“Perhaps you would like to bathe after your journey. If you come with us …” The girl held out her hand to Hild, as if she were inviting her to join the two of them. It took Hild a moment to realize she was inviting her. Both slaves had started for the door, assuming Hild would follow them. She shook her head in exasperation. Although she hadn’t expected much from Geatland, she had expected a great deal more than this. Even the slaves didn’t know their places. Well, she could hardly teach them now.
Wearily, she rose and followed them.
In the antechamber, she retrieved her sword, strapping the belt around herself. She saw the slaves raising their eyebrows at the idea of a girl wearing a sword, but she pretended not to notice.
When they stepped through the door, the wind whistled around the corner of the hall, sending snow into Hild’s face. She pulled her hood up, happy to be able to hide behind it again. The older slave directed somebody to bring Hild’s saddlebags, and they hurried along a narrow lane, their heads bent into the sharp wind, until they came to a small house and ducked inside.
Hild stood beside the door as one of the slaves built up the fire and the other went out again for water. The anger that had gripped her was gone, replaced by numbness.
The fire flared and the slave girl looked up at her. “Sit, if you’d like,” she said, gesturing toward the bed.
Hild was too tired to be affronted by the familiarity the slave showed her. She crossed to the bed and lowered herself onto the mattress. Straw, not feathers—no surprise in that.
“Did my brothers treat you well?”
Hild looked at the girl. With sudden clarity she saw the line of her brows and the shape of her eyes that linked her to Wulf and Wake. “You’re not a slave,” she said.
“A slave?” Now it was the girl’s turn to be affronted. She stared at Hild, her lips parted.
“You’re Thora’s daughter.”
The girl nodded, her gaze wary.
“Forgive me,” Hild said. “In my uncle’s kingdom, slaves wear their hair as you do.” As she spoke, she realized why she’d misunderstood. It wasn’t just the braid; it was the blond hair and something about the girl’s features that made her think of the slaves at home, so many of whom had been captured from the land of the Geats. Yet her bearing and her behavior should have told Hild the girl’s status. She lowered her face into her hand. How else could this day go wrong?
She raised her head again and stood, then moved to stand directly in front of the girl and spoke to her in the formal language appropriate to someone of the highest rank. “I give you greeting. I am Hild, sister-daughter to Ragnar, King of the Shylfings.” She curtsied low, her back straight; it was the kind of curtsy she would use for her uncle.
The girl watched her for a moment, as if she was trying to make up her mind. Then she said, “I am Wyn, daughter to Finn and Thora, sister to Wulf and Wake. Be welcome, Hild.” She, too, curtsied. And then she smiled.
Hild tried to smile back, but to her horror, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She turned away, but not before Wyn saw.
“Here, sit while we wait for the water,” Wyn said, touching Hild’s arm lightly. “You must be hungry—we’ll eat just as soon as you’ve bathed.” She busied herself, turning to the fire.
Hild knew she was being given time to recover. She swallowed back her tears and took a shaky breath, followed by another, this time not as shaky. Finally, she felt her chest relax.
Hild rose again as the door opened and the other girl entered, escorting two men—real slaves this time—who carried buckets of water, which they set by the fire before they departed silently.
Wyn pushed the second girl forward. “This is my cousin, Gerd.”
There was something about Gerd—her unruly hair, perhaps, or the way her emotions played freely across her face—that made Hild think of Beyla. The thought warmed her. Again, she curtsied formally. When Gerd scowled in confusion, Wyn pushed her cousin into a curtsy of her own. This time when Hild met Wyn’s eyes, her smile was genuine, and it extended beyond her lips. There was no denying that Geatland was more backward than she had ever dreamed possible, but at least she’d found an ally. And she knew that if she was to survive here long, she would need all the allies she could get.
