“Never.” They walked in silence for a time. “Come, you’re brooding,” said Oddi.
“Egil said he won’t speak for me,” Ragnvald burst out, then had to tell Oddi the rest of it.
“Egil Hrolfsson is wise,” Oddi said solemnly.
“Wise,” Ragnvald scoffed. He could not tell if Oddi was joking or not, and did not care. “He’s a coward. How could he have ever called himself my friend?”
“Calm yourself, Ragnvald,” said Oddi, looking amused at Ragnvald’s plight. He was joking, then. At least Svanhild would have shared his outrage. “You expect him to rush on Solvi’s blade? When Solvi can probably call a dozen witnesses to name both of you a liar?”
“With these scars?” said Ragnvald, raising his chin. His wounds still smarted.
“You could have gotten them at any time.”
“I am promised to his sister.”
“An arrangement made between Hrolf and Olaf,” said Oddi. “And Olaf has another son for one of Hrolf’s daughters.” At Ragnvald’s glare, he continued. “You know I believe you. But you can see—”
Ragnvald brushed Oddi’s hand off his shoulder.
“As you wish,” Oddi said. “There’s a place for you at my father’s table tonight, if you want it.”
“What is your news?” Ragnvald asked. “Why has your father risked encountering King Hunthiof, where the law of the ting means he cannot kill him?”
“You did not hear that King Harald of Vestfold came, as prophesied, to our shores?” said Oddi.
“Did he? Is he king in the north now?” Ragnvald asked in jest. At least he and Oddi were speaking more easily. Tales of young Harald and his strength at arms had been spread by skalds all up and down the western fjords.
“Perhaps he returns to Vestfold and calls himself so,” said Oddi. “But no,” he continued, “my father made alliance with him, married off my sister Asa to him. My father comes to the ting to recruit.”
“Oh, so King Hakon believes Harald can do it?” said Ragnvald, trying to digest this news. “He’s just a boy,” he added, with a foolish pang of jealousy that this young Harald should already outstrip him, and another feeling as well, a touch of excitement that stirred his belly. Through Oddi, he might yet gain the notice of great kings.
“He is young,” said Oddi, “but I do not think many of the tales exaggerated. He is tall and strong. I saw him fight our most seasoned warriors and best them, in practice at least. His mother is a sorceress, and his uncle, who raised him, is both wise and rich. If anyone can do it, he can.” Then he gave Ragnvald that easy grin. “And if not, I think my father likes having Harald’s name to justify his conquest. My brothers will not be content to divide Halogaland and Stjordal between them. Hunthiof’s rulership of Maer will be the first thing to fall.”
Hunthiof’s line had been kings in North Maer, while Ragnvald’s line had ruled South Maer and Sogn. Over generations, the North Maer kings had maintained their power, while Ragnvald’s grandfather was king only of the Sogn district, his son a minor jarl, and Ragnvald, nothing at all. The men of South Maer and Sogn did not swear to kings anymore: they defended themselves on their own as best they could, and paid taxes to jarls, if they paid taxes at all. A king, a true king of all Norway—Ragnvald could not spread his mind wide enough to imagine what that could mean. Harald of Vestfold might look for allies in Sogn, or he might see it as a ripe prize for the followers he already had.
“Look,” said Ragnvald, pointing at the field below. “I think Olaf has finally arrived. I must see Svanhild, if she is with them. She thinks me dead.”
*
When Ragnvald approached Olaf’s camp, Svanhild was propping up stones around the base of the spit where her pot hung. She had all her attention focused on the task, wedging the stones tight with dirty hands, so Ragnvald was able to draw close before she looked up and saw him. She sprang to her feet. Her scarf fell forward as she rushed toward him. He lifted her up as she flung her arms around him, feeling like now he might weep for everything that had happened since he had seen her last.
When he set her down, she still clung to him. “Ragnvald,” she said. “Egil said you were—and Ol—everyone—they—”
“I know,” he said. “Not here.”
“Ragnvald,” said Vigdis, who appeared suddenly behind Svanhild, with Olaf only a step behind her. It had been many months since he had seen her too, and the beauty he had remembered was nothing to seeing her in truth. She gave him a considering look, and as always, it felt as though they stood together, alone, for a moment. His face heated. He had to force himself to look at Olaf instead.
“We are glad to hear that Egil’s news was mistaken. You will stay with us, of course,” Olaf said. His eyes were stony and gray.
Ragnvald steeled himself for more words, of how he had failed by coming back empty-handed, wounded. “I am staying with others for now,” he said, now feeling as cold as Olaf looked. “But your welcome is appreciated.”
“We must talk,” said Svanhild.
“Svanhild, your help is needed to set up the camp,” said Olaf.
“I thought he was dead,” said Svanhild, accusingly. “Vigdis, you can spare me, can’t you?”
“Of course,” said Vigdis. “Dear husband, I can manage without the girl for an afternoon.” Vigdis disappeared back into the tent. Olaf gave Ragnvald another challenging look, then shrugged and set out across the field toward a neighbor’s camp.
“Olaf didn’t mean for you to return,” Svanhild said as soon as they were alone. “It looks like he almost succeeded.” She reached up to touch his cheek. He caught her hand before she could touch where Hilda’s fingers had been earlier.
“He didn’t? How do you—are you sure?” She began to answer, and Ragnvald shook his head. He felt exposed, suddenly, here on the open plain. “Come,” he said. “Let us walk.” He guided Svanhild toward the sacrifice grove. Fallen logs hewn into rough benches lined the pit. It was cooler between the dark trunks of the pines, and smelled like rich soil. So Olaf wanted him dead. Olaf, who was friends with King Hunthiof, who had suggested that Ragnvald go off in Solvi’s ships. It gave a reason for Solvi’s attack when Ragnvald could think of none before. There had always been rumors that Olaf had killed Ragnvald’s father too, rumors that his mother told him not to heed. He had believed them when it suited him as a boy, when he hated Olaf for disciplining him, for holding him back, for not being his father.
“How do you know?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “Tell me what happened.”