“They took something from her,” he murmurs. “Something that can never be returned.”
“But she has kept her dignity, and her faith in others. Surely that is what matters.”
He shrugs.
“And she has Bragi. For all his faults, he is a devoted husband,” she continues.
“Yes. Bragi is more faithful than a hound.”
She smiles, watching as he loads more wood onto the fire. “Why are you not married?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t my fate,” he says lightly, snapping a branch in half over his knee. He tosses both halves onto the flames.
“Do you believe in such things?”
“No,” he admits with a smile. “Do you?”
She hesitates briefly. “Yes.” They are both silent for a moment. “What of Menglad?”
“What of her?”
Freya raises an eyebrow. “Your friendship struck me as . . . complicated.”
Dvalin smiles. “Your words are apt. Menglad was indeed complicated.” He prods at the fire with a stick.
“And you were not?”
He laughs. “Maybe we both were.”
“And now?”
He shakes his head, still poking at the fire. “That is for her husband to contend with.”
“You knew her before she was married?”
He nods. “When Menglad was sixteen, she consulted an oracle. The oracle told her that one day she would marry a man called Svipdag.”
Freya nods. “And when you met, she was already betrothed?”
“No.”
Freya looks at him askance. “But she commissioned you to make her betrothal necklace!”
“Such was her faith in the oracle,” he says dryly.
“And this man Svipdag, did she wait for him?”
“Yes.”
“And he came?”
Dvalin pauses. “Yes.”
“So the oracle was right.”
“Only because Menglad believed her to be,” he says. He frowns into the fire. “Anyway, the marriage quickly ran its course. And now she is trapped in a bitter union.”
Freya considers this. “Perhaps that was her fate.”
Dvalin raises an eyebrow, for this had not occurred to him. “Perhaps,” he admits.
“Anyway, from the oracle’s point of view, there was your fate to consider.”
He laughs. “But I don’t believe in fate.”
“Maybe it believes in you,” she says jestingly.
He shakes his head, still smiling. “And you? What of your past?” he asks.
She stares into the fire for a moment. “I was married,” she says philosophically, “and now I’m not. “
“You are content to be alone,” he says.
She looks up at him. “Yes, I am.”
“Then we have that much in common,” he replies. She meets his gaze for a moment, until he feels himself flush and looks away. Embarrassed, he clears his throat and picks up another log, throwing it on the fire. He should not have drunk so much. The wine has made him heavy-headed and weary.
“You are tired,” she says quietly. “We should sleep.”
He looks at her and wonders how she finds her way into his mind.
When Dvalin wakes, he feels a cold knife hard against his throat. He looks up into the eyes of the bearded leader. The grey light of dawn stretches across the cave. He can see the lumbering shapes of the other men all around him. He flinches uncontrollably, and feels the blade almost pierce his flesh.
“If you move, you will die,” says the leader.
“Where is Freya?” he asks through clenched teeth.
“Here.”
Her voice comes to him across the room, though he cannot see her.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“That’s enough talk,” says the leader. “Sit up.”
He raises himself up in the darkness. At once, they bind his hands and feet, just as he had done to the mute. He quickly glances around the cave, but the lad is nowhere to be seen. Freya sits off to one side. She remains untied, but one of the men stands next to her with his sword drawn. He thinks of Idun and what she suffered at the hands of men like these.
“She had nothing to do with it,” he tells the leader.
“Our quarrel is with you,” he replies, “not with the Aesir.”
“Then let her go.”
The bearded leader smiles. “She is free to leave, if she wishes.” He turns to her expectantly. Freya glances anxiously at Dvalin.
“Go,” says Dvalin. Freya stares at him but does not move.
“Perhaps she is unwilling,” says the bearded leader.
“Don’t be foolish, Freya,” says Dvalin quietly. Her eyes dart nervously between the bearded man and Dvalin.
“Perhaps she is not as fond of you as you thought,” says the giant. “Perhaps she might even enjoy the spectacle of your death.” He steps towards Dvalin with his knife drawn.
