“I don’t know,” said Oddi. His shoulders slumped. “But I hoped you would have some better idea than I do.”
“It’s not my fault your brother’s behaving like a lackwit,” Ragnvald said. “I didn’t ask to be in the middle of all this.”
“You did.” Oddi gave Ragnvald a rueful smile. “I know it’s not your fault Heming’s an idiot, but you did ask to be here.”
“That’s true.”
“I won’t kill my brother for you, but I’ll shout a warning, if I see a dagger coming for you.”
“I’ll try not to duck and let it hit you.”
“My father would speak with you,” said Oddi.
Hakon breakfasted on a small knoll, surrounded by his men. In the lee of one of the barns, a collection of slaves sat, hands bound, surrounded by men guarding them. When Hakon saw Ragnvald, he stood and walked with Ragnvald out of earshot of the assembled crowd.
“You did well bringing Heming’s plans to me,” said Hakon. “Though he will not think it. I do not know how to make him see reason. I suppose all I can do is mind him more carefully.”
“No.” Ragnvald looked at Hakon’s mouth—which wore a worried frown—rather than his eyes. “He chafes under your bridle. Send him among Harald’s captains.”
“He might think himself rewarded. But you have only been wrong once since I’ve known you. And that was at your trial. I think”—Hakon gave Ragnvald a piercing look—“I think that your judgment is sound, except in your own cause. I hope that I am right. I will send you, Oddi, and Heming among Harald’s captains, to remind Harald that he owes me loyalty. If our armies separate as we search for other kings to slay, you will stay with them.” He gave Ragnvald a speculative look. “I hope that my son does not kill you.”
Ragnvald stumbled. “I hope not as well. If you fear for that, keep me here with you.”
“No,” said Hakon. “He might not like you, but he could learn from your wisdom, out of my shadow. He may prove himself to Harald, with you by his side. But if he does attack you, take care not to kill him, for then I will have to kill you.” He laughed. Some of Ragnvald’s panic must have shown, for he added, “I will put some fear into him too, and all will be well.”
“My judgment is certainly not sound in my own cause,” said Ragnvald angrily. “I should have remained silent. Can you not separate us?”
“You will do well.” It was a command. “I want you to guide Heming, and to bring him to Harald’s notice. Do this, and I will reward you—one of my sons will surely rule in Sogn, and you will be the first of his jarls, with a fine feasting hall.”
Ragnvald knew that becoming king in Sogn was a distant hope, but hearing Hakon blithely plan to hand the land off to one of his sons, who never even visited except for the ting assembly, rankled him. “I thank you,” he said tightly.
“I set you difficult tasks because I know you can master them,” said Hakon. “Make peace with my son, and make him Harald’s friend.”
*
Hakon and Guthorm divided up the slaves evenly, and sent them south to be sold at Dorestad. The raped girl who had clutched her knife and reminded Ragnvald of Svanhild was among them, and it still made him uneasy to see her mistreated, so he did not watch as their ship set off.
Ragnvald, Oddi, and Heming took their place among Harald’s captains as they formed up ranks to march into the uplands, following the path King Gudbrand was said to have taken. Ragnvald was alert for any difference between their force and Hakon’s, but it was much the same, composed of fresh-faced farm boys and grizzled old trappers among the seasoned warriors.
Ragnvald did not know how to behave with Heming—he would rather have avoided him if he could—but if he kept close, perhaps he would not need to fear a sword in the dark. Heming was an honorable man; Ragnvald did not think he would stoop to outright murder.
“My brother tells me I have you to thank for this.” Heming gestured to where Harald sat, within view but out of earshot, laughing with his friend Thorbrand and one of the captive women. Oddi was busy overseeing the men Guthorm had assigned him.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald shortly.
Heming turned to face him. He had the look of a warrior from a saga, handsome and strong, in a way that made Ragnvald too aware of the way Solvi’s knife had twisted his own face, of how narrow and slight he was, compared to Heming’s muscled frame. Now Heming did not look so haughty, though, but a little bit lost.
“I thought that what is between you and your father might be better for some distance,” said Ragnvald diffidently. “Was I wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Heming shook his head. “I want him to think me a man, not a child.”
Ragnvald drew back, startled at this sudden confidence, and then worried that Heming only shared this because he planned on killing Ragnvald, so it did not matter what he told him. “He wants you to—”
“I know,” Heming cut him off. “He wants me to make a friend of Harald. What good can that do? My father is the most powerful king in the west. All friendship rests on that. What is there for me to do?”
“Well,” said Ragnvald, “there will be opportunity to fight bravely at Harald’s side, and skalds will sing of it.” He looked out over the river, and added, “Is that not why you wanted to sail against Hunthiof at Tafjord?”
“I should kill you for that betrayal,” said Heming, voice suddenly poisonous. Ragnvald stood and put his hand at his sword. He had hoped speaking of their conflict might take away its power, but he had chosen wrong—Heming would rather it not be spoken. Heming faced him, also fingering the grip of his sword. Fire-lit faces turned toward them.
“My father is Hunthiof’s ancient enemy and would—he should—thank me for planning Hunthiof’s death,” Heming added.
Some tension went out of Ragnvald—it seemed Heming still meant to talk, not attack. “Or he might mourn,” he said, “like the man in the tale who killed his enemy and then took to bed for a month because he would never more have a challenge like that. Perhaps your father is wise enough not to court such despair.” Ragnvald said the last sardonically, searching Heming’s face for some sign that he might be letting go of his anger.
“What do you know of it? You have not killed your enemy, this Olaf. If a man kills his enemy, he should not mourn, he should go out and find a new one.”
Ragnvald felt the anger Heming had been trying to stoke. He wanted to ask if he had done Heming a service in becoming his enemy, but he did not want to remind Heming of that, not when they both stood ready to fight.
“I am not your enemy unless you wish it,” he said instead. Heming made him feel the battle weariness that nerves had been keeping at bay. He had slept little over the past few days.
“No, you are my nursemaid and my father’s spy,” said Heming bitterly.