Men nod around the room. Others are wiping tears after Ari’s so-called poetry. Such luck. Despite being dishonored by an overly pampered poet, I am officially protected by the jarl—or rather, I am his property. Now everybody knows I am a valuable slave. Being claimed… a blessing and a curse tied in one knot.
The women, however, stare with indignation. It will be harder to win them over. I’m afraid they will target me. Hate me. My skin crawls.
“Her mind is touched by Odin,” Sigurd continues. “Her heart is touched by Freya. Any man who harms a hair on her head will feel the wrath of the Aesir!”
Protected by the jarl himself. This went so much better than I could have imagined. It’s like payment for my show of humility. A foolish smile grows on my face. The jarl is fair. The women can’t touch me, for I am touched by Freya.
Every man raises his cup. Ale sloshes and spatters on the ground all over the place.
“Hail Odin!” they shout. “Hail Freya!”
The jarl leans in, speaking only to me.
“Don’t disappoint me now. Your life is in my hands, not Odin’s or Freya’s. Stay out of trouble. Back to your chambers.” He gives me a light tap on my back to get me moving.
“Thank you, my jarl,” I say, trying to raise my voice. But it is drowned out in the shouts and cheers of worshiping men.
They worship Odin. They worship Freya. Who touched my mind and heart.
CHAPTER 12
We have raised a curtain to carve out a shielded corner in the thrall room. The thin fabric muffles the world outside. A private fortress for us ladies. They sit on skins, chatting about work, about what some freewoman had said, about their hopes. Their voices braid together, the hum of… life.
I know just the story to tell. After the humiliation—throwing myself on my knees, Ari’s poem, the coarse comments—the relaxed atmosphere among the thralls gives me peace. I owe it to these ladies in front of me.
“When she asked me to sweep her floor, I told her I was busy with the jarl’s orders,” says one of the younger and rowdier girls. Sifrid, if I remember correctly.
“What did the jarl tell you to do?” asks an older woman.
“Nothing. I went to the kitchen to chat with Ingeborg,” says Sifrid, her dark brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
The ladies laugh. My breath eases, my muscles relax. Cheeky thralls who thrive on fooling their masters. When I left the feast hall, a few of them were standing by the door, having peeked and listened in. Never have I received such a wave of support.
All the girls had given me a warm embrace, even Eidunn. They had shared kind words, insisting I was one of them now. They are like sisters. Their comfort means everything. Public humiliation—a living nightmare. A man would throw himself on his own sword for less than what I had endured. Not me. I want to live.
“Okay, okay, ladies, let Kilda speak,” says Ausveig as she pushes one of the laughing girls.
My breath deepens. Nerves flutter as eyes turn to me. I can share. They want to listen. What a great idea. We will strengthen our bonds through the stories of heroines. The tales of goddesses. More importantly, I am at the center of it. They will trust me. I plan to make this a tradition.
The smell of wool and birch smoke fills my nostrils. Closing my eyes for a second, I breathe deep.
I picture Yggdrasil—its roots in the ice, gnawed on by the mighty Wyrm, Nidhogg.
I picture Yggdrasil’s leafy crown, stretching to the heavens, with Vedrfolnir the all-seeing hawk perched between the eyes of the all-knowing eagle.
I picture Ratatosk, a mangy little squirrel running up and down between the dragon and the eagle. Spreading truth and lies to each party.
That is me, now. I share from the well. The well Groa taught me to draw from.
“Go on, Kilda,” says Sifrid. “It’s not nap time just yet.”
I snort and the ladies giggle. Opening my eyes, I feel the tension in my shoulders melting like spring thaw.
“Freya,” I begin, the name like honey on my tongue, “favors those who worship. Those who sacrifice at her altar, those who praise her in song, those who bow to her name. This we all know. But more than this…”
I pause to give my words weight, so the seeds may be planted in their minds.
“She favors those who live with love. Those who give to others. Those who give of themselves. In ages past there was a man named Ottar. Not a mighty warrior, not a rich man. An orphan. He began his life with nothing. No mother to feed him, no father to teach him a craft. Do you follow?”
