“How will we get to Svealand now that the ships have burned?” Sigrid asked. If they couldn’t continue their journey, Anund would have won all the same.
Rune, who was both younger and taller than his brother, started laughing.
“Oh, we managed to row most of the ships across the inlet. They’re waiting safely over there for your journey. This isn’t the first time they’ve attacked us, and we’re all too familiar with their flaming arrows and appetite for my vessels.”
Sigrid took a breath of relief. That was good news. She praised Rune’s cunning, as her fury at Anund grew even stronger. He had no reason to attack the Scylfings, and yet time after time his men came looking for battle. They were butchers, brutes that hid behind the skirts of a seeress.
May your valkyries slaughter them all.
“May Anund and his kin be cursed for all eternity,” Sigrid said, looking Rune in the eye. “May you exterminate them until no one remembers their names anymore. Sing of my fury, and let all remember how they failed to kill me today.”
Rune bowed his head in respect.
“Your name will be heard at our next battle against them, my kinswoman.”
A yell made Sigrid turn her head.
“Speaking of fury, you still haven’t met my wife, Ylva,” Rune said and smiled at a plump matron striding toward them with a grim look on her face. Her gray dress was stained with blood and soot, and her hair hung loosely around her blotchy red face, but it was hard to tell whether her ruddiness was from anger or from exertion.
“Rotten men, isn’t it enough that you let the outbuildings burn down? Now you’re making the girl stand outside the gate without offering her either water or shade.” Without waiting for a response, Ylva stopped in front of Sigrid and gave her a concerned look. “Your face is white as snow. No wonder, after everything you’ve seen. Come with me now, and let the men tend to their own.”
She took a firm hold of Sigrid’s arm and led her through the open wooden gates of the palisade and into the courtyard. The house was half the size of Skagulheim and had a thatched roof. There were only three outbuildings but more fenced-in paddocks, where farm animals paced anxiously as people rushed past. Slaves better nourished than those back home ran with water sacks to put out the last of the fire burning in the palisade. A wounded warrior’s comrades helped him walk into the longhouse.
“You can get a little peace and quiet over here,” Ylva said, ushering Sigrid to a garden by the side of the main house.
Between the hop vines, medicinal plants, and herbs there stood a wooden bench, where she pushed Sigrid down to sit. Ylva yelled for a slave, who came running right away with a cup of water and a cloth woven from the finest linen so she could wash her hands and face.
“Poor girl, you’re just a child, after all,” mumbled Ylva while Sigrid cleaned herself up and was given a cup of milk to drink. “And to think they’re going to drag you all the way to Svealand.” Ylva shook her head and grunted. “Men and the things they come up with.”
Sigrid leaned her head against the sun-warmed wall of the house and inhaled the scent of flowers as exhaustion washed over her in waves. The rest of the retinue entered the courtyard, and horses and oxen were unharnessed. Alfhild and Jorun stood by the carts and looked around awkwardly. Ylva put her hands on her hips and sternly scrutinized them.
“Are you Sigrid’s?” she called. “Why are you standing there lazing around? Take her things to the inner room in the house. Child, show them where it is.”
A slave child quickly hurried over to Sigrid’s kinswomen, grinning.
“You don’t manage your servants very well,” Ylva scolded. “That bodes ill for the cloak you will shoulder up north. Keep after them and never let them idle, that’s what I always say.” Ylva sat down on the bench next to Sigrid and eyed her with concern. “Toste is crazy to send you north with only two worthless handmaids. I’d better set them straight and give them a talking to. Now if only this whole thing ends up being worth your long journey so there’ll be peace in these parts. The gods know we’ve had our fill of fighting with Anund.”
Ylva patted Sigrid’s cheek with moving tenderness. Sigrid swallowed and forced herself to smile, though her body felt like collapsing.
“Oh, you young thing,” Ylva said, concerned. “It pains me that you have to go through all this without your mother at your side. If you were one of my children, I would never have married you off to any Svea, that’s for sure.”
