EIGHT
Sigrid sat in a corner of the yard, hard at work removing a nick in the blade of her hewing spear with a stone. Nicks in blade edges needed to be carefully removed lest they turn into cracks, and she focused on the work, trying to shut out everything around her. Even when Malusha came and sat by her, spreading out some embroidery on her lap, Sigrid made no effort to interact with her cousin.
More than ever, she wanted to be left alone.
She didn’t blame ?ke. He was too full of bluster; being First among the Sworn Men and surviving the battle with the Danes only aggravated his sense of self-worth. He had thought he was doing her a favor, and perhaps he had done so, but the way he had gone about it had been so completely…wrong.
She could feel it—down in her belly, tingling in her fingertips—that unknowing knowing that had come over her as soon as he had spun back toward her, his lang ax raised. She couldn’t drum up the memory of what she had done—all that was in her head was the image of the aftermath—but she would do it again. Without thinking.
“Here comes your giant,” Malusha said quietly.
Sigrid focused on the edge of her spear, working the stone intently against the metal. Pretending not to hear her cousin. Pretending to be unaware of Halldor’s approach. Malusha made a tiny noise in her throat and aped Sigrid’s intensity with her own needlework.
Halldor nodded briefly at Malusha as he reached the pair. “I hope I am not intruding on some private talk,” he said. He was carrying a pair of blunted training swords.
“No,” Sigrid said, trying not to stare at the wooden weapons in his large hands. “We were just—”
“Enjoying the fine weather,” Malusha finished for her. She grinned up at Halldor, pleasure at seeing the tall man clear on her face.
“It is a fine day,” Halldor agreed.
“What do you want?” Sigrid asked, more bluntly than she meant.
Halldor took no offense at her tone. Without asking, he settled down next to her, leaning the pair of blunted swords against the rough-hewn wall of the palisade behind him. “Yesterday was your first battle,” he said, talking as casually as if he were still discussing the weather. “Nearly all of your father’s Sworn Men died, and many Holmgard would have too if you hadn’t saved the day like a hero out of the Sagas. I saw little of it, as I was busy on the other side of the berm, but I have heard the stories.”
Sigrid growled deep in her throat, wanting to tell him to go away, but was caught by a desire to hear him out.
“This morning you were caught flat-footed, surprised and scared out of your wits by ?ke, your father’s best man who is half again your size and has been a warrior since you were a babe in arms. You disarmed him and screwed his arm so far out that I wasn’t sure I could get it back in.”
Malusha made a disagreeable noise in her throat upon hearing the news, and Sigrid reached over and rested her hand on her cousin’s back.
“Yet you did…?” Sigrid asked.
“Aye,” Halldor said. “I did. He’ll be sore for some time, though his pride may suffer a bit longer.”
“I did not mean to hurt him,” Sigrid said.
“You could have done much worse,” Halldor said.
“Aye,” Sigrid whispered, looking inside her breast at what lay in there. “I could have.”
“That is what sickens you, isn’t it?” Halldor asked. “You are confused, scared, and don’t know what is happening to you. You don’t know what to do, so you sit in the corner and mope like a little girl. Hoping that it will go away. That everyone will forget that you exist.”
Sigrid’s hands tightened in her lap as a hard knot formed in her breast. Her fingers started to burn. “Who are you to judge me?” she spit. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”
“No?” Halldor said, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me then?”
“Why should I?” she retorted, her voice shaking.
“So that I can understand. So that I can help.”
“On the one hand, my heart is bursting with pride for what she did for us,” Pettir said as he paced the length of his private chamber. “On the other,” he continued, “I do not know her anymore. Have I done something to offend the gods? That they have taken my daughter from me?”
“She is still your daughter,” Fenja said. The Jarl’s wife reclined on the sleeping platform, her face still pale with exhaustion from the vision that had come over her the previous night.
