“Torden,” called the blond boy with the glasses. “Pappa will be angry if we’re late.”

I forgot to breathe as the redheaded boy’s brown eyes slid from my face to my sweater to my nervously clasped hands. I watched the space where he’d stood long after he’d cleared his throat and marched off with his friends.

Torden.

37

We caught the rumble of male voices before we even reached the great hall’s entrance.

Valaskjálf was enormous, imposing as the fortress itself, as unlike Arbor Hall’s quiet, green warmth as possible.

Three walls were of stone; one was formed entirely by Yggdrasil’s hundred trunks. Huge, roaring fires threw light on men sitting shoulder to shoulder at long wooden tables, on high, vaulted ceilings, on tapestries and weapons and armor and—

I gripped Skop’s arm. “Why are there dead animals on the walls?” Deer and moose heads and preserved fish leered from on high, bodies still, eyes glassy.

“Calm down,” he hissed. “They’re trophies.”

An outstretched spear stopped our progress into the hall. “This is Selah, Seneschal-elect of Potomac,” said Lang, eyes flinty as he faced its owner. The guard shook his head, calling to another soldier. I only understood one word—Engelsk. English.

“No stranger enters Valaskjálf who carries war-graith,” said a second guard, extending a basket. His accent was melodic, with flattened as and guttural ls and a pleasant lilt unsuited to his scowl.

Cobie and Lang exchanged a glance. But Skop was already tugging a knife from his boot, and another from a belt beneath his shirt, so the others did the same, though Cobie looked sullen. J.J. pulled a dagger from each pocket, grinning at my wide eyes. Sir Perrault only scoffed as the first guard looked him over.

“And her weapons?” asked the second guard, nodding at me. “What sort of princess travels unarmed?”

“I’m not a—”

“Does she look like she’s armed?” Lang broke in, brows arched.

The guard surveyed me briefly and, evidently deciding I posed no threat, strode up the center aisle toward the front of the room, calling out first in Norsk, and then in English. “The Seneschal-elect of Potomac seeks an audience with you, my liege, and your royal sons.”

Across the room, all eyes turned toward the head table, awaiting the response of the man at its center.

This was the king of Asgard, famed Shield of the North.

His hard-muscled forearms lay on armrests carved with the head and a tail of a snake, and a cast-iron horse strode across his chair’s high top rail. Konge Alfödr looked to be in his midforties and wore a patch over his left eye, but his visible right eye was knife-sharp blue, and powerful muscles moved under his homespun shirt; age had not softened him.

I thought of Daddy, thin and brittle-boned, and suddenly felt sad.