The brief silence as all five men study me is broken by Darius casually suggesting, “Move nearer the Wide Water?”
Thebes shifts his mass and it’s like the whole room shifts with him. “We can find a warehouse or commandeer something.”
“I’d rather be as far from the city as possible.”
“It’s all swampland, isn’t it?” Soren says.
“Swamps are never good for combat or hunting.” Darius stands up. “I’ll get one of the maps.”
I nod. “It does need water access, for her.”
“Wait.” Rathi runs his hand through his hair as he does when upset. “I … have an idea.”
Surprise turns all our heads toward him.
He directs the thought at me, bottle-green eyes bright and discomfiting. “What about a private island?”
Sharkman starts to laugh.
Ship Island is a barrier island twenty kilometers off the coast of Mizizibi kingstate. Rathi points out the long, crescent finger of it on a map, explaining that Hurricane Camille destroyed its center, dragging about forty percent of the landmass back into the ocean. There’s the remains of a Thralls’ War military fort on the western island, and a working dock. It used to be a kingstate monument, but there hasn’t been money to rebuild the campgrounds or facilities since the last major hurricane seven years ago, and Rathi’s mentor Ardo Vassing decided to buy it. For a private retreat or to fix it up for national tourism, the preacher hasn’t decided yet. All I can think is that the Bliss Church of Freyan Worship must be significantly richer than I imagined.
And it’s incredibly convenient.
We break up the meeting for Rathi to speak with Ardo about the island and Soren to call Baldur and ask for the use of his yacht, though Thebes, whose family comes from Massadchuset fishermen, recommends we rent a trawler because it has something called a displacement hull that might make it better at bearing Red Stripe’s weight. We considered leaving the troll behind, but I have an idea that if we allow him to decalcify once we’re in position, he might be able to hear or sense the troll mother coming, the same way she’s gathering all these lesser trolls to her. He may be our only early warning system.
The berserkers start to pack up and make lists of anything they think we’ll need for an island siege. I go wake Red Stripe to feed him. The troll’s wound is better but still seeps purple crystals. I clean it and take the new pot of ink Rathi brought me yesterday to paint whole and son around Red Stripe’s chest.
I don’t stop. With the troll awake and witness, I paint runes down my arms and in spirals around my legs. They’re all the runes I know, in a vast, chaotic poem. I close my eyes and paint a line by memory and touch just under the red streak of blood Unferth gave me: Where is my heart? I strip off my tank top and write daughter of Odin across my belly.
It’s been too many weeks since I wrote poetry, since I let my mind rest and explored the words of my heart. Since I prayed to my god.
I don’t want to die; I don’t want her to kill me, but I won’t leave her. I chose this destiny a decade ago, with the Alfather beside me, and I won’t run away from the consequences of my choices. That’s what destiny is, I told Rathi weeks ago. I have to prove to myself that I can be the kind of Valkyrie I want to be and be accepted by the world. No matter how many other answers there might have been at one point, now, today, it means holding her stone heart in my hand. Whatever that heart is, whether magical or only a heart.
Hangatyr, my god of sacrifice, accept my sacrifice, this is my choice, my choice, my choice.
This is the throne I will build: a throne of trust and love, a throne of choices and blood.
My choice. My blood.
Signy Valborn, death-born, outside herself, inside the world, strange strange strange girl.
My poetry is war paint, great swathes of black against my skin, gouges and scars of prayer, marking me for the sacrifice.
Myself to myself.
The ink tickles me, tightening as it dries. The runes wrinkle and I let my brush wander, spiraling and circling, sometimes becoming a word, sometimes only a pattern.
Outside, a crow calls twice. Another answers. I think of the ravens Thought and Memory, snickering at each other. My shoulders relax; I breathe evenly. I’m not afraid.
“What is this?” Sharkman asks, clomping down the three stairs into the garage.
“Prayer.”
Sharkman holds out his hand for the brush. I give it over and offer Sharkman my back, lifting my hair off my neck.
The cool brush licks my skin in assured, smooth strokes. I shiver. “What are you writing?”
“A poem.”
“Will I be embarrassed if my wish-brother sees it?”
“Does he like limericks?”
I laugh and he grunts. “The letters will be shaky.”
“Give me my brush back.” I reach for it and he catches my hand. He turns me around and spreads my fingers.
Sharkman traces the binding rune on my palm with heavy black lines. As the ink dries, he holds my hand. I raise my eyes to meet something hostile and dangerous in his. Madness glows sure and tiny in his left iris, like stars caught in the blue.
“I will not let you die, Valkyrie,” he says.
“I am not planning to die, berserker.”
Sharkman leans over me, around me, as if he can surround me from all sides. “I will do what I have to do.”
It sounds like a threat.
I go upstairs to wash off my poem, to repeat the words I remember as they rush down the drain. Choice, my choice, a throne of choices and blood.
Soren follows me, and while I pull out a T-shirt wrinkled from being balled in the small drawer of the bureau, he plants himself in the center of the room. His shirt is that orange color he favors, and the sock on his forearm is white today.
“What’s the tattoo?” I ask, wringing the dress in my hands.
He ignores the question. “Do you think Freya wants you to die?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Who does?”
“No, I don’t like you accepting it.”
“I haven’t accepted it—it isn’t as though I’m just going to stand there. I plan to fight. I plan to fight hard.”
“But if you think it’s inevitable, that will change how you fight. If you’ve given up.”
“I haven’t, Soren.”
“Baldur could have Thor Thunderer here in an hour and we’ll all go together. You’ll have more backup than a few berserkers.”
“This is about the Valkyrie I am, who I want to be, and my blood revenge. I can’t set an army on her.”
“Because it would be too safe? Because it wouldn’t feel like revenge?” That line in his brow has returned, and the corner of his jaw shifts as he clenches his teeth.
Soren must be absolutely furious.
He grinds out, “Explain it to me in small words, Signy, because I don’t understand.”
I take a step back. “Why are you pissed?”
“You’re playing into her hands, you’re being stupid, and you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Stop, Soren, stop.” I drop the shirt and hurry to him, taking his hands. His skin is slick with sweat. “Soren.” I touch his buzzed hair, his tattooed cheek, and put my palm over his burning heart.