Kjallak shifted his weight awkwardly, trying to stay off his stiff leg. Halldor had reminded him that if the Jarl’s wife was, indeed, a Seer, then it was possible that the Virgin’s Grace might manifest in the daughter as a natural Vor talent. Privately, he had a great deal of sympathy with the Jarl, but he had to keep that opinion to himself. It was not his place to intrude upon the family.
“Aye,” Grimhildr said, agreeing with Fenja. “I’ve told you she had an uncanny ability. I told you she had the talent to be the best fighter you or I or anyone has ever seen. That was why you agreed to let her take her vows and become a skj?lmdo. It wasn’t just to please me.”
A nervous chuckle bubbled out of the Jarl.
“We have some experience with this,” Kjallak said. “At Tyrshammar. I could speak to my elders and see if they would be willing to put her through a trial—”
“She is not a criminal,” the Jarl snapped.
Kjallak spread his hands. “A poor choice of words, perhaps. Merely, that she be tested.”
“And if she passes?” Fenja asked from the sleeping platform.
Kjallak shrugged. “I cannot make any promises beyond what I have already offered.”
“So I could send her to Tyrshammar, where she would be subjected to whatever trial you desire, and then she could be sent back here?” The Jarl glared at Kjallak. “How would that help her? She would be just as dangerous as when she left. More so, perhaps, having been rejected by you and yours.”
“There will be no rejection,” Kjallak countered.
Grimhildr snorted, and the Jarl continued to glare at him. “All she has ever wanted was to be a fighter. If I send her to Tyrshammar, what chance is there that such a journey will end up crushing her spirit?” His voice rose. “What sort of father would I be?”
Fenja tried to shush the Jarl, but he cut her off with a hard stroke of his hand. “No, this stops now. It is too dangerous for her to continue to hold arms. I have few Sworn Men, and I cannot risk her injuring more of them. What if the Danes return? How will I defend my hold and my subjects? Do I send her first and hope that this…this berserking of hers will be enough? Do you suggest I sacrifice my daughter?”
“No,” Kjallak said quietly when the Jarl ran out of breath. “That is not my suggestion. Not at all.”
He was interrupted from saying any more by the Jarl’s hauscarl, who opened the door and, somewhat apologetically, poked his head into the room. “My Jarl,” he said, bobbing his head, “there is something you must see.” He glanced at Kjallak and Grimhildr. “All of you,” he said.
Halldor waited patiently for Sigrid to speak of her experience on the battlefield, though he already knew she would not tell him. It did not matter overmuch to him, in any regard. He knew fairly well what she had experienced.
He sat quietly beside her, watching the folk come and go across the yard, listening to the sound of her breathing. Listening to the sound of Malusha’s needle poking its way through the heavy fabric of the dress she was embroidering. He was thinking about his initiation at Tyrshammar: the unease in his guts, the way his legs hadn’t stopped shaking, the dryness of his mouth. His ears had become stopped up, and everything had become hollow sounding as if he were listening through a shell at the world. His sword had felt awkward in his hand, like it was something he had never held before, even though he had slept with it the night prior, his hand never leaving the hilt.
And then, when the master of the Rock had called upon him to strike with his sword, all of that had fallen away. As he had raised the weapon and struck, he had seen everything perfectly.
With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet. He leaned over and picked up one of the two training swords. “Malusha,” he said quietly, “perhaps it is time for you to take your needlework elsewhere.”
Sigrid raised her head—her eyes bright, her face frozen in an angry mask.
He swung the wooden sword at her head, meaning to slap her with the flat of the blade, but she was already moving, shoving her cousin aside. Halldor backed up quickly, sensing how she was going to try to grab his blade, and he was slightly surprised when she went for the other training sword instead. She came at him in a rush, her sword coming at him even faster. He blocked it, the sound of the wooden blades ringing through the morning air. Gods, she was fast.
He attacked her with a fighting style he thought she would not know—one of the more advanced techniques taught at the Rock—and he was impressed at her intuitive grasp of the defenses. When he shifted into a more common set of attacks and defenses, she was almost too quick for him, moving into the counter of his counter almost before he did. She was reading his footwork before he finished; sensing the turn of his body before he started to move; and knowing where his blade would go before it even turned in that direction.
