They sat, and Ragnvald told her of Solvi’s attack, leaving aside his vision of the golden wolf. Svanhild would either make too much of it or too little. He had repeated the tale so often in the past few days that it had settled into certain scenes in his mind. He tried to find the words to make it real for her.
In return she told him what she suspected, and how Einar, Sigurd, and even their mother had confirmed it, each in their turn. He tried to imagine his mother’s reaction, how she would react, but he could only see the anger on Svanhild’s face before him.
“What did she say?” Ragnvald asked.
“You know her,” said Svanhild heavily. “She is dull and vague, as she has ever been. Don’t worry about her. She is not here. Are you going to accuse him?”
Olaf wanted him dead, and had paid or prompted his friend King Hunthiof to make it happen. His stepfather, who had raised him as much as his own father had.
“I don’t know,” he said. Between the tree branches, the sunlight still gleamed, but too far away for any warmth to reach the grove.
“I will speak for you,” she said.
“You can’t.” His voice sounded distant to his ears, as though filtered through water. “‘A woman may only give testimony if no man can be found.’ Or ‘can be brought to witness.’ I don’t remember. ‘No man below the age of eighteen may . . .’” He had attended the trials as a boy, with his father, and had memorized long passages of the law in hopes of one day dealing out his own justice. Only tatters remained.
“There is no man to testify,” she insisted.
“You said Sigurd knows, and he is here.”
She scoffed. “You know he will not.”
“You have no real words that you can swear to, only rumors. And you are a woman.”
“You don’t need me, though,” said Svanhild. “At least not to accuse Solvi. Egil saw the whole thing.”
Ragnvald sprang to his feet. “He told you?”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. She stood as well, brushing off her seat.
“He won’t testify for me, and I can’t trust any of Solvi’s men to stand for me.”
“What? Why not?” Svanhild cried. Then Ragnvald had to tell her that as well.
“What will you do?” Svanhild asked.
“You cannot be my witness, but you can remind Egil what he told you, and shame him into testifying. Come with me to Hrolf’s camp.”
*
“I said that,” said Egil. He had emptied a quiver of arrows on the ground, and was inspecting the fletching on each one, to make sure it would fly true in the archery contest tomorrow.
“Yes, you said that.” Svanhild stood over him, hands on her hips.
“Would you like to call me a coward again?” said Egil to Ragnvald, ignoring her. “I tried to help you.”
“You are a coward,” said Svanhild.
Egil flinched. “I want to live,” he said. “Solvi does not forgive betrayal.”
“But he has no trouble dealing in it,” Ragnvald muttered. Then to Egil: “If you have no care about being called a coward in private, perhaps you will not want to be called that publicly.”
Egil’s jaw tightened. He would not meet Ragnvald’s gaze. Ragnvald said to Svanhild, “If my friend Egil continues to lie, I will call you as a witness. But Solvi may call you a liar, or Olaf.”
Svanhild lifted her chin. “Let him. I am not afraid of him.”
“Please,” said Egil softly. He bent over to gather his arrows in, so they would not be trampled by his or Svanhild’s feet. “I will talk to my father. I will testify if I can.”
Ragnvald crouched so he could take Egil’s hand. It was hardly a firm commitment, but if Ragnvald treated it that way, Egil might as well.
“Your sister is still my betrothed, and you are my sworn brother. I would do no less for you.”
Egil gave him a smile that might be a wince. “We were not men when we swore that.”
“Do you think the gods care about that?” In tales, oaths like theirs always lasted for eternity, though Ragnvald had already seen how rarely that happened in life. Most oaths had the threat of blood or promise of gold keeping them strong. Or the certainty of shame, which was what Ragnvald could offer Egil.
Egil did not answer, but he did take Ragnvald’s hand, and lean into an embrace with their shoulders touching.
“I will see you at the sacrifice tonight,” Ragnvald said to Egil. Perhaps feeling the gods’ eyes upon him there would give Egil more strength.
*
As Ragnvald walked Svanhild slowly back toward Olaf’s booth, she put her hand in his, as they had done as children. “Do you think he will do it?” she asked. “That he will testify?”
Ragnvald sighed. “I don’t know. I think he wants to.”
“I don’t think Olaf will give up our father’s land without you killing him,” she said next. Her mind ran quickly from one subject to another. Ragnvald had been more used to that when they were together every day, when he could anticipate her words before she said them. He had not yet thought fully of what Olaf’s involvement might mean, except that he had no proof, and that saved him from having to accuse Olaf in front of everyone.
“I could do that,” said Ragnvald, though he did not believe it. “He is old.” Not old enough to be sure, though. Duels were chancy things, and Olaf had already shown his willingness to cheat.
“Truly?” Svanhild asked. “He raised us.”
“I killed for less reason in Ireland,” he said quietly. That much at least was true. “I think I could.” If Olaf were someone else. “He is a strong warrior, though. I would rather he only gave me what he promised.”
“You could hire onto another raiding ship,” said Svanhild. “Or one of the settlement ships bound for Iceland. I have heard there is land for the taking. A strong man can be a lord there.”
“I was supposed to be a lord here,” said Ragnvald. “Svanhild, if you do not want to testify, I can—”
“I do,” said Svanhild. “Only I thought you were dead. I don’t want it to become true. What is there for us here? Sogn is crowded with farmers, old feuds, old blood, there are raiders every summer. I have heard of new land. You could take Hilda there. And me too.”
“Ardal’s soil is richer than any icy land,” said Ragnvald, though he had no true idea. He had heard the stories, as Svanhild had, of this Iceland, with its fiery mountains and broad fields, glaciers so high that clouds swallowed them, danger and opportunity. But he felt too the tug of Ardal in his blood, his father’s bones, his grandfather’s, the line of kings stretching back to the gods themselves. “This is home, Svanhild. It is mine, and I will take it back, for our family.”
“You were almost killed,” Svanhild said. “You know as I do that trials are usually decided for the richest man, not the right man. And I want to see new lands. We talked of it once.”