“I’ll try,” I grumble.
Dorte and Keld, who have been huffing away with their backs to us, lift their oars while the others keep at it. I march over and take Dorte’s oar, even though my break isn’t supposed to be over until the sun sinks to quarter-sky. I don’t want to hit the shore fatigued, but whining about it is unthinkable. Einar would probably throw me overboard himself for the sheer shame of it.
Dorte squeezes my arm with her scarred fingers. “By nightfall you’ll show him what you’ve got,” she says as she looks at Sander out of the corner of her eye.
“Assuming I let him live that long.”
Letting out a harsh laugh that crinkles her weatherworn face, she lifts my elbow, examining the four kill marks. “I hope you’ll give me the honor of making one of the new cuts after you’ve tallied your total.”
“If you let me do the same.”
She winks. “Maybe even two.”
I plop onto the bench and place my callused palms over the skin-warmed wood of the oar. The simple, easy confidence Dorte has in me nearly makes me forget Sander’s insult and Thyra’s shove. Nearly, but not quite. I glance over my shoulder. Thyra’s standing by her father now, her back to me, her posture stiff.
I face the rear again, telling myself not to look at her. Not to care what she thinks, not to worry about her. Frustration fuels each pull of the oar. Beads of sweat prick my forehead and glisten on the fine coppery-gold hairs of my arms. I hear the Kupari favor copper; I wonder what they’ll think of me, the flame-haired warrior who will descend upon them like a starving wolf.
I’m not fooling myself. The sight of me does not inspire fear.
But it should. Anyone who has entered the fight circle with me knows it. Especially Sander, though he’ll never admit it. I glance over to see him glaring at the vast array of ships following ours, the hard muscles of his arms taut. “Keep up, runt,” he barks, reminding me of my task.
My back aches as I push the oar forward to match the pace of the lead oarsman and pull it to my stomach at the same time as everyone else. I treasure the cool breeze off the Torden and concentrate on becoming one with the others, as we all move in time like the flex of a horse’s powerful loins. I’ve never rowed this distance before. Some of the warriors around me have; a few have made the journey at least a dozen times. Each time, they brought back livestock and tools the like we’d never seen. Each time, they gave us stories of a land so rich it practically bleeds copper. A few times, they’ve brought back slaves who wailed about how their witch queen, who they call the Valima or the Voltana or some such ridiculous name, will save them. Avenge them.
Surprise, surprise, she never did.
I hope I can be there when Lars marches into her throne room, when she begs for his mercy. He won’t offer it. If you want to live, you must earn the privilege. I learned that lesson at a very young age.
I peek over my shoulder at Thyra again, and I blow out a long breath as I take another stroke of the oar. I want her to turn around and look at me, to punish me for provoking her. I want her to charge at me, take me down right here on the deck. Pin me. Dig her hip bones into mine. I want to feel her strength and know she’s willing to do whatever she needs to. I want to bring the violence out of her, even if it means bleeding at her hands. I’d paint it on her skin, swirls of red to harden her spine and awaken her thirst for violence. It has to be in her. Lars is the greatest warrior the Krigere have ever produced, and Thyra’s mother might have been an andener, a nonfighter, but she was a skilled iron smith who could fix any blade and would slice anyone who wasn’t willing to barter fairly for her services.
Thyra carries this ferocity somewhere inside her; I know she must. She’ll be a magnificent chieftain one day if she can summon it. My heart squeezes as she runs her hand along the hair at the back of her head. I cut it myself, just a few days ago, and she returned the favor. We’d let it grow a bit in the summer months, when the air grew too hot to ride out to raid, when we snuck away mornings and found a pretty spot among the dunes to tussle and eat the salted meat and biscuits we’d stolen from camp. In those moments, alone, no eyes on us, Thyra would touch me, just a hand on my back, or a brush of her fingertips to move my hair out of my eyes. Unnecessary, unbidden, but so, so wanted. She gave me hope. She made me wish.
Until I tried to make that wish reality.