Her face was fixed in an expressionless mask, her eyes staring. He knew she was not seeing him. Her breath moved easily in her throat, and her body acted in complete concert with her sword.
She knew she was going to beat him and, for a moment, he thought she might.
And then the stillness that had been lurking in his belly rose up, filling his arms and legs. He let the Vor come over him, and he stopped worrying about her sword.
He sped up, without thinking, and she kept pace. She found ways to turn his attacks into opportunities for her own attack, but he always knew the counter and how he might regain the advantage. He was deep in the Vor, lost within its pure beauty. They were no longer fighting; rather they danced, they flirted, he courted her and she rebuffed him only to turn about and be rebuffed by him in turn.
Finally, knowing without realizing, she went to disarm him and he let her. As his sword flew out of his hand, she let go of hers too. In an instant, they were both weaponless, and as he stepped back, he felt the Vor leave him.
His body shook with an intense sorrow, but he pushed it down, deep within his belly, where it belonged.
As the wooden sword left her hand, Sigrid staggered back, falling to her knees. She had no memory of what had happened since Halldor had warned Malusha, other than a long series of flickering images that were fading even as she tried to hold on to them. Gradually, she remembered where she was, and when she looked around the yard, she found her family and Kjallak standing nearby. As well as many other folk of the hold.
They were all staring—some looked stunned, some looked horrified—and her father wore a thoughtful expression. Only Halldor was smiling. She wanted to scream at them, to tell them nothing had changed, she was still their Sigrid, still the woman they had grown up with, had known all their lives. But she knew it was too late: the battle yesterday, her encounter with ?ke, and now this bout with Halldor in the yard. She had become some new thing in their eyes. The Sigrid that they had all grown up with was gone, and this new person was…
She realized she did not know.
Still smiling, Halldor turned his head to the assembled watchers. “She’s incredible,” he said. “I’ve never fought so hard in my life.”
“You shouldn’t have been fighting at all,” Kjallak snapped. “What did you think you were doing?”
“Showing us what we already knew,” Halldor said. He wandered over to where his sword had fallen and picked it up.
“This wasn’t your decision,” Kjallak said.
“Nor is it yours,” Halldor replied. “Nor theirs.” He raised his sword in salute to Sigrid, and then turned and saluted the Jarl as well. “You should be proud of her,” he said.
The Jarl flushed and nodded curtly at Halldor’s words.
Halldor collected the other wooden sword, which meant his body was turned away from the group for a moment. He glanced at Sigrid. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
He turned around and spoke once more to the group. “I am going to inquire of our horses,” he said. “We should be leaving on the morrow. Eight of us, I suspect.”
It was Kjallak’s turn to bristle at the young man’s words, but he said nothing as his second walked off, leaving Sigrid to face her family alone.
“Sigrid,” her father began. His hands moved awkwardly, and he could not look directly at her. She had difficulty catching her breath, and all she wanted was to see his eyes. To know what he was feeling.
“Sigrid,” he started again, finding his nerve. “You are hero to us all, equal to any…” His voice trailed off, and she realized he was only repeating what he had said the previous night at the feast. “I do not know what to do,” he said instead, glancing at his wife and Grimhildr. “I have a responsibility to my folk, to the security of this hold, and yet she is my blood. She is…”
“Father,” she started, but he stopped her with a terse shake of his head.
“Sigrid Pettirsdottir,” he said, his voice clear and strong, “I release you from your oath as my Sworn Man, and you will set aside the practice of the warrior’s arts. I command this for the safety of your fellows and the folk. We cannot afford more accidents as we had earlier.”
“No,” she whispered, feeling her legs stiffen.
“It is possible that you may take up arms and your oath again,” he continued, fighting to hold back a strong emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Beside him, tears were already starting to roll down her mother’s cheeks, though Fenja’s head was held high. “Kjallak tells me that the elders of Tyrshammar may have some insight as to your…they may have an understanding that can help you overcome this affliction.”