Maybe it was Ylva’s care, the long ride, the battles, the storm dís, the premonition, or all of it together, but suddenly tears started rolling down Sigrid’s cheeks. In vain she tried to hide the shame behind her hands, but Ylva hugged her and stroked her back.
“You cry, young lady. Just get it out.”
Sigrid shook her head. She couldn’t help blubbering like a feebleminded slave, low on sense and born to serve. Angrily, she wiped away her tears.
“A Scylfing never cries.”
Ylva sniffed scornfully and said, “What kind of nonsense have they been drumming into you over in Skagulheim? Did Allvis say that? Of course she did. That old woman was born with a heart of stone, and I know how hard she brought up my Rune. It took me years to make him human again. How can she make you a full-fledged member of the family and then turn around immediately and send you off to live with strangers who are far from honor and integrity?”
Ylva ran her hand over the mark on Sigrid’s wrist and shook her head with concern as she tucked a few wisps of hair that had come out of Sigrid’s braids behind her ears.
Sigrid wasn’t planning to speak ill of Grandmother. Instead she rinsed her face with the cool water.
“I saw a seeress in the woods,” Sigrid said. “She made the mist swallow us.”
“Then you’re really blessed to be alive, because the hag you met is powerful,” Ylva said with an astonished look.
Sigrid smiled wanly.
“Nothing can withstand the dazzling Radiant One. She listened to my invocation and sent a storm dís, who drove Mist away so our men could see the enemy and fight.”
Surprise and disbelief were clearly visible in Ylva’s eyes, and she sat for a long while in silence.
Then she cautiously asked, “Have you spoken to Our Lady before?”
Sigrid couldn’t help but laugh.
“Yes, every day for as long as I can remember. On my blood night she sent me the dís, Kára, who descended to earth. She drove away the fog when the battle was at its peak.”
“Anything else?” Ylva asked, and Sigrid nodded eagerly.
“She sent me a dream about my husband. He was holding a child who was going to become the king of kings, and the boy called me Mother and warned me that someone wanted to kill me. That’s all.”
Ylva stood up. She paced back and forth in front of the bench.
“Have you spoken to Allvis or any of the others about this?”
“I explained what happened at my mother’s burial mound,” Sigrid said with a shrug. “And she knows that Freya watches over me.”
“Gracious Mother,” Ylva muttered and paused. She plucked a leaf off the hop vine.
“We’re shipbuilders and farmers, and I don’t know any more about the Hidden than that the fields give us a good harvest if we sacrifice faithfully. But my mother talked about her sister. When she got her period, she started to be able to see into the Hidden. And Grandmother, who had good sense about most things, wanted to send her to three priestesses who lived by themselves on a farm in the district so that she could learn the old ways there. My grandfather refused and my aunt remained on the farm, alone with her visions, portents, and spirits. It got to be too much for her mind, which broke and clouded. One day she was gone and when they saw her again much later, she was filled with darkness and using her witchcraft to do ill.”
Ylva nodded gloomily when she saw Sigrid’s expression.
“Yes, she was the one you met in the Alva Woods—Ragna, cursed be her name. She serves Anund now an
d uses her witchcraft against her own family.” Ylva stroked Sigrid’s cheek. “Maybe you’ve also got the talent. You can never get away from the gift, but if you’re left alone with it, it will become a curse. And alone is just what you’ve been.”
She sounded so tender Sigrid thought she would burst into tears again.
“I follow the goddess’s will,” Sigrid said, “to marry Erik and become mother to the greatest prince of them all.”
She had no choice; there was no other way to go.
“They’ve really succeeded in controlling you both in heart and mind,” mumbled Ylva. “That is a great destiny to shoulder. May you not go astray along the way.”
Sigrid wondered what Ylva meant. How could she go astray with Freya herself guiding her? Before she managed to say anything, Ylva noticed a servant girl cautiously approaching them.
“What are you staring at?” she asked the girl.
“The bath water is warm, matron.”
