He hesitates. The liquid smells vaguely of juniper. For a fleeting instant, he wonders whether he can trust her.Then he takes a small sip. It is sweet and pungent, but not unpleasant.
“The pouch you gave Freya,” says Menglad casually, “what was in it?”
“A necklace.”
She smiles thinly, perhaps remembering her own betrothal necklace. She no longer wears it, though Dvalin is not sure what this signifies. “Was it one of your making?” she asks.
“Not mine alone. My brothers and I fashioned it together.”
She raises an eyebrow. “A necklace made by all of you. It must be very fine.”
“It is.”
“You spoke to her of obligations.”
“She did me a favour, that is all.”
“And earned your gratitude.”
This is not exactly how he would have characterised their transaction. But he has no wish to discuss Freya or the Brisingamen with Menglad. “Yes,” he says. He finishes the tonic and hands her the empty cup. She eyes him expectantly, and when he does not volunteer any further information, she motions towards the table. “Come. There is food.”
“I haven’t time, Menglad,” he says. He has only just decided.
“You are leaving?” She looks at him, stunned.
“I must.”
“I see.” Her voice deflates. They both stand silently for a moment. “So,” she says, turning away from him, “must I wait another six years before I see you?”
“Perhaps.”
She smiles self-consciously. “I shall be old and decrepit by then.”
“You could never be anything but beautiful,” he replies.
Her smile fades. “Do we only get one chance in life, Dvalin?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“The idea frightens me.”
He hesitates, unwilling to offer her the reassurance she seeks.
“Well,” she says finally, forcing a smile, “at least we have the past to dwell on. That is more than some have.”
“Yes.”
“I should like to know that you forgive me. For sending you away.”
He wonders whether he is capable of this. “Of course,” he says.
“Then I shall have to be content,” she says, her voice thin.
“I must go now.”
“Yes.”
She follows him out to the yard, where she watches him saddle the horses. Her hounds circle around him excitedly, their tails wagging. He pauses for a few moments to fondle each in turn. Then he mounts his own horse and attaches the reins from Freya’s horse to his saddle.
“Goodbye, Menglad.”
“Go safely,” she replies.
A numbness descends upon him as he rides away, as if he has been frozen by the past. He does not love her. Perhaps he never did. Maybe love itself is beyond him, an idea that tears at him. But the mute still lingers at the back of his thoughts, as does the task he has set himself.
He rides without stopping, hoping to reach the area where the giants are encamped well before sunset, so that he can find a safe hiding place. After a few hours, he begins to recognise the landscape around him. He pauses at a stream to water the horses and survey the territory.The land is sparsely wooded, with low-lying hills and craggy outcroppings of rock. He winds his way through the rocks in search of a sheltered spot where he can tether the horses, and after half an hour, finds a small cave in the lee of two hills. It is a half-moon-shaped outcropping that extends inwards by several metres, large enough for him to make camp in. He unsaddles the horses and stakes them to grazing leads, then sets about collecting firewood. Once this is done, he builds a small fire in the cave and waits for dusk to fall.
It is a clear, cold night when Dvalin eventually sets out. He saddles both horses by moonlight, and leading Freya’s mount, rides in the direction of the encampment. He moves at a slow but steady pace through the forest. When he is still some distance away, he dismounts and tethers the horses to a tree. He continues slowly on foot, stopping every now and then to listen and memorise his route. After several minutes, he pauses and waits. Soon he is rewarded with the faint sound of laughter. He moves in its direction, taking care not to make a sound, and before long, he sees the glow of a campfire through the trees. He drops to the ground, taking cover behind anything he can, and steadily advances, until he can see the entire camp in the firelight. He sees four men sitting in the darkness. None of them resembles the mute, so he settles himself on the ground and waits.
