Jaspar appears long after the sun sets and our bellies have begun to growl. “Chieftain Nisse waits in the grand hall!” The bright look in his green eyes softens when he looks at me, and he frowns and glances at Thyra, who is deep in conversation with Bertel. I close my eyes and look away. I don’t want to see the confirmation in his expression that she has abandoned me.
We follow him down the corridor to another and another. This place reminds me of the ant mounds we used to dig up as children, searching for their queen so we could watch them scramble and scatter without her. Now I am part of such a mound, and I feel for those little ants, lost within their mazes.
The way is lit by torches, but it feels gloomy and close all the same. That is, until we reach a high arched doorway and enter a massive cavern of a chamber. Ten long wooden tables that seat at least fifty each are arrayed within, and at the front of the room, on a raised platform, is yet another long table. I look for where we will sit and realize that Nisse has already filled many of the places with his own warriors, but they have left spaces hither and thither to accommodate the few of us that Thyra brought inside the castle.
“How clever,” Thyra murmurs as she realizes what he’s done. United with former friends and kin they haven’t seen in a year, her senior warriors’ loyalties are about to be tested.
Jaspar starts to walk up to the head table, where Nisse stands, waiting for us to join him. Half the seats at his table are empty, allowing Thyra to have an equal number. She begins to call out names, the warriors she has drawn close. Sander, Preben, and Bertel are among them. I am not. As that group marches up to the table, Jaspar strides back to our group with a hard look on his face. “Ansa, please join us.”
Thyra whirls around, and Jaspar smiles at her. “Ansa and I were only just renewing our friendship on the road,” he says. “I assume you don’t mind if we continue to do so over our meal?”
I can see the conflict in Thyra’s eyes. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want me near. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll accidentally set fire to someone’s hair or freeze the wine. Perhaps she’s afraid of me. But if she refuses Jaspar, it is not only rude to him as the host—it’s an open rejection of me, which makes her look weak and petty at a time she needs to be strong, with a united tribe. Everyone is watching us, including Nisse and his most senior warriors, who used to be high-ranking warriors in her dead father’s tribe.
I believe that she regrets allowing me inside the castle, and another pang of resentment turns my stomach sour.
“By all means,” Thyra says in a light voice. “I was about to call her name.”
Liar, I want to scream. But Jaspar only grins. “Of course you were.”
I force my shoulders back as I join the group headed for the table on the platform, and the maelstrom of emotion, ice, and fire inside me is temporarily quelled by the most amazing scent. In the center of the table is a whole hog, beautifully roasted and lying on a thick bed of greens, with a rosy apple in its gaping mouth. Surrounding it are wooden bowls piled with steaming carrots, sweet potatoes, and many other things I can’t identify but that smell like I imagine heaven must. Fat skins of wine, piles of crisped turkey legs and brown loaves, so much of it that I can barely see the surface of the table. Around the table are a few Vasterutian attendants, who remain hunched against the wall watching Nisse with rapt attention, responding to the slightest wave of his hand. All except for one—a woman with cheeks round as plums and a wild spray of black hair who is eyeing all of us newcomers with a curious, bold stare.
I edge in next to Jaspar as we surround the table. Nisse is at one end and Thyra is at the other. Jaspar has guided us to the middle, right next to Sander, which is good because as angry as I am at Thyra, I cannot openly abandon her now by sitting on Nisse’s side.
Nisse sweeps his arm over the feast, and then looks out over the assembled warriors with a rapturous smile on his craggy, blond-bearded face. “Blood and victory!”
“Blood and victory,” we all echo, loud and sharp as we’ve done since childhood.
Nisse takes his dagger from his waist and plunges it into the pig in front of him. “Eat your fill, warriors!”
With a shout of appreciation, we dig our own daggers into the food, spearing loaves and chunks of meat before plopping them down in front of us. I could be mistaken, but the Vasterutians look vaguely disgusted, though I don’t know why. We’re sitting at a table, aren’t we? I’ve never eaten at a table, but I’ve seen them in other camps and I know the council used to sit at one. I decide the Vasterutians are ignorant, and lucky to still be alive if they commonly look at Krigere warriors that way. But it becomes easy to ignore them after my first bite of hot food. I moan as the crust of the bread gives way under my teeth and fills my mouth with its nutty, chewy sweetness.