“Gods, Sibba,” Ari said as Estrid rushed forward and embraced him. “After all that, you almost kill me anyway.”
Sitting back on her heels, Sibba looked across the shore to him. The water still lapped at her feet and bumps ran the length of her arms as the cold air brushed against her damp skin. Estrid came forward and draped the wolf-skin cloak over her shoulders.
“Why didn't you call to us?” Sibba asked.
“I wasn't sure you wanted to see me.”
“Does it matter?” Sibba stood, clutching the wrap to her shoulders. It fell against her legs, covering her. “Estrid almost died because of you. What were you thinking? You knew you wouldn't be able to protect her! You never have been.”
Here. This was where she could aim her anger. At this red-faced, toothy coward. Sibba was tired of fighting his fights for him. All through their childhood, he had picked fights with the bigger boys, the ones who trained for hours and wanted nothing more than to be a warrior. Then he would hide behind Sibba. She had whipped so many boys with her wooden training sword that she had lost count and eventually the others began to tolerate Ari because they didn't want to deal with the chief’s daughter.
“I didn't exactly force her,” Ari said, and Sibba exploded, throwing herself at him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.
The cloak fell from her shoulders and his fingers couldn't find purchase on her slick skin as he tried to hold her off of him. Her nails raked down his arms and she landed a punch square across his jaw before Estrid screamed.
It was a shrill, anguished cry that brought Sibba back to herself long enough for Ari to throw her off of him and scramble backward, putting distance between them. Estrid was red-faced and furious, the scream having died on her lips. Aeris, just overhead, echoed her scream and then hopped down to investigate.
“Are you okay?” Sibba gasped from the ground. Aeris stood at her side, spreading her wings protectively.
Ari pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on Estrid.
“Don't touch her!” Sibba snapped, throwing a handful of rocks at him. He ducked but ignored her, crossing the shore to Estrid.
When he reached her, they spoke quietly, their foreheads pressed together. Ari used the pad of his thumb to wipe a tear from Estrid's cheek. It was an intimacy with which Sibba wasn't familiar, had never known. Their closeness, their comfort. She slammed the final pike back into place, locking her heart tightly back up. Maybe she couldn’t choose who to love, but she could choose whether or not to show it.
Standing, she slunk to where Estrid had dropped her clothes, stepping into the breeches and slipping a jewel-blue tunic over her head. It belonged to Estrid, who must have dyed it herself. She found her belt discarded on a rock and fastened it on, then jerked her ax from the tree trunk, all while the two of them spoke, heads together, hands on each other.
She was turning to leave when Estrid’s voice reached her. “Do you feel better now?”
Sibba narrowed her eyes at them where they stood hand-in-hand on the rocky beach. How could she explain to these two, who were looking at her with gleaming eyes and half-smiles, that she didn’t think she would ever be better? But she had been able to yell at them both and even punch one of them. “A little,” she admitted.
“Good,” Estrid said, striding forward and grasping Sibba’s cold hands in hers. “Let’s go celebrate.”
? ? ?
The drinking horn was empty.
How had that happened?
Sibba slammed it down on the table, angry. She was so incredibly, unbelievably angry and she couldn't understand why. It wasn't fair to put it all on Ari and Estrid. Was she angry at her mother, who had kept secrets from her? The circlet was still tucked in one of the inner pockets of her cloak, and every time her hand brushed it, she was reminded of how much she didn't know. Or maybe it was anger at her father, for any number of the man's crimes, the most recent of which was standing by while Sibba had fought for her life in a trial circle.
Estrid laughed, the sound a beautiful bell against the ugly night, in stark contrast to the rage that bubbled beneath Sibba's skin. She imagined she could see it raising boils on her bare arms, writhing and spilling over, red hot, onto the dirt floor.
Why was she even here? She hadn't wanted to come, but Estrid had begged her, and Sibba was nothing if not a pushover for the pretty girl.
“You're my hero,” Estrid had told her when she had objected. “Domaris smiled on us today.”
“It would be in bad taste not to celebrate,” Ari had agreed, having forgiven Sibba for the bloody lip and bruised cheek, admitting that perhaps he did deserve it a little bit.
And even though it was the last thing Sibba wanted to do, she had let them lead her into the warmth of her father's longhouse, where they practically poured ale down her throat. Her father was nowhere to be seen, but she didn't want to talk to him like this anyway. She needed a clear head for that conversation.
“Is this the infamous chief's daughter I've heard so much about?”
Sibba looked up to see a boy about her age sit down on the bench across from her, two horns of ale in his hands. He was slender and soft, with a clean-shaven face. He would look almost gentle if it weren't for the angry red scar on his cheek that ran from his ear to his nose. His bare arms were covered in strange black lines that looked almost like runes but seemed to blur before her eyes. Estrid, who was beside Sibba, looked at him distrustfully. She didn't know him, which meant he wasn't from Ottar.
“That depends,” Sibba answered, trying not to slur her words. “Who's that ale for?”
He grinned, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other, and passed the cup across the table to her. “For you, Sibba Hallowtide. Evenon Feathermark, at your service.”
Taking the drinking horn, she held it up and he clinked his own against hers, ale splashing over the rim. Sibba appraised him as the dark ale burned down her throat. His deep brown hair and delicate features were reminiscent of Estrid’s, but he was one thing that Estrid would never be—a stranger. He didn’t know her past and would have no bearing on her future. She smacked her lips as she lowered her horn and smiled in what she hoped was a charming way. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad. And tomorrow—tomorrow, she would be on her way, finally able to leave this place and its ghosts behind.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sibba
“Dead!” The word seemed unreal in Sibba's mouth. “Dead, dead, dead,” she repeated, trying to make sense of it, the D’s clicking strangely against the roof of her mouth.