“Why no’ just carry on that way, then?” he asked hoarsely. Because his taking the title of chief from his da—that was like admitting Da would never get well. That they, as a family and as a clan, would not overcome this horror that beset them.
“Quarrie, I do no’ think your father will grow well.”
It was as if she stole his thoughts from him. He might not look like her, but he and his ma were a lot alike.
She was at her breaking point. Staring into her eyes, he could see that.
He was very nearly at his.
“I think,” she said softly when he did not speak, “the people need this. They need to see ye at the reins.”
“They do see me.” Every day in a hundred ways.
“Aye, so. But they need to see someone standing at their head.” Tears now trickled, unheeded, down her face. “Someone strong.”
“Da is strong.” The evidence of it lay in that bruise on her cheek.
“Aye, he is. He always has been. He gave me two strong sons. ’Tis time for one o’ them to step into his place.”
“Ma—” Quarrie pushed his breakfast away. The wave of nausea that threatened arose and swamped him. “Folk love Da. They will understand.”
“Quarrie, they ha’ barely seen him since winter. They canna follow a man they canna see.” When still Quarrie said nothing, she shook her head. “I suggest ye meet wi’ members o’ the council today. Put the matter to them. See wha’ they say.”
“I can do that.”
“I will attend wi’ ye, if ye like.” She leaned forward and laid her fingers on his arm. “I will urge them strongly to make the right choice.”
There were no right choices, in a world gone wrong.
Chapter Three
Hulda Elvarsdottir narrowedher eyes against the glare of dawn and gazed hard at the strip of land. Naught but cold rock it was, with a gray keep crouched at the midpoint of the headland, dwellings spread out from it higgledy-piggledy like errant children at theirmóðir’s skirts. It did not look like much of a target, yet blood had been spilt there. Norse blood.
“Duck in behind the island,” she told Garik, the helmsman. “Swiftly now.”
She did not want to be seen. Not yet. The Scots had quick eyes, and like all along this rocky coast, they kept good watch.
Garik obeyed, but Ivor rolled his eyes at her, his lips set in an insolent line. Ivor, her second-in-command.
Curse him.
When she had talked herfaðirinto letting her make this venture, taking one of his longboats and returning to the Scottish coast—and a long, hard argument it had been—he’d agreed only if she’d take Ivor along with her.
Ivor had been second-in-command to her brother, Jute—and his close friend, though Hulda had never understood why. They’d all grown up together, but she had never taken to Ivor, finding him crafty and sly and all too often cruel. No matter; he and Jute had been blood brothers sworn.
So she undertook this voyage lumbered with him.
Thus far he had questioned everything she did. Disapproved of most of it, and of the whole venture in deed, if not in spirit.He wanted revenge,ja, for Jute’s death. He merely did not think Hulda could achieve it.
Who else, though? She and Jute had been born less than a year apart and were close as twins. He’d taught her everything she knew about fighting. About sailing.
A great deal.
She had not been with him last year when he was killed. Here, upon this stretch of shore. She’d been off sailing with Faðir, raiding farther north.
Ivor had been here. Another reason Faðir wanted her to bring him.
“He knows the coast, Hulda. And he is a strong sword.”