The men are drinking. One of them stands and recites a poem, until the catcalls of the others force him to be seated. Mostly they sit in silence, with the occasional word or jest spoken. Dvalin makes himself as comfortable as possible, though the ground is cold and damp beneath him. After an hour, when the chill has truly crept into his bones, a fifth man pokes his head out of one of the tents and calls to his companions. It is the bearded leader Dvalin fought with. He exchanges a few words with the others, then withdraws into the tent. After a short while, two of the men rise and wish their comrades goodnight, before disappearing inside a second tent. Now only two men remain by the fire, and the young mute is nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, Dvalin is startled by a noise behind him. He turns quickly, his heart racing, and sees the mute not forty paces from him, walking slowly towards the camp, the hawk still perched upon his arm. Dvalin crouches low, and the lad walks past him, unsuspecting. The men by the fire mumble greetings to him. The mute nods and drops to his knees in front of a small wooden cage on the ground. He opens the door and carefully places the hawk inside, making a clicking sound with his mouth. The hawk jumps from his arm onto a perch. The mute closes the door and covers the cage with a piece of cloth, before disappearing inside the tent where the bearded leader is asleep. Dvalin’s heart sinks. Somehow, he was hoping to surprise the boy on his own. But he has missed his opportunity. Now he will have to contend with at least one other man. He waits for the last two men to retire. By the time they do, he has lost all feeling in his fingers, but the camp is finally quiet.
He forces himself to wait even longer, then creeps forward towards the tents. The fire still crackles and burns, and he cannot resist holding his hands up to it for a minute to restore their feeling, while he ponders what to do next. Not far from him is the hawk’s cage. He crawls over to it and raises the cloth cover. The bird tilts its head at him fiercely. Dvalin eases open the cage door and reaches inside. He unties the leather thong that tethers the hawk to its perch and ties it to his own wrist. He holds his arm next to the bird and waits. The bird shifts its weight uneasily from one foot to another and looks at him. Dvalin scowls at the bird, willing it to jump onto his arm. The hawk blinks and turns its head the other way. He curses the bird silently, then remembers the clicking sound used by the mute. He imitates the sound, and immediately the hawk jumps onto his arm. He slowly withdraws his arm from the cage and stands, surprised by how weightless the hawk is. He reaches out his other hand to stroke its wing feathers, and as he does, he hears a noise from the leader’s tent. He turns to see the boy crouching in the doorway, watching him with eyes full of alarm. Dvalin steps backwards immediately, still carrying the bird. A look of panic crosses the boy’s eyes, and for an instant, Dvalin fears that he will wake the others. Instead, the boy takes a step towards him, one hand raised, his only concern for the hawk. Dvalin begins to retreat, motioning for the lad to follow. The boy takes a deep breath, looks behind him at the tent, then follows. When Dvalin reaches the edge of the encampment, he turns and walks briskly through the forest, all the time glancing behind him to ensure that the lad is still there. He does not stop until he reaches the horses. Then he turns to the mute, who is staring at the hawk with wide eyes.
“You remember me, don’t you?” says Dvalin.
The boy hesitates, then nods. He swallows anxiously, then nods again towards the bird.
Dvalin points at Freya’s horse. “Get on,” he says tersely. “Do nothing but follow me, or
I’ll break its neck.”
The mute blinks rapidly a few times, then moves to Freya’s horse and mounts it. Dvalin climbs upon his own horse, still holding the hawk and turns it in the direction of the cave.Their pace is slow, owing to the bird.They reach the cave just as the moon disappears behind some clouds. Dvalin dismounts and motions for the boy to do the same. He orders him to secure the horses and follow him inside the cave.
“Sit down,” he says, nodding towards the fire. The lad obeys, eyeing him anxiously. Dvalin ties the hawk to a log in one corner, then draws his knife and crosses over to the mute. “Hands behind your back,” he says, “feet in front of you.” The boy looks at the knife, then does as he is asked. Dvalin walks behind him and, putting the knife in his teeth, secures the mute’s hands with two leather strips, then crosses back in front of him and does the same to his ankles. When he is finished, he takes the knife out of his mouth and sits down heavily with a sigh.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks after a moment.
The boy hesitates, before shaking his head.
“Because I intend to finish what I started.”
The boy blinks several times.
