Chapter Forty-Nine
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
That day, the Huns lit a fire on the parade grounds and slaughtered a cow for feasting.
Julia watched from the steps of the burned-up manor house, Thorismund beside her, the two of them passing a wineskin as they watched the festivities. Below, Riga stood with his shirt off, tattoos twining across his chest and down his arms, his sister standing before him as all around them, people cheered and shouted. They were all Riga’s family—his many siblings, his nieces and nephews. The elderly women who’d overseen the healing and led the defensive line during the battle had also delivered him as a baby.
As she watched, Riga and his sister began to engage in what looked more like a dance than combat.
Julia held up her hand, showing the mark Riga had carved on her palm. “How should I murder him for this? Poison?”
“You’ll have to beat me to him, Julia. If his other sibling doesn’t kill him first.” Thorismund glanced at his own palm and shook his head, more amused than angry. Then he looked at her, gray eyes glinting in the fading afternoon light. “Have you decided to stay?”
“I have.” She raised her chin. Thorismund had never stopped offering her other roads. “I know you disapprove.”
“You’re a grown woman. You can make your own decisions.”
“At least someone thinks so.” Julia took another sip from the wineskin. Disappointingly watered. “Have you made yours?”
Below, Riga’s hair whipped around his face as he and Kreka clashed and came apart, both of them laughing in savage joy. Thorismund glowered down at them. “I meant what I said.”
“And yet here you are.”
“You are my blood brother. I swore an oath.” He looked none too pleased about it. “I cannot forswear my oaths.”
Julia glanced at him, his wheat-blond hair pulled back from his face and tied with a leather thong, frowning down at the combat as if there was some kind of mortal insult to him in it. She could see what went unsaid—his all-consuming love for Alaric. His refusal to abandon his chieftain on the battlefield. His resentment at being bound by such things, even as he refused to live any other way.
“He needs you, you know. He won’t say it, but he does.” She paused. “As do I. You were the only one among the chieftains who cared about the refugees.”
“And Alaric let them rot. With the slightest setback he became a warlord like any other.”
“I should like to think my supposed death was more than the slightest setback.” Julia took a sip from the wineskin. “I have no intention of letting them rot, Thorismund. I will need allies who carry influence with Alaric. You and I could do a great deal of good here, if we work together.”
“Hmm.” Thorismund was silent for a bit, mulling this over. “He isn’t better, you know. It might seem like he is, but he’s not. He won’t be until Horsa comes back.”
Julia sighed, watching the crowd below. Hengist was there, and Ehre, cheering. Both had placed bets, and they weren’t on Riga. Ataulf and Bromios sat close together at the edge of the audience. Alaric had promised not to throw Bromios out on his ear; there was a story about how he had freed Alaric and the twins from prison. Perhaps he had earned his place. Bromios always landed on his feet, eventually.
But Horsa’s absence was palpable. It ate at her ; she could only imagine what Alaric felt. “I promised Alaric we’ll bring him back,” she said in a low voice. “Call it my oath.”
“Perhaps it’s better for the boy to spread his wings on his own.”
Julia didn’t know what to say to that. It pained her to think he was right. The two of them watched the wrestling for a while, and Julia winced as Kreka flipped Riga over and slammed him onto his back, her boot on his chest.
“Do you think Riga let Kreka win?” Julia mused. “Or is he really just that bad at wrestling?”
“I think I’ll go and find out.” In the next instant, Thorismund pulled his shirt over his head and was striding down the slope, bellowing Riga’s name.