Solvi had let himself forget that. Divorcing Geirny would probably be insult enough to reopen hostilities with Nokkve. “I should at least take a second wife,” he said.
“Do you have someone in mind?” Hunthiof asked. “She cannot be so highborn as to give insult to Nokkve’s daughter.”
“Svanhild Eysteinsdatter—Ragnvald’s sister,” said Solvi. He had not spoken of her out loud to anyone except Snorri, Ulfarr, and Tryggulf, and they might as well have been extensions of himself. He hoped his father would not see how much he wanted this.
Hunthiof only laughed. “That’s one way to make him an ally, I suppose. If you can do it, then make it so.”
“You think?” Solvi asked.
“You need sons, and you need a good housekeeper. You still ought to have killed Olaf, but this may help smooth things, no matter whether Olaf or his stepson survive their battle.”
“Then I will return to Sogn,” said Solvi, feeling lighter than since he left the ting grounds. If Svanhild refused him again, at least he had an excuse to be away from Tafjord for a time. Perhaps he would take a quick raiding trip up the coast before the overland trek to Hrolf’s farm. Time might make her bored and soften her anger against him. Svanhild had said no, more than once. Solvi was in no hurry to be refused again.
15
Ragnvald marched with Hakon and his sons to burn the body at the barrow and inter the wight’s bones next to his mother’s. The villagers came as well to see the creature put to rest. Hakon said the prayers for the dead. Ragnvald echoed them, and added a few of his own: for this wise woman he had never met, who had reached past death to ask Ragnvald to bring her son rest. Ragnvald watched the wight’s skin blacken and blister, and tried not to think of how its flesh smelled like sacrifice meat roasting at the midsummer feast.
At the margins of the crowd a woman stood, her face almost covered by her scarf. Her bearing was erect and stiff with fright. When she turned, her scarf exposed a fringe of black hair at her waist. As the fire died down, the spell of silence holding the witnesses lifted. The villagers spoke of this evil, and of others that had come before it. Strange things came out of the sea mists here; this story would join all the others, until no one remembered the truth of it.
Ragnvald escaped the men who wished to offer him congratulations and chased after the woman. “The sorceress’s daughter,” he said, when he caught up to her. He grabbed her arm and spun her around.
She flung the cloak off her head. “Will you kill me now, Ragnvald Eysteinsson, killer of the dead?”
“Are you dead?” he asked. “I know that—thing—was none of your doing.”
“He was no thing,” she said, raising her chin. Her eyes blazed with fury, where her mother’s in his vision had been pleading. “He was my brother.”
“You know what he was,” said Ragnvald.
“He was not a draugr,” she said, her voice trembling. She was young, younger than Ragnvald had thought. Ragnvald hoped she would not die like her mother had.
“What was he, then?” Ragnvald asked, more gently than he intended.
“He was struck with an ax while defending us. He should have died from the blow, but he did not. My mother tried to heal him.” Her eyes met Ragnvald’s, pleading this time. “She tried to heal him. He would not be healed. He would have died eventually. He could not even feed himself. But he tried.”
“Nothing more than a man trapped between life and death?” Ragnvald asked, angry now that this girl should have lost both mother and brother to foolishness. Foolishness from Hakon and himself, foolishness from Rathi and the men of Smola, too blind to see what the draugr really was. “That is a terrible spell. Your mother—” He closed his mouth on the words. He could not tell this beautiful, bold girl that her mother had deserved her death. “She should have let him die. She should have told Rathi what she did.”
“She did, but who would believe her?” the girl asked angrily. “And what mother would let her son die? She thought he might live.”
“I killed no more than a dead man. He died easily,” said Ragnvald, half to himself. It had not been heroism, this killing—he had felt that last night, in his cups, with Oddi. Any child with a sharp stick could have done the same.
“I will tell no one,” she said, misreading his words. “You may have the tales sung of your glory.”
Ragnvald laughed shortly. “There are many saga heroes who were robbed of their songs today as well,” he said. “I will tell Hakon the truth.” He looked at her again. Her beauty was like a rock a man could break against. “Will you be safe here?” he asked.
She shrugged. “As safe as I ever was.”
“I will tell Hakon it was none of your doing,” he said. “And if you are in danger, you can come to me at Ardal. I will protect you. Give me your name, so I may tell all you are under my protection.”
“My mother named me Alfrith,” she said.
“Wise-beauty,” said Ragnvald.
Alfrith nodded. “Men call me Groa, though,” she said, and Ragnvald knew her for a warmth-woman as well as a sorceress, who took lovers to keep herself fed, and kept herself barren through her sorcery. Well, women without protectors must make what paths they could. “It only means ‘wife,’ so it tames men’s fear of me.”
A wife to many, Ragnvald thought. “Men should fear you,” he said. If he were rich, he could keep her as a concubine, for himself alone.
“You flatter,” said Alfrith, “but you are right, they should.”
*
Ragnvald walked with Hakon back to the hall, pulling him away from his sons and retainers to walk along the shore. Seabirds dug for clams in the sand. The waves lapped the shore gently here. Ragnvald took a deep breath.
“It was not a draugr,” he said. “It was a man, struck in the head with an ax. His mother was only trying to heal a wound she should not.” He frowned. “I should tell Heming, and your other sons.” Heming’s slight, indifferent friendliness had turned cold that night, and Ragnvald could not blame him.
Hakon did not speak for a time. “That is a draugr,” he said eventually. “What is the difference? He walked, yet he was dead. He did not feel pain. Do you think less of yourself because he could die on your sword?”
Ragnvald did not answer. The draugrs in the songs had strength and size beyond mortal men. It took a true hero to kill them, not just luck and a willingness to pursue them. He wondered that the men of Smola had not been able to kill it until now, and said so to Hakon.
“Because they did not do as you did, and go out to try to kill it, fearing they might die in the process.”
“I did not want to go,” said Ragnvald. He had less desire to admit that than the draugr’s true nature. “I only—once I spoke, I did not think I could refuse.”