Only Solvi’s father could question him like this and make Solvi doubt his actions. His father was an old man now, past the age of fighting. He had given Solvi men and ships, but never trusted him entirely. And why should he? Solvi was a trickster dwarf, not a real son, his father sometimes reminded him. Solvi’s memories of his childhood, fragmented by the pain of his burns, were of long days in the dark hall, no more cared for than the dogs that fought under the tables.
Solvi turned his mind to the recent past, away from those shadowed memories. Ragnvald’s killing had not gone easily. Ragnvald eyes had been horrified, accusing. There had not been much blood. Solvi’s fingers clenched. Ragnvald had dropped out of them like a dead man, impossible to hold against the current with his wet clothes dragging him down. His skin had been cold.
“If he breathes, he breathes water,” said Solvi.
Hunthiof frowned. “Some men can. Do not lie to me. Is he dead?”
“He may yet live,” Solvi admitted, and told his father what had happened in as few words as possible. “It is in the fates’ hands.”
“I thought it was in your hands.” Hunthiof’s grip on the back of Solvi’s neck tightened.
“The waves stole him from me,” said Solvi. He might have done the deed earlier, but he had needed Ragnvald over that long winter, besieged by Irish tribesmen in their stockade. Ragnvald had always been the first to attack, the last to retreat, and more importantly, the first to sniff out treachery. Except the treachery Solvi had practiced against him.
“If he lives, he is your enemy,” said Hunthiof. “You will make good the promise to Olaf.”
“Olaf is an old—”
“You will make good,” Hunthiof said between gritted teeth, his fingers still digging painfully into Solvi’s flesh. Eyes in the hall had started to turn to them. Solvi shrugged off his father’s hand and pulled himself up to his full height, such as it was.
“I will do what is best for our family,” said Solvi, “and our kingdom.”
4
Egil appeared at supper time, blown to Ardal like a bird by the spring storms that had kept Svanhild penned inside for the past three days. He looked like a bird too, a bedraggled stork with all his feathers hanging down and water pouring over his hat brim. When he arrived, Svanhild’s heart skipped; she imagined for a moment that the news he brought would be good, that Ragnvald would appear out of the mists behind him.
Vigdis pushed past Svanhild to let Egil into the hall. She bid him strip out of his clothes in front of the fire, and brought him a dry tunic and trousers—Ragnvald’s, Svanhild noted. He would not begrudge his friend dry clothes.
“I have news for you,” said Egil while he was dressing.
“Now that you are dry, you must greet us properly,” said Svanhild, stalling him. She moved to tidy up the hearth, avoiding his eyes where he tried to meet hers. “You are almost my brother.”
“I must tell you.” He reached out toward her. “It is Ragnvald.”
No, she did not want to know this, confirmation of all the hints, of the death of her hopes, hopes that Ragnvald had fed all these years of the happier life they would have when he reclaimed his birthright. Raiding with Solvi was to be the first step.
“Tell me,” said Svanhild. She wrapped her arms around her ribs, against the ache there. Vigdis offered a towel for Egil’s hair, but Svanhild took it from her and held it. “Tell us,” she said.
“I am sorry, I tried to save him. It was Solvi.” He told them, then, how it had happened, how he had tried to defend Ragnvald, but other men held him back. “He killed your brother, and dropped him in the water,” he said finally.
Svanhild felt Olaf come up behind her, towering over her. His nearness made her uncomfortable. “You saw him die?” Olaf asked. “You are sure he is dead?”
It was the same question Svanhild wanted to ask, yet when Olaf spoke, Svanhild was suddenly sure that her suspicions were right, that Olaf had not meant Ragnvald to return from this trip.
“I am sure,” said Egil. “He fell like a stone. He is in Ran’s hall now.” He met Svanhild’s eyes, briefly, then looked away. Hiding his shame, Svanhild guessed, that he had not tried harder to save her brother, his friend.
“You will be tired,” said Vigdis. “You must rest a few days with us, wait until the weather clears before you return to your father.”
Egil sought Svanhild’s eyes again. “He died well,” he said. “He had his dagger in his hand. He fought bravely in Ireland and Scotland. He will find a place with Odin. He will not lie with the drowned.” Svanhild hugged herself tighter. She could not spare any kind word for Egil now. Ragnvald was dead, lost, so his body would never rest in the barrow next to his forefathers. He would never become part of the land that his family had fought and died for. She clapped her hands over her mouth and ran from the room.
Alone in the byre, she could not make herself cry, although her breath came in little sobbing gasps. She had thought of Ragnvald every day since he had gone, imagining what he did, where he fought, as best she could from skalds’ viking tales. She spent so much time with him in her mind that she felt as though she had followed him home, through the sleepless nights on the open ocean, back to the shores of Sogn. He could not be gone.
The cows pawed nervously, sensing her upset. She wondered what they would do if she started screaming. Would someone then come to find her, to comfort her? She half expected Vigdis, her mother, perhaps Egil himself, to come and fetch her. Instead she heard the sounds of platters placed on the long table, small pewter cups next, then low talking and chewing. Out in the main room, the household was gathered and eating dinner. The smell of roast goat made Svanhild’s stomach turn over unpleasantly. She swallowed and brushed the straw off her dress as she pushed open the door.
“I would like to stay longer,” Egil was saying, “but I have to bring these ill tidings to my sister.”
“Did no one think I might want to eat?” Svanhild asked angrily.
Vigdis stood over Olaf’s shoulder, pressing the side of her body against his while she poured more ale into his cup. “I thought we were letting you mourn alone,” she said smoothly. “Of course, you must join us if you are hungry.”
Svanhild looked around the table. Her mother was not there either. She must be grieving on her own now. Svanhild had not looked for her, nor she for Svanhild. That thought brought the tears stinging to her eyes, though news of Ragnvald’s death had left them dry.
“My brother must have won gold and silver raiding,” said Svanhild in a high voice. “That must go to his family. Did you bring any of it for us, Egil Hrolfsson?”
Egil looked up at her, surprised. “No,” he said. He opened his mouth as if to give an explanation, frowned, and closed it again.
“Then we must ask for it at the ting,” said Svanhild. “My stepfather has not much silver to spare for my dowry. Ragnvald was meant to win it for me.” For both of them.
Olaf looked ill pleased. He glanced at Sigurd. “Yes, Solvi owes our family an explanation, and the treasure Ragnvald won.”
“He owes . . . Ragnvald’s murder-price,” said Svanhild. “Unless he has already been paid for Ragnvald’s murder.”