I pulled the fish from the fire when the skin was crisp and lifting up from the flesh and piled them into a large wooden bowl. I steeled myself before I opened the door and walked out into the midday sun with the bowl on my hip. My eyes fixed on Inge, where she stood with another woman, winding rope. The path widened as I passed the gate and a figure in the corner of my eye made me draw back. I stumbled, almost dropping the fish, and a hand shot out to catch me by the arm, steadying me.
Kerling.
He stood beside Inge’s gate, leaning into the post. When I had my balance, I stood, staring up at him. But his attention was pulled toward the barn that was lifting up plank by plank from the ground. He was watching the Riki work, hidden in the shade cast by the tree.
The pain and humiliation of his injury was plainly painted on his face. He was dependent upon his clansmen in a way that no one wanted to be. If it were my father, he’d feel the same.
“Thank you,” I whispered, trying not to show the pity I had for him.
His eyes drifted toward me, as if he was suddenly aware of my presence, and I turned, crossing the path until I passed the gate before his house. The banging and sawing stopped as the Riki noticed me and each head turned as I made my way toward Inge. Someone stepped into the path before me and I stopped, staring into the face of a woman with hair as red as Mýra’s.
The bowl slid from my hip and I looked up to see Fiske taking it into his hands. He nodded, dismissing me, and I bit down onto my lip, meeting the eyes of the Riki who were still staring at me. I turned on my heel as pain curled in my chest and I swallowed it down, making my way back toward the gate. The sounds of work picked up slowly, followed by the soft tune of a song rising on a woman’s voice. The others joined in, singing as they swung their hammers and scraped the wood. Ancient words on an ancient melody.
My lip quivered, fresh tears springing to my eyes as I reached Inge’s gate. And there, still tucked into the shadow, Kerling still stood.
TWENTY-TWO
I stared into the side of the mountain as Iri spoke.
Inside the house, Inge was rolling up blankets for him and Fiske. The morning was stark and the fire was still warming the house, but Iri was up before the others and waiting for me when I came down.
He leaned in close to me, buckling the axe sheaths to his back. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
They were going hunting with some of the men from the village. He was leaving me. Again. And I wouldn’t be here when he returned. I’d wait for a chance to get to the river and I’d take it. I wouldn’t look back.
“Stay here in the house.” He set his hand on my shoulder but I shoved him off.
I wasn’t going to ask him to stay. I’d learned to take care of myself a long time ago.
I helped Inge pack their saddlebags as Halvard stood at the door, pouting.
“Why can’t I go?” He leaned out to catch snowflakes in his hand.
“Next year.” Fiske gave him a reproachful look and Halvard slumped against the wall. “Someone needs to check the nets while we’re gone.”
Halvard nodded reluctantly, happy to have a duty, but he still crossed his arms over his chest.
Iri had the horses ready when we came outside with the bags. He and Fiske kissed Inge and she ran her hands over their faces. “Be careful, sváss.”
Iri met my eyes one last time before he lifted himself up onto his horse, but I kept them cold. Hard. I wasn’t going to give him an unspoken good-bye any more than he would beg for one. He turned his horse and started down the path toward the others. They disappeared around the bend and I rubbed my palm against my chest.
It would be the last time I’d ever see him. In this life or the next.
I picked up the milk pail and went to the goat pen, pushing my shoulders back, ashamed of the pain still twisting behind my ribs. I didn’t need him.
Iri was a traitor.
But we were bound together in a way that even I didn’t understand. And the worst part had been realizing that there was maybe nothing he could do to change that. I wanted to forget him, but maybe I never would. I wanted to let him go, but I might never be able to.
I sat, ignoring the ache in my throat, and a goat pushed his head through the pen, nudging me until I ran my palm over his forehead. It had only been two weeks since I was brought to Fela. There were still at least six more to go before the snow stopped falling and started melting. I could make it home in time to help my father plant. He’d never have to know about Iri. And if Sigr had mercy on me, maybe I’d forget him too.
“What did you do?” Gyda stood behind me with a stack of wood gathered in her arms. “What did you do to get them to keep you alive?”
I turned back to the goats and filled the pail. I didn’t want to make up an excuse. I didn’t want to lie. I felt sorry for her and Kerling, and I hated myself for it.
“Thora will bring her vengeance on you,” she uttered. “For all of us.”
She walked away with her skirt clenched in her fists and I looked into the dirt, feeling the weight of the collar and thinking that maybe she already had. Maybe it was Thora who’d brought me to Fela, like Iri said. Maybe it was Thora who’d fit the iron around my neck.
I looked to the tree line. If I made it to the river and had Riki chasing me in a forest I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have time to get down the mountain before they caught me. I’d have to wait until I wouldn’t be noticed. Then I’d leave this place behind.
When Halvard was asleep, I sat beside the smoldering fire with the sacred wood, pulling the carving tool toward me slowly to shape the feet.
“Who are you making it for?” Inge asked quietly from across the fire.
I blew the dust from my hands. “My mother.”
The thing I remembered most about my mother was her hair. I remember it catching the sun and thinking that it looked like it was moving even when it wasn’t.
