Page 33 of A Curse Carved in Bone
Though I knew her to be a seer, her knowledge of what had befallen us was still unnerving.
“I was distracted.”
Saga made a humming noise but pulled him into an embrace before kissing both his cheeks. “It is your good fortune that you have proven to have excellent taste in women.”
I twitched, because those were not words one said about someone you had dedicated your life to killing.
“Freya is not mine, Mother.”
“Because you did not listen.” Saga shook her finger at him. “I told you, my darling. I told you to steal her that night at Fjalltindr. That you should tie her up and put her over your shoulder, never once looking back. Instead, you made her love you while lying to her, and now she will not forgive you.” She gave him a gentle cuff. “How is a boy of my blood so stupid?”
Bjorn crossed his arms. “You only told me that Harald might kill her outside the confines of the temple. He has been honest with me since, so you can let go of the deception.”
Saga shrugged. “My assessment of your behavior stands.”
Before he could answer, she turned away from him and strode to me. As I stared into her green eyes, the color identical to Bjorn’s, I found it hard to breathe. It should have been no shock that she was lovely given how beautiful Bjorn was. But face-to-face, it was striking. Her blue-black hair hung in long silken lengths to her waist, skin as suntanned as her son’s, and entirely unmarked by age despite her having to be nearly twenty years my senior. She was slender in the waist but curved in both breast and hip, and her face possessed the sort of perfection that seemed almost divine. High cheekbones and wide eyes, with full lips curved into a bow that any man, and many women, would be desperate to kiss.
And I realized I’d seen her before.
“You were at Fjalltindr,” I breathed. “You passed us while we were walking to the ritual. You wore a headdress of raven’s feathers.”
“I was there,” Saga answered. “The Allfather warned me that my son would struggle to keep to his path, so I journeyed back to my homeland to guide him.” She turned her head to give Bjorn a sour look. “Not that he listened. Even so, with that many Unfated present at Fjalltindr, I was hopeful that threads would twist and my visions would change.”
“How often does that happen?” I was desperate for her wisdom and comforted by the certainty that Odin would demand she speak the truth. “How often do the Unfated change the future you have foreseen?”
“More rarely than you might think.” Her green eyes searched mine, long black lashes sweeping down. I wondered what she saw. “The Norns know our hearts and minds as well as we do ourselves, and their ability to predict what we will do is rarely faulty. It is only when the Unfated go against their nature that the threads must be rewoven. It was why I hoped that Bjorn killing you would change things, for it is not in his nature to murder pretty young women. He had to do something entirely at odds with who he is.”
“I see.” Though she was bluntly explaining plans for my death, my thoughts were all for the times I’d tried to change fate. My failures now made sense. Then my skin prickled and our eyes locked. “Is it out ofyourcharacter to murder pretty young women, Saga? Will you attempt to rectify Bjorn’s failures now that I am within reach? A knife in the back? Poison in my cup?”
Bjorn tensed, but I ignored him as I tried and failed to read Saga’s expression.
Tension mounted, breath and wind the only sounds to break the silence.
“If you try to harm Freya, Mother, I will stop you,” Bjorn said softly. “If I fail to stop you, I will follow her to Valhalla. I swear it on Tyr’s name.”
My chest clenched so painfully I could barely breathe, his words eliciting a twist of emotion in my core.
Saga only rolled her eyes. “You inherited Snorri’s penchant for dramatics, Bjorn. Rest easy, no one will die today. I swear it on Odin’s name.”
Linking arms with me, she gave Bjorn a pointed stare. “Horses. Wood. Then go hunting for something to put in the cooking pot, for your appetite will do my larder no favors.”
Bjorn hesitated, then took my reins and led the horses away. “Take the wolves with you,” Saga called. “They eat even more than you.”
At his whistle, Skoll and Hati broke into a loping run, my foolish horse squealing and trying to bolt, ever afraid of the large predators.
“Come.” Saga tugged on my arm with surprising strength. “It’s easier to talk about him when he’s not around.”
Her behavior was not at all what I’d anticipated. I’d expected one of Odin’s children to have a level of gravitas, yet Saga acted and spoke more like a village gossip. “I don’t wish to speak about Bjorn.”
Saga hummed softly, then said, “I’ll not press you to forgive my son, Freya, for I understand the hurt of lies and the pain men inflict better than most. But as his mother, I must tell you that what he feels for you is no deception. All of Nordeland desired your death, for we knew you were destined to be our curse, but Bjorn fought for your life at Fjalltindr. Fought to change your fate.”
“Has it changed?” It was hard to ask the question, but I forced it past my lips.
Saga stopped in her tracks, looking at me for a long time. “Yes. And no.”
“What does that mean?” My legs started moving as she pulled on my arm.
“The path you walk has been altered, but you will arrive at the same destination.”
