“My father did wrong by keeping Heming down all these years,” said Oddi. “You told him that when all others feared to. Do not make the same mistakes with your brother.”
“Stepbrother,” said Ragnvald, but Oddi was right. Hakon had told Ragnvald that he saw clearly in all but his own cause. He could do worse than take Oddi’s advice in this.
“I have taken back Ardal and killed Olaf,” Ragnvald said to Oddi. “Does this mean that I am free from my oath to your father?”
“I would say you are free of all oaths now,” said Oddi. “You may do as you wish.”
*
After eating breakfast, Ragnvald woke Sigurd up from where he dozed on one of the benches in the hall. Sigurd rubbed his eyes, and Ragnvald guided him into the kitchen for his milk and porridge.
“Does Oddi not let you share his chamber?” Ragnvald asked.
“He had Thora with him last night,” said Sigurd, naming one of the thralls. He sighed. “She used to share my bed.”
“He’ll be gone from here soon,” said Ragnvald. “Come let us walk the fields, and see if the hay needs reseeding.”
The sun was shining. A cold breeze came down from the mountains. Above, white clouds looked like ships’ sails. A promising day. They walked in silence for a time, until they had come to the stone fence that marked the western edge of Ardal lands. From here, on a day like this, the waters of Sogn Fjord were just visible, sparkling under the sun in the distance.
Ragnvald had thought long on how to solve the problem of his stepbrothers, Sigurd and Hallbjorn. The songs told of boys who grew to men, waiting to avenge their fathers’ deaths. Ragnvald had done just such a thing himself. No one made songs of the boys who only grew up to fight in other men’s raids, and let their fathers’ killers die in their beds. Perhaps Oddi was right, and the way to make Sigurd into a friend was to ask him to do a favor. Wisdom might make it seem the other way around, but men resented the favors they were given, and loved themselves for the favors they granted.
He stopped and looked out toward the faraway fjord. Sigurd stopped too, looking at Ragnvald warily, at his right hand, which hung by his side, not far from the hilt of his sword. Sigurd took a step back.
“I don’t want to be killed,” he said, looking miserable. “It’s not my fault that—”
“I need your help, Sigurd,” Ragnvald cut him off, before Sigurd could shame himself further. He might have time to think of what he said, and hate Ragnvald even more for hearing it.
Sigurd made eye contact with Ragnvald briefly before looking down at his feet. “Vigdis needs you,” Ragnvald continued, immediately wishing he had not. Vigdis was Sigurd’s stepmother too, and she had shown what she was capable of, to get what she wanted. “My mother needs you too,” he added hastily. “Ardal needs you. I must sail north to get Svanhild from Solvi, with the help of Hakon’s sons. I need you to guard Ardal for me. Let Fergulf help you turn those farm boys into warriors to defend Ardal from raiders. I do not want us to be enemies. Will you help me?”
Sigurd looked at Ragnvald and gave him a sly look that Ragnvald remembered from their growing up, when he would torment Svanhild, or find some way to shirk his duty. “What will you do if I do not?” He squinted against the sunlight.
“You may go where your wyrd leads you, of course,” said Ragnvald. Every option that had once been open to Ragnvald, to find land across the sea, now stood open to Sigurd if he wanted to take it. Ragnvald could push him that way. That might be safer.
“Why should I help you?” Sigurd asked. “You killed my father.”
“Your father killed my father,” said Ragnvald, exasperated. “Do you want to continue this? Do you want to fight when we return to Ardal, in the holmgang, with witnesses? What do you want, Sigurd?”
To Ragnvald’s surprise, Sigurd’s face crumpled. “My father is dead,” he said, brokenly. “And he always liked you more.” Ragnvald made a noise of denial at that which Sigurd did not seem to hear. “My mother is dead, and I don’t even remember her. I don’t want to kill you, and I don’t want to die.”
Ragnvald touched Sigurd’s shoulder gingerly. He did not want this guilt: his guilt over Einar, which threatened to spill over into guilt over Olaf, or at least what Olaf’s death meant to Sigurd. “You don’t have to, Sigurd. Your father made many mistakes. You can be my steward at Ardal, while I go raiding, and if you do well, your sons may inherit that title. I will owe you that for protecting it.”
“You think I can protect it?” Sigurd’s face was streaked with tears, and Ragnvald’s stomach twisted in something like disgust. “Father always said I was weak.”
“It is your actions that make you weak or strong,” said Ragnvald, though he did not quite believe it himself. Olaf had called him weak too. “Make a choice now, and be strong. Fergulf is a good armsman, and he can give you good advice. You should follow it when you can, and learn to use your own judgment as well.”
34
Ragnvald and Oddi met with Heming on the small strand of Alesund, among a warren of islands and sheltered coves. The trees that capped the peninsula’s small hills had dustings of green upon them.
Heming greeted their ship of twenty warriors as warmly when they arrived as if they had brought five times as many. “Ragnvald, I am glad to see you,” he said, giving Ragnvald a strong embrace and a pounding on his back. “Have you finally killed that stepfather of yours?”
“Yes,” said Ragnvald.
“I owe you much for taking my part and my father’s in Vestfold. He is too rigid to thank you, but I am not.”
Ragnvald was surprised it had seemed that way to Heming. He nodded uncertainly. “I was only attempting to be fair.”
“Cheer up,” said Heming. “I lived, and so did you.” He looked pleased with himself. “We’re going to get your sister back, now, and kill Solvi.”
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “Do you know he’s there?”
“If he’s not, we’ll take his hall and stay there until he returns. I have heard Tafjord is easy to defend.”
“Yes, and difficult to attack.”
“Indeed. It was you who told me,” said Heming.
Heming wanted to set off with next morning’s tide, so in the blue light before dawn their ships pushed off into the network of channels around Alesund. Ragnvald sailed with Heming in the lead ship, for he knew these channels as well as any, having come this way with Solvi and his expert pilots.
The ships had to anchor for an hour or two near Alesund to wait for a complicated bit of water to run the right way to swell them through a narrow gap between two islands. Ragnvald watched a small skiff careen through over the hummock of water that two colliding currents made, a skiff that tugged at his memories.
“Let us hail this fisherman and see what he knows,” said Ragnvald. “It would be well to find out if Solvi is at home.”