Page 1 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

1

I stood shivering beneath my cloak in the temple plaza and wondered what would happen if I spat in the face of a god.

The press of bodies against me on every side still wasn’t enough to keep the chill at bay in the frigid early-morning temperatures. I glared up at the statue in front of me, one of the seven adorning the steps of the temple. The god of fire, Hjalmar, stared off into the distance, with stone flames dancing over his outstretched palms. It was fitting I’d end up in front of him, considering he’d blessed the worst of my brothers.

If I spat in his face, would gasps echo across the crowd? Would priests descend from the temple steps, scythes in hand, to haul me away? Would Hjalmar himself cause me to burst into flames where I stood until I was nothing more than a pile of ash?

The gods of air, water, earth, sky, and body on either side of him were almost identical, the only differences lying in the depiction of their abilities carved in the stone. To the right of Hjalmar, directly in the center of the seven, was the only goddess: Aloisa, who gave gifts of the soul.

Seven deities. And every single one of them hated me.

My best friend nudged me, clearly sensing the emotions bubbling beneath my surface. “You good?” Freja muttered, quietly enough that only I could hear. Around us, the buzz of excited conversation hummed. The streets were packed to the brim, and we were surrounded on every side by the godtouched.

Freja and I blended in with those standing in the front of the crowd—today we looked like wealthy citizens and obedient worshipers. Our realities couldn’t have been further from our disguises. The hoods of our cloaks were pulled tight around our faces, obscuring us from easy recognition in the dawn light. The last thing we wanted was anyone noticing two of the most infamous godforsaken hiding in plain sight at the front of the crowd on a ritual day.

As Freja waited for my answer, a single curl slipped across her forehead, unable to stay contained. I calmed the anger flaring in my chest and reached out to push the lock of hair behind her ear once more. Glancing down for what must have been the tenth time in five minutes to check that the bundle of decoy fabric was in Freja’s arms, I nodded sharply. “Fine.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other; whether from cold or nerves, I couldn’t tell. This small act of rebellion felt heavier than the others we’d carried out before. Today was my last chance to make an impact before I was carted off to another country to become the wife of a man I’d never met.

When the godtouched whispered of our anarchy, they often used the word barbarous . But I doubted anything Freja, Halvar—our other partner in crime—and I concocted was as “barbarous” as using one’s only daughter as a political pawn.

“You shouldn’t have given me your breakfast,” Freja said, crossing her arms. “You always get irritable when you haven’t eaten.”

I forced a smile. “I wanted to make sure you had a clear head for this. Don’t begrudge me that.”

With the war draining our supplies so quickly and this winter being so harsh, there was never enough food to go around. Of course, that meant Freja and the other godforsaken were rationing their food, while the godtouched still managed to eat three meals a day. I tried to offer a portion of my food to her or Arne—our other friend—every day, but they usually refused. If not for her trepidation about this morning’s plan, I doubted she would have accepted my offering today.

The temple loomed in front of us. As was the case every time I observed it, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Once, in my grandparents’ time, the building had been an homage to our country’s roots—but after our neighboring country to the south, Kryllian, opened their borders to visitors, those same grandparents decided they appreciated the smoother lines and expensive stone of foreign architecture. The old temple was torn down and rebuilt into what it was today: a creation of white stone so pure, the falling flakes disappeared in its orbit. The roof pivoted into two sharp angles representing two hands reaching for the heavens, where the pantheon of gods we all worshiped remained.

I tapped my foot, growing impatient. The ritual and ceremony were supposed to start first thing in the morning, while the sun rose over the hills in the east. But here we all stood, blowing hot puffs of breath over our numbing hands, still waiting as the sun ascended in the sky.

The chatter of the crowd closed in around me and I fumed at how normal the godtouched sounded. They discussed what might still be available at the market despite the shortages, what parties they were attending later this week, whether their spouses and children were due back from the front lines in this round of military rotations. All the while, their expensive jewelry flashed in the dappled sunlight and they basked in the warmth of their fur-lined cloaks—as if they all weren’t here to witness a murder.

