Chapter 16
Thick air envelops me as I step into the jarl’s throne room, making sweat bead on my forehead.
Or maybe it’s Thyra’s hostile glare causing me to leak.
At least a dozen bodies are contributing to the heat.
Most of the faces are unknown to me. I make a decision on the spot, nodding to the jarl before advancing to where Thyra is standing.
Bowing my head as I kneel, I raise my voice so everyone can hear me clearly.
“Lady Thyra, I seek forgiveness for my behavior today. I hope your daughters learn from your example and not mine.”
The room falls silent—everyone’s focus shifts to our interaction.
Even with my head down, I can feel the tension between us dissipate.
Such a public display of humility is hard to deny.
Thyra is practically forced to accept my apology, or risk being viewed as petty.
Surely, she wishes to avoid such a reputation.
“You are forgiven,” she says louder than I had spoken. “That a thieving vagabond must learn to behave honorably is no surprise.”
My chest relaxes. It worked. A slight humiliation, but all in all, a good outcome. Much better than expected. I stand and approach the jarl, adjusting my dress and brushing my knees. Enough groveling.
“My jarl, I have grave news to share. May I speak?”
He nods as whispers sizzle across the throne room. I straighten my spine. Maybe I can carry the same presence as Thyra.
“I have found another inscription,” I announce. The jarl’s brow furrows at my words. “Another curse.”
“You have?” he replies, trying to seem nonchalant in front of his subjects.
“An invitation, like on the hammer. To summon the Jotnar. It says, ‘Awaken, Giant.’”
A gray-haired man steps forward. He is wearing bright colors under his leather—surely a wealthy man. A land-owner. He nods to the jarl before speaking to me.
“What is the goal of such curses?”
“It’s hard to say, I only know their method,” I respond. “Surely the culprit aims to doom the hall.”
“Why not burn down buildings then?” he asks as he holds out his arms to the side. Some men have no faith in that which they cannot see.
“Wood can be chopped. Planks can be made. If I know the men of Opdal, they would rebuild a smoldering farm within a week.”
Several men clap at my words, but my eyes stay firmly on the veteran in front of me. The applause dies down before I speak again, trying to keep my voice firm and authoritative.
“The guilty one is trying to tear at the veil.”
A ripple of hushed voices surrounds me. At least they are taking me seriously. The veteran, however, simply laughs. Forced, in my opinion.
“Children’s tales!” he shouts over the chatter.
Jarl Sigurd holds up his hand, making mouths shut and eyes turn to him.
“Where did you find this curse?” he asks me.
“On the northern wall of Ari the Skald’s house.”
Sigurd nods slowly, his eyes showing contemplation.
Like the gray veteran, many don’t believe in the power of runes or a Volva’s abilities, but even a non-believing ruler does not want dissent among his people.
Someone made the inscription, someone with ill intent.
The jarl has a wolf in his flock, a rotten apple in his basket. A traitor.
“I will have it inspected,” he says in conclusion. “Inform me of any more curses that you find, Kilda.”
I work hard to suppress my smile. He calls me by my name, without even adding the title of slave or thrall to it—in front of everyone. I wish that putrid skald heard this, but unless he’s hiding in the corner again, he isn’t present.
“Of course, Jarl Sigurd,” I respond as I bow.
“Well done,” he says. “You may leave.”
After a quick nod to Thyra, I turn to see Vidar waiting by the door. He opens it for me—a pleasant surprise.
“Thank you, my lord,” I say with a smile as I brush past him, my back straight and head high. Even as a thrall, a known thief, my goal is to be perceived as honorable, powerful. Like Thyra. Vidar surprises me further by walking out of the throne room and into the hall with me.
“Kilda, may we speak?”
Asking a slave to speak? It would seem I am growing out of my station. Any freeman can speak to a thrall, at least one owned by their own father. I keep the thought to myself as I play demure.
“Of course, my lord.”
“Come on, call me Vidar,” he says with a grin. “Since when are we so formal?”
I return the smile.
“You’re right, Vidar. What do you wish to speak of?”
“Uh, it was, well… I wanted to say well done regarding Thyra. She was very angry earlier.”
I hide doubt from my face. Vidar is hard to place. Whose side is he on? It’s like he wants me close, as a friend, but also under his heel, as a thrall. I stay formal.
“Understandably, I acted without honor.”
“Eating a few berries with the children isn’t the harshest crime,” he laughs.
I’m surprised the wall of a warrior is openly siding with me instead of his sister. Perhaps he could be a true ally. Vidar leans casually against the central pillar of the hall, folding his arms so his muscles bulge. It’s a slight challenge to look away.
“Thank you, Vidar. Your support means a lot to me.”
“So, you are leaving soon?”
“Yes, your father wants me to master Seidr. I hope to provide protection to the people of Opdal.”
“Kilda the Volva, that will be something. I’m sure your knowledge will help the valley.”
“Better than Kilda the Bull, right?”
I wink at him as my smile broadens. He throws his head back in laughter and claps his hands.
“To me,” he says, “you will always be Kilda the Bull—even as an enchantress.”
“I don’t think I will ever receive a grander title, Vidar.”
