Page 11 of The Magic of Vanaheim

“I don’t believe the real Prince Rune is still alive. But don’t worry. I’m not planning to die by the hands of aVanr.”

Sobbing, Anya hugged him close. They both knew that despite his proud words, he’d most likely not return.

four

The Promised Princess

?åkon

Abrisk wind from the east billowed their sails as they neared the port of Saeborg. Standing at the dragon ship’s bow, Håkon was painfully reminded of that night four years ago when an army led by his half-brother had tried in vain to seize the sea fortress. Now, in the pale light of an early summer’s morning, they’d returned with a new ploy to conquer the city and end the reign of theVanironce and for all. And most importantly, to save Anya from being wed to a prince regent whom she had never met and who most likely despised her for her ancestry.

“This is madness,” Gudrun mumbled next to him.

She wore the gray robes of a handmaid, her magic-deflecting tattoos hidden under gloves and a high collar.

“We can still slip away into the crowd of the harbor. You owe your father nothing and certainly not a measly death in a foolish attempt to assassinate Prince Rune.”

Guilt twisted in Håkon’s gut at taking Gudrun on this doomed endeavor. They’d been over the plan a thousand times, and theirodds didn’t get any better. But although Håkon had implored Gudrun to let him sail alone, she was too loyal to abandon him.

“You should leave,” Håkon tried again. “Find a ship and go back to your little fishing village.”

“It’s a large village, and a dozen farms are scattered along the fjord,” Gudrun replied haughtily. “I rule there, as you know. You could come with me.”

Looking up at Saeborg’s star-shaped ramparts, Håkon sighed. “You know I cannot.”

“Then I won’t leave, either.”

“You’re just eager to see me married to aVanrsorcerer.”

“I wouldn’t mind a proper wedding feast,”Gudrun said with a mischievous grin.

She stepped closer and offered him a delicate veil and a circlet that looked like it was made of ice flowers, the last pieces missing to complete his ridiculous disguise. He already wore a creamy white fur coat and a long, pale blue tunic with a silver belt, garments Anya should’ve worn on her wedding day, luckily not yet fitted for her slender frame. Håkon couldn’t help feeling like a thief.

“Cover your face before someone spots your ugly mug from the battlements and realizes you aren’t Anya.”

Håkon eyed the veil in distaste before pulling it over his head. He fumbled with the cloth until Gudrun took pity on him and batted his hands away.

“There,” she huffed. “What a pretty bride you are.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s not funny. Let’s hope the bloodyVanirwill only have eyes for your beauty and oversee the fact that the king sent his only daughter into enemy territory with barely any protection.”

“Stop fretting, old hag,” Håkon grumbled, but Gudrun was right.

Despite having approved of the plan himself, his father had given them only a small delegation; one ship and a dozen warriors under the command of a man called Hrungnir; not exactly fitting for theJotunnprincess he was to impersonate. At least Bergelmir hadn’t been stingy with the wedding gifts. A whole chest filled to the brim with treasures sat in the belly of the ship. Håkon could only hope that theVanirwouldn’t become overly suspicious when they realized that their supposed princess was traveling with a modest following.

Gudrun rolled her eyes and turned her gaze toward the citadel towering above them.

“ByHel, we’re doomed.”

At the mooring, they were greeted by a red-haired man with a dozen warriors in tow. Bergelmir had always insisted that theVanirwere nothing but a tribe of weaklings, foolishly relying onseiðrinstead of steel. But as their failed attempt to raid Saeborg many years ago had shown, the truth wasn’t as simple.

Taking a deep breath, Håkon followed Gudrun onto the jetty. His eyes wandered over the bustling harbor, the lower town with its neat little houses, and up at the light-colored walls of the citadel, gleaming in the sunlight. No dark smudge left by sorcery or fire tainted the sandstone, and Håkon couldn’t find a house that showed any signs of damage, either. TheVanirhad rebuilt properly.

“Welcome to Saeborg, Princess Anya,” the redhead greeted them. His hand never leaving the hilt of his ax, he regarded them wearily.

He was short and sturdy, and his braided hair fell to his back over a breastplate that seemed to comprise thousands of tiny golden scales. The armor looked so intricate and otherworldly, like a treasure made by the dwarves of Nidavellir. But theVanirand the dwarves had been enemies for centuries. Could it be that they had forged a new alliance?