• • •
A meal—a real meal, eaten indoors before a fire—followed the bath. Wyn and Gerd chatted companionably while the three of them ate, allowing Hild to sink into silence. She watched with amused detachment the way Wyn shepherded Gerd, not allowing her to ask the questions she really wanted to, especially about the terrible bruise she’d seen on Hild’s side from when the creature had carried her. It didn’t hurt very much anymore, and Hild had almost forgotten about it until she removed her shift and heard Gerd gasp. As she’d bathed, she’d seen Wyn give her cousin a stern look that forbade her from asking about it—just as Wyn was doing again now, while they ate.
The older girl was doing her best to make her feel welcome, Hild could tell, and she knew she should try harder to be sociable, but doing so was difficult. She kept slipping into her own thoughts, as if she were watching shadows on a wall. Pay attention, she scolded herself, and then was glad she had.
“Did you see how scared Rune looked in the hall?” Gerd said.
Hild saw the consternation on Wyn’s face, and how much she wanted her cousin not to have spoken such words, but it was too late.
“She means King Wiglaf,” Wyn explained. “That’s his nickname—Rune.”
“Rune,” Hild repeated, in what she hoped was a non-judgmental tone. Not only was he younger than she’d thought he’d be, but his people called him by a nickname? She tried to imagine anyone using a nickname for her uncle, and failed. Didn’t these people value honor?
“He wasn’t scared,” Wyn said to Gerd. “He just doesn’t know all the protocol yet.”
“And why doesn’t he?” Hild asked.
“He wasn’t brought up in the hall,” Wyn said.
Hild waited.
“He was raised on a farm.”
The cheese she had just swallowed hardened in her throat. It was even worse than they joked about back home. The king of the Geats really was a country bumpkin.
“He was raised by a far-minded woman,” Gerd added.
Hild looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Wyn said, giving her cousin an angry glance. “She means nothing. Pay her no mind.”
“No, I’d like to know,” Hild said. When neither of them spoke, she added, “I … I, too, am far-minded.”
“You are?” Gerd said. “So was Amma, the old woman who raised Rune. And she could interpret dreams, too.” She got the words out in a rush before Wyn could stop her.
But rather than quiet the younger girl, Wyn took up the story. Being far-minded seemed to carry no stigma here. “Amma wasn’t from the farm,” Wyn said. “She wasn’t even a Geat. She came here a long time ago seeking refuge from a feud. They say she was a peaceweaver, but—”
Wyn stopped. She didn’t need to say more for Hild to know what had happened—that the peaceweaving had failed. Just like it would now. She ran her thumbnail along a crease in the wooden tabletop, stopping when she reached a dark knothole. Had the tribe who married Amma to their enemy truly intended peace? Or had they been full of treachery, like Bragi and her uncle?
“She died, though,” Gerd added, her voice a whisper. “The dragon killed her.”
Hild nodded and turned to Wyn. “Like your father.”
Wyn looked down as if she was steadying herself. Then she met Hild’s eyes. “Yes. Like my father.”
“Thialfi told me,” Hild said. She reached out to touch the other girl’s hand. The fire snapped, but there was no other sound. “My father was killed when I was young,” she said. “I remember when they brought him home.”
They fell silent, and Hild knew Wyn was working to control her grief, still recent and raw. When the other girl raised her head again, her eyes were bright.
&nb
sp; “Come. You must be tired. Let us take you to the guest quarters.”
Hild nodded, even though her exhaustion had fled. The king had been raised by a far-minded woman? A peaceweaver? As Wyn and Gerd escorted her down the narrow lanes, she couldn’t stop her mind from working.
At the cottage where they left her, a fire had been laid, and her baggage brought inside. She blinked in the flickering firelight, then walked across the small room to test the bed. It might not have been a cabinet bed, whose doors she could close for warmth, but this mattress was stuffed with feathers, not straw. She was almost ready to sink into it when she heard men’s voices outside the door. Mord’s voice.
She rushed to let him in. “Gizzur and Hadding will stand guard tonight,” he said as he crossed the threshold.
“Do you think it’s necessary?” Hild asked.