I tried not to think about the godforsaken—my own people. The ones at the back of the crowd, dreading what the next hour would bring. Knowing they’d see blood of their own spilled on the altar of the gods and then be expected to go about their day as if nothing had happened. I wondered if any would lose toes or fingers from frostbite after enduring the frigid conditions of midwinter in their worn shoes and their thin cloaks, fraying at the edges. Whether their children’s ribs were showing in the wake of a war they despised. Whether they’d go home and cry silently for a few moments, hugging their families tight as they wondered why it was worth living another day.

My thoughts were interrupted by the temple doors swinging open. The crowd fell silent immediately, every head bowing low. I stared at the priests for a moment too long before Freja elbowed me, and I directed my gaze to the ground as well.

The holy men still managed to make me shudder, even after having spent a lifetime in close contact with them. They dressed entirely in white, in robes stretching from their necks to their wrists and ankles. Veils covered their hair and faces so that they blended in perfectly with the snowy landscape—except for the eyes.

The fabric of their veils was pinned to the necklines of their robes, meaning not a single inch of skin was visible on any of the priests. Above each one’s forehead was an eye embroidered with bloodred thread, eerie enough to make both the godtouched and the godforsaken feel the priest was peering directly into the depths of their soul.

I hated the priests almost as much as I hated the gods.

An endless stream of them flooded out the doors until they had filled the steps of the structure, the blades of their scythes winking in the sun. The last to exit brought with him a white cloth with another embroidered eye on it to drape over the altar. Fury ripped through me at the sight, but I forced myself to stay still. My fingernails bit half-moons into the flesh of my palms and I busied my mind with the reminder of what I was here to do.

“Every priest in the country must be here,” Freja whispered as we surveyed them. “I’ve never seen this many in one place before. Do you think they traveled for the ritual?”

“Who knows,” I murmured, feeling the telltale furrow of my brows appear. “I wasn’t expecting them all to be here. This might be harder than we thought.”

My friend nodded, readjusting the bundle of fabric in her arms. “Guess we’ll see how fast we can run.”

Another figure exited the temple. The queen. She’d once confided to me when I was a small child that the crown she wore today was her favorite: an arch that stretched from behind one ear to the other, hugging tightly to her hair, rays projecting out like a halo to frame her face. The gold of it glimmered in the morning sunlight, contrasting against her dark black hair. Her gown was a deep blood red, one of our national colors. It flowed like liquid, and I found myself wondering if she was freezing beneath the fabric. It certainly didn’t look warm.

She stepped to the center of the dais and stood before the altar. My eyes found my feet and I clenched my jaw as if the tension would prevent her from seeing me, recognizing me. A priest came forward to stand next to her, facing the crowd. In one synchronized movement, the other priests pounded the wooden handles of their scythes on the temple’s stone steps, sending a booming echo through the square. The ceremony had begun.

“Ready?” I asked Freja. My heart pounded with anticipation.

She nodded. “Let’s hope this works.”

The priest at the altar began speaking in a resounding voice. “Welcome to the Winter Ritual, beloved citizens of Bhorglid. Today marks the beginning of a new year, one filled with great hope for our country. Even now, we wage holy war against Kryllian, our armies drawing closer to taking over the southernmost country in the Fjordlands.”

A cheer erupted around us, and I suppressed a sigh of irritation. The godtouched in the crowd, whose partners, parents, and children fought on the front lines, were ecstatic to hear it repeated: their loved ones weren’t fighting in just any war. No, it was a holy war. Decreed by the gods.

The priest continued, “Generations ago, the Fjordlands were stolen from us. We, who communicate directly with the gods. Instead of harmony, discord was wrought and the Fjordlands were split into three. For thirteen generations, the gods have mourned with us as we have waited for their perfect timing. Now you are blessed to be part of the chosen few alive to see this miracle come to pass. Kryllian shall be rightfully ours. The gods have declared it.”

I tried not to let my emotions show on my face. The speech had been the same every year since the war began, but it never failed to make me wince. Halvar had been the one to explain to me years ago how the priest’s version of this story had been edited in Bhorglid’s favor. Only those who passed on the original stories verbally still knew the truth. He’d been lucky enough to come from a family that didn’t embrace the revisionist version of our history.

In actuality, the Fjordlands had been filled with wandering people, those with magical abilities and those without living in peace—until a pair with powers far beyond what was necessary for mortal man decided they could speak with the gods. And according to them, the gods said those with abilities had been blessed. Godtouched.

