A week after Ragnvald’s trial, Hrolf’s camp began packing up. Svanhild had not felt welcome there, and spent as much time as she could with Ragnvald. She and Hilda tried not to let him grow too bored, trading off visits, playing rounds of tafl with him, sending Oddi to amuse him when that paled. His wounds healed swiftly with the attention of Hakon’s women, who knew more of healing craft than Svanhild did. By the end of the week, he could walk without support.
On the day of their leavetaking, Ragnvald walked Svanhild over to Hrolf Nefia’s camp and left her there with her bundle of clothes gifted by Hakon’s women. She had left a few things behind at Ardal—her favorite spindle, which no one else liked to use, and some of her well-worn underthings—but she had worn all her jewelry here, and she comforted herself with the thought that when Ragnvald killed Olaf, all of her possessions would be returned to her.
She only hoped her mother would not be too mistreated by Vigdis and Olaf now that neither of her children were there to bear witness. Svanhild could not let herself worry too much, though. Her mother had made her choice when she married Olaf rather than take her children back to her family. That she had done it to help preserve Ragnvald’s inheritance only excused her so much, especially now that Olaf had proven himself not to have enough honor to uphold Ragnvald’s right to the land.
Ragnvald bid his good-bye to Hilda with Hrolf frowning at them, kissed Svanhild on the cheek, and walked back across the field. He walked slowly and stiffly with his wound, but Svanhild thought he would be whole enough soon. He held his shoulders back as he walked, and if he felt much pain when he bid her good-bye, he kept it from his face. Svanhild could tell he was glad to have her gone, no matter how much he loved her. She was a burden for him now.
After they watched Ragnvald leave, Hilda engulfed Svanhild in a sisterly hug, and immediately set her to work packing up the family’s tents. As she rolled up a leather tent, a shadow fell over the weathered skin. She looked up to see Solvi standing over her. He was dressed for travel as well, in the armor and cloak that she had first seen him wearing.
“You could come with me instead,” he said without preamble.
He would have heard all about Olaf and her disposal with Hrolf’s family. Gossip traveled quickly around all of the Norse lands, and never faster than around the tents of the ting gathering.
“And be your concubine?” Svanhild asked acidly.
Solvi shrugged and then grinned. “Say wife, if you like.”
Svanhild tried not to be flattered by that. She had felt uncomfortable as Ragnvald’s hanger-on in Hakon’s tent, and she was still uncomfortable now as an unwanted burden for Hrolf Nefia’s family.
“I have heard nothing in Hakon’s camp but how King Harald came to promise your father’s doom,” she said. “Why should I make my home in a hall with a wolf already at the door?” It was not the reason she meant to say. She had far better reasons not to go with Solvi, beginning with the enmity between him and Ragnvald. She forced herself not to look away from his handsomeness. He had a fine face, and a smile she wanted to answer with her own, and if she looked at him long enough, she might grow accustomed to it.
His eyes grew shadowed for a moment, but then he smiled wider. “If we went elsewhere, to another land, you would say yes?”
“Another land, another life, another girl—woman, whose brother was still unscarred? Then perhaps.”
“You cannot forgive me that? I gave your brother his treasure. I did it for you.”
She laughed. “Only out of fear of what I’d say,” she said, to bait him. “That kind of favor is not the sort of thing to set a maiden’s heart ablaze. And you didn’t tell the whole truth.”
She turned her eyes back to her packing, although she wanted to stand up and confront him. There was something undignified about kneeling on a rolled-up tent while they spoke.
“I got Ragnvald what I could. I couldn’t—”
“You couldn’t admit to being a murderer for hire? No, I think not.”
“I couldn’t call my father a murderer for hire,” said Solvi. Svanhild looked up at him again. She expected to see him still wearing his customary grin, disarming, false, but instead he looked troubled. “What would you have done? For your father?”
Unwillingly, Svanhild thought instead of what her mother had said, about the choices she made to protect her children. Wrong choices, perhaps, choices that brought Olaf into their lives, but choices made for the right reasons, which could not be undone.
“I?” Svanhild asked. “I am just a woman. What do women know of honor?”
“I think you know a great deal,” said Solvi. Now he smiled, and Svanhild grew angry that she had believed his show of sincerity.
“When Ragnvald returns, my stepmother will be a widow. She might like you,” said Svanhild waspishly. “She’s looking to trade up from Olaf. A king’s son, perhaps.”
“I know the type,” said Solvi. “I want you. And you like me, a little, I think. Or did, before you knew my name.”
“I did,” said Svanhild honestly, then scowled at herself for admitting that. It did her no good to tell him. Now he might think she would actually agree to his request. “I know who you are now. And you know what your actions have wrought.” She gestured at the bruised flesh of her face. Hilda’s sisters told her that her jaw was green, though the swelling was gone now.
“I’m sorry you were injured,” said Solvi. “Truly.”
“I will not be your concubine or your wife,” she said evenly, “but I thank you for the offer.” Somehow she thought he deserved that much. “Now leave me be.”
“You will not be happy as a farmer’s wife,” said Solvi. “You told me that.”
“I will not be happy in the household of men who tried to compass my brother’s death. You do not know me. I will be happy enough as a farmer’s wife.”
“Perhaps I do not know you,” he said. “Perhaps you do not know yourself yet. If you are unhappy in the household of Hrolf Nefia, send me a message, or come to me, Svanhild Eysteinsdatter. If Tafjord falls, we will find a home across the seas, or make the seas our home.” It was as if he did not hear her rejections, or did not care about them, and now he used her words against her, voicing her dreams. If only it was someone else that spoke them. If only he had chosen to disobey his father earlier.
“Farewell, Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Svanhild. She stood and watched him with her arms crossed until he finally gave her a faint smile and walked away.