Mord looked behind him, waiting until the door was shut. “Have you taken a look around you? Do you trust these people?” He closed his mouth, but Hild could tell he had more to say. She watched him, waiting.
“My lady,” he said, giving her a slight bow.
“Go on,” she said.
“Hild.” He looked up beseechingly. “My lady, you can’t stay here.”
She kept her eyes on him, but she didn’t speak.
“If we—the other men and I—if we tell your uncle what happened with the monster, he’ll accept you back, I’m sure he will.”
She stared at him, her heart racing.
“I didn’t know, not about you, not about this place. But I know now—you don’t belong here, my lady.” He crossed to the fire and then back to her again. “Gizzur and Hadding, they agree. After your uncle hears what you did with the monster, how you saved our lives, my life—” He stopped and looked at her.
She needed no convincing. “When do we leave?”
“The coronation’s tomorrow. After the ceremony would be the best time—we can slip away when they’re all drunk.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“My lady.” He bowed lower than he normally did. When he rose again, he caught her eye and held it. Then he turned and strode from the room, barking an order at Hadding as he shut the door.
She stood beside the dancing flames, hardly able to breathe, she was so excited.
She was going home!
She picked up a pillow, hugged it to her chest, and twirled. Home! She would see her mother again, and Beyla, and her sisters, and Arinbjörn. Just wait till he heard what she’d done with his sword. She’d see her nieces and nephews and Aunt Var and Ari Frothi. Even her cousin Skadi seemed dear to her now. She’d be with everyone in the hall, a real hall, in a real kingdom once again, far away from this place where people didn’t know what a hall was, or a king.
She could practically feel her fingers on her loom, and for the first time in weeks, she remembered the pattern she’d been weaving, the one she’d been so excited about.
Home! She hugged the pillow tighter.
She’d seen Mord’s eyes and she grasped the implications of his plan. He wanted to marry her himself—it would put him closer to the throne than he’d ever been before. She swept the details aside. She’d have the whole journey home to dwell on them. But at that very moment, all she cared about was that Mord might be able to get her back into her uncle’s good graces. If he could, it was a compromise she might be willing to accept.
As long as it meant she was leaving Geatland far behind. As long as it meant she was going home.
TWENTY-NINE
HILD’S MIND SPUN WITH POSSIBILITIES. SHE CRAWLED under the covers, luxuriating in the warmth and the softness of the mattress—the first she’d slept on since the day she’d left home—and imagined the look on Siri’s face when she rode through the gates.
Would Mord ride ahead to negotiate with her uncle? Or would they all walk into the hall together? It would be better if she didn’t speak, she decided, but allowed the men to do all the talking. She would stand a little to the side, wearing her red gown, holding herself regally. She wouldn’t look her uncle in the eye; he might take that as a challenge. Instead, she’d keep her gaze slightly averted from his face. It would be important to show him that their return had been the men’s idea, not hers, but he also needed to see that she wouldn’t be cowed.
What about Arinbjörn? she wondered, picturing her cousin standing with the men in the hall. Would he be uneasy with her? Ari Frothi wouldn’t be. She was surprised by how much she missed the old skald. It would even be good to see Unwen— She shook her head at her foolishness and offered a prayer to the goddess that Unwen was safe with her own people.
Despite the thoughts that swarmed through her head, she found herself growing drowsy as the sheets warmed. She scrunched more comfortably into the pillow and pulled the blankets up to her ears. A log on the fire shifted and the flames hissed companionably. Hild blinked, then blinked again as sleep overtook her.
When she woke, comfort and hope still held her tight, and now woven into the pleasant sensation was the memory of the old woman she’d dreamed about. Had it been her grandmother? No, the woman hadn’t looked like her grandmother, she didn’t think, although it might have been her in the way dreams have of showing you one person hiding behind another’s face. Whoever it had been, the old woman had gazed at her intently with strange eyes, one that looked directly at her while the other seemed to see beyond her. It was as if she could see right through Hild, challenging her, taking her measure. “You are home,” the woman had said, her voice so harsh and commanding that the dream had been almost frightening.
