The door below opened and closed a few minutes later, and Iri lifted himself up over the edge of the loft, stepping over Halvard. He crouched low, looking at him, before he brushed a hand over his hair and stood back up, coming toward me.
“She’s gone,” he whispered, sitting down beside my cot.
He looked down at the collar around my neck, his eyes shifting to avoid mine. “I thought we had more time. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t answer. The last thing I wanted from him was his sympathy.
“It’s only until the thaw, Eelyn. Then we can find a way to get you home. Back to Aghi.”
I rolled onto my back to face him. The glow from the fire pit was too low to see his eyes. “Hylli is home to both of us, Iri.”
He looked away. “Fela is my home now.”
The tightness in my chest strangled me, and I was glad he couldn’t see my face. The only thing that could be worse than losing Iri was knowing that he’d chosen to leave. He was dead all over again. I was alone again, but differently.
“What happened to you?” I whispered. “What happened that day in Aurvanger?”
He looked at me for a long moment, until the door opened again and he stood, making his way to his cot. I pulled up the blankets, staring at the outline of his face as he lay down on his back. The arch of his brow and the angle of his nose were the same as they were when we were children.
Fiske climbed the ladder and settled onto the cot beside mine, prying his boots off and sitting up in the dark. He pulled in a long breath, rubbing his face with both of his hands before he worked his tunic back off and raked his hair up, tying it in a knot.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling a long time, his hands folded on his chest. I watched the thoughts cross his face one at a time until his eyes closed.
My fingertips found the collar and I tried to imagine what my father’s face would look like if he could see me. I blinked and the dread spilled over, drowning the quiet. Because the only thing worse than knowing I was a dyr was the thought of my father knowing it too.
TWELVE
I stared up into the dark long before the others awoke, hearing Iri’s voice in my mind. A man’s voice. I closed my eyes, trying to see the boy I’d run on the beach with as a child. I tried to remember what his voice had sounded like then, but I couldn’t summon it to me. Memories suddenly felt more like dreams, moments stuck between waking and sleeping.
When I heard Inge moving below, I climbed down the ladder, hooking my good arm into each rung, and stood beside the fire pit. My eyes drifted to the stale bread sitting on the table.
“Good morning.” She handed me the fire-steel and I looked down to where it sat in my open palm. My other arm was still tied to my body.
“Oh.” She turned back when she realized. “Sorry, I suppose you can’t do that.”
She reached out to take it back and I closed my fist, turning away from her and walking to the wall beside the door to gather up the wood. She raised an eyebrow at me before going back to the grains on the table. I set up the kindling with one hand at the edge of the fire pit instead of the center. I struck the one piece of the fire-steel against the stone until it sparked, but the kindling didn’t catch. I moved the kindling closer and tried again. This time it lit and I picked up the burning bundle and set it in place before it could snuff out.
“Can you show me how to do that?” Halvard watched me from the edge of the loft with sleepy eyes and hair standing up around his head. He slid down the ladder in only his pants and the memory of a young Iri pushed its way back into my mind, barefoot and dirty-faced.
I rubbed the heel of my palm against my chest, as if it might erase it.
I looked away, turning toward Inge. She was sifting the grain into a bowl, her eyes narrowing on me. “Can you please heat the water?”
I found the kettle and when I turned around, Halvard was standing next to me, holding out his hand. Inge watched us as I gave him the kettle and he hopped down from the edge of the fire pit. He fit his fingers into the grooves of one of the flat stones that made up the floor and lifted it up carefully. There, beneath the stone, water was running in a dug-out channel under the house.
I’d never seen anything like it. He looked up at me proudly, using a cup to fill the kettle, and handed it back to me, smiling. Inge poured the grain out onto a large hot cooking stone, toasting it with a wooden paddle. The house filled with the warm nutty smell and my stomach pinched with hunger.
Iri and Fiske stirred above us and Inge smiled, shaking her head. “Like bears in the winter,” she muttered.
Halvard set out wooden bowls and Inge filled them with the grain before pouring the hot water over them. Iri and Fiske climbed down the ladder, their hair unbound and faces drawn with sleep. Iri scratched at his jaw as he sat down, his eyes squinted against the light.
Halvard scooted over on the bench to make another seat but Inge took the fifth bowl and handed it to me. “Over there.” She nodded toward the corner by the door.
I looked into the bowl, the heat lighting in my cheeks. Iri gave her a look, but she ignored him. Why should she let a dyr sit at the table? She didn’t trust me. She shouldn’t trust me. And why did I care? I didn’t want to sit with them.
I picked up a stool, setting it down hard on the stone and sat with my bowl in my lap, taking a bite of the grains. My lip still stung fiercely, but I was hungry enough not to care.
“I’ll take Runa and the Aska to gather the yarrow for Adalgildi. You’re both needed to bring in the ale from the mountainside cellar,” she said, glancing up to Iri and Fiske.
Fiske stared at her, his spoon hovering over his bowl.
She looked at me before meeting his eyes. “You think I can’t take care of myself?”
“What about me?” Halvard spoke through a mouth full of food.
Inge smiled. “You can come with us, sváss.”
I listened as they made plans for the day, dividing up responsibilities. When Inge stood, she leaned down to kiss Iri on the cheek, running a hand through his hair. It set my teeth on edge. A spark, threatening to eat up the dry, angry parts of me. As she passed Fiske, she did the same and they both relaxed under her touch, leaning into her. Fiske and Iri were grown men, hardened by battle, but they were soft with her.
I faced the wall as I finished eating, unable to stomach it. I didn’t remember as much of my mother as Iri had. We lived most of our lives with only our father, but I didn’t like Inge touching him. I didn’t like the tenderness between them. Inge acting like Iri’s mother was an insult, but Iri acting like Inge’s son was blasphemy.
My fist tightened around my spoon as I took my last bite and I stood, washing my bowl and returning it to the crate Halvard pulled them from. Iri met my eyes as he ducked out the door behind Fiske—a warning to behave.
I leaned into the wall and waited as Inge lifted two large leather-handled baskets up onto the table and took two pairs of iron shears from the wall. If she wanted me to eat in the corner like a goat, I wasn’t going to go out of my way to help her.
Behind me, the door swung opened and Runa came in, brushing snowflakes from her dark hair and her skirt. She was bundled up in a wool wrap, her cheeks flushed pink.
When she smiled, her full lips stretched over straight white teeth. “Good morning.”
“Runa!” Halvard ran to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
Her gaze lifted to me, moving over my face to my shoulder. As soon as they landed on the dyr collar, her eyes flitted away. “You look better.” She held out a green wool cloak in her arms. “I brought this for you.”
I stared at it.
“For the cold.” She pushed it toward me.
Halvard took it from her and shoved it into my arms. “Aren’t you going to put it on?”