“Come,” he said. “We can walk a little ways into the mouth.” She looked up at the blue maw of the glacier, into the recesses where it turned to blackness. Svanhild would have hesitated to go in with someone she trusted as much as Ragnvald, and told herself she would not plumb those depths with this man, whose name she did not know.
He extended his hand. “Do not fear me,” he said. He looked away from her almost shyly when she took it. She should not have come even this far with him, and now that she had, she would not be a coward. On the sacred ting grounds he would never do her harm, even if he had it in him, and that last look had done more to earn her trust than any words he could speak.
Someone had been here before, tramping a dark, rough path into the ice that was easy enough to walk on. They could not remain holding hands, so he placed her hand on his shoulder and led the way, past wet blue walls, until the gray sky only showed a small glimpse behind them. Here a narrow stream of water cascaded into a pool far below, passing every shade of blue from white to midnight before plummeting into darkness.
“Is this another world?” she whispered.
“It might be. See, I have already taken you somewhere else,” he whispered back.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you not think you would fear the long sea crossings? The wind would tangle your hair.” He touched her hair where it lay over her arm. She shivered, more from the sensation than cold. He took the excuse, though, and draped a part of his cloak over her shoulder.
“The wind tangles my hair in Ardal as well,” she said, “and I see nothing but cows and sheep.” The longing hurt her chest even as hope made her heart beat faster. If it were as easy as this, to find a husband who would take her away—she would have to leave Ragnvald, but she would have to leave him anyway, one day. He wanted Ardal, to follow the duty of generations before. He never wanted to leave.
“I would take you with me,” he said, with a fierceness that surprised her. “I have ships, men, wealth. I am not a king, but my father is.”
She thought for a wild moment that she would, she would do it, even if she had to be his concubine. She would leap with him, if he could make her feel like this even sometimes.
“A king’s son,” she said. She looked at him again. There was something familiar about him: this short king’s son with the red hair and beard. “You are quite short.” She stepped away from him. “You are Solvi Klofe, Solvi the Short, Solvi who tried to murder my brother.” She backed away, her voice rising. The expression on his face told her she had guessed right. “And now you take more revenge on me? Or make me look foolish?” No, that had been her doing. “Take me back to my tent.”
He looked stricken and reached for her. “I would never hurt you.”
“You would never?” She pulled away in horror. “You already tried to hurt me worse than anything you could do to my body. Ragnvald is my brother. I hope he kills you.”
“I did not want to—” He seemed to cut himself off. “I am glad he is alive. I promise—,” he began again, spreading his hands.
“Don’t promise anything,” she cried. “Your promises are worthless.”
“No man could say such a thing to me and live,” he said, his voice suddenly hard. “You know who I am now, so stop this foolishness.”
“A man will say that to you, at the trials.”
“Are you a seer, then?” he asked, stalking toward her, no longer trying to placate her. His changeability frightened her—this man could turn from playful to deadly in an instant. No wonder Ragnvald had not seen his betrayal coming.
She backed away farther, trying to stay on the path through the ice without taking her eyes off him.
She took a false step, though, and slipped, so he had to lunge and catch her. She crouched for a moment before standing again, blinking away her tears. Her ankle hurt, although she did not think she had damaged herself too badly. She turned away from him and began climbing back to the daylight world.
“Let me take you back,” he said when they reached the edge of the cave. His horse was still beneath the trees, nibbling at spring buds.
“If Ragnvald sees you with me, he will kill you,” said Svanhild.
“He will not,” said Solvi. “He would not bring a blood feud down upon his family.” He looked rueful, and Svanhild read something there: Solvi’s true strength was to do what others would not. He would not fear a blood feud. He would sow discord and go off laughing. Svanhild banished the thought—she did not want to see anything to admire in Solvi. She already enjoyed his looks too much. “My men would kill him before he could do it,” he added.
“You tried.” Svanhild’s voice rose to a shriek. “Maybe he can’t be killed by you.”
He smiled then, for no reason she could see. “You don’t want me dead, fair Svanhild.”
“I know my own mind,” she said.
“I do not want you to hate me.”
Svanhild did not know how to respond to that. “Take me back, then,” she said haughtily. Her ankle throbbed.
He helped her mount in front of him again. As they picked their way down the slope, she tried not to slide over the horse’s neck, but also to keep a gap between herself and Solvi. How embarrassing that she had let him press himself against her.
She held her head high as they rode back to Olaf’s camp. Olaf and Vigdis stood there watching her. “I would speak with you,” said Olaf coldly, and it took Svanhild a moment to realize that he was talking to Solvi, not her.
Solvi ignored him, swinging off his horse and down to the ground before extending a hand to help Svanhild. She accepted his hand without thinking, and he gave her another of his grins, which grew broader when she scowled at him. He must think that the ride back had somehow reconciled her to him. Well, he would not find her favor won that easily.
“We had an agreement, Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Olaf.
“Is this the place you’d like to discuss our agreement?” Solvi asked, looking around. Members of Olaf’s household had gathered, as well as others who had come to greet Solvi.
“No,” said Olaf between gritted teeth. “Come into my tent and drink with me.” He looked at Svanhild, then back to Solvi again. “My daughter will wait on you.”
“She was sure to tell me she was not your daughter,” said Solvi. His eyes lingered on Svanhild for a moment, and try as she might, she could not look away, or cast her eyes down. “But yes, have her wait on us, and I will accept your hospitality.”
Svanhild stared at the two of them: Olaf, tall and stony; and Solvi, smaller, but still holding the reins of power here, by force of personality and blood. The arrogance of kings, the strength of a warrior—even a very short warrior—in his prime.
Vigdis beckoned to her, drawing Svanhild to the kitchen area, where she produced two pewter cups and a cask of ale. “Listen, but do not speak,” she said in an urgent whisper. On the ground behind her, little Hallbjorn patted his hands on the dirt. “You have done well. This Solvi is smitten with you, I can see it. If you would not marry Thorkell, make Solvi love you more.”