But now, as Hild turned over in the bed and pulled the covers over her head to block out the cold air, any fear she might have felt was banished by delicious warmth. If it hadn’t been her grandmother, it must have been one of her ancestors, welcoming her back to her uncle’s kingdom and proclaiming her right to be there. Starting today, starting now, she was no longer an exile from her people. Today everything would change, and she would be ready for it.
She recalled how things had been the day they left the kingdom, how the men had avoided her, fearing her, wanting to be rid of her. It wouldn’t be like that on the return journey. She had their respect. And not just their respect; they believed they would come to power through their attachment to her. At least, Mord did.
But they’d be traveling without Brynjolf this time. The image of his smile made her heart hurt. At least now she’d be able to be with Beyla when she found out about her brother’s death. Not that it would bring her friend much comfort, Hild knew.
The door creaked. Gray light crept in and, with it, a slave with logs in her arms. She built up the fire and slipped out again silently. Hild waited until the flames had established themselves enough to light the room before she got out of bed and dressed. Surely they would send a slave to help her later, but she’d become accustomed enough to doing it on her own that it hardly bothered her. She knotted her hair, the task easier with warm fingers and no men waiting impatiently for her. Fastening the sword belt around her waist, she grabbed her cloak and opened the door.
“My lady!”
Hild stepped back, startled, as Thialfi rose from beside the door, a spear in his good hand.
“What are you doing there?” she asked.
“Guarding you,” he said, and from the way he shook his head, as if to wake himself, Hild could tell he’d been dozing.
“From what?”
“I’m not sure, my lady. Hadding was falling asleep out here, and he said you needed a guard.”
She looked at the dark circles under his eyes and the way his tunic and cloak were crumpled. When Mord had left her the previous night, Hadding had been the first on guard. “You’ve been here all night,” she said.
His lack of response was answer enough. “Thialfi,” she said, touching his arm as he stifled a yawn. “You should get some sleep.”
“I will, my lady,” he said, but he didn’t move from his post.
“Now, Thialfi.”
He s
hook his head. “Not until someone relieves me.”
“Let’s go find them, then.”
“They need their sleep, too, my lady.”
It was her turn to shake her head. The man was exasperating. “Then come with me.”
He nodded, not asking where they were going, and walked beside her down the lane.
Fresh snow lay on the ground and the thatched roofs, brightening the place and making it look less tawdry than it had the previous day. The sun was just rising, turning the snow rosy where it wasn’t hidden in shadow. The hall stood high above the other buildings, and in the crisp light of morning, Hild could see how well it was built, how solid the joints, how secure the roof. The wood was so clean and unscarred that the hall looked impossibly new.
Beside her, Thialfi gazed at it, too. “Not a log had been cut when I left for your land,” he said softly.
It was newer than Hild had realized. “Where was the old hall?” she asked, and looked in the direction Thialfi pointed.
“It was a grand place,” he said, “a proud place. Bigger than your uncle’s Gyldenseld, even.”
She raised her brows.
“My grandmother wove a long banner that hung behind the throne,” he went on, looking into the distance. “My aunt loved to tell about it—she helped when she was just a girl, or so she said.” He looked back at Hild and the barest trace of a smile crossed his face. “She probably just got in the way instead of helping, but that banner was dear to her. To me, too.”
Hild watched him as he returned his gaze to the empty space where the hall had stood. How much had the Geats lost when the dragon attacked? She looked skyward, wondering what it must have been like to have the winged monster swoop down on them unawares.
“It came at night,” Thialfi said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “If we’d seen it—well, it’s almost impossible to look at a dragon in the daylight and not be overcome by fear.” He shook his head, and Hild had the impression he had forgotten she was there. “I don’t know where Rune found the courage,” he said, in a voice so low she knew it wasn’t meant for her ears.
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