“Hef? Ketill?” Harpa rushed toward them. “What has happened?”
“It’s Freydis,” the bearded man growled. “Something attacked her. Ate adozen sheep before turning on her. Hounds startled the thing. Chased it off before worse could be done, Hábrók praise them.”
A hand flew to Silla’s mouth. Rey had been right. The creature had struck again.
“Silla, bed,” barked Harpa, and Silla understood immediately. Leaping to her feet, she dashed to the bed in the corner of the hut, sweeping off a book and distaff and pulling back the furs.
Harpa’s eyes were hard as stone. “Lay her down, Hef.”
The taller warrior eased the injured woman onto the bed, and she writhed, a shrill sound escaping her lips. A strange smell filled the cabin—the metallic tang of blood mixed with an earthy, moldering rot. Blood, there was so much blood matted the front of the woman’s wool dress.
“Hush, Freydis,” said Hef, smoothing a hand along the woman’s forehead. “You’re at Harpa’s now. She’ll set you to rights.”
Room swaying before Silla’s eyes, she braced a steadying hand on the wall. It was too similar, so much like the death wounds her father had suffered. She could hear the sardonic laughter of the warrior who’d held her on the road near Skarstad, the black hawk’s cry from high above…
The sharp rip of fabric drew Silla back to reality. Harpa had sliced through the woman’s dress and was slowly peeling the fabric back. The wound revealed was such a grisly sight, the air caught in Silla’s lungs.
There appeared to be two even-sized wounds in Freydis’s abdomen. Silla stared harder. Something was blocking one wound, impossible to see through all the blood. Gods. There was so much blood. Silla had only the most basic of healing knowledge, but the knowing feeling inside her told her that removing the thing from Freydis’s flesh would cause death to claim her quicker.
Harpa’s eyes lifted to Hef’s, a silent look passing between them. Silla understood without need for words. This was a death wound.
“Water,” snapped Harpa. “Ketill, stop loitering in the doorway, and fill a bucket from the stream round back. Silla, fetch the mushrooms third shelf down, fourth jar from the right.”
The bald warrior hastened out the door, while Silla rushed to find the mushrooms. As she moved, she felt dazed, as though her feet were not planted on solid ground. Suddenly, her woes from earlier felt so small.
Eyes scanning the jars on Harpa’s shelves, they snagged on one at the very top corner. Recognition landed like a full body slap. Silla steadied herself on the worktable as her vision tunneled.
Gnarled green leaves crammed into a jar.
Silla breathed in, then out. The leaves looked like home, like comfort, likepoison and lies.Ten years, they whispered.We were so good together. Why did you stop?
Fingernails dug into her palms as Silla’s body trembled with restraint. Her skin felt too tight, her heart racing with need.
One leaf to feel better. A second to forget.
“Silla!” barked Harpa.
“I see them,” Silla lied. She moved as though in a trance, with slow, unsteady movements. Silla pulled a chair to the shelf, glancing over her shoulder. Harpa and both warriors were bent over Freydis’s broken body, their backs to her. Silla reached up. Took the jar of skjöld leaves. Stepped down and slipped it into her provisions sack.
Guilt slid through Silla’s veins, but by now it was an old companion.
With a long breath, she found the jar of withered mushrooms and brought them to Harpa. She recognized them by scent—the same ones she’d been offered during her Cohesion Rite to bring her into the folds of her mind.
And Silla understood. Harpa’s goal was to ease Freydis’s suffering. To give her peace in death.
Heart pounding, Silla followed Harpa’s clipped directions and prepared a tea from the mushrooms. After several long minutes, she approached the bed, a cup of the steeped liquid clutched in hand. Hef’s eyes shone, face taut with grief, while Ketill cast Silla a sidelong glance as she approached. Harpa had covered Freydis’s stomach with a blanket—had wiped the grime from her face. Candles were lit around the bed, and Harpa’s head was bent low as she muttered something indecipherable. The injured woman’s back bowed off the bed, and she released a sound of agony.
“We will give you a moment to say your goodbyes,” said Harpa, taking the cup from Silla and setting it on the floor beside the bed. “Call to me when you’re ready.”
Harpa strode across the room, snatching Silla’s cloak and provisions sack. Heart hammering in her skull, her knees, her fingertips, Silla trailed her outdoors.
“We are done for today,” said Harpa. “You will rest your body and your mind. Think very hard about what it is you want.”
Silla held her breath. Did Harpa know what she’d taken? Had she seen her? But as Harpa handed her bag and cloak over, Silla allowed herself a long exhale.
“Don’t return until you’re ready to stop running.” Harpa paused, watching Silla in that knowing way of hers. Cheeks reddening, Silla stared at her feet like a child scolded.
She felt too much in that moment—sorrow for Freydis; anger at Harpa’sbluntness; shame for her own failings. And the ever-present burn of guilt. She craved the numbness—a reprieve from it all. Silla pushed away from the wall.
