Sigurd steps forward and holds my shoulders. Softly. I don’t fear his touch. It’s not about dominance, but a close moment. Like a father. I thought he would behead me. The impulse to stroke his cheek hits me, but I suppress it. I sense he needs comfort. He whispers to me.
“Prove it. I need to know I can trust you.”
“Tell me how.”
“The girls need reassurance. They need to be reminded that their lives are good.”
“They are thralls.”
He lets me go. The wrinkles on his face, deeper than I had ever noticed, cast shadows on his features.
“I had hoped you noticed they eat better than many free folk.”
I lower my gaze. He is right. As much as it hurts to admit it, Sigurd’s slaves are surely the best treated in the land.
“You were good to me when I arrived,” I whisper. “I am grateful you are my master.”
The words sit on my tongue like burning coals. Sigurd is not my master. I am nobody’s slave. Ylvin said that. But even before, I knew. Still, I want to comfort this old man before me. He may own me as a slave, but he has not forced me to do anything. Quite the opposite. He has offered me everything. I raise my eyes to meet his.
“You gave me clothes, food, a house. Most of all, you gave me my training with Ylvin. I am grateful, Sigurd, my jarl. Give me your orders.”
“Rally the girls, Kilda. Show you belong.”
CHAPTER 71
Acold wind bites at my cheeks. It whips from the west, funneled through the valleys and up the mountains to slap me in the face. A fitting reminder of my current position.
Show you belong. Prove where you stand. Easy words. Orders to be followed. Does Sigurd really think belonging can be handed out like he does meat or cheese? A cloud lingers in my mind as I approach the slave quarters.
By now the ladies will have eaten. They will have retired to their corner, seeking their own space away from the men. Hopefully they are at peace, allowing me to speak to them without interruption or digressions. Every step I take toward the outhouse, toward the thralls, my stomach knots tighter. I’m unsure how to proceed.
Am I lying to the thralls? Am I lying to Sigurd? Both, by Odin. I don’t know which lie will kill me first. One side requires my humanity, my being. It yearns for freedom. The other demands that I enforce the law, that I seed loyalty in girls who live in bondage. It offers me status.
Let’s be honest, I want to live. Without a doubt, Sigurd’s patience is wearing thin. How long will being a Volva protect me? The second Sigurd views me as a liability instead of an ally, I’m gone. Drowned or hanged. Discarded without a burial.
My hands shake as I prepare my entrance. To be fair, Sigurd is a good master, both to me and the girls. We eat better than most free people. But look at Eidunn. Who is happy about good food while living in chains? Only slaves.
The second I push open the door, I am hit by a wave of laughter. Thrall men drinking thin mead and joking. In the next second, deafening silence. All eyes turn to me. Smoke and sour sweat hang thick in the air. The men look grim, some look worried. A hushed whisper spreads among them.
I falter, my doubts strengthened by the men’s judgmental glares. I stand, frozen, in the doorway.
“Look away, you useless trolls!” I hear a familiar voice ring across the room.
Ausveig steps to me, laying a hand on my lower back and leading me to the women’s quarters. Her other hand strokes my arm, like a mother comforting her child. I don’t deserve her care. Her kindness is a stark contrast to my convoluted reason to visit.
Still, her warmth spreads to me. My back straightens and my chin is raised. No man shall hinder my walk. She continues.
“Look away before Freya’s mad-curse catches you in its grip!”
To my surprise, most men lower their gaze. Laughter bubbles from the women’s corner, the sheet is still raised. When I enter the private space shared by the girls, all I see is wide eyes and smiles. They clap their hands over their heads. Eidunn ismissing. I haven’t seen her since she attacked me. Freya, let her be safe.
“Our lady of fate returns!” shouts Sifrid as she stands to embrace me. The other ladies join in, all welcoming me back to the quarters where I had first slept with them. I see them all every day, but this moment is like some destined reunion. So many hugs—tears fill my eyes. My fears of being hated evaporate. Yet if they knew why I was here, they would spit at my feet.
My chest tightens at the reason for my visit. A secret I cannot share openly with them. Sigurd’s quest. I would agree with him. The ladies seem more liberated, more boisterous. They act more like proud horses than whipped dogs. Am I to be the one to remind them of their place? To tighten the chain on their necks?
“Tell us a story!” shouts a young girl.
“Let her breathe!” shouts an older one in response.
