“I sent a hundred attendants to provide your other warriors and andeners with a similar feast outside the walls,” Nisse says loudly, though there is no need, as none of us are talking. We’re all too busy stuffing our faces.
Thyra looks up from her food. “They’ll need better shelter as the frost descends. In the north they had roofs over their heads.”
“And they will have the same here. Tomorrow they can take their pick of the shelters in the city. The ones already taken by my own warriors and their families are marked with blood on the wooden posts outside each, but you may have any of the others.”
Thyra frowns and glances at the Vasterutian attendants. The round-cheeked one stares steadily back. “Aren’t their shelters already occupied?”
Nisse nods as he sinks his teeth into a chunk of hog loin. “By Vasterutians, though. Merely tell them to leave and they will.”
“And go where?”
He shrugs. “They find shelter elsewhere within the city. It’s not your concern.”
Thyra stares down at the small pile of bread and meat and vegetables in front of her, and Nisse laughs. “Oh, come, Niece. You’ve always had a softer heart than the rest of us, but I of all people know you have a spine of iron when necessary. You won’t put the comfort of the conquered over your own andeners’.”
Thyra is still except for her eyes, which rise to glare at her uncle with open disdain. “Haven’t you taken the conquered as your own? Are they not tribe?”
The only people who remain slaves are those who refuse to join our tribe, or at least, that is how it goes when we raid. Our warriors look at Nisse with the question in their eyes. How does it work when you squat on the conquered lands?
Nisse does not seem troubled by the question. “I’m still considering the wisdom of accepting responsibility for them.”
The round-cheeked attendant’s eyes flare, but when she sees me watching her, she quickly bows her head.
Thyra brings a sweet potato to her lips. “They were worthy of cooking your food, apparently. Or was this prepared by your andeners?”
Nisse’s smile becomes tight. “Our andeners are focused on the young ones, as they should be.”
I sit back at this pronouncement. The andeners do many things, including making weapons and armor. Raising young ones is only a piece of how they care for us. I want to say this, but I don’t have status at this table, and I’m afraid of drawing more disdain from Thyra.
“Your own widowed andeners will need to choose new mates,” says the dark-haired warrior known as Sten, who is sitting on Nisse’s left. He elbows the warrior on his other side. “Many of them are still young. Not bad to look at, either.”
Bertel clears his throat and lays his gnarled hands on the table. “This is how you speak of grieving widows?” he mutters.
Thyra looks out over the tables in the hall. “Are so many of your warriors unpaired?”
“No,” says Nisse. “They all have mates. But given our predicament, I’m sure you’ll agree that each warrior should have more than one andener capable of breeding.”
“What?” The word slices from Thyra like a blade, cutting through any pretense at courtesy. “That bond is a sacred one. The andeners are not cattle.”
Nisse gives her a patient smile. “I never said they were. They are valuable members of our tribe, and they will be provided for so long as they contribute young.”
Thyra swallows a bite, though it looks like it’s choking her. “And the males?”
Nisse waves his hand. “They’ll be able to find themselves shelter within the city, as will the older females. But our focus will be on the women of breeding age.”
I think of the male andeners, some of whom were paired with male warriors, some with female. Those pairings typically don’t produce young, but they often take in orphans or children who were raid prizes. That was what happened to me—Jes was paired with Einar, Lars’s war counselor, and the two men treated me like their own. I grieved Jes’s loss from fever two winters ago, especially because it left Einar grim and gray, but suddenly I’m glad he’s not here to suffer this indignity.
Thyra shoots to her feet. “This is unacceptable. My tribe is a body, each part as important as the next. Thanks to your son, the widows weren’t even allowed a chance to grieve their lost mates, and now you expect them to choose new ones?”
Sten jumps to his feet as well. “Show proper respect when you speak to our chieftain,” he shouts, even as Nisse places a hand on his arm. He slowly sinks back down, glowering at Thyra. “Jaspar tolerated this kind of talk on the road, but in the presence of our chieftain, it won’t stand. You’re in Vasterut now.”
“How well I know that,” says Thyra. Her gaze flicks to Jaspar. “Though I was given to believe we were all free to speak our minds.”
Jaspar inclines his head. “You had been through a terrible ordeal. Who was I to constrain your words and veiled accusations, however unfounded?”