Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The celestial canopy led Frida up the hillside. The stars' guidance emboldened her, reaffirming her belief that the gods blessed her endeavor, seeking to light her way.

She remained aware of Freyja's presence and of her own heightened senses. Never before had she felt her strength as sharply as upon this night. What she was looking for, she was unsure, but the water was calling to her. Freyja had told her to trust, and she would do so. The omens would come.

As if the elements chose to reply, the wind whipped around, flinging her hair and tugging at her shawl. She pulled it closer as she stared out at the sea.

Frida had explored the coastline many times by starlight and knew the rhythms of the ocean. There was no doubt the water's swell was more violent than usual. Huge, angry waves rose from the depths, hurtling toward shore.

A storm raging out at sea?

Such things rarely touched the haven of their island.

Is this the omen I've been seeking?

She cast her gaze to the skies, where the stars hung bright. There were no clouds, so what could be driving such weather?

The gods. She knew it with certainty. This was the sign.

Her pulse sped with the knowledge. Something was about to happen.

She scanned the waves again to where the bay's jagged rocks broke the surface. Spray and foam were flung high, making it difficult for her to see, but she would swear something moved beyond them.

A curving shape, like the hull of a boat, though without mast or sail.

Surely, Astrid had not taken out her small vessel to fish at such an hour? The girl was young, but she knew these waters and wouldn't have been so foolhardy as to venture out upon a rough tide.

An unexpected sound carried upon the wind, like the shriek of a gull. Frida strained to listen. When the call came again, her heart leapt.

‘Twas a human shout, its distress palpable. Then another. A man's cry.

"By the gods! No!" There were several voices now, fragmented shouts torn from the waves. Fear gripped her. "Tell me, Freyja! What is this? Have you sent our men back to us?"

Picking up her skirts, Frida ran, retracing her steps down the hillside. Passing the arc of huts along the curve of the bay, she made toward the dunes. Beyond, the tide was yet high, covering half the sands, though receding quickly.

Onward she raced, bracing against the wind. More than once, she was obliged to scuttle back to avoid a rogue wave. Becoming drenched to the bone would not aid her, though she knew not what help she might be. None could navigate the treacherous terrain in such conditions. ‘Twas impossible.

Reaching the western portion of the beach, Frida took respite, resting in the lee of the upper rocks newly revealed from the wet sands. Upon her knees, she gasped for breath, not caring that her skirts pooled sodden about her. She stared out at the rise and fall of the sea. There was no sound but that of the water dragging fast from the bay. The ship had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. Had it been claimed already, or had it been but a vision?

Frida hung her head. A madness had overtaken her, thinking she was guided this night, that Freyja had chosen her to bear witness to an event of great import. She was alone upon the shore. All else was her imagination or a fleeting glimpse of something beyond her understanding.

Only then, with downcast eyes, did she notice the splintered length, half buried but recognizable, the smooth column splaying to flatness.

An oar!

Rising, Frida staggered about the rock, following a trail of similar debris—torn cloth and shattered wood.

Then she saw everything.

Mere strides from where she'd been resting were the remnants of a ship, as broken as the men strewn from its hull. None moved nor uttered any sound. What cries they'd given had been consumed by the sea, and silence had claimed them. Some lay in a position wholly unnatural, their limbs cast as no man's should be. The scene was as if from a nightmare or some dark fable.

Uncertainly, Frida approached, glancing from one face to another. There were six in all, as far as she could tell, but none were recognizable.

Not our men!

Her relief was immediate, though shame followed quickly. Would her feelings be the same, knowing those same men had returned and been dispatched upon this night?

Most appeared lifeless, but as Frida moved from one to the next, she heard a groan. The lean figure sprawled upon the upturned arc of the vessel's side turned his bloodied head and attempted to push himself up before falling back with an agonized moan.

"Don't try to move." Frida crouched to take his hand.

His head was bleeding; the wound appeared superficial, yet the man was clearly battling great pain. Only when he stirred again did she notice how his foot—still raised within the boat—was caught there. His leg covering was torn on that side, revealing a sparsely-haired leg, and from somewhere around his ankle, crimson seeped. Broken or merely gashed? Not the worst of injuries if treated carefully, but who knew if he bled elsewhere? Wounds beneath the skin were more often fatal.

Taking a ragged breath, the stranger opened his eyes, staring directly into those of Frida. Despite his anguish, there was a softness within them, as if he accepted his fate rather than raged against it.

"Who are you? And what is this place?" He was pale and drawn, so his eyes, darkly blue, appeared all the larger as he held Frida's gaze. He tried to lift his head again, craning to look at those who lay close by, but his face contorted once more, and she felt him tremble.

"Shhh." Frida gave his hand the gentlest of squeezes. "All will be well. You just need to rest."

The pleading eyes closed once more, and Frida bit her lip. She was not accustomed to telling less than the truth, but what else could she say? That she feared his shipmates were dead, and he would soon join them? Her compassion would not allow it. In any case, a belief remained kindled within her that there was hope.

Why else had Freyja brought her here?

Far on the horizon, the sky was lightening. Before long, it would be dawn, and others would awaken. Oughtn't she go to fetch help sooner rather than waiting to be found? It was the most sensible choice, but still, she could not bring herself to leave.

The stranger's fingers were entwined with her own. What if he were to wake and find her gone? Might he think himself forsaken to die alone? She could not bear it. But if he were to be saved, time was of the essence. As for the other men, she knew nothing with certainty. Closer inspection was needed to ascertain if they might be helped.

She was yet pondering her dilemma when a cry from behind summoned her attention—a familiar voice calling her name.

"Elin! Quickly!" Frida felt the weight ease from her shoulders. Of course, it would be Elin. How often had Frida teased her that she was the first to rise and the last to retire to her bed? Elin insisted that herbs were best gathered at those times and seaweed when the tide was freshly turned.

Besides, wasn't Freyja watching over her? She'd made sure Elin would come—the one amongst them who was most skilled in healing. If any could save these men, it would be her.

The wrecked ship was the goddess' gift to H?y, and all would be well. Frida felt it deeper than her bones. For once, she didn't need the runes to know she was right.