“All are dead, save me.”
“What of Geilir and Jokull?”
There was hatred in her tone when she spoke of the men. But he did not remember either name and simply shook his head. “They were not traveling with me.” He didn’t know what else to tell her, but she seemed disappointed that they had not drowned.
Her head lowered, and he kept his hands upon her wrists, to prevent her from behaving in a rash manner. With her standing so near, the scent of her skin enticed him, like crushed flowers. Her slender body fit against him, but she seemed apprehensive.
For a moment, he stood before her, willing her to become calm. When she seemed less likely to kill him, he let her go. He took a moment to study his surroundings, and the sight of her dwelling brought back the feelings of uncertainty. The floor was earthen with straw scattered upon it. While the table and chair were both sturdy and clean, there were no carvings upon them. He saw no silver, no glass of any kind.
His mind fixed upon the details, and he studied the woman again. She could have stepped out of an oil painting from long ago, like Athena, the goddess of war. Her clothing was colorful and well made, but even the blade she’d held was primitive.
It was as if he’d fallen back a thousand years in time. He shook the thought away, knowing that all of this was only part of his dream.
“What else do you remember?” Katarina asked.
Eric struggled to think of what to say. He didn’t want to say anything at all, but her insistence made it difficult to refuse. She wanted answers he could not give. And so, he allowed the foreign memories to intrude, searching for one that would silence her questions.
“You are Katarina Larssdottir,” he said quietly. “And I remember that you had feelings for me long ago.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but he saw the tell-tale flush upon her cheeks. “I was only a child then. A great deal has changed.” Her denial held a trace of bitterness and an emotion he didn’t recognize. Perhaps regret. “Just as you have changed. So much that I do not know you anymore.”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I cannot answer why, for I do not know the reasons.”
She did look at him then, and in her blue eyes, he saw the doubts. “I heard that you were struck down by a battle-ax. Eyker’s brother, Björn, killed you. It was a lie, was it not?”
Eric gave her no answer, but he searched the memories. In his mind, he beheld the horrifying vision of a red-haired giant releasing a war cry, before a violent blow had struck his spine. His men had carried him on board a ship bound for his brother’s home in East Anglia. And that night, a blood red moon had risen above the earth. He had seen the same moon last night as well.
He spoke again, but the words did not feel like his own. “Freya,” he heard himself murmur. “I heard her voice.”
With that, Katarina jerked free. She stepped backward toward the wall of the longhouse, apprehension in her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you will.” He was not a man who held any faith in the supernatural, but everything he’d encountered thus far had defied logic. There were no words to explain any of it.
He had heard a woman’s voice on the wind.Not yet, she had said. And whether it was the voice of an angel or the voice of a Viking goddess, he couldn’t know.
But what he did know was that he had somehow crossed into a different world. The only question was whether this was a dream or an afterlife, perhaps purgatory. Or even a reincarnation that the holy men of the East had spoken of. None of it held any meaning—but he was stranded here until he awakened.
He needed to understand what had happened, what had become of his father and his home. It was the only way to make sense of it. He intended to find a ship bound for England and gain passage upon it. In the meantime, all he could do was make a place for himself.
Katarina remained far away from him, her expression guarded. In time, she straightened. “I do not know if you are Arik Thorgrim or a liar. But if the gods brought you back from death…” Her words trailed away, as if she could find no other explanation.
The thought sobered him, for he didn’t know how to respond. It was far easier to deny all of it, to let himself believe it was only a dream.
She lowered her knife and tossed the dry clothing to him before turning her back. “Put those on.”
Eric pulled the long-sleeved undershirt of linen over his head, and it fell down to his knees. There were no buttons—only a few ties to draw it closed. There was also a blue woolen tunic to cover the shirt. He guessed that the leather cord was meant to be a belt, and he fastened it. The trousers were shapeless and ended at his knees, though she had given him long socks. As he drew them on, the primitive clothing reminded him of the Viking age. The thought entered his mind that perhaps when he’d fallen into the ocean, he’d crossed through time on his journey toward death.
But no. Such things were not possible.
A strong scent of smoke caught his attention after he’d finished dressing. Eric turned toward the hearth. “The oat cakes are burning,” he warned Katarina.
She let out a low curse and seized the hot pan from where it lay close to the hearth. The moment her hand touched it, she yelped, dropping the pan on the earthen floor.
Eric searched the dwelling and found a bucket of water in one corner. He dipped a wooden bowl into the container and brought the cool water to her. He took her hand, submerging it in the water. She inhaled sharply, but he forced her to keep it there. “The pain will pass.”
“The pain is nothing.” But she closed her eyes as if to push back the discomfort. For a moment, he held her hand, letting the water cool her burned skin. At last, she faced him and tried to remove her hand from the water. “I will be all right. Let go of me.”
Her eyes met his, and in them, he saw her embarrassment, joined with nervousness. It was clear that his very presence made her uncomfortable.
