“Bottom line, thralls might support you, the girls certainly will. But they will be careful around you, for fear of being viewed as your ally.”
“And the skald?”
“The skald participated in a lawful duel. He was challenged. Allies of Njord will dislike him, sure, but Odin decided that he should win the Holmgang.”
“Ari kills the man, that’s fine. But me, who was standing behind him at the wrong time—I am judged?”
“I’ll be blunt. People will view you as the snake that whispered in the skald’s ear.”
I scoff. What a crazy fucking world. All for doing the right thing.
“So what? Am I doomed to be alone? An outsider? Hated by free folk?”
“Well, you are a Volva.” She gives me a pitiful smile. “Look, most free women probably support you in their hearts, but they also must be wary of their words and actions.”
My fingers dab tears as Ausveig continues.
“A woman’s freedom ends where a man’s pride begins,” she says. “Men rule this valley, Kilda, and the next one.”
“What a fucked-up world,” I whisper.
Ausveig pulls me into a warm hug. The smell of onions and earth clings to her as she envelops me. She whispers in my ear.
“They rule the valley, for now.”
I release a short laugh through the tears, enjoying her warmth.
For now.
CHAPTER 55
There he is. No longer just a bastard crow. No more just a mangy skald. He’s a thieving Jotnar. A scheming troll bastard crow.
My steps hasten as I approach my house. He waves with a careful smile, but I respond with the sourest face I can muster before slamming the door behind me. I lean against it, waiting several seconds. Will he come knocking?
I’m not sure what I would prefer, but I plan on telling him to fuck off if he knocks. After everything, I regret going to his house after the duel. Folk probably think I went to reward him with my… body, or whatever other sick fantasies they harbor. I wanted to help him—heal my champion. He managed just fine without me.
At least that’s one good thing to come out of it. Learning the truth. It’s important to know who I can trust, and a lying giant pretending to be a poet is not the prime candidate.
Jotnar.
I play with the word in my head the way a girl fiddles a loose tooth with her tongue. Teasing the ache.
I strike my flint with the fire steel several times, until the smallest of sparks catches on the shredded birch and bark kindling. It grows, replacing the dark blue tint that fills my house with an orange glow.
Jotnar. The enemy. Usurpers of thrones. Giants who will steal women and rape them before roasting their flesh over the fire.
To think I slept in the same tent as a monster. Shared a blanket with him. What a deceiver. He had me fooled. Had me thinking he was good, kind.
But I know what I felt. That cold, against my hand—it’s not the same as winter’s snowy grip, it’s not like the winds that whip the cliffs above. This is different.
It’s not even the same as the hammer. The hammer’s magic is chiseled in the first stone, trapped in the first ice.
The energy Ari carries is older, from the depths. It’s the stone that has been chiseled. It’s the ice that entraps.
Laying a few thin pieces of birch over the sputtering fire, I warm my hands. Thoughts of cursed ice have chilled me to my bones.
Thor’s enemy, that’s what Ari is. Thor would crush him with Mjolnir without a second thought. And yet, something gnaws at me. Odin is Jotnar himself. His mother’s lineage. Jotnar can be allied to Aesir. Could Ari be one of those? Could he be one of the good ones?