Dvalin takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It is well past midnight and he is exhausted. Now that he has succeeded in capturing the mute, he does not have the will to continue. He puts two logs on the fire, and unrolls his bedding right beside it. After a moment’s hesitation, he fetches Freya’s bedroll and spreads it out beside the mute. The lad looks at it, then wriggles onto it as best he can. Dvalin lies down by the fire and closes his eyes. After a moment, he raises his head. The mute is lying on his side, staring at him.
“Get some rest.You’ll not die tonight.” says Dvalin, before turning his back on him and succumbing to sleep.
When he wakes, the first thing he feels is the bone-chilling cold. His entire body aches from the hard rock floor. He closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in sleep. Only then does he remember the boy. He rolls over. The lad is still asleep. He looks even younger this morning. His head is thrown back at an awkward angle and his mouth is slightly open. Dvalin stares at the ceiling of the cave. Perhaps he should have let things be. He felt so clear in his purpose yesterday. Today his mind is frozen with doubt.
He rises and puts some wood on the fire, blowing at the still-warm embers. The noise wakens the boy, who sits upright quickly. The mute immediately glances in the direction of the hawk. Dvalin follows his gaze. He had forgotten the bird. It sits quietly upon the log staring back at them. Dvalin forages in his saddlebag for what little food he has remaining. A stale end of bread and the last bit of cheese. Not enough for one person, let alone two, though why he should be feeding the boy, he doesn’t know. He takes up his bow and arrow and sees the lad stiffen. Dvalin shakes his head. “I’m going out,” he says, “for food.” The boy looks at him and nods.
It takes him all morning to make a kill. In the first few minutes, he misses a grazing doe by a hair’s breadth, then does not see another living creature for two hours. When he has almost given up, he spies a hare nibbling grass at the edge of a copse of trees. It is large and old and dirty grey. Just as he takes aim, the hare senses his presence. It stops eating and raises its head, ears twitching.The arrow thumps and the hare falls. Dvalin walks over to where it lies. The point has gone right through its neck. He picks up the warm carcass and heads back towards the cave. When he arrives, the mute is sitting next to the hawk. The lad eyes him nervously. Dvalin sits down with a grunt and begins to clean and skin the hare. He tosses the innards and the pelt to one side, then skewers the body onto a green stick he has brought from the forest. Using two more sticks, he fashions a crude spit over the fire and places the hare upon it to roast. That done, he glances over at the mute, whose eyes are fixed on the discarded remains of the hare. The mute looks at him, then nods towards the hawk. Dvalin picks up the hare’s remains with the point of his knife and walks over to where they are sitting, leaving the carcass on the log. The mute flashes him a look of gratitude, then eases away from the hawk. The bird begins to tear hungrily at the innards with its beak. Dvalin returns to the fire and sits down to wait.
An hour later, he has untied the lad’s hands and both sit in front of the fire, their mouths smeared with grease from the hare, which they ate in its entirety in a matter of minutes.The hawk has polished off the carcass as well as the innards. Only the tiny bones remain, though the lad has sucked the marrow from them. Dvalin takes a long drink of water from his flask, then hands it to the mute, who hesitates briefly before accepting it. His feet are still bound together at the ankles, but the leather thong has loosened over the course of the day. Dvalin notices it without concern. The boy seems disinclined towards escape. Anyway, he would not leave without the bird.
Dvalin is just beginning to contemplate a nap, when he hears the sound of a twig snapping outside.Within an instant, he has unsheathed his knife and grabbed the mute from behind, holding the blade to his throat. The boy freezes in his grip. Dvalin can feel the racing of his heart against his forearm. Both keep their eyes locked upon the cave’s entrance. For a long moment, there is only silence. Then they hear the faintest sound of footfall, and in the next instant, Freya is standing there peering into the darkness.
“Dvalin, is that you?”
Dvalin releases the mute with a sigh. At once he feels both angry and relieved. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Looking for you. And him.” She indicates the boy. She drops to the ground beside the fire. “I knew you’d come for him.”
