Chapter 21
I’m in the middle of the room, facing the jarl on his throne. Ari the mangy crow stands next to me, straight back, hands behind him. I’m shuffling my feet, unable to hide my unease. Such a rapid change—from heated desire with Vidar to a formal ceremony with the jarl.
Last night’s berry theft weighs on me. Has Ari told anyone?
Does the jarl know? Thyra is not in the room, which is a comforting sign, but even so…
Vidar stands impossibly broad, legs splayed, arms folded.
His eyes are locked to Ari’s face, openly aggressive.
Such behavior would amount to a challenge outside the jarl’s door.
Maybe Vidar is more jealous of my journey with the skald than he lets on?
Ari keeps a relaxed gaze on the jarl, waiting for his orders.
“Kilda,” says Jarl Sigurd. Finally, it begins. “You have been honored. An experienced Volva has accepted you as her apprentice.”
“Yes, lord.” I nod.
It’s hard to contain my excitement. A chance to develop my abilities—or, to develop some at all. Being a Volva brings wealth, status, and more than anything, protection. Even as a slave, surely.
“She will stay in the forest above us. I am unsure how long. But she has promised to take you in three nights, at first. You will master Seidr. You will learn enchanting. You will learn anything the Volva says you need to learn. Do you understand?”
“Yes, lord.”
“You are my thrall. You are now a member of our farm. Our people. I expect you to behave with respect. I expect you to be a shining example of the honor this hall upholds. You are an extension of me.”
“Yes, lord.”
I’m just relieved he hasn’t heard of my little berry incident. Or maybe he has and he just has other priorities. Maybe that’s why I’m getting a lecture on honor and respect. He points straight at me, his eyes burning.
“Most of all, I expect you to return. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, my jarl.”
Crystal clear. Clear as a sunstone. Easy to catch the implied threat of punishment if I should head for the hills. I haven’t considered the possibility for a few days, but ironically, the jarl’s words make me reconsider. Perhaps I should escape while I can. Seize the opportunity.
Vidar speaks, surprising the jarl as well as myself.
“If so much as a hair on her head is touched,” says Vidar, “I will find you, skald.”
Ari stares at the jarl, not moving his eyes to Vidar. Probably a good idea. Who wants to provoke a bull like him?
“Don’t worry, Vidar,” says Ari. “No one is touching your favorite slave girl.”
My shoulders stiffen. How rude. Yet… it’s true. I can hardly be offended when my status is named in public. I am constantly reminded that I am but the property of men around me. Like a horse. Or cattle. I will be free, by will or by dagger. By running in the night, most probably.
“Silence!” says the jarl, irritated that his subjects are openly aggressive in his own hall. “Control yourselves.”
“Yes, Father,” says Vidar. Ari says nothing, just stares forward.
“Ari,” says Sigurd. “You will learn runic magic as well. It will have use for the valley and with your word crafting.”
“Ari can learn some Seidr too,” says Vidar with a grin.
A harsh insult. Seidr magic can be mastered by men, but it is viewed as effeminate. Weak. Cowardly. Men should rather seek victory through bravery and honor than with magical trickery and the reading of fortunes. Ari laughs, though his masculinity has just been publicly tarnished.
“Odin was taught Seidr by Freya,” he says, keeping his eyes on the jarl.
“Keep the peace, boys,” says Jarl Sigurd. “This place is—”
“Odin only has one eye,” interrupts Vidar, not wanting to let Ari have the final word. “I can help you with that if you wish.”
The jarl shakes his head as Ari turns his eyes to Vidar. My gaze darts from one to the other. The tension has quickly devolved to open hostility. My guess is Vidar is jealous that I will be spending time away with Ari. The skald speaks loud and clear. Unfaltering, unwavering.
“Odin offered his eye to Mimir in exchange for wisdom. I doubt you could match Mimir’s gift.”
Vidar shakes his head in disbelief.
“I could take your eye as well as your tongue. Maybe you will learn wisdom from that by yourself.”
“You can try.”
Vidar steps forward, making Ari turn to face him, ready to react. I step back so I don’t get caught up between them. Had I been Ari, I would run to hide. Vidar is a monster of a man and a well-known warrior. Witty poems and legends only help so much in a fistfight.
Before the men collide, the jarl stands, throwing his cup on the ground so ale spills everywhere.
“By the fucking gods,” he shouts, his face a furious red. “Stand down before I have you both whipped!”
Both men return to their original positions.
They are calm, unflustered. My own head is bubbling, my senses heightened.
This must be what it feels like to enter battle, enter bloody conflict.
I am surprised at the skald’s reaction. Was he really hoping to stand against Vidar’s attack?
It’s hard to imagine he would last a second.
“Fighting in the throne room?” shouts Sigurd, turning from man to man. “A fucking disgrace!” He takes a deep breath. “My drink, girl.” He gestures for me to retrieve his cup. Which I dutifully do, keeping my eyes low to not anger him further.
“My jarl,” I say.
“Fill it.”
Of course, I obey. As I fill it, I notice the cursed hammer is no longer hanging on the wall, replaced by a large broadsword. The jarl goes on.
“My own son, my own skald—in front of my own throne.” His voice hardens. “It’s hard to believe. What a fucking disgrace.”
Sigurd sits on his throne again, rubbing his forehead. I kneel next to him, my head low, holding up his ale.
“Thank you, Kilda. Forgive my temper.”
“Of course, my lord.” I retreat to my original position.
Forgive? The jarl? What a strange thing to say. A lord asking his slave for forgiveness. I’m starting to wonder if they see me as who I truly am. Kilda. The Volva. I have never been a slave. I will never be a slave. Not truly. My heart is my own. My heart is free.
The jarl drinks deep from his cup, emptying it.
“You two,” he says after catching his breath. Then he raises his voice to an enraged shout again. “You two should be grateful I don’t have you fucking flogged!”
“Forgive me, Father,” says Vidar.
“Forgive me, my jarl,” says Ari.
Jarl Sigurd turns to his son.
“I am your father, but now, I speak as your jarl. Believe me, I will have you whipped in front of everyone as easily as I will have Ari whipped.”
“Yes, my lord,” says Vidar.
I step forward to my owner. Between a bull and a crow.
“More ale, Jarl Sigurd?”
“Yes, thank you, dear.”
I walk to fill his cup again. And I will fill it up again. And again. And again. If I have to. Tomorrow, I go up the mountain—into the forest. Tomorrow, I start my training. Today, I am a slave, being argued over by brawny men. I am a slave, filling the cups of nobles. Yes.
Today, I am a slave.
Tomorrow, I am a Volva.
I am Kilda.
Kilda the Wild.