My shoulder ached under the weight of the basket, the weak muscles straining under the skin, and I shifted, trying to adjust it to the other side.
They arrived by families, men and women walking with their children or the elderly. The first group stopped before entering, each taking a yarrow bloom into their hands and cupping it gently before them. I tried not to look up into the angry eyes cast down on me, the hatred burning through their stares. But it was quickly followed by something that looked like satisfaction—justice—as their attention fell to the collar around my neck.
They hated me like I hated them. But they’d won. And they knew it.
“Gudrick,” a soft voice called from behind us and the man before me looked up, a smile breaking onto his toughened face.
I turned to see an older woman in an amber dress standing behind me, holding a braided reed cage. A white snow owl with large yellow eyes peered out at me from inside. The long strands of wood-beaded necklaces hung around her neck meant that she was the Tala, the clan’s interpreter of Thora’s will.
The children ran to her, sticking their fingers into the cage, and she ushered them into the warm ritual house. They went inside, one family at a time, and walked down an open aisle to the fire, where they stood together for a silent moment before dropping the yarrow into the flames. The smell of the offerings burning filled the air with a floral, charred scent. It pushed out the doors and wound around me.
Dyrs moved about, refilling my basket when the yarrow was gone and helping to carry things inside for the arriving Riki until the path was clear. The village below looked empty, except for the house across the path from Fiske’s, where fire smoke still rose from the roof and light glowed in the window.
Inge appeared and took the basket from my arms, nodding toward the doors. I hesitated, looking up at it again. Going into their ritual house felt like a grave betrayal.
“Aska,” Inge prodded me and I followed the other dyrs beneath the archway where it was loud and the air was so warm it made my cold skin tingle. The doors closed, creaking on big iron hinges, and the Riki quieted. The men and women found their seats on long benches circling the fire in rows that reached to the back of the chamber and the children flooded to the front, finding space on the ground. I found a place along the back wall with the other dyrs, my hand pressing into my throbbing arm. More hard eyes landed on me.
Everyone quieted as the woman in the amber dress stood, raking her fingers through her waist-length golden hair, wild with thick streaks of silver. “Vidr, come.”
A large man with a coarse black beard stood and the room followed. He smiled, taking his place beside the Tala with his hand on the hilt of his sword. When the faces of the Riki looked up at him, it was clear he was the village leader.
“Welcome,” the man bellowed. “Welcome home.” He motioned for them to sit and they obeyed, sinking onto the benches almost in unison.
The Tala handed him the cage and he nodded to her, setting it on the altar before the fire. He lifted the lid, reaching inside with his hand to pull the owl free. As it flapped its wings, the woman set a large wooden bowl and a bronze dagger before her.
She lifted the blade, looking into the face of the owl. “We give thanks to you, Thora, for bringing our warriors home.” Her voice rang out over the Riki, finding me in the back.
Vidr held the bird as the Tala placed the tip of the dagger to the owl’s breast and carefully pushed it in between the bones. A screech broke the silence as the bird went still and Vidr held its body over the bowl as the blood ran out.
The Riki pounded on their benches, their knuckles knocking against the wood. The sound beat like wings in my chest. When the blood was finished draining, he laid the still bird down on the table and took his seat.
“Welcome to Adalgildi.” The Tala’s voice reverberated in the ritual house. But instead of turning her attention to the men and women on the benches, she sank down onto the stone altar and leaned forward, looking into the faces of the children. They straightened, sitting on their heels and whispering to each other.
“We’ve gathered together this evening to honor our Riki warriors.” She looked out over them, her eyes gleaming with pride. “We burn the yarrow in remembrance of those who did not return home. We give thanks to Thora for their lives and their courage.” The sound of fists knocking against wooden benches echoed out again, making the room feel smaller. “To understand the honor deserved, we must remember the story of Thora. We must remember why we fight.
“Thora was born of the mountain, in the great eruption that created our home,” she began, her hands extending out around her small frame. “She came forth from the flame and ash. From the melted rock, she created her people and placed them on the mountain to dwell. She named them Riki for their strength and power. But peace was short-lived.” Her voice lowered. “Sigr, the god of the fjord, saw what Thora had done and his heart was filled with envy. He sent his people up into the mountain to tear down what Thora had built. A bloody rivalry was born and Thora swore eternal revenge on Sigr. She sent the Riki down to the inlets of the great sea to destroy the Aska. Every five years, since that day, we have met them on the battlefield to bring glory to Thora.” She clasped her hands in front of her.
It was a different history than the one the Aska told, but the end was the same. Our hatred of the Riki was written onto our bones. Breathed into us by Sigr. What had started as a quarrel between the gods turned into the hunger for revenge—a blood feud. Every five years, we lost those we loved. And we spent the next five years counting the days to the moment we could make the Riki pay for our pain. It was a long-burning fire inside of me.
“Our warriors have brought honor to Thora this fighting season. They have cut down the enemies of our god. The same as you will do one day. All of you.” She stood back up, the hem of her skirt floating over the stone. “And Thora is pleased.”
Shouting erupted in the chamber, and I pressed myself into the wall, watching from the top of my eyelashes.
“Yes, Thora is pleased and we must now honor the warriors who have brought this great favor to our people. Come.”
The children got to their feet, funneling down the aisles and finding their families.
As the floor cleared, the Riki warriors across the ritual house came forward, their families looking up at them, and my eyes found Iri, who stood beside Fiske on the far side of the room. They filled the aisle as the Riki watched them, many with tears in their eyes. Dyrs carried the baskets of cedar garlands from the back of the room and set them down at the feet of the Tala. She crouched down, picking one up and holding it out before her in her open hands.
“We honor you, Riki, as you have honored Thora. Lag mund.” Fate’s hand.
The man before her bent low so she could lift the garland over his head and set it onto his shoulders. As he stood, she dipped her finger into the bowl of owl’s blood and lifted it to touch the place between his collarbones. He bowed before her, peeled off the line, and returned to his seat, hands touching him as he went. Below his throat, the deep red stroke of blood glistened on his skin.
She repeated the words, looking at the woman next in line and setting the garland onto her shoulders. After the Tala had blessed her with the blood of the sacrifice, Fiske came to the front. She touched his face, speaking to him softly. “We honor you, Riki, as you have honored Thora. Lag mund.” He looked down at her, coming low so she could set the garland on him, and she painted him where the collar of his tunic opened. Instead of going back to his seat, he stepped aside, letting Iri come forward.
The Tala’s smile pulled wider, looking up into Iri’s fair face. “We honor you, Riki, as you have honored Thora. Lag mund.” The sound of it shot around inside of me like a flying blade, cutting deep.
Because Iri wasn’t Riki. He was Aska.