The rest of us were godforsaken . Forgotten by our holy pantheon, called unworthy from the moment we entered the world. While the godtouched enjoyed innate abilities that allowed them to manipulate elements of the world around them, the way the gods had once done as they walked the land millennia ago, the rest of us were normal. Shunted to the edge of a society where an invisible group of gods claimed we were lesser.

The speech grated against my nerves like the screech of a metal fork across a ceramic plate. Enduring the rest of this drivel was going to kill me. I was ready to move, ready to wreak havoc, ready to wrap my hands around the nearest priest’s throat and rip their veil off. Only watching the light fade from their eyes would be enough to calm me.

Freja snatched my hand and squeezed. “No,” she hissed. “We have to wait until they’ve brought out the child.”

My hands shook with fury against hers. But she was right. The priests enabled the foul treatment of the godforsaken, but we weren’t here to rid ourselves of them. Today was about saving a life, not taking it.

Even if I wished it were possible to do both.

The priest droned on, but I focused on Freja’s words and nodded, forcing myself to breathe deeply. The godtouched around us were too intent on listening to the priests to notice me acting strangely.

The ritual speech continued despite my swirling thoughts. “As we perform the new year ritual, this unholy blood will be a tribute to the gods. In exchange for our sacrifice, they will grant us their power. We will gain a powerful advantage in this war; with the vanquishing of this life, we will be able to defeat the Hellbringer. The gods have declared it so.”

Freja squeezed my hand again, barely in time to keep an indignant huff from escaping me. This part of the speech was new, the logic as incomprehensible as the rest. How would killing an infant grant us the power to stop the most powerful godtouched being to exist in any of our lifetimes and end the war? As Freja released my hand, the queen gestured to the side of the stage for several acolytes to bring someone forward. I glanced over but couldn’t make out the woman’s face; the figure was hunched at an odd angle and a low moan emanated from her mouth. There was a wriggling bundle clutched to her chest. My stomach sank, the way it did every year.

The priest took the infant out of the person’s arms and began to move toward the altar.

The figure left in the shadows—undoubtedly the child’s mother, a godforsaken woman—let out a haunting scream, her wail of anguish echoing through the square and silencing everyone, even the godtouched. I clenched my teeth. The screams were always the worst part. Worse than the blood. The mother collapsed to her knees and howling sobs cracked the silence.

Freja and I were the only ones who appeared affected. The priests’ expressions were carefully hidden behind their face coverings and the godtouched on either side of us were reverently silent, waiting for spilled blood to spell their salvation. The queen curled her lip at the bundle in the priest’s arms as he set it carefully on the altar.

As he laid it down, it wriggled, and a tiny hand emerged from the blankets.

Seeing the movement made my throat raw. The last child born to godforsaken parents each year was always culled—a horrifying euphemism—as a sacrifice to the gods. Only the youngest, freshest blood would do for this brutal tradition, repeated winter after winter.

“Now,” I said to Freja as anger sparked in my stomach. “We go now.”

She reached into her pocket and pressed something. The infant let out a wail. The godtouched were poised, on their toes, ready for action; behind me, I could feel the raw defeat of the godforsaken.

Without warning, a boom echoed through the courtyard and smoke began to pour from the top of the temple, obscuring the priests and the queen from view. The gray clouds billowed out into the square. Cries of panic rose from the blindness.

“Good work,” I whispered to Freja. When Freja had first mentioned Halvar was training her to use explosives, I was wary—now I had no time for anything but gratitude. We dashed up the temple steps toward the chaotic scene.

The priests were coughing, having a more difficult time breathing through their veils. The queen fanned the air with a hand, snarling. But there was no time to think; the priest at the altar raised his scythe above his head, undeterred and ready to strike.

I pulled my sword from under my cloak and lunged forward until the sound of metal on metal grated against my ears.

The priest hadn’t expected the collision. When the scythe connected with my sword, he stumbled, and I seized my opportunity. Sprinting forward, I grabbed the infant off the altar and dashed the other way.

The queen let out an angry scream.

“They’re coming,” I said, voice panicked as I handed the baby to Freja. The shadows of the alleyway where she waited obscured her features. “Run.”

She traded me a bundle of fabric for the infant and took off, sprinting through the streets.

I sent up a silent prayer. Gods, if you’re real, please keep that baby from crying.