Dvalin stares at her hotly. He did not even know himself what he was planning. How on earth could she? The idea that she anticipates him is unbearable. “How did you find us?” he asks with irritation.
“I saw the horses. You forget I have the advantage of height.” She is carrying the falcon suit and holds it up now as a reminder. Then she nods towards the mute. “You’ve not hurt him, have you?”
“That’s between me and him.”
Exasperated, she turns to the boy. “Are you all right?”
He nods solemnly.
Freya flashes a look at Dvalin. “Good.”
“We were doing fine without you.”
“And what, exactly, were you doing?” she demands. Dvalin shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “And how do you intend all this to finish?” she continues.
He stares at her for several seconds, then looks away. “I don’t know.”
“Revenge is a poison, Dvalin.”
“And what of honour? Is that a poison too?”
She sighs. “Just look at him.” They both turn to the mute, who seems to shrink under their gaze.
“He’s more clever than he seems,” says Dvalin. “He escaped me once before.”
“He was set free,” says Freya emphatically. “Idun cut his bonds. She told me herself.”
Dvalin gazes at her in disbelief, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “She would not have done that.”
Freya turns to the mute. “It’s true, isn’t it? The woman your brothers violated. She felt compassion and let you go, did she not?” The boy slowly nods, wide-eyed. Dvalin snorts in disgust. Freya turns back to him. “So what you do now is not in Idun’s name, but in your own, and yours alone.”
Dvalin says nothing. He picks up a stick and begins to poke at the embers. Freya watches him for a moment, then crosses over to the boy and kneels down at his feet, untying the leather cords.
“Stop it!” Dvalin lunges for her. He grabs her hands, and they both tumble over in the dirt. He manages to get on top of her and pins her down in the dirt, while the boy looks on in amazement, his bonds now undone.
Freya looks up at him, her chest heaving. “He is innocent and you know it!”
Dvalin stares down at her, shaking his head. “You must be mad,” he finally mutters, rolling off her. Freya sits up, rubbing her leg where he has hurt her. Dvalin wearily wipes his face with a hand, then looks up at the lad. “Go,” he says, w
ith a nod towards the cave entrance. “You’re free.”
The mute gapes at him in disbelief. Slowly, he stands. He looks at Freya, who nods, then glances anxiously at the hawk.
“Take the bird with you,” says Dvalin. “And do not cross my path again.”
The lad nods and quickly crosses to where the hawk is tethered. He unties the thong and makes the clicking sound. The hawk hops onto his forearm. When he turns back to them, he hesitates, as if he would like to say something.
“If you bring the others here, I’ll cut your throat,” says Dvalin sharply.
The boy’s expression darkens. He contemplates them for a moment, then turns and runs out of the cave. They watch him go. Dvalin turns to Freya. “Are you satisfied?”
“Are you?”
He sighs. “I had no intention of killing him.”
“Then what were you doing?”
Dvalin sighs. “Teaching him a lesson. Remembering. Forgiving. I don’t know.”
“Perhaps it’s you who needs forgiving.”
He says nothing. They both gaze into the fire. After a minute, Freya looks outside, where darkness has begun to fall. “Do you think he’ll make it back?” she asks.
“He’ll find his way,” says Dvalin. “The hawk will guide him.” He hesitates, then looks at her. “What about you?”
“I’ll finish what I started,” she says evenly.
There is no point in setting off in darkness, so they remain in the cave for the night. Dvalin gathers more firewood and water, while Freya lays out some provisions that Idun has sent, including a flask of wine. “How is she?” he asks, when they have finally settled for their meal.
“Better, I think. It is difficult to say.”
“Sometimes I wonder whether it is her marriage that is blighted, rather than her womb.”
“She made an odd choice in Bragi. But given her past, perhaps it was not such a surprising one.”
“Perhaps not.” He frowns into the fire.
“You did not fail her, Dvalin. Then or now.” Freya watches as he takes a drink of wine. “She would be proud of what you did today. And grateful. For her, the punishment was worse than the crime.”
Betsy Tobin Page 18