She gives me a concerned look. “You still look so tired.”
“More than I want to admit.” I swallow hard as I watch Dorte’s widow, a woman whose skinny limbs belie her wiry toughness, striking flint against an old blade to light the dry leaves that have been stuffed amidst the gathered wood in the fire circle. Clinging to the back of her gown is a brown-eyed little girl, an adopted raid prize who Dorte brought as a gift two summers ago. If anyone has a right to be tired, it’s this widow. If anyone deserves warmth and rest, it’s her. If anyone deserves a reward for her determined strikes of stone and iron, she does. I stare at the flickering sparks, and they flare sudden and strong. The widow smiles as the flames take hold, and I blink in shock. Was that the curse? How could such an evil thing do something so merciful? I tear my eyes away from the woman. It was either a coincidence—or a trick, meant to lull me until it strikes again.
We pass around rations and tend to our weapons as the andeners gather enough wood to last through the night. Bertel, Preben, Aksel, and Sander share raid stories with a few of Jaspar’s warriors just yards from where Thyra and I have settled in with our waterskins and hard biscuits. I am relieved that Jaspar himself seems to have disappeared for a while, and when he plops down between me and Thyra, I flinch.
“Any blisters?” he asks.
Quite a few. But our horses are loaded with supplies because we don’t have enough wagons. “None at all.”
The corner of Thyra’s mouth twitches at my breezy tone. “It was a lovely stroll along the lake.”
He chuckles and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Well, my feet hurt, anyway.”
“You could ask an andener to rub them,” Thyra suggests, “though the smell might prove lethal.” She leans forward to grab another biscuit and knocks over the uncorked waterskin, which sends clean streamwater splashing over the stony ground, soaking the back of my breeches.
I grab it and lift the opening, but it’s too late. The water is nearly gone. Thyra snatches the container from me. “I’ll go fill it up again.” She gives me a hard look before turning and walking toward the stream we passed several hundred yards back.
Jaspar watches her departure. “That was . . . unusually clumsy of her. One would think a chieftain would have better things to do than fetch water.” He turns to me. “Does she hate me that much? I never actually did her any harm.”
I’m not sure that’s completely true—I remember the look on Thyra’s face when she saw us together. But I shake my head and scoot closer to the fire, wanting to dry my breeches before I lie on my blanket for the night.
Jaspar moves with me, staying near. “So it’s mistrust that drives her away,” he says.
“What reason does she have to trust you? You’re ingratiating yourself with her warriors and bringing us all to a foreign land, ruled by a man who tried to assassinate our chieftain.”
“Is that what you were told?” he asks.
“You make it sound like Lars was spinning a tale, but he refused to speak of it at all.”
“Oh, I don’t think it was Lars who did the spinning.” Jaspar laughs.
“Thyra won’t talk about it either.” No matter how many times I asked.
“Yet somehow all of you have the same belief, that my father is some sort of traitor.”
“If he wasn’t, then why didn’t he openly challenge Lars?” My lip curls. I remember Nisse. Always in the council shelter, always drawing maps in the dirt, always full of plans and strategy, always thirsty for conquest—and rarely riding out to do his share of fighting.
“What makes you think he wanted to challenge Lars?” I give Jaspar a skeptical look, and he leans forward, his mouth tight. “Hundreds were loyal to my father, Ansa. Have you considered that he wanted to protect them from the consequences of that loyalty if he perished, even if it was based on an unfounded and unjust accusation?” He moves close enough that I can feel the skim of his breath across my cheek. “What would Thyra do?” He chuckles. “I’ll bet she never imagined she’d have to face such a choice.”
I wince and get to my feet. “Don’t compare them,” I say, my voice turning rough as my thoughts tumble with everything I’ve heard about what happened during the winter. A vial of poison was discovered in Nisse’s shelter, along with the celebration goblet Lars always drank from when he returned in victory. It was found by a slave . . . or a child? Whoever it was took the evidence straight to Lars and his senior warriors, if the rumors are true. I cast a wary look at Jaspar, who is watching me with one eyebrow arched. I’d rather stab myself in the throat than ask him what he knows.