“Wait,” says Freya. The men all turn to look at her. “There is something you should see.” Dvalin frowns. Freya rises and reaches inside her tunic.
“Freya, no,” Dvalin hisses.
Slowly, she reaches her hands back and unclasps the necklace, holding it up for them to see. The first rays of light have begun to filter through the trees, enough to set the Brisingamen on fire. For a long moment, there is silence. Then the bearded leader slowly walks over to where she stands. When he is a few feet away, she takes a step backwards.
“That’s close enough,” she says. “Let us both ride free and it’s yours.” The bearded leader nods and reaches a hand out.
“Not until he’s free,” says Freya firmly.
The bearded leader laughs. He turns and nods towards one of his men, who kneels down in front of Dvalin and cuts his bonds. Dvalin stands and rubs his wrists.
“Get our things,” orders Freya, clutching the necklace tightly to her chest. Dvalin quickly moves around the cave, gathering up their supplies. Within moments, the saddlebags are packed and slung over his shoulders. Freya nods at him. “Now get the horses.” Dvalin walks out of the cave, and returns a minute later with the horses. Freya waits while he readies them.
“All right,” she says. “We are going to mount the horses. Then I will hand you the necklace and we will ride free.You must give your oath that you will not pursue us.”
“You have my word,” says the bearded leader.
Freya turns and walks back to where Dvalin waits. She takes the reins from him, and as she passes by, he breathes urgently in her ear. “Don’t.”
She mounts the horse, and urges it forward a few steps, until she is abreast with the leader. Then she reaches down and holds out the necklace. The instant it passes from her hands, she feels her throat tighten.
The giant smiles at her broadly. “How fortunate that fate enabled us to meet,” he says.
Freya looks at him with disgust, then turns her horse around and leaves. Dvalin doesn’t move. He and the bearded leader stare at each other. After ten paces, Freya reins her horse in, and turns around in the saddle. “Dvalin!” she calls sharply.
Dvalin turns his horse away from the giants and trots over to where Freya waits for him. “You foolish, foolish woman,” he mutters as he rides past her. She watches him for a moment, her anger mounting, then spurs her horse to follow. It takes her a minute to catch up with him.
“I save your life a second time and still you do not thank me!”
“Thank you? You’ve just thrown away my life’s work!” He glances back quickly at the giants. “And we’ll have the devil’s job stealing it back,” he says.
“I have no intention of stealing it back,” she snaps.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“It was a fair trade, and I intend to honour it!”
“A fair trade?You think these men know the meaning of honour? They are thieves and murderers. No doubt rapists as well.”
Freya purses her lips. “It was mine to do with as I pleased.”
�
��You debase us all with your actions.”
“And you did not deserve to be saved!” She kicks her horse hard and it leaps forward. She urges it into a gallop, leaving Dvalin behind in her dust. Dvalin pulls his horse to and looks back. The giants are still in the cave, no doubt celebrating their good luck. Now he must decide whether to follow Freya, or take his chances and try to recover the necklace. He turns and looks at her. She is already some distance away, riding flat out. The necklace will have to wait, he decides, spurring his horse after her. He will finish what he started.
FREYA
I saw him hesitate at first. He almost did not follow. I understand my own motivations with respect to the necklace, but I do not understand his. He parted with it easily enough the first time. Why would he not relinquish it a second time when his own life was in the balance? Now he rides behind me, at a distance. We have been travelling several hours, with only a few brief pauses to rest and water the horses, interludes during which we do not speak. I have had plenty of time to consider my actions. To come all this way and return emptyhanded seems pointless in the extreme. But I had no choice. I was not prepared to see blood spilt for the Brisingamen. Such a thing would taint it, surely. Even Dvalin must agree, and yet he refuses to acknowledge that his life was in danger.