“Well, just say so, then. You can go help with the food now.” She dismissed the girl with a wave, and she ran off toward the cookhouse. Ylva watched her go and then shrugged. “Only a seeress can give you the advice you need now. The powers prevail, and the Norns weave the fates of mankind. What must happen happens, and if Vanadís is watching over you now, you don’t need to feel afraid.”
She stood up, stretched her back, and grimaced. It had been a long day for everyone.
“On the other hand, food you need, and a warm bath. Come and we’ll find your incompetent maidservants and see if they can find you a clean skirt.”
Sigrid followed her aunt Ylva, her questions multiplying. Yes, only a seeress could give her answers, but where would she find one of those?
“Rarely is a sleeping man victorious.” Sweyn woke with a start from the hard kick. Without thinking, he grabbed his sword at his side and stood up, ready to face the enemy.
Åke stood in the darkness and laughed. “Calm down,” he told his foster brother.
Sweyn took a deep breath and looked around at the ship. The warriors were still sleeping between the oarsmen’s benches, snoring loudly. A light gray fog lay over the sea, and in the distance they could make out the full sails of the other ships. Everything was as it should be. Sweyn exhaled and drowsily rubbed his eyes. His tongue was swollen, and his mouth tasted like a pigsty.
“Father wants to talk to you,” Åke said.
“There’s no need to kick my leg off for that,” muttered Sweyn.
“Rough night? You look like Garm’s been chasing you around Gnipa Cave.”
“What does Father want?”
Åke shrugged. Then he lay down on Sweyn’s bed and closed his eyes.
Ranfaxe rocked beneath Sweyn’s feet as he walked toward the stern. Gunnar was at the tiller, which he usually manned until dawn. No one was better suited to commanding the ship overnight than Gunnar.
Palna stood next to his brother, looking out at the sea. When he heard Sweyn approach, he turned around and looked him over. Signs of age and the burdens of life showed clearly on Palna’s scarred face. Even so, few if any could beat him at single combat or in battle. Sweyn was ready to follow him all the way to Niflheim if he demanded, for there was no one he held in higher esteem.
“Are you ready to face your birth father?” Palna asked.
Sweyn calmly looked his father in the eye and replied, “I’m not afraid of him.”
Palna and Gunnar exchanged glances.
Gunnar shook his head and said, “Thank the gods for your youthful ignorance, because there’s no better shield.”
Gunnar gestured toward the oarsman’s bench closest to him, where the food was laid out. Sweyn sat down and took a little of the salted meat and tore off a piece of black bread.
“The Jellings are very powerful, and even if age has been hard on Harald, there’s no certainty this will work. If you can’t persuade him to give you what you want, all the plans we’ve so carefully laid will fall away.”
Sweyn nodded and concealed the anxiety that burned in his belly.
“I know what must be done,” he said.
Palna stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth, eyeing him seriously.
“Will you rein in your temper?” Palna asked.
Sweyn nodded yet again.
“Remember that you do not stand alone,” Palna said and put his hand on Sweyn’s shoulder, an unfamiliar gesture. “You are a credit to me, both as a son and a warrior. I look forward to watching you fulfill your destiny.”
Ranfaxe lurched beneath them, leaping forward over the waves. The sun chariot had been pulled almost up out of the sea, and a faint light fell on the ships that followed them. Their full gray sails carried the mark of the Jómsvíkings, the hammer and the roaring wolf, the most dreaded crest in northern seas.
No one was their match when it came to strength or battle, but even so, Sweyn felt doubt chafing in his chest. He was a bastard, without wealth or standing, while the Jellings were the most powerful of all Danish families. To stand before their leader, a king widely renowned for his strength and cunning, would be no easy matter.
“I’m ready to fight to the death for you,” Sweyn said. “But King Harald has three legitimate sons whom he highly esteems. The elder brothers, Erik and Haakon, are already vying for their father’s title.”
“Are your brothers better men than you?” Palna asked with distaste. Hesitation was not something he wanted to see. A Jómsvíking was bold and feared nothing.
Sweyn took a deep breath of the salt-saturated air, and despite not knowing the answer, he told his foster father no.
