“Shut the fuck up out there!” shouts Ylvin, even louder than before.
“Sorry,” shouts Ari.
I stifle a giggle.
“We better whisper so she doesn’t curse us,” I whisper, leaning into his ear. Ari is dicing the onions perfectly, little cubes that make my eyes water.
“She will probably curse my sword to be soft and your sheath to be dry.”
“You dirty pig!” I whisper, struggling to keep in a laugh.
“Okay,” he says, giving me a playful look. “Listen, maybe you will learn something.”
“Probably not,” I tease.
I’m enjoying myself, flirting even. Gone is my rage at him fooling me to eat strawberries that weren’t mine. He begins.
“We toss in onions first. Make sure the fat is nice and melted,” Ari whispers as he pours in onions from the cutting board. “Then salt.”
He tosses in a pinch of salt from a pouch lying in the Volva’s cooking basket.
I’m intrigued. Ari seems invested, like he actually enjoys cooking. I watch the onions fry in the bubbling fat at the bottom of the pot. Ari is already chopping white carrots, swiftly cutting precise slices with a firm elegance.
“Smells good,” I whisper.
“So good. Now, when the onions are softened, throw in the garlic. Garlic burns quick, which is good sometimes, but we don’t want that now.”
I push the garlic into the pot. It sizzles seductively, instantly releasing a pleasant odor that I have enjoyed many times before.
“Well done,” he says with a grin. “Look, Kilda, you’re cooking.”
“Keep your voice down,” I whisper harshly. “Silly bastard.”
“Next we slap in some of the carrots.”
“Not all of them?”
“We will boil some, but I like to add some slices before the meat, so they get nice and brown. It adds a sweet flavor to the stew at the end.”
I’m amazed. This man has really thought this through. Everywhere I’ve been, anywhere I’ve eaten, women have cooked. But seeing this mangy crow prepare a meal—it’s something special. His eyes are focused on the pot as he pours in a portion of the carrots. They plop into the fat, which crackles angrily in response.
“How do you know how to cook?” I ask.
He laughs, keeping his voice low.
“Well, I’m a skald. On the road you learn to feed yourself or you go hungry.”
“You’re not from the valley?”
I guess it’s quite obvious, now that I think on it. He does stand apart from the others. Maybe that’s why Vidar eyes him as he does—a foreign rival. Ari frowns at me.
“The ladies haven’t told you? Of course I’m not from Opdal. What skald stays where he is born?”
“I didn’t know. I just assumed you were born here,” I whisper. “Also, we thrall girls have other things to talk about than where the skald is from.”
“I’m sure. Now listen, the carrots are brown, see?”
I nod. Like Ari had said, a sweet scent escapes the pot, blending with the odors from the onion and garlic.