“It’s an honorable title.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you?” My body flushes as I catch myself flirting. “Weren’t you known as the bull before me?”
“It was a mere joke,” he laughs.
“I’m sure it wasn’t a joke to the heartbroken girls who gave you the name.”
His joke the other day had been about being brave, not being good in bed. Heat rushes through my face as I realize what I have implied. His mouth gapes but quickly turns to a grin. I’m just happy I haven’t offended him.
“Jealous, my lady?” he teases. Better to be called lady than slave.
“Me?” I ask wide-eyed, hoping to brush the whole thing off by playing the innocent victim. “Never.”
“I’m not quite like the bull when we release him among the cows, eagerly chasing every lady.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t complain.”
We lock eyes. I’m quite blunt. I don’t even mean to be. Here I am, and it feels like this happened by itself. I enjoyed having fun with Narve. I’m sure I could enjoy some time with Vidar too. Even Ausveig admitted she wouldn’t pass up on the chance.
“Even a bull needs rest,” he laughs.
“But so many cows need mounting,” I tease.
“Come on, Kilda, aren’t you going on a trip with Ari the Skald yourself?”
“Your turn to be jealous, Vidar?”
He scoffs, waving a hand like he’s swatting away some annoying fly.
“Jealous of that puny bastard? He couldn’t chop a carrot if he wanted, let alone cut down a warrior.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Many girls are impressed by fanciful words as well as swordplay.”
Vidar straightens from the pillar, stretching to flex as I’d seen him do so many times now.
The leather in his outfit gets tested, strained by the shapes beneath.
I can’t lie—wordplay and swordplay, both attractive, but this man’s body does a good job of grabbing my attention all by itself. I’m a simple girl apparently.
“Well,” he says. “Between us, I hope you prefer swordplay.”
“Surely a lord wouldn’t care about a simple thrall girl’s preference.” I lean closer, laying a hand on his biceps and giving it a light squeeze. Yes, it’s to charm him. But if I’m being honest, I don’t mind stealing a little feel of his toned form. The muscle is hard as iron. The man’s a wall.
“And if I do?” he asks as his eyes turn to my hand on his body.
“If you do, then don’t worry.” I turn to walk out the door, making sure my hips are swaying that little extra. “I’m not the one to pick a mangy crow over a prime ox.”
“Mangy crow, that’s a good one,” he shouts after me.
I turn and wave with a smile, practically overheating. I’m grateful to feel the cool night air brush against my neck.
“See you soon,” I shout back before leaving the building.
I move hurriedly toward the kitchen. I’m flustered at the exchange. My body is excited, vibrating. What a man. I think he likes me more than a simple fling. And yet, I am a slave girl. What jarl’s son marries a thrall? Sigurd would never allow it.
I shake my head to clear it. I need to fetch water for the kitchens, then repair some furs, then I can rest. I’ll be needing it. Two nights and my training begins. I’ve been repressing it. I can’t let nerves dominate my life.
A different Volva than Groa? How will she be? Groa was fair and loving, even if strict. This witch could be another story. I wonder what kind of Seidr she performs. I’ve heard of darker types than the intent-based magic Groa taught me. Types that can scar the mind, scar the soul. Blood magic.
I’m not interested.
I stop in thought, looking up to the mountains pressing out of the forest. The waterfall barrels down the side of a sharp cliff, its sound thundering across the valley.
Funny how I barely notice its crashing roar, and yet it’s always there, shaking the air around me.
We remain ignorant of what is constant. I will walk through these woods soon, to find my new teacher.
Walk with Ari, the mangy crow. The bastard.
“Kilda,” a harsh whisper hits my ear. “Kilda!”
My heart is a horse, hammering its hooves against my ribs. Speak of the wolf and he’s at your door, they say. And here he is—the poet.
“Ari?” I whisper, not quite sure why we are not speaking in our normal voices.
He approaches me quickly, appearing from the cluster of houses where his own stands.
“I’ll be brief,” he says, moving dark hair out of his eyes.
He is wearing a loose linen shirt. Feeling heated after my exchange with Vidar, I let my eyes greedily roam Ari’s body.
He isn’t a mountain like Vidar, but there’s more there than I’d given him credit for.
Lean muscle, clearly defined. The bastard’s been hiding it under his dark leather.
I hadn’t known. For whatever reason, I had just imagined him as weak, wiry, frail.
“Go on, skald,” I say as I redirect my gaze.
“Meet me tonight, a while after everyone is sleeping.”
“Meet you? At night? What for?”
A nervous laugh escapes me. It’s hard to take him seriously. What silly girl meets a man after dark? A skald, no less. Known scoundrels. He must imagine me to be some cheap traveler trollop. Or some wide-eyed naive girlie.
“Nothing bad, I promise. Come to the Stabbur.”
“The storehouse? Why would—”
“Just come,” he whispers as he stalks off.
I’m left alone. Meet Ari in the dead of night? For what? Probably the inscription on his house. Or perhaps our coming trip to the Volva. In any case, I’m intrigued—even if every rule of honor or common sense says I should deny the invitation.
A tingle spreads in my stomach as I consider his proposal.
I will go.
But meeting a man alone under the moon? Risky business.
I will bring my knife.