TWENTY-TWO
I stared into the side of the mountain as Iri spoke.
Inside the house, Inge was rolling up blankets for him and Fiske. The morning was stark and the fire was still warming the house, but Iri was up before the others and waiting for me when I came down.
He leaned in close to me, buckling the axe sheaths to his back. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
They were going hunting with some of the men from the village. He was leaving me. Again. And I wouldn’t be here when he returned. I’d wait for a chance to get to the river and I’d take it. I wouldn’t look back.
“Stay here in the house.” He set his hand on my shoulder but I shoved him off.
I wasn’t going to ask him to stay. I’d learned to take care of myself a long time ago.
I helped Inge pack their saddlebags as Halvard stood at the door, pouting.
“Why can’t I go?” He leaned out to catch snowflakes in his hand.
“Next year.” Fiske gave him a reproachful look and Halvard slumped against the wall. “Someone needs to check the nets while we’re gone.”
Halvard nodded reluctantly, happy to have a duty, but he still crossed his arms over his chest.
Iri had the horses ready when we came outside with the bags. He and Fiske kissed Inge and she ran her hands over their faces. “Be careful, sváss.”
Iri met my eyes one last time before he lifted himself up onto his horse, but I kept them cold. Hard. I wasn’t going to give him an unspoken good-bye any more than he would beg for one. He turned his horse and started down the path toward the others. They disappeared around the bend and I rubbed my palm against my chest.
It would be the last time I’d ever see him. In this life or the next.
I picked up the milk pail and went to the goat pen, pushing my shoulders back, ashamed of the pain still twisting behind my ribs. I didn’t need him.
Iri was a traitor.
But we were bound together in a way that even I didn’t understand. And the worst part had been realizing that there was maybe nothing he could do to change that. I wanted to forget him, but maybe I never would. I wanted to let him go, but I might never be able to.
I sat, ignoring the ache in my throat, and a goat pushed his head through the pen, nudging me until I ran my palm over his forehead. It had only been two weeks since I was brought to Fela. There were still at least six more to go before the snow stopped falling and started melting. I could make it home in time to help my father plant. He’d never have to know about Iri. And if Sigr had mercy on me, maybe I’d forget him too.
“What did you do?” Gyda stood behind me with a stack of wood gathered in her arms. “What did you do to get them to keep you alive?”
I turned back to the goats and filled the pail. I didn’t want to make up an excuse. I didn’t want to lie. I felt sorry for her and Kerling, and I hated myself for it.
“Thora will bring her vengeance on you,” she uttered. “For all of us.”
She walked away with her skirt clenched in her fists and I looked into the dirt, feeling the weight of the collar and thinking that maybe she already had. Maybe it was Thora who’d brought me to Fela, like Iri said. Maybe it was Thora who’d fit the iron around my neck.
I looked to the tree line. If I made it to the river and had Riki chasing me in a forest I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have time to get down the mountain before they caught me. I’d have to wait until I wouldn’t be noticed. Then I’d leave this place behind.
When Halvard was asleep, I sat beside the smoldering fire with the sacred wood, pulling the carving tool toward me slowly to shape the feet.
“Who are you making it for?” Inge asked quietly from across the fire.
I blew the dust from my hands. “My mother.”
The thing I remembered most about my mother was her hair. I remember it catching the sun and thinking that it looked like it was moving even when it wasn’t.
“When did she die?” Inge leaned forward, propping her chin up onto her hands as she watched the tool cut into the wood.
For a moment, I thought I should lie. I didn’t know what Iri had told her about our mother. But it wasn’t right to lie about her. I wanted Inge to know about the woman she’d replaced.
“I was six. My mother wasn’t a warrior.” I answered the question I knew she was asking in her mind. “She was killed during a Herja raid.”
Her eyes widened and she stiffened. “The Herja?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard the stories. I thought … people think they’re a myth.”
I dragged the tip of the metal across the bottom of the block slowly. “They aren’t stories.”
The night the Herja came was the first night I saw my father break. Iri and I ran, because that’s what he told us to do. He shoved us to the door and pushed us out into the dark. We ran up the hill and into the forest. We didn’t stop running until morning broke and when we returned, hobbling back on bleeding, bare feet, we found him holding her on the beach. His hands tangled in her hair. I would never forget that sound—the primal roar that tore from his throat and echoed through our village.
“I’m sorry,” Inge said, watching my face.
“I don’t remember her well.” I shrugged. But I could still hear the sounds of screaming in the dark. The smell when we burned the bodies. I could still feel the chill on my skin from when I first saw the Herja.
“You do.” She sat up. “Even if you can’t see her when you close your eyes, our bodies and our minds remember things that we can’t. They hold onto things. And you’ll see her again. When you reach Sólbj?rg.”
I stopped carving, surprised.
She smiled. “That’s where your people go after death, isn’t it?”
I looked into her eyes, wondering what she was thinking. What she wanted from me. “I’m not sure I’ll make it to Sólbj?rg.” Saying it out loud made the fear inside me wake up again and I wished I’d held my tongue.
Her head tilted, resting on her shoulder. “Why is that?”
“Because I’m a dyr.” I dropped my gaze back down to the idol. I didn’t want to see whether she felt sorry for me or not. “I’ve lost my honor.”
She was quiet a long time, watching me carve. I listened to the pop and hiss of the fire and tried to forget she was there. I imagined my mother’s face. Her dark, deep-set eyes. Her straight, square teeth.
“We find things, just as we lose things, Eelyn.” Inge stood. “If you’ve lost your honor, you’ll find it again.”
I kept my back to her as she went to the ladder and climbed up into the loft. I couldn’t try and explain it to her. I couldn’t tell her that I’d abandoned my clansmen on the battlefield to chase after the brother who didn’t even want me. Or that it was me who left Iri in that trench.
I held the idol up in front of me. The crude shape was simple. My father was the one who could carve. But it was still her. It was still something.
I looked back up to the dark loft where Inge and Halvard slept. If my father were here, he would tell me to take the carving tool, climb the ladder, and kill them both. I lifted the small iron hook, turning it around in the firelight before I set it down, and touched the face of the idol with my fingers.
“Sigr, keep the soul of my mother safe in Sólbj?rg. Protect my father. Do not take your favor from me.” The words bent and turned around each other. I sniffed them back. “Don’t forget me.”
TWENTY-THREE
Inge filled her basket and put on her cloak as Halvard settled down to sleep. “I want you to go to the mountainside cellar. We need to store the sage and I need you to get some vinegar from the barrel.” She took my cloak from the hook on the wall and handed me an empty jar.