“When did she die?” Inge leaned forward, propping her chin up onto her hands as she watched the tool cut into the wood.
For a moment, I thought I should lie. I didn’t know what Iri had told her about our mother. But it wasn’t right to lie about her. I wanted Inge to know about the woman she’d replaced.
“I was six. My mother wasn’t a warrior.” I answered the question I knew she was asking in her mind. “She was killed during a Herja raid.”
Her eyes widened and she stiffened. “The Herja?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard the stories. I thought … people think they’re a myth.”
I dragged the tip of the metal across the bottom of the block slowly. “They aren’t stories.”
The night the Herja came was the first night I saw my father break. Iri and I ran, because that’s what he told us to do. He shoved us to the door and pushed us out into the dark. We ran up the hill and into the forest. We didn’t stop running until morning broke and when we returned, hobbling back on bleeding, bare feet, we found him holding her on the beach. His hands tangled in her hair. I would never forget that sound—the primal roar that tore from his throat and echoed through our village.
“I’m sorry,” Inge said, watching my face.
“I don’t remember her well.” I shrugged. But I could still hear the sounds of screaming in the dark. The smell when we burned the bodies. I could still feel the chill on my skin from when I first saw the Herja.
“You do.” She sat up. “Even if you can’t see her when you close your eyes, our bodies and our minds remember things that we can’t. They hold onto things. And you’ll see her again. When you reach Sólbjǫrg.”
I stopped carving, surprised.
She smiled. “That’s where your people go after death, isn’t it?”
I looked into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking. What she wanted from me. “I’m not sure I’ll make it to Sólbjǫrg.” Saying it out loud made the fear inside me wake up again and I wished I’d held my tongue.
Her head tilted, resting on her shoulder. “Why is that?”
“Because I’m a dýr.” I dropped my gaze back down to the idol. I didn’t want to see whether she felt sorry for me or not. “I’ve lost my honor.”
She was quiet a long time, watching me carve. I listened to the pop and hiss of the fire and tried to forget she was there. I imagined my mother’s face. Her dark, deep-set eyes. Her straight, square teeth.
“We find things, just as we lose things, Eelyn.” Inge stood. “If you’ve lost your honor, you’ll find it again.”
I kept my back to her as she went to the ladder and climbed up into the loft. I couldn’t try and explain it to her. I couldn’t tell her that I’d abandoned my clansmen on the battlefield to chase after the brother who didn’t even want me. Or that it was me who left Iri in that trench.
I held the idol up in front of me. The crude shape was simple. My father was the one who could carve. But it was still her. It was still something.
I looked back up to the dark loft where Inge and Halvard slept. If my father were here, he would tell me to take the carving tool, climb the ladder, and kill them both. I lifted the small iron hook, turning it around in the firelight before I set it down, and touched the face of the idol with my fingers.
“Sigr, keep the soul of my mother safe in Sólbjǫrg. Protect my father. Do not take your favor from me.” The words bent and turned around each other. I sniffed them back. “Don’t forget me.”
TWENTY-THREE
Inge filled her basket and put on her cloak as Halvard settled down to sleep. “I want you to go to the mountainside cellar. We need to store the sage and I need you to get some vinegar from the barrel.” She took my cloak from the hook on the wall and handed me an empty jar.
“You’re not going with me?” My brow lifted.
“I have patients to tend to. The cellar is below the ritual house. You’ll see the door in the rock face.” Inge took up a small torch from beside the door and lit it in the fire before opening the door. But she paused, looking back at me. Her lips pressed together as thoughts flitted behind her eyes. “Good-bye, Eelyn.” She turned before she’d even said my name, stepping out into the darkening village.
I stood, staring at the door, my mind jumping from one thought to the next. She was letting me go. She was giving me my chance. My heart raced past my mind and I ran for my boots. I fit them on clumsily before pulling my cloak around me.
The door creaked open and I looked down the empty path, turning the jar over in my hand as my pulse picked up. I could take some food from the cellar and slip into the forest. There was still some sunlight left and if I hurried, I could make it to the river. No one would notice I was gone until morning.
I loaded up my arms with the bundles of sage and watched. The village was quiet, but the Riki were still awake, behind closed doors. I lit the other torch and stepped out the door, walking quickly. Inge stood in the candlelit doorway of Gyda’s house.
I headed toward the ritual house, staying to the side of the path, and avoided the gaze of anyone who passed. The blacksmith stood in his tent, pounding against his anvil and sending orange sparks out around him in the growing dark. I cringed at the sound of the embers sizzling in the snow, remembering the burn of the collar on my neck. He glanced up as I passed before he turned back to his hammer.
The cellar was carved into the side of the mountain, with a large wood plank door set into it. I gripped the sage with one arm and pulled at the cold iron handle, opening the door against the snow. I pushed my weight into it until I could fit through the opening. It was dark and damp, the sound of melted snow echoing in the space as it dripped from the rock ceiling. The walls were stacked with barrels and crates—food, ale, medicines. The village’s winter stores were stocked high, with grain packed into woven bags and set up on top of wooden stands to keep them off the ground.