It is late afternoon, the sun low in the sky, and I am already bone-tired. The mountain looms ahead of us. Fortunately, we’ve encountered no one else today. I can tell that we are nearing the farmstead where we stayed on our journey here. We pass over a hilltop, and the small turf house appears in the distance. It looks cosy enough, with its thin spiral of dark smoke. But I do not think I can bear the probing stares of the farmer and his wife, so I ride on. Behind me, I see Dvalin pause momentarily when he reaches the house, then continue. We ride for another hour, until the sun has almost set. We are still some distance from the pass, so we will have to camp. I stop beside a small grove of birch trees. A stream runs nearby, trickling over rocks and dark green moss beds. I dismount and unsaddle my horse, turning it loose to graze. Then I clear a space for a fire and start to gather wood. After a few minutes, Dvalin appears. Wordlessly, he dismounts and begins to help with the fire. I see that he has shot a mallard, the dead carcass slung across his saddlebag. “When did you get that?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Earlier.”
Apart from what is necessary, we say nothing. He cleans the duck, while I build up the fire and unpack the remaining provisions left from Idun. The bird is small and thin, and cooks quickly. We eat it just as darkness falls, the silence heavy between us. After dinner, Dvalin broods into the fire. I cannot tell whether he is angry or simply mourning the loss of the Brisingamen. I also feel a kind of quiet desolation. Without the necklace, Dvalin and I are stripped of our connection. We are two strangers on a hillside in the darkness far from home.
The last of Idun’s wine does little to ease the awkwardness. It only serves to make me angry. He should never have returned for the mute, I think darkly. He must realise this by now, even if he is unwilling to admit it. The night is cold and the frost comes quickly. We seek refuge in our bedrolls, laid out on opposite sides of the fire. I stare up into the sky. A thousand stars shine down upon us, and on the northern edge of the horizon, a ragged curtain of light dances. Dvalin lies with his back to me, so I cannot see his face.We will cross the pass tomorrow and go our separate ways. And neither of us will possess the thing we most desire.
Eventually, sleep takes me. It is shallow and fretful, troubled by dreams of the Aesir, and by images of bearded giants who ride rings around us in the night. In the early hours of the morning, I am woken by a noise. I sit up quickly and listen to the sound of horse’s hooves not far from where we sleep. I turn to see Dvalin already crouched beside the now-dead fire, his knife and sword in hand. He raises a finger to his lips and we wait.The horse’s hooves slowly draw near: the sound of a lone rider. We strain to see through the darkness. Suddenly, the young mute emerges from the trees upon a horse. He halts at once when he sees us. The hawk perches in front of him, tied to the saddle.
“What the?” Dvalin murmurs. He draws his sword, advancing towards the mute.
“Wait,” I say behind him.
He pauses. The boy slides off his mount, eyeing us, and reaches into his saddlebag, withdrawing something that we cannot see. He then walks slowly towards us, and when he is ten paces away, he stops and fumbles for a moment in the darkness. Eventually, he pulls the necklace free and holds it up. Dvalin turns to me and laughs. It is a joyous sound, one that echoes deep inside me, for I too am delighted. I quickly move past him towards the boy and extend my hand for the necklace. It feels warm and solid in my palm. “Thank you,” I say. He nods once, then turns and walks back towards his horse and stands beside it, watching us. One hand reaches out to stroke the feathers of the hawk. Dvalin crosses over to me and stares down at the necklace, shaking his head with surprise.
“Do you think he stole if off them?” I ask quietly.
“I hardly think they let him walk away with it.”
“Perhaps he persuaded them to give it up.”
He looks at me askance. “By what means?”
I frown. He is right. Without words, it is unlikely the lad could make a case for its return. But then a thought occurs to me. “Do you think they’ll come after him?” I ask.
“Possibly. Men have died for less, that is certain.”
We both glance at the mute. He remains by his mount, calmly stroking the hawk. “Then we will have to take him with us,” I say quietly.
“What?” Dvalin practically shouts. The boy looks up quickly in alarm. I place my hand on Dvalin’s arm and lean towards him.
“We might as well just slit his throat right now,” I whisper, “than leave him behind!”
Dvalin sighs. Once again, he looks at me as if I’m mad. “He goes with you,” he says finally, “for I’ll not have him.”
