“You know they are for all to share?”
“Yes, of cou?—”
“Are they even ripe?”
“I don’t know, I?—”
“And in front of my girls? Do you have any idea how hard I work to teach them honor?”
“Yes, my lady, forg?—”
Thyra slaps me across the face. Not hard, not to cause pain, to humiliate. To degrade. My cheek barely stings, but my chest is aflame. All for some berries. If only I could bury my nails in her face, rip at her hair.
“No!” shouts Ragnhild. “It was us who?—”
“Silence, child!” snaps Thyra. “To the house, both of you.”
The girls hesitate, stuck between protecting their friend and respecting their mother.
“Now!” shouts Thyra. “I wasn’t asking!”
They run off. Gunnhild is wailing. I raise my eyes to see their bouncing hair as they run up the hill. They pass a man, a man who is watching us. He doesn’t move. My breath catches. Of all people… him? I can tell who it is. The bastard. Ari.
“I am warning you,” shouts Thyra, making sure anyone around can hear. “Thievery may have been normal where you’re from, but here we have honor.”
I swallow my pride. I swallow my anger. I swallow my breath and heart. This is the life of a thrall. The alternative is a whip, a chain, to be sold. To be killed.
“Yes, my lady,” I say.
“Next time, I will not be so merciful,” she says as she stomps off. “Stay away from my girls!”
I raise my face. Ari is still there. Our eyes lock. My cheeks flush. So embarrassed. Somebody kill me. The bastard skald willprobably write a poem about this. He’ll make me step into the jarl’s hall while he gloats, reciting his words of insult. Everyone will laugh. What a stupid slave. A simple thrall. Stealing berries like a child.
He’s always there for my weakest moments, ready to point a finger. Maybe I should just keep my tongue about the curse on his house. Let him suffer the consequences. He will write a poem about this, I’m sure. What a piece of shit.
I stand, my head held high, a pitiful attempt at keeping my honor. The dark-haired skald smiles at me before turning away.
Ari? The wise eagle? More like Ari the mangy crow.
CHAPTER 16
Thick air envelops me as I step into the jarl’s throne room, making sweat bead on my forehead. Or maybe it’s Thyra’s hostile glare causing me to leak. At least a dozen bodies are contributing to the heat. Most of the faces are unknown to me. I make a decision on the spot, nodding to the jarl before advancing to where Thyra is standing. Bowing my head as I kneel, I raise my voice so everyone can hear me clearly.
“Lady Thyra, I seek forgiveness for my behavior today. I hope your daughters learn from your example and not mine.”
The room falls silent—everyone’s focus shifts to our interaction. Even with my head down, I can feel the tension between us dissipate. Such a public display of humility is hard to deny. Thyra is practically forced to accept my apology, or risk being viewed as petty. Surely, she wishes to avoid such a reputation.
“You are forgiven,” she says louder than I had spoken. “That a thieving vagabond must learn to behave honorably is no surprise.”
My chest relaxes. It worked. A slight humiliation, but all in all, a good outcome. Much better than expected. I stand and approach the jarl, adjusting my dress and brushing my knees. Enough groveling.
“My jarl, I have grave news to share. May I speak?”
He nods as whispers sizzle across the throne room. I straighten my spine. Maybe I can carry the same presence as Thyra.
“I have found another inscription,” I announce. The jarl’s brow furrows at my words. “Another curse.”
“You have?” he replies, trying to seem nonchalant in front of his subjects.
