sake of her daughters’ prospects—by offering that the child most likely ran away because of her mother. And Solveig took any opportunity to slander Yrsa in return, right up until she’d fallen ill and suddenly had need of a healer.

Regardless, Oddny knew that if Solveig died, her mother would take it as a personal failing. And worse—others might think Yrsa killed her.

“Vestein is going to row over there later to ask after her. He planned to fish today anyway,” Signy said, snapping Oddny out of her reverie. “I may have also bullied him into taking me with him and letting me stay until the king’s retinue passes through again.”

Oddny gave her a sidelong look. “Mother couldn’t possibly have agreed to that.”

“Mother doesn’t have to know.”

“Signy, you have no idea when they’re coming back—”

“It can’t be long. Winter will be upon us before we know it.”

Oddny raked her fingers through her long thin hair and started to braid it over her shoulder. Her pain had dulled for now, but another wave could hit her at any moment. She would need her tea soon and she didn’t have the patience for her sister’s fantasies.