On the back wall, salted meat hung on metal hooks. I stuck the torch in the mount that hung on the wall and opened my bag, filling it with a small sack of grain and shoving clean bandages into it. I reached up for the meat, and almost slipped, catching myself on a basket of ginger root and sending the pieces rolling across the floor. I cursed under my breath, lifting onto my toes until I had ahold of a long strip of venison and pulled it free.
The sound of the door made me stop, my hands freezing on my bag. A red-bearded man stood in the opening, leaning against the rock wall with an axe in his hand. The man from Adalgildi.
“What are you doing in here, Aska?” I could hardly see his lips moving beneath his thick beard.
I stood, slipping the meat into my bag, and took the jar from the pouch inside. The barrel of vinegar was sitting open behind me with a wooden ladle hung on the wall beside it. I turned my back to him, taking the lid from the jar and filling it to the top.
“I said what are you doing in here? Stealing?”
I dropped the jar back into my bag and walked across the cellar floor, taking the torch from the wall and waiting for him to move.
“Did Fiske cut your tongue out?” He hooked one of his fingers into the collar and jerked me forward.
“Don’t touch me.” I pulled away from him.
He smiled, one eyebrow lifting. “I need something from you before you go.” He reached out and put his hand on my waist. His rough, stained fingers set against the line of my hip, and his eyes met mine.
I knew these eyes. I’d seen them in battle and other places too.
His voice was calm when he spoke. “You’re a dýr, Aska. You’ll do what I say or you’ll be punished.”
“I belong to Fiske. If you want something, you’ll have to ask him for it.” The words were rotten in my mouth.
I waited for his anger. For him to push harder. But the man looked down at me with something that looked like relief on his face. And as quickly as I realized it was coming, his hand was flying through the air. It cracked against the side of my face and I fell into the wall, dropping the torch. The bag on my shoulder fell open and I caught it, gripping the jar in my hand and swinging my arm wide. My shoulder popped as it caught him in the face. The glass shattered, the vinegar exploding from the jar, and he howled, clawing at his eyes with his hands. I jumped over him, running for the door, and he caught my foot. I hit the ground hard, trying to crawl away as his other hand clasped around my ankle.
He cursed, pulling me back. I kicked until my heel found his chin and he pulled again, harder, until I was underneath him. He took my face in his hand, squeezing. His eyes were red, glassed over with the burn of the vinegar. “You’ll pay for that, Aska.”
Fingers hooked beneath my collar and he dragged me down the path. I clawed at his arms, choking as my feet slid around me. He towed me past the ritual house and into the forest. Deeper. Farther. When he finally stopped, I tried to stand, but he pushed me back down, grabbing the collar again and threading a thick rope through it.
“Stand up,” he spat, yanking me forward.
I searched around us again, but it was too dark. I couldn’t tell how far from the village we were. Even if anyone saw us, they wouldn’t help me. If I screamed, no one would come.
I stood shakily, my hair wet and cold, suddenly wanting Iri so badly that my insides ached. I could see him, riding away on the horse. Trying to meet my eyes. Trying to reach me.
He pulled me to the trunk of a wide tree and wrapped the rope around it, pulling it tight. I was pinned in place, my face against the rough bark.
“What are you doing?” I tried to pull away.
He took my hands above my head and tied them tightly, followed by the tops of my legs so that I couldn’t move. Around us, the snow began to fall. He pulled the knife from his belt and I squirmed, fighting harder against the ropes.
“Don’t!” I screamed.
He stood back, watching me fight, a smile lifting the lines in his face. When he stepped toward me, I grunted, feeling the skin still healing around my wrists break open against the rope. He pressed the tip of the blade to my back, holding it there and watching me. I tried not to breathe, my
heart stopping in my chest.
“We’re not in Aurvanger, Aska. You’re not a warrior here.” He caught my tunic with the knife and pulled it up, cutting into the fabric.
He tore the cloth from top to bottom, taking the knife to the arms next. When the blade ran through, he pulled at the pieces and dropped them on the ground in front of me, leaving me naked from the waist up.
I pulled at the rope, my teeth clenching, but I could barely move, scraping against the trunk of the tree.
“You’re going to freeze to death. Slowly.” I couldn’t see his face in the moonlight as he stepped back and looked at me. He stood there, silent, his breath slowing. “You’re going to close your eyes and never wake up. If you do, it will only be to wish you were dead.” He dropped the end of the rope onto the ground and walked back down the path, into the dark.
I pulled at the ropes harder, trying to wiggle my legs free, but it only bit against me. It wouldn’t budge. I grunted and spit, fighting against the knots until something moved in the trees and I froze, trying to make it out. I waited for my eyes to adjust, my breath puffing out around me in white bursts. A woman. She twisted her fingers into her necklace, looking at me.
The Tala.
She stood, motionless, in the dark.
I waited for her to say something. To do something. But she only looked me in the eye, so still that she could have been carved out of ice. I gave up struggling, leaning into the tree, and looked back at her. A drip of blood trailed down my cheek. And then she blinked. The look on her face didn’t change as she turned and started down the path. Leaving me tied to the tree in the falling snow.
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