“Then take what you want with the right of might. Remember to keep your anger in check. Harald is obligated to recognize you as his son and give you what you desire. That is the victory we seek, no other.”
Palna looked out at the sea where the sun had risen now. Land was just barely visible in the distance—their land, the land of the Danes, Sweyn’s future kingdom. The breeze carried their boats toward Lejre at full sail. The waves, like powerful seahorses, galloped eagerly onward over Rán’s fathoms, bringing them closer to the shore.
“Today the game begins,” Palna said. “Maybe our protective dís will lead you to victory.”
Sweyn glanced gloomily at Emma, who was huddled farther up in the boat, rocking back and forth, her eyes wide, a manic smile on her face. That wasn’t the help he needed. Let him not err in this. Let him not disappoint Palna.
Kára sang along with the morning dísir who slowly danced around the boat. Those ethereal beings, barely visible in the half-light, were now stroking the sleeping warriors, now swirling up again, dancing playfully with each other.
She urged the wind, which easily filled the sail and carried the boat forward. She appealed to Rán’s nine daughters, who stirred beneath them.
Sisters, carry me carefully onward.
A chorus of otherworldly voices chimed in from the depths in greeting.
Though Emma’s head ached, she gazed at the Hidden with fascination. When the veils were lifted, she could see the Norns’ weaving. In that tapestry, all life and havoc spiraled through time and the universe. Humans, so arrogant and frail, were just brief sparks in the rainbows of light and darkness that flowed through the nine worlds.
She was everything and nothing.
A frail container that had been blessed.
A fiery band of pain tightened around her skull and burned so that Emma moaned, her body shivering uncontrollably. She wrapped her cloak around her and shuffled closer to Beyla, who slept curled up against some sacks.
“Help me, I’m in so much pain,” Emma pleaded.
The seeress grunted discontentedly and reluctantly opened her eyes.
“My head feels like it’s splitting in two,” Emma whimpered. She almost started crying from the excruciating pain. It was like knives stabbing through her hair.
Beyla rubbed her eyes and said, “Everything has a price.” She yawned widely and then stretched, reaching for her ruc
ksack, and pulled out a wooden bowl and some little cloth-bound bundles.
“I had a feeling this would happen,” Beyla mumbled and started mixing herbs with a dark sludge in the bowl. “A dís is too large to be contained in an untrained mind.”
One of the warriors got up from his bed and stretched before walking over to piss over the gunwale.
Palna was talking to his son Sweyn at the stern of the boat. He looked pale and haggard after the night Emma had spent with him. Emma knew Beyla had advised him not to sleep with her anymore, lest Emma siphon off more vitality than he could spare. It didn’t matter, she thought. She rubbed her temples, trying in vain to drive away the excruciating pain.
“It should steep for longer, but this will have to do. Drink,” Beyla said, handing her the bowl of viscous sludge. Without hesitation, Emma drank it all. She almost threw up from the bitter dirt taste and swallowed until her stomach stopped tossing and turning.
“Thank you,” she whispered, wiping away the sweat that appeared on her forehead. “What’s happening to me?”
Beyla gathered up her bundles and carefully placed them back into her sack.
“Don’t ask what you already know.”
Emma looked down at her clenched, dirty fist. Neither her body nor her mind was up to bearing the wild, raging Kára for long. The dís’s strength was too great to be borne in a human vessel. Both the bad and the good would get worse until Emma fell apart.
“What can I do?” Emma pleaded, huddling under her cloak.
“You are an empty sack, a tool the dís is using,” Beyla said, giving her a look of compassion mixed with scorn. “Feel joy and gratitude for having been chosen.”
Emma pulled her hands over her face and tried to drive away the throbbing pain.
“Why did she choose me?” she sobbed.
Beyla sighed heavily, as if Emma were a simpleminded child.
“I will soothe your pain and your madness, and I will help Kára with her cravings. But only the dís knows what she wants. As you will, too, eventually, once you’ve learned to interpret the Great One’s will.”
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 11