The jarl shakes his head as Ari turns his eyes to Vidar. My gaze darts from one to the other. The tension has quickly devolved to open hostility. My guess is Vidar is jealous that I will be spending time away with Ari. The skald speaks loud and clear. Unfaltering, unwavering.
“Odin offered his eye to Mimir in exchange for wisdom. I doubt you could match Mimir’s gift.”
Vidar shakes his head in disbelief.
“I could take your eye as well as your tongue. Maybe you will learn wisdom from that by yourself.”
“You can try.”
Vidar steps forward, making Ari turn to face him, ready to react. I step back so I don’t get caught up between them. Had I been Ari, I would run to hide. Vidar is a monster of a man and a well-known warrior. Witty poems and legends only help so much in a fistfight.
Before the men collide, the jarl stands, throwing his cup on the ground so ale spills everywhere.
“By the fucking gods,” he shouts, his face a furious red. “Stand down before I have you both whipped!”
Both men return to their original positions. They are calm, unflustered. My own head is bubbling, my senses heightened. This must be what it feels like to enter battle, enter bloody conflict. I am surprised at the skald’s reaction. Was he really hoping to stand against Vidar’s attack? It’s hard to imagine he would last a second.
“Fighting in the throne room?” shouts Sigurd, turning from man to man. “A fucking disgrace!” He takes a deep breath. “My drink, girl.” He gestures for me to retrieve his cup. Which I dutifully do, keeping my eyes low to not anger him further.
“My jarl,” I say.
“Fill it.”
Of course, I obey. As I fill it, I notice the cursed hammer is no longer hanging on the wall, replaced by a large broadsword. The jarl goes on.
“My own son, my own skald—in front of my own throne.” His voice hardens. “It’s hard to believe. What a fucking disgrace.”
Sigurd sits on his throne again, rubbing his forehead. I kneel next to him, my head low, holding up his ale.
“Thank you, Kilda. Forgive my temper.”
“Of course, my lord.” I retreat to my original position.
Forgive? The jarl? What a strange thing to say. A lord asking his slave for forgiveness. I’m starting to wonder if they see me as who I truly am. Kilda. The Volva. I have never been a slave. I will never be a slave. Not truly. My heart is my own. My heart is free.
The jarl drinks deep from his cup, emptying it.
“You two,” he says after catching his breath. Then he raises his voice to an enraged shout again. “You two should be grateful I don’t have you fucking flogged!”
“Forgive me, Father,” says Vidar.
“Forgive me, my jarl,” says Ari.
Jarl Sigurd turns to his son.
“I am your father, but now, I speak as your jarl. Believe me, I will have you whipped in front of everyone as easily as I will have Ari whipped.”
“Yes, my lord,” says Vidar.
I step forward to my owner. Between a bull and a crow.
“More ale, Jarl Sigurd?”
“Yes, thank you, dear.”
I walk to fill his cup again. And I will fill it up again. And again. And again. If I have to. Tomorrow, I go up the mountain—into the forest. Tomorrow, I start my training. Today, I am a slave, being argued over by brawny men. I am a slave, filling the cups of nobles. Yes.
Today, I am a slave.
