Astrid shoved him gently, as they’d done since childhood when teasing one another. “She’ll never believe you,” Astrid shot back. “And you can’t use her to avoid the problem at hand.”
He sighed, gazing once more over the waters. “I want to marry for alliance as much as I want to witness Ragnarok, but I cannot delay much longer.”
“Then why do we not act against Brian sooner rather than later?” she demanded. “So he won one battle. Why let him win the war?”
“We need time and resources to rebuild,” Sitric replied with enviable calm. “We lost many men. It will be years before we can gather an even greater force and try again. We must bide our time and defend our legacy as best we can while we wait for another opportunity.”
“What of mercenaries?” Astrid tried. “We have gold enough from trade.”
“I will not empty our coffers for a war that we will lose. Even with mercenaries, we are not prepared to battle with Brian. Not yet.”
She opened her mouth to argue further, but Sitric held up a hand.
“I applaud your cleverness and courage, but I tire of repeating this argument over and over with you.” He took her hands in his, no doubt to soften the blow. He’d always been too kind for his own good, too worried over the feelings of others to follow his own ambitions. “Dyflin is your home, dear sister. And it’s time to make the best of it.”
What more could she say? Instead of pressing her brother, Astrid watched the sails hold taut against the strong winds. When she was young, she’d been so afraid they would buckle in the whipping wind, but Sitric always reminded her that they were made to hold the wind. They were strong.
Just like she needed to be.
When they returned to the shore from the rowers’ practice, Sitric walked beside Astrid on the journey back to their fortress.
“Perhaps you, too, should consider a marriage,” her bold brother suggested, as though that wasn’t the stupidest solution she’d ever heard. “Take a husband, have some children. Perhaps then you would feel you had a home.”
“If I traveled north, perhaps I might,” Astrid replied with great strength of will. “But I have no use for a husband from this land. My children will learn the ways of our ancestors, not a random blending of the two cultures.”
Sitric chuckled deep and low.
“What do you find funny about that?” Astrid demanded in outrage.
“You yourself are a random blending of the two cultures, are you not? How quickly you forget your grandsire was one of those squabbling kings you so loathe.”
What could she say to such a jab? Sitric was correct, that their mother had been sired by a king of Éire on an Ostman slave woman.
Strained silence descended on the long walk through the center of the bustling market town, at least on Astrid’s part. Sitric made conversation with his men, the team that had been rowing the longship across the harbor to keep theirvíkingskills sharp.
They passed house after house on the trek up the winding hillside, many built in the style of her people, but just as many built in the native style of Éire. It didn’t bother her that the twopeoples coexisted in Dyflin. No, Astrid understood the necessity to grasp at something approximating peace in the settlement.
The inequities bothered her. Freydis, her childhood friend, married a Gael and now dressed and spoke as one of them, her babes fluent only in the native tongue. Finn, one of Brian’s Fianna warriors who stayed with them during the marriage negotiations, may know the traditions and language of his Ostman father, but his skills and behaviors placed him squarely in the camp of the Gaels.
All the men Sitric had suggested for her betrothals came from Éire, which was well and good for someone who wanted to blend into this new land. From everything she observed, to do so was to sign the death warrant of Ostman heritage, to agree to abandon the very culture she grasped toward so desperately.
She couldn’t avoid her brother’s betrothals forever, but Astrid would be damned if he thought she would ever marry a Gael.
Chapter Two
“Again!” Cormac shouted,grinning like a fool.
Once more, young Duncan rushed him.
Once more, the lad hesitated when he reached Cormac. All the power of his charge disappeared when he swung his sword.
“You’re not afraid to hit me, are you, boy? My sister hits harder than you.”
Duncan’s face reddened, his beardless jaw clenching in anger. The young prince’s swordskill had improved greatly over the past few years, but he still lacked the power needed to keep him alive in battle. And at fifteen summers, he’d fight in the next one.
All the Fianna, the band of elite warriors who served King Brian Boru of Mumhain, helped train the king’s son. But this morn was the last opportunity for Cormac to teach the boy before he left with the Fianna for Dyflin, to winter there on a political mission. Knowing that Duncan may well see battle before he saw Cormac next, Cormac pushed him hard.
Duncan charged again. This time, Cormac saw the wildness in his brown eyes. Duncan’s practice sword came down. Cormac parried, their weapons clanking loudly. This time, Duncan didn’t stop when his stroke fell. Again and again and again, his sword thrust toward Cormac, until he had to stop to catch his breath.