The smoke was clearing. Footsteps pounded behind me. The priest from the altar was getting closer. People in the crowd coughed, crying out with fear and confusion.

Freja was close to getting around the first corner. I bounced on the balls of my feet, heart pounding. As soon as she was out of sight, as soon as I guaranteed they were following me and not her, I could run.

Right as I moved to take off, a white-gloved hand landed on my shoulder, tightening hard enough to bruise.

On instinct, I pulled a knife out of my belt with my free hand and whirled, slashing until it connected with something solid. Red sprayed over white fabric and the priest cried out in pain. Time was up. I leapt into action, running as fast as I could down the uneven streets.

“There’s two of them!” someone shouted behind me.

A curse escaped me. They’d seen Freja. If I didn’t act quickly, they’d send search parties after both of us.

Time to play our most valuable hand. I pulled my hood down, exposing my jet-black hair and well-known face. My mother rarely smiled, but when she did, we had the same feral grin. In one swift moment I became the most recognizable person at the ceremony. “Over here!” I called, drawing the priests’ attention.

They looked my way, forgetting about Freja.

“The princess,” one roared. “Get her!”

I grinned. Exactly as we planned.

Sprinting past run-down buildings, through puddles of melted snow and hidden alleyways, my mind took over. This part of the city was a maze ingrained in my memory.

I clutched the bundle of fabric to my chest, heading away from Freja as if my life depended on it. “Out of the way,” I ordered a group of godforsaken standing in my path. The people moved without complaint, recognizing me and filling in behind, slowing my pursuers.

As I moved to turn another corner, the ground in front of me erupted, forming a wall where there had once been a clear path. I stumbled slightly and cursed. When we made our plan, we accounted for every possibility—but predicting the abilities of the priests who pursued me was impossible.

Clearly, at least one of them had been touched by Isak, god of earth. I growled in frustration and sprinted back the way I had come, down another clear path, ignoring the rumble of the ground beneath my feet. My only advantage was knowing the streets of the lower side of town better than they did.

I heaved air into my lungs. Keeping them away from Freja long enough for her to get back to Halvar’s was crucial. A little farther, I told myself. Come on.

I stretched my hand out and clutched the edge of a building, using the leverage to propel me around the corner.

A few steps down the street, a block of ice shot out in front of my face, too fast to dodge. I slammed directly into it and fell flat on my back, stars blooming in my peripheral vision as I gasped for breath. Wetness on my lip spoke to the blood pouring from my nose as a result of the collision. My wits were scattered across the cobblestones, but I had enough left about me to curse the priests and their horrible gods once again.

A strong hand wrapped around my bicep and hauled me to my feet. The motion made my vision spin and nausea writhe in my stomach. Half of me was disappointed when I didn’t vomit all over the white robes of the priest holding me. His fingers pressed so roughly against my skin that I knew I’d have a hand-shaped bruise there in the morning—he was likely godtouched with strength, a gift from Asger, god of the body. The same ability my oldest brother, Erik, possessed.

The bundle of fabric had fallen when I collided with the ice structure. Another priest was unrolling it while three other members of the Holy Order stood laughing among themselves at my predicament. I dredged up a mouthful of saliva and blood and spat it at the closest one.

He howled at the mess now covering his robes and I grinned at him. It must have been a horrid sight, considering my broken nose and the bruises I felt forming around at least one of my eyes. I could taste the blood staining my front teeth.

The one with inhuman strength twisted my arm behind me at an unnatural angle and a hiss escaped me. The other returned with the now unwound bundle of fabric, clearly not containing the infant they’d been looking for. I imagined he was scowling behind the veil covering his face.

“These were my favorite pants,” I said, glancing down at the muddy stains now coating the fabric. “I hope you’re prepared to replace them.”

“Where’s the sacrifice?” he demanded, holding up the empty stretch of fabric. I made a valiant effort to hide my smirk.

I shrugged. They may have caught me, but if they didn’t find Freja, then it didn’t matter. There was no replacing a baby born on the last day of the year. The ritual sacrifice could not be supplanted. “You probably should’ve kept better track of it.”

The priest tilted his head and grabbed a fistful of my tunic, yanking me closer until he was right in my face. His voice trembled with anger. More priests appeared behind him, finally catching up to the chase. “Little bitch. Do you know the punishment for interfering with our rituals, Princess? Your hands are cut off at the wrists. It’s quite painful. No healers are permitted to tend to the wounds. The perpetrator almost always dies of blood loss.”

