“You love him.” Precia lets me go so suddenly I have to catch myself on the table.
I gape at her. It must be so obvious.
She says, “There is no room for other men, other loves, between a Valkyrie’s heart and the Alfather’s.”
“Elisa is married!”
“To a man who understands her devotion.”
“There are so many stories of Valkyrie and great, epic love,” I argue.
“How many of them ended happily? Especially for the Valkyrie in the sagas and ancient poems, the kind of Valkyrie you want to be? They have no happy endings, my love.”
It’s true, what she says, like a kick in the guts. “He’s dead anyway.”
Precia softens, touches my prayer card only to flip it over. “Finish your prayer, Signy.”
The front of the card reads: Sacrifice transforms death into its own glory. The first thing Unferth said to me was that pain wasn’t the worth of sacrifice. I think now the worth is in how it changes us. With a shaky hand, I paint the rune spirit and cross it out with a jagged line.
Precia blesses my card with a kiss. I open the cage while she gently pulls out my dove. We tie the card to her thin gray leg. I take her in both hands, her downy feathers shivering against my skin, to the hanging tree.
As I hold the dove, Precia ties one end of a green rope to her neck in a simple slipknot and the other end to the branch. I whisper, “I know, little bird, what this fear in your heart is like. Thank you for being my sacrifice.”
Birds are difficult to hang, and if you give them their freedom they’ll beat their wings and panic, flying against the rope for long minutes before they tire and slowly, achingly, choke themselves. I take a deep breath. Ignoring the chatter of the crowd, the rush of hot wind and sticky sweat clinging to my shoulders and thighs, I close my eyes and picture the runes of my prayer card. I don’t let go of the kissing dove, but with a swift, fast tug, pull her down against the rope.
Tears burn in my eyes. They spill out, warm on my cheeks. Beginning in my chest, I feel the relief of sacrifice, the loosening of my ribs and slowing of my heartbeat.
Releasing her with a caress, I allow my dove now to gently swing, like a pendulum marking the wind. The breeze flutters her feathers and teases at my hair.
NINETEEN
THE MOMENT BALDUR’S charity ball officially begins, I’m waiting inside the parlor of the town house. We’re to make a grand entrance about an hour into the evening, and as I’ve been dressed and pressed for quite some time, waiting is all I can do. I sit for a while at the baby grand, plunking out old nursery tunes, trying to distract myself from the whirl of thoughts spiraling endlessly behind my eyes.
Wide-winged fans drive thick air down at the crown of my head. The humidity finds every free strand and curls it against my cheeks and neck. Disir Day is midway through Blissmonth, and exactly six weeks since I sat alone on the death ship beach, watching two hundred paper lanterns rise up and up into the stars. Almost as long since Unferth died.
I tell myself his loyalties don’t matter anymore. Precia agrees the riddle itself was approved by Odin, regardless of its being a prophecy, too. And so what would it mean if Freya sent Ned to me? No more than that she wants me to solve the riddle, to meet my destiny. There’s no reason to think that just because she stole Baldur’s ashes and manipulated Soren’s lover, because she may be sending me dreams, that Freya wants anything nefarious from me. Ned Unferth helped me on this path to achieving my destiny; I should accept it and let go.
It’s only this niggling question in my heart: how much of Ned’s truths were lies?
Soren isn’t down yet, and I can’t think what could be taking them longer with him than they took with me. I glance at the wide-faced grandmother clock stretched tall beside the door. Five minutes past seven. The manner of this old house muffles the noise from upstairs, though I just left a maid there and saw at least one man moving in and out of Soren’s rooms.
I pace around the edge of the Oriental rug that covers a good half the floor. What is the troll mother doing now, as I’m forced to wear a fancy dress and go make nice for charity? Where is she? Will she dream of me tonight, as I dream of her? I put my feet down heel-to-toe and breath steadily, imagining the dark red line bordering the rug is Peachtree’s tightrope. Pedestrian noise from the Quarter outside and distant music catch a ride on the sticky breeze.
“Isn’t this a vision?” says a man in the doorway. He leans against the door frame in a tuxedo with silver fitted vest and bow tie. Sun-yellow hair is pushed behind his ears to curl loose against his lapels, and his face is wide-open, tanned and flawless. Even without the dark foyer for contrast behind him, he’d be a beacon of sunlight.
Baldur the Beautiful smiles, pushes gracefully off the door, and comes to me with his right hand held out, palm up.
Because there’s absolutely nothing else to do, I give him mine. He raises it and bows, holding my gaze with his. His eyes are indigo, and around his pupils is a thin penumbra of dark pink. Like the sunset outside. My breath becomes sheer, too light for oxygen. Even seeing him on the pavilion at the funerals didn’t prepare me for this contact.
Baldur kisses my knuckles and flutters his lashes as he glances away politely.
It breaks my shock as he must have known it would, and I manage to squeeze his fingers. “My lord Baldur,” I say, too husky to sound like myself. He’s filling the room with bright ardor, enough to power a city.
“It’s such a pleasure, Signy of the Tree.” His smile is merry and he drops my hand, planting his on his very fine hip. “I was sorry to have missed you at the funeral.”
Despite his words, I feel as though I’ve been dropped into a summery ocean and have to relearn to breathe. Out of habit I think for Unferth to anchor me: he’d be cutting and hard, but I can’t think of anything gloomy about the god of light.
Folding my hands before me in the semblance of calm, I reach for politeness. It’s what Jesca would’ve wanted. “Thank you for what you’re doing tonight. Vinland needs it.”
“I feel responsible,” he says, sorrow eclipsing his smile. “My absence upset so many things, and Vinland paid the price. I would that I could change that.”
I shake my head slowly. Odd-eye, he’s so beautiful and shining, but his fingers play against his thigh as if he’s nervous.
Like a man.
With a leaden tongue I say, “Sacrifice is worthwhile.”
Surprise winks across his face and he nods firmly. But immediately Baldur wipes away the brief serious note with a smile. “This dress looks amazing.”
The corner of his mouth tells me he’s flirting, and my heartbeat picks up again. “Your designer did herself proud, and I appreciate it. Without you, I’d have shown up in a hoodie and giant black boots.”
He laughs, too bright for this world.
I struggle to say “I understand you’re quite the boxer.”
“Soren’s been talking about me?” Delight pushes up his golden eyebrows. They distract me for a split second and I notice the pink is fading from his eyes. They truly carry a piece of the changing sky.
“Um, yes. Yes.” I’m hopelessly caught up in his beauty.
Empty-headed girl, sneers Unferth.
As if he’s here, judging me, I fist my hands and say, “Lord Sun, may I ask you a thing about your father?”
Baldur the Beautiful takes my hand. His own eyes burn too brightly for me to read runes in them. “Of course.”
“Do you know … all the names of his Lonely Warriors?”
His golden eyebrows shoot up. “Ah, yes, I believe so.”
“Was there one named Unferth? Ned Truth-Teller?”