“My jarl,” I say, falling to my knees in front of him.
A light chuckle escapes Sigurd’s lips.
“You still know to kneel for your jarl.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“That’s a good sign, at least…”
I stay on the ground, with my gaze locked on the jarl’s feet. I’m sweating. All jittery. He lets me stay there for a few seconds before speaking.
“Come stand here. I wish to speak.”
I hesitate, throwing him a quick glance.
“My lord, I?—”
“Nervous?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, stepping next to his throne.
“You should be. Not many slaves would be allowed to live after such a debacle.”
“Forgive me.”
“Njord’s death is hard to forgive,” he says, raising himself from his throne. “But he is with Odin now.”
I nod as he places himself in front of me.
“And you are here with me,” he concludes.
My heart sinks. Am I to be punished? Made to suffer?
“Yes, lord.”
“I have a task for you, Kilda the Volva.”
“Anything.”
He speaks low, so even a curious eavesdropper can’t hear us.
“Anything, yes. A little bird tells me the thrall girls are… boisterous… after the duel.”
I can’t hide a frown from my face. Aren’t the girls always boisterous? What does he mean? My feet shuffle beneath me.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lord Sigurd.”
“They are rowdy. Louder than before. I was told they speak of journeys, marriage, land.”
I stifle a snort. It’s like free folk forget that slaves are human.
“Even slaves have hopes,” I say curtly.
He looks at me with a smile, like he senses my thoughts. I realize I didn’t refer to him by his title. Sigurd doesn’t seem to mind. He nods in agreement.
“Indeed, they do. You are the perfect example of that. Yet we have laws, here in the north. Have you forgotten?”
“No,” I reply—before catching myself. “My lord,” I add quickly.
