Chapter 9
“Yesterday I traveled to meet a Volva.”
The jarl sits on his throne, lit by daylight streaming through the open hall doors. I don’t tell him that I know where he’s been. Like Vidar said—not my business. Ironic since he was the one who told me the jarl’s business.
My stomach tingles at the thought of a true Volva judging my abilities. Or rather, lack thereof. I fidget as the man beside me clears his throat.
“Fascinating, Jarl Sigurd,” says the skald, the only other person in the room. “May I ask why?”
“You may, and I will answer,” says Sigurd before pausing for effect. “I asked about the inscriptions on my hammer.”
I knew it. He is testing me. They will find me out. I will be punished, branded a liar. Hated. What does it matter? I am escaping anyway. Maybe. Probably.
“I am eager to learn, my jarl,” says the skald. He really knows how to stroke another man’s ego. Have I ever met anyone so eager to please? I think not. What’s wrong with him?
“I was pleased, Kilda, you read runes correctly. The hammer is cursed,” Sigurd says. “I was less pleased that someone I viewed as an ally would lay a curse over my hall.”
“A disgrace,” says the skald.
By the gods, this man. I can’t decide if he’s harmless or the type to ruin women with a single look. His smile is sharp as daggers.
“Indeed, it is, Ari,” says the jarl. I throw a glance at the skald. Ari—means eagle. He’s more like a crow, a crooked crow. He catches me looking at him and gives me a quick wink. Stepping forward, he stretches out his arms dramatically as he speaks.
“Jarl Sigurd, mighty Odin blessed us with runes, please tell us how your soon-to-be buried enemies abused the language of the Gods to salt the earth you tend.”
The man really gets on my nerves, but even I have to admit—he carries himself with rugged elegance.
You could picture him reciting tales of battles to the warriors of Valhalla, or entertaining Frigga and her ladies with poems that grew from warm to boiling.
A strange combination—a natural commanding aura paired with blatant flattery. I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
“The Volva told me, like Kilda said, that it is an invitation. Someone wishes to lift the veil. The girl speaks the truth.”
“A lying thief who tells the truth?” Ari widens his eyes. “Now I’ve seen it all.”
The jarl grins, amused.
“Let the girl breathe, skald,” he says. “I hope to see her educated.”
“An educated lying thief who tells the truth,” concludes the skald.
I step forward, standing in front of Ari.
“This form of poetry must be foreign, for I have never heard such beautiful rhymes.”
My voice drips with sarcasm—thick as honey on porridge. I realize I am speaking out of line, above my status. But the jarl roars with laughter, throwing his head back. To my surprise, I hear Ari laughing too.
“This one is trouble,” says the skald, catching his breath.
“Maybe Thyra was right,” says Jarl Sigurd. “Not all horses can be broken.”
“Riders know,” I say, “that a good bond with their horse forges loyalty. A loyal horse dies for its master. A broken horse fears the whip.”
“Well spoken,” says the jarl.
“I’m starting to like you,” says Ari, “but I feel sorry for the fool who chooses to become your master and ride you, loyal or not.”
His eyes spark—annoyance, or interest. I don’t know, but my pulse quickens. His tongue spews a viper’s venom. I’ve never met a sober man so rude. The jarl snickers, enjoying the duel of minds taking place before him.
Of course, I understand what is implied. A personal insult. He speaks of me being ridden. Even so, I decide to play Ari’s game. I turn to the skald, raising a playful eyebrow.
“One man may own a stable full of horses, and never catch up to the man who has chosen to ride a single mighty steed.”
“You must be on Sleipnir,” Ari says with a coy smile.
“Odin’s horse is the greatest mount—though not as pretty as his wife,” I say. “Unfortunately, I do not have eight legs.”
Jarl Sigurd is howling with laughter. I’m winning him over.
This man’s favor will protect me, maybe even…
lead to my freedom. Hope warms my chest—I didn’t expect to feel this bold.
If I can make the jarl laugh, I can make him listen.
And listening might be the first crack in the chain that binds me.
A slave should be loyal to her master, but my master will be loyal to me.
Ari—I’m not so sure. It’s hard to read him. He might like me and hide it well, or hate me and hide it well. His speech is sharp as a blade. Yet I stood my ground. If words are weapons, mine just drew blood.
Sigurd slaps a hand on his armrest.
“The two of you—like you have been married thirty years.”
Ari bares his teeth in a wide grin.
“I am not that fool, and I already have a strong bond with my horse.”
Narve never challenged me like this. I could say anything and he’d just smile, eager to please.
“And I, if I were a horse,” I say, eyes on the skald, “would prefer a rider who can hold on without falling.”
“And I,” says Ari, returning a fiery gaze, “know Sleipnir was born of Loki’s trickery.”
“Enough,” says Sigurd. “Enough, both of you. Most entertaining. A great show. But I did not summon you to be amused.”
Ari and I turn to the jarl. It’s strange, standing here, sparring with a skald before a jarl. You’d think I was a noble woman, not a slave. Even if I still smell of yesterday’s labor. The skald straightens his back, assuming a powerful pose. Ready for his orders.
“Please, my lord, tell us why we are here,” he says.
“I have come to an agreement with the Volva. She will make camp, with her entourage, in the forest up the mountain.”
A Volva, coming to the valley. This will either be a stroke of luck or my doom. Jarl Sigurd stands, giving his two subjects their orders. He clearly expects them to be followed.
“Kilda, you will expand on your knowledge of magic. Enchantments, rituals, lore. Your training as a Volva continues!”
Ari turns to me, a slow look of reappraisal. I can’t suppress a silly smile. He raises an eyebrow.
“As long as you don’t cast spells on me,” he jokes.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to hurt your sensibilities.”
Okay, maybe I took it too far. Some friendly banter is one thing, but insulting a man’s masculinity is another altogether. Ari rolls his eyes.
“Silence, both of you, your jarl speaks!” shouts Sigurd.
My stomach flips at the jarl’s words. His voice cuts the air. I have no idea how thick the ice beneath my feet is.
“Forgive me,” says the skald.
“Forgive me, my jarl,” I copy him.
“Listen now. The Volva wants you to stay with her, at least for the start of your training.”
I grin—can’t even hide it. I can almost smell the pine forest already, the freedom of the mountain. No trial, no test. Training. Alone. With a wise-woman. No men to disturb us, no humiliation of the new slave. Just time to learn away from it all. A true blessing.
Testing the jarl’s patience, Ari turns his head to me.
“I will miss you dearly, thrall girl Kilda.”
His eyes soften. Just a flicker. Is he teasing or… Hard to tell with this man.
“Don’t worry,” says the jarl sternly. “I want you to learn runes, my dear poet. You will not miss Kilda the thrall, but we will miss Ari the Skald.” It dawns on me what the jarl is saying. Toss me in the ocean. Couldn’t Freya have given me one bowl of soup without a rock to crack my tooth on?
“My lord, I—” begins Ari, but the jarl interrupts him.
“Both of you are going. Your training begins after three moons.”