I shrugged. “If you want to explain to my parents how you cut off my hands, be my guest. But I certainly wouldn’t recommend it.”

“The king and queen don’t care what happens to you,” a priest behind him sneered.

Heat flushed my face. “They don’t. But they do care about the treaty. I don’t think the Fastian royal family would be too thrilled to marry off their son to a thief with no hands.”

For a moment the hold on my arm tightened. The priests had arranged the treaty—and my impending marriage—in the first place. Even they weren’t stupid enough to risk ruining it now.

If the war continued for another full season, people would begin dying of starvation. In exchange for regular deliveries of food, the Fastians would receive the support of our soldiers at their borders. The seal between a war-mongering country and a distrustful agricultural nation? A loveless marriage between two royal children.

The priest in front of me growled, the fabric of his veil fluttering as he prepared to continue arguing.

“Enough.”

The familiar voice came from behind me, and I snapped my head around to see my mother standing there, her displeasure as icy cold as the water she froze with her magic. My head throbbed with the sudden movement and I inhaled raggedly, blinking away stars from my vision. I didn’t think I had a concussion, but now the injury seemed more than likely.

The priest’s hold on my arm tightened once more as the queen stepped up to face me and placed two long fingers beneath my chin. Revulsion filled me at the touch, her digits as cold as the ice running through her veins. I jerked my face away and snapped my teeth threateningly close to her fingers.

The priest holding me hauled me backward and my mother slapped me across the face. My skull throbbed. “Insolent brat,” she said. My face stung and I held back tears from the shock of the abrasion in the freezing air. “Tell me where your disgusting friend has taken the sacrifice.”

“No.” My voice was thick with blood, my nose swelling from my earlier collision. I felt like a fish, mouth hanging open in order to keep breathing. The taste of blood passed my lips.

Mother sighed and I looked up at her from where my head hung. Her cold eyes, the same green as mine, were filled with disgust. “You could have made your life as painless as possible, you know. Being godforsaken as a member of the royal family…you’re already an embarrassment. We advised you to keep to the shadows, where you belong. Lower your head and accept your station. Do what’s right for the benefit of your country. And yet you’ve never listened. Now here you are, toying with the idea of rebellion . Ruining your home one ritual at a time. Dreaming of things that don’t belong to you. Like you have any clue what it takes to run a country.”

“You could find out,” I suggested, allowing the edge of malice in my voice to show its claws. “Throw me in the ring with the others during the Bloodshed Trials. You never know. Perhaps I’d manage to come out on top, at the end of things.”

The once-in-a-generation competition for the throne was mere weeks away now—it wasn’t an entirely preposterous suggestion that I join my brothers in the fight to the death that would decide who ascended to power, taking our father’s place. I had enough training that, even without magic, I might be able to hold my own in the ritual sacrifice of heirs. But no; even allowing a godforsaken to fight was too far. Instead, I was good for one thing: to be married off to seal an alliance.

She laughed. “You’re many horrible things already, daughter mine. Queen won’t be one of them.” To my surprise, Mother ordered, “Let her go.”

“Your Majesty?” The priest holding me sounded as shocked as I must have looked.

“You heard me.”

The hand released its bruising clutch on my bicep and I stumbled slightly before catching myself on the wall of the building in front of me. Everything ached. I wondered whether I’d be able to convince the royal healer to mend me up or if Halvar would have to reset my nose again.

“That’s it?” My voice trembled when I spoke, knowing I was inviting Mother’s wrath.

But she scoffed. “I’ll let your father deal with you. He’ll know what punishment suits you best.”

Mother knew it as well as I did: Father had a knack for consequences that cut to the bone but left no visible scars.

I shuddered at the thought of what my future might hold when he next returned from the front lines, then swallowed the river of blood pooling in my throat. The queen walked away as if nothing had happened, as if the blood from my nose hadn’t dripped onto her fingers.

The priest turned to face his two companions, murmuring something I couldn’t make out as they moved away.

“Revna Thorunsdotter, consider yourself lucky to be royalty,” he called over his shoulder as he retreated. “Otherwise, you would not be leaving here with your life.”

I managed a smirk. “Oh, I know.”