Sigrid’s head swam with his words. An affliction? He thought she was cursed? His own daughter? Taught by his sister? She couldn’t understand his decision, nor could she comprehend what he was saying. That she might not take up arms again, that all her life might revert to the model of a woman’s in this man’s world. She shrugged to calm her mind, to slow her breathing. To find something to cling to in this tumultuous wave of sensation and emotion that was roaring over her.
In her mind, she saw Halldor’s face—both the calm and thoughtful expression that had composed his features during their duel and the resolute determination in his eyes as he had thanked her for the opportunity to fight. She felt a sensation very much like the Vor settle over her, and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs and frame.
“No,” she said again, letting the air out of her lungs. Letting the word ring out more loudly.
She almost laughed at the panoply of expressions that crossed their faces. Her father was so shocked by her single word—her flat denial—that he could only manage, “Sigrid! What…?”
“I said no, Father.” Her voice was stronger, flush with her resolve. “While you can release me from the oath I swore to you as you see fit, that does not mean that I have to become your little girl again. I am a woman grown. If you release me, then you release me as any other man. I am a free person. I will do as I see fit, and I will not abandon my arms or my arts. Had I any inclination to allow a bunch of old men to decide my fate, I would not have chosen the warrior’s path. But I did choose that path, and you can’t undo that decision.”
“I do not know what you have become,” her father said thickly.
“Then let me find out,” she said. “Let it be my choice to find out. That the elders of Tyrshammar may know best how to deal with this situation I grant; this is wisdom. If they must be consulted, then I shall go and speak with them myself.”
“Sigrid,” her father tried again.
“No,” she said, her voice harder than his had ever been to her. “I have stood in a field of blood, fighting for you. I have put myself in your shield wall to protect your hold and your lands. I have killed men for you, and I will not meekly submit to your judgment when it commands me to act against my honor, my training, and my very nature.”
She ran out of words and fell silent, staring at them. Waiting for them to say something. To do something other than stand there with their mouths hanging open like beached fish.
Finally, it was Kjallak who broke the silence. “My Jarl,” he said, and Sigrid caught his choice of words. “It has come to my attention that many of your Sworn Men gave their lives in order to protect both your lands and me and my men. That is a debt I cannot easily pay, but perhaps I can alleviate some of that burden by offering my services to you.”
Pettir glanced blankly at Kjallak. “I do not understand,” he finally managed.
Kjallak rested his hand on his left hip. “I will be in no shape to ride a horse for some time,” he explained. “And several of my men are in similar straits. We would throw ourselves upon your merciful hospitality in the hope that our experience and training could be of benefit to you and your Holmgard. Many of your Sworn Men have fallen and you just lost one more.” He nodded at Sigrid. “Allow us to make up the lack.”
Grimhildr nudged Pettir. “He accepts your generous offer, Shield-Brethren,” she said, fighting to keep from smiling. She nodded toward Sigrid. “If there were any doubt, brother of mine, that she was of your blood, there can be none now. All of my life I have never known anyone as stubborn and bull-headed as you. Until now.” She made a small, ironic bow of respect to Sigrid.
Pettir sputtered for another minute or so, casting more than one sour glance at both Kjallak and Grimhildr. “She can’t simply leave for Tyrshammar on her own,” he said, attempting to regain control of the conversation. “There are arrangements that must be made. Provisions, a letter of introduction, an escort…”
“Father,” Sigrid interrupted him. “I’m not your little girl anymore,” she said as she walked over to him and took his hands in hers. “I’m skj?lmdo. I can take care of myself.”
“And Halldor,” Kjallak said. “Someone needs to watch over him on the road to Tyrshammar.” He glanced at Grimhildr. “Though I suspect that the two of you will strike terror in any Danes foolish enough to stand in your way.”
“Aye,” said Grimhildr. “And wouldn’t that be a sight to see.”