All eyes turn to the seven of us as we enter the Great Hall. It feels like the whole of Skíringssal is crammed inside. The tables and benches have been taken away, the floor swept and scrubbed. But the memory of bloodshed lingers, like a smell with no source.
We follow behind Freydis, Ingmar supporting me by my elbow, as she parts the crowd, approaching the throne. Ademola and Nyeru nod to me as I pass.
I hope Freydis will acknowledge her debt to all the former thralls in the oath she takes today. Hearing her throw the weight of her honor behind them might help their former masters resign themselves to the change.
Before we reach the throne, Freydis falters, blanching. I follow her gaze to where Yngvild and Helge stand off to the side, guarded by two Soninke men.
My heart aches as I imagine what Freydis must be feeling. Yngvild’s hair is bedraggled, her dress covered in dirt. But she holds her head as high as ever as she stares her daughter down, a hand resting protectively on her enormous belly. Nothing can lower that woman’s chin. If I didn’t hate her so much, I might respect her for it.
Freydis continues to the dais. Angrboda lies in its sheath on the throne; it felt fitting that she should swear the oath on Alvtir’s sword instead of her father’s. But when she reaches the throne, she doesn’t pick it up. Instead she turns to face the crowd. The six of us follow suit, positioning ourselves a few steps behind her.
It feels like a dream to stand at the front of this hall—the same hall where I first met Freydis, where she saved my life at the Dísablót, where I saved her life at her wedding to Hakon, where I was freed from slavery and became one of Alvtir’s shield maidens—and look out over a sea of mixed faces. Eyes bloodshot with grief, eyes pinning us with unspoken accusations, eyes bright and glossy with new hope. All of them waiting to see what happens next.
Freydis draws herself up to her full height before addressing the crowd.
“King Balli’s reign over Agder has ended,” she calls out. I’m impressed by the firm, steady timbre of her voice. “It is a shame that so many lost their lives along with him. They were good men, though the one they died for was not. Now the battle is over, and we must look to the future. We need a leader who will unite us and restore honor to this kingdom. I know I am next in line for the throne by blood. But I relinquish my birthright and nominate another queen.”
She turns to me.
“Yafeu.”
The hall erupts into chaos.
I stare at Freydis, too stunned to speak. Shouts swirl together, echoing around the lofty hall. Some of approval, some of outrage.
My head starts to spin. The hall tilts on its axis.
Freydis holds up her hands until the commotion dies down. “Yafeu is the queen you deserve,” she continues, meeting my incredulous gaze with a look of unwavering conviction. “She is Úlfheðinn—but more than that, she is a leader unmatched in valor and honor. She slew King Balli with my aunt’s sword, a sword forged from the iron of the gods. The Allfather put that sword in her hand. He chose her to lead us, as he chose her to fight for him in battle. I will serve as her adviser—if she will have me.”
A familiar cackle bursts from the back of the hall. I catch a pair of mismatched eyes through the crowd: the skald.
All hail the dark queen…
“Approach, Queen Yafeu,” Freydis says, drawing my attention back to her. Dimly, I feel Ingmar release his hold on my elbow, letting me stand on my own. I glance at him, but he looks just as surprised as I feel. So do the others.
What has Freydis just done?
My heart hammers in my chest, my throat. I walk toward her with as much dignity as I can muster, masking my limp and clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking. Her one mossy-green eye glistens with an emotion I can’t read. She picks up Angrboda and drops to one knee before me, raising the hilt to my quivering hands.
I peer down at Alvtir’s sword, then back up at the crowd. A hushed expectancy has fallen over them. My stomach convulses. My face burns from the inside out.
I can’t be queen.
The doubt begins to choke me, its grip tighter than the grip of that thief in Koumbi Saleh.
But my arm moves of its own accord. Before I know it, I’m holding the sword above my head.
It’s as if one of the gods lifted my arm for me. But which god? Whose god?
“AAOOOH!” I hear Ingmar shout behind me.
“AAOOOH! AAOOOH! AAOOOH!” First the shield maidens, then Dag, then half the hall join in.
“AAOOOH! AAOOOH! AAOOOH!”
I feel the thunderous roar in my bones. My heart threatens to burst from my chest, but no longer from fear. Something pure and potent swells within me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
“AAOOOH! AAOOOH! AAOOOH!”
I was a thrall. I was a shield maiden. I was a “black elf.” I was Úlfheðinn. I was an outcast. I was jugu.
Now I am a queen.
“AAOOOH! AAOOOH! AAOOOH!”
But the more I gaze at the ecstatic faces of the men and women who fought with us—at Ademola and Nyeru, at Bronaugh, at so many others—the more I understand: This isn’t about me. It’s about them. Their belief in what we fought for is what has given me this power. Now I must try to be worthy of it.
I must make our vision real.
When the chant finally dies down, I begin my oath:
“I swear to serve every one of you—even those who fought against us. I swear never to demand your loyalty, but to earn it, in everything I do as your queen. Above all else, I swear to uphold your freedom. Together, we will build a new Skíringssal. Without thralls, without masters. We will live as one people.” I fall silent; that is all I can think of to say.
Ademola thumps his chest approvingly, and the rest of our people follow suit. The karls—the farmers and fishermen and craftspeople and their families—shift uneasily on their feet.
Freydis steps in: “Bring my mother forward. And Helge.”
The guards grab Yngvild and Helge and walk them over to us.
“You heard the queen,” Freydis says crisply, loud enough for all to hear. “Both of you will labor alongside everyone else to fortify Skíringssal. We will need every free hand to clear the land, build new houses, and gather enough food to last us the winter. No one will be spared from toil. I know you all have questions, but for now, go back to wherever you call home. Tomorrow, after Sól descends, we will feast in Yafeu’s honor!” Scattered cheers erupt again at that.
As the crowd begins to file out, I pull Freydis aside. Ingmar, Dag, and the shield maidens hover around us, uncertain. There’s a longer conversation she and I sorely need to have, but that will have to wait until we’re alone. For now, I focus on my most immediate concern. “A feast?” I ask quietly. “Why? You said we need to save food for winter.”
“Because it will help them accept you as queen,” Freydis says firmly. “Much will change, Yafeu, but you will have to abide some of our customs if you’re going to bring the people together.”
“Generosity is the first step to loyalty,” Ingmar adds. “And with former master and thrall feasting side by side, it may help them to accept the new way of things.”
The karls are muttering to one another, careful to avoid brushing shoulders with their former thralls on their way out. “I can see your point.”
Ingmar reaches out and grabs my hand. I squeeze it tightly.
I’m still gripping his hand as Bronaugh pushes the wrong way through the crowd and approaches me.
My heart drops. As soon as I see her expression, I know.