Chapter 8
How has it come to this?
Twisting and turning, twitching. Nott refuses to bless me with rest, riding her dark horse over others while I lie awake.
No mercy from the goddess of midnight. My jaw aches from clenching.
I don’t even notice I’m doing it anymore.
The rhythmic breathing of the thralls breaks with the odd snore or shuffle of covers.
My life has ended—and yet begun anew. A child of the wind reborn in shackles. My people, already a faint memory. My routines, already spread like ashes from last night’s fire. Everything changed so fast.
The slave-quarters feel like the belly of a giant that has swallowed me whole.
My bed an organ I cannot escape. Bodies packed close fill the air with sweat and breath.
I sniffle, tucking my blanket tight around my shoulders.
Even the wool I am sleeping in now is a gift from those who have taken everything from me.
Much better quality than the one I had back home.
Not that it was a home, just a filthy carriage shared with a drunk.
My drunk. My father. How will he survive without me?
He is probably ale-mad right now, passed out in a puddle of his own piss.
If I escape, or when I escape, I know the risk that follows.
If I am caught, I will pay dearly, with my neck.
Or even worse—be sold to some filthy old man who keeps thrall girls just to sell their bodies.
The thought alone sends a cramp twisting through my gut.
I will kill and die before that. Slash every throat around me. Let them try.
Struggling to find a comfortable position, I turn to my side.
What if they didn’t catch me? What if I managed to disappear?
Asbjorn knows who my father is. He knows my people.
Narve. The jarl knows Groa. They could choose to attack them, to redress wounded honor.
Dark images invade my mind as I fidget with the wool.
How can I be so selfish? My yearning for freedom—my plans of escape—can truly cause calamity for those who tolerated me as a little girl, those who watched me grow to a woman. Who I love.
I sit up, burying sobs as tears run down my cheeks. Is it pride?
Misplaced, no doubt. Am I too proud to pay the price for my actions? A lying, sneaky thief, Ragnhild had said. How could I argue? I have snuck. I have stolen. I don’t even know how many times I have lied. I always have good reasons, don’t I?
I’m a simple fake. Even the hammer’s curse—what do I know? Nothing. I felt the bite of frost, yes. Snapping at me. What if I woke it? What if I am the one summoning giants? In any case, I am a fraud.
How could Odin guide me when I constantly bend the truth? Constantly fool those closest to me? How can Freya share her magic with me? Let her blessings flow through my veins?
Groa warned me of this. What gods honor the honorless?
That’s probably why the jarl is meeting a wise-woman. To put me to the test. To bring to light my lures and shadows. My lies.
Me? A Volva? A practitioner of Seidr? I choke out a hollow laugh. What a joke. I can barely remember the herbs I drink in my tea, let alone perform a ritual or enchantment. What a fucking joke.
I am closer to Loki, the trickster. The Jotnar bastard. Surely no god in Asgard would…
Movement outside the door. I lie down quickly, pretending to sleep.
My breath hitches. I go still as a hunted hare.
A woman enters—but I hadn’t noticed anyone leaving.
She brings cold night air with her, cutting through the stale warmth.
What could she possibly have been doing so late?
She sniffles, like me. I have already guessed who it is.
For a fleeting second, I see her in the moonlight.
Eidunn, with a face so sad it could be her husband’s funeral. If she had one. Wet cheeks shine in the pale light. Her grief fits mine like two pieces of a broken cup.
It may be selfish, but relief washes over me. I am not alone. I am not the only one with cause for tears. She breathes heavily, trying to control her running nose.
Lying in the dark, we suppress our sorrow. Together. I hope she feels like I do. I hope she is comforted by us sharing in misery.
My thoughts loosen, drifting like leaves on a river. Images take hold as fast as they vanish. Horses gallop. The goddess of dreams is calling. I’m invited to darkness as Njorun plants the seed of a vision in my mind.
Peace blooms.