Caragh broke the loaf open, steam rising from the crust, and she handed him half. They ate in silence, before Ivar approached her from the opposite side. His face held no emotion, but he greeted her, saying, “Will you walk with me a moment, Caragh?”
She glanced over at her brothers, but they were busy speaking to a merchant, asking about Brendan. Styr said nothing at all, but his eyes followed her as she agreed.
“What is it?”
Ivar led her towards a man selling lengths of delicate cloth. “I am a man of great wealth,” he began. “If you wanted anything at all in this market, I could buy it for you.”
His emphasis on wealth did nothing to impress her. Though she nodded that she’d heard him, he reached out and brought her hand to touch the silken fabric.
“Nor am I a man who will allow himself to be used,” Ivar said. “And I can see that you’re using me to try and make Styr jealous.”
“He has no interest in me,” she responded, denying his claim.
“But you want him,” he contradicted. He threaded his fingers with hers, lifting her hand up. “I saw you sleeping beside him. You think to pit us against one another.” His hand tightened, his gaze darkening. “I won’t play that game.”
She tried to pull back from his grasp, but he held her steady. “Hardrata’s men are my slaves now. Their lives belong to me.”
He let the threat hover, while his thumb caressed her skin. “Stay here with me, and I will grant them their freedom. Let us get to know one another.”
“I think I already know the sort of man you are,” she responded, jerking her hand away.
But Styr was already at her side. From the look on his face, he’d overheard every word.
“Leave her be, Nikolasson.” His words were quiet, but the edge beneath them was undeniable. “I will pay you for the lives of my men.”
“With what?” he countered. “The only silver coins you have were won from me.”
Styr said nothing, but as he guided her back to her brothers, she felt the tension in the palm of his hand.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Find a way.”
The voices of the crowd dropped lower, and her brother Ronan interrupted them. “I need to speak with you.”
He led her toward the front of the crowd while Styr kept close behind them. “Brendan is here somewhere. Two of the merchants confirmed that they saw him among the slaves.”
Relief and fear rose up within her. She wanted her brother to be safe...but how would they ever help him escape slavery?
A middle-aged woman sat at the front, before the crowd. Her hair was so fair, it was nearly white, and ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead. She wore a cloak made of animal skins and in her left hand, she held a staff with a bronze bird-shaped figure upon it.
“Who is that?” she whispered to her brother.
“It is thevolva,” Styr said, his voice resonant within her ear. “A prophetess who will answer questions from one she chooses.”
He brought her closer, and a chill crossed over Caragh’s spine. The old woman was watching her, and one of the men offered her a platter of food. Her stomach churned, when she saw the platter contained the hearts of sacrificed animals. The prophetess dined upon them, but as she ate, she never took her eyes from Caragh. When she had finished, another young girl began to chant an incantation.
Though Caragh could not understand the words, the aura surrounding the crowd took on an otherworldly quality. Someone began to beat a drum, and thevolvapointed to her.
“She has chosen you,” Styr said. “You must go to her.”
“I don’t want to,” she whispered. Everything about the prophetess unnerved her.
“She will answer your questions,” he said. “It is an honor.” Without allowing her to refuse, Styr gave her a slight nudge forward, and the crowd parted.
Caragh’s heartbeat quickened, but she moved towards the woman. She tried to keep from limping, though her feet were still sore from her blisters.
As she neared the prophetess, it was as if the woman could see through her. Caragh waited, and the woman held out her hand.
