“You do not look like my son. There is a resemblance, but you are weak and thin.”
Eric traced the rim of his goblet, knowing that he had to tread carefully. “I have been gone a long time.” It was true, and no one could deny that. He understood that Valdr had brought him here to prove his identity. If he could convince the man that he was Arik Thorgrim, he would be allowed to live—or else this man would cut him down.
“Who are you?” Valdr demanded. He drained his ale and set the goblet aside, steepling his hands. There was an unreadable expression on his face, as if he anticipated lies.
“You know who I am,” Eric said.
The man eyed him, as if he didn’t believe it at all. “Tell me where you traveled.”
Eric tried to think of the proper words to describe England and settled on, “East Anglia.” He searched through the memories within his mind, but it was as if those had been lifted away. He did not know what had brought Arik Thorgrim across the sea, but he had to trust his instincts.
Valdr nodded. “You went to see your brother.”
There was a hint of a question in his words, but Eric shook his head. He felt certain he had not seen Thorgrim’s brother. “I never reached Magnus’s settlement.”
The name felt right, and Valdr seemed to relax at the mention of it. “Tell me more.”
He searched his mind for the truth, but again, there was nothing there. He tried to think of anything else he could tell the older man and finally gave what he could. “A woman betrayed me. Her name was Svala.”
Valdr’s jaw tightened at the mention of her. “Go on.”
But there was nothing to say about the woman. He could not even imagine her in memory—everything was gone, as if he had willed her to disappear. The only face that remained was Katarina’s.
Instead, he told Valdr of Björn, who had struck him down. Then he recounted the blood moon he had seen and the shipwreck. The story came spilling out of him, though he knew it made little sense. And yet, the longer he spoke, the more Valdr appeared to believe it.
“You crossed back from Valhalla. No man can return from there and be unchanged.” His gaze passed over Eric’s form as if it had been justified it in that way.
More and more, Eric was becoming convinced that he was somehow caught within a Viking world. This language, the gods they had spoken of—even their clothing and customs were ancient. The thought was impossible…and yet, with each moment that passed, he was starting to believe it.
Valdr unsheathed the sword at his side and held it balanced between his palms. “I do not think you can fight with this anymore. The gods took your strength as a sacrifice when they returned you to us.”
Eric did not deny it. Although he was strong enough among his peers and quite good at riding, he could not hope to fight against men built like barbarians. “I have no need to fight our own men.”
“And what of our enemies?”
Eric understood that this was a test meant to determine his loyalties. “If any enemies attack my friends, I will defend them.” Although, he rather wished he had a pistol, considering it was far more effective than a sword. Gunpowder trumped brute strength every time.
“You have responsibilities here,” Valdr continued. “And yet, you turned your back on your people, seeking adventure for your own gain. You do not deserve to bejarl.”
The words were an echo of censure his own father might have spoken, except that he was meant to be the duke. “I never wanted to bejarl.”
“You were chosen. And then you abandoned everyone, forcing me to protect our people.” Valdr’s voice lowered, and he added, “You were meant to take this place, my son. More so than your brother.”
A sudden emptiness caught hold of him, for in his previous life, he had never had any siblings. After Eric’s mother had died, the duke had been reluctant to wed again. He’d never truly understood why his father refused to sire another heir. Often, he’d wished that Gregory would fulfill that expectation, so the burden could be lifted from his own shoulders. But his father had never remarried.
“I do not intend to stay here,” he told thejarl.“I will return to East Anglia.” He had to visit his homeland to discover what had happened to his family. If he found Viking or ancient settlements there, then he would know for certain that he had gone back in time.
Valdr’s face turned thunderous. “You will not leave Rogaland. I forbid it.”
The words were a gauntlet thrown in his face. Eric was incredulous that the man would treat him like a petulant child. It reminded him of Gregory’s insistence that he embrace his duties as a future duke—when he’d never wanted that life.
“Do you?” he asked quietly. As far as he was concerned, thejarlcould do nothing to stop him from leaving. And with that, Eric walked out.
He strode across the longhouse, past the old woman who tried to stop him. He continued and had nearly reached the doorway when he heard her voice from behind him. “I know from whence you came.”
The old woman’s words stopped him cold. For they were spoken in English.
When he spun around, she only gave him a kindly smile and said, “I amMóðirGerda, thevolvaof this tribe. Come to me this night, and we will walk beneath the moon. I will tell you what you wish to know.”