I smile at him and beckon to the boy.
The lad is exhausted. Dvalin offers to keep watch until dawn. With luck, the giants lie deep in drunken sleep somewhere, and have not yet discovered his absence. Dvalin builds up the fire, and the boy lays his bedroll next to it. Sleep takes him instantly. I wrap my bedding around me and sit on the opposite side of the fire. Dvalin glances over at me several times.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You were right about him.”
We both look at the boy. “It was Idun who was right.”
We watch in silence as the first fingers of light reach across the sky. The atmosphere has eased between us, and Dvalin seems more content than I have known him. I wonder at this, because it is I who have recovered the Brisingamen, not him. But I say nothing. Eventually, he rouses the mute from a deep sleep. We cannot afford to leave him any longer. The lad sits up and rubs his eyes, then quickly turns and looks towards the hawk, which is tethered to a log nearby. He packs his bedroll, glancing at us nervously from time to time. “We’ll cross the pass in a short while,” I tell him, pointing towards the mountain. His eyes travel upwards, widening. “The men you were with may try to follow, so we must hurry.” I turn away from him, but he grabs my arm. He shakes his head, frowning. “What is it?” I ask. He shakes his head again. “They will not follow?” I ask. He nods.
Dvalin stops what he is doing and crosses over to us. “Why not?” he demands. The boy hesitates, then rolls his eyes back and tilts his head to one side, his mouth hanging open. “You killed them?” asks Dvalin, astonished.
The boy quickly shakes his head. Then he raises his hands in the air and makes a long sweeping motion. Dvalin and I exchange a puzzled glance.The boy makes the sweeping motion again. “A landslide?” I murmur to Dvalin. The boy grabs my arm and nods emphatically.
Dvalin looks at him in disbelief. “Are they dead?” he asks. The boy nods, more slowly. “All of them?”The boy shrugs and nods again. “Where were you?” says Dvalin.The boy points to the mountain, then mimics looking down on his companions.
�
��Above the slide,” I say.The boy nods, this time more slowly, and suddenly his eyes betray the horror of the experience.
Dvalin lays a hand upon his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says gently. The boy blinks, then lowers his head and stares at the ground.
Dvalin turns to me. “How on earth did he recover the necklace?”
The boy raises his head and touches Dvalin’s arm.Then he points to the hawk. “The hawk got the necklace?” asks Dvalin, incredulous. The boy nods. Dvalin shakes his head in amazement, then laughs. The lad gives a small smile, and Dvalin claps him on the shoulder. “Well done,” he says heartily. “To the both of you.”
We take our time now. Dvalin offers to procure fish for breakfast. He takes up his spear and walks along the stream until he finds a small pool. He settles himself on the bank to wait, his spear upraised. Three times we hear the water splash, followed quickly by Dvalin’s muttered oaths. At length, the boy wanders over to the stream. He chooses a spot slightly downstream from Dvalin. We both watch as he rolls up his sleeve and lies face down on the bank, stretching his long arm deep into the water. He remains this way for several minutes, until with a sudden movement, he flips a live fish out of the water and onto the bank, where it flaps about helplessly. Dvalin stares at the fish, astonished.The boy smiles shyly and stretches his arm back into the water.
In all, he pulls five small trout from the stream. Dvalin guts the fish and skewers them on sticks. We roast them whole over the fire and devour the flesh between us, while the hawk feasts on the innards with zeal. When we finally set off, the sun is nearly overhead. We cross the last plateau and begin our ascent, riding single file. Dvalin leads and the boy follows, with me at the rear. It is only then, with the horses scrambling for balance, and shingle rocketing past me on its way down the slope, that I remember Berling’s warning. The Brisingamen can do things. I raise my eyes to the pass ahead of us. Can it bring down a mountain, I wonder? Is this what happened to the giants? My horse stumbles suddenly and I fly forward, grabbing its neck. All at once, I feel the hard weight of the Brisingamen trapped beneath my chest, as if it is reminding me of its presence.
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