Aesa wasn’t certain she’d had time to blink. The recruit limped off the field, and Gilka waved for the next. Aesa stepped forward as the line emptied. It didn’t matter if the recruits tried to strike her or defend themselves. Gilka feinted, hit them, and tripped them. The rest had a moment to watch a limping retreat, and then it happened again.
As each fell, Aesa watched the next. They nodded, rubbed their chins, thinking they’d found a way out. Their eyes said, “I will be different,” but then they limped off the field just like the others.
With one more to go, even Aesa wondered why no one could block. After all, they knew what was coming. It never changed. Gilka overtook people like the tide, far faster than expected, but so fast that no one could strike her?
Gilka wore that same smirking grin as she waved Aesa forward. Aesa took a wide stance and held her fists up. Gilka had no stance to speak of. She stood as easily as if they were in her longhouse, about to share a cup. Her fist came from the right, the feint.
Aesa stepped back, telling herself not to look, but her gaze flicked right, curse it, and Gilka’s other fist angled in from the side.
No time to block. Her limbs felt like weights. Anger flared in her, and she opened her mouth for Gilka’s arching fist. If she was going to be hit, she could at least leave her mark.
Surprise lit Gilka’s features, and her fist angled away from Aesa’s snapping teeth. It was a small victory that hurtled out of mind as Gilka’s other fist pounded Aesa’s stomach. Aesa bent double in time to see Gilka’s foot hooking her ankle, and then the grass gave way to sky in a whirl that left her lightheaded. She thudded into the ground, driving out what little air she’d managed to reclaim.
Gilka’s shadow covered her, fists upon hips. “The bear cub won’t go down without showing a few teeth, eh?” Gilka helped her up, and Aesa was halfway off the field before she realized Gilka hadn’t offered a hand to anyone else.
*
“Now,” Maeve whispered. “Let it be now.”
Aesa was limping off the field, holding her stomach, but everyone had seen Gilka help her up. It had to mean Gilka would choose her. Aesa’s future as a warrior couldn’t be more certain.
“Now,” Maeve said.
She felt her power waiting within her, her spirit ready to travel from her body and soothe pain or injury, but that would count for nothing if she couldn’t defend herself or attack anyone. Any ship would be happy to have a powerful healer, but not without a special power, not without a wyrd.
“Please.”
Aesa had almost reached her. Other witches had said that their wyrds had burst from them, a lash of destructive magic they’d had to rein in. Others had felt power gently overtake them. Some had been suffused with a sense of calm and assurance that they could simply do what they couldn’t before.
But she was just Maeve with her healing power, no great force to be reckoned with, assured only that if her wyrd did not come, Aesa would leave her behind.
“You did so well,” she forced herself to say as Aesa reached her.
“Do you feel anything? Did it come?”
Maeve clenched her fists, focusing on the pain to take the tears away. “It will.”
Aesa’s face fell. “Maeve, if it doesn’t—”
“Hush.” She hugged Aesa from the side. “We’ll be together on that ship, just wait and see.”
“Maybe…”
Maeve took a deep breath, but her face grew hot, and she knew anyone looking would see her anger. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“The other witches, the women who got their wyrds and the men their wylds…”
“What of them?”
“They could help—”
“You want me to go sweat inside some incense-choked tent? Will that make you feel better?”
Aesa sighed. “I’m only thinking of you.”
“Are you certain you’re not thinking of your embarrassing bondmate who has no wyrd?”
Now Aesa flushed, too, making her pale golden hair stand out. Her lean body tensed like one of her bowstrings, and her light green eyes hardened.
Maeve walked away through the crowd, not wanting to fight again, not about this. As the Thraindahl had approached, Aesa had been focused on how she would perform, and while she was competing, it was easy to forget the wyrd that would not come. But after every event, Aesa had asked the same question until Maeve’s shoulders tightened into one huge knot.
Aesa understood how wyrds worked from an outsider’s perspective. Maeve had told her there was nothing anyone could do to bring it about, but Aesa’s skeptical face said she didn’t believe. Her parents had sold her on the idea that she would move beyond a thrall, that she would become a warrior through will and skill, and so she believed anyone could do the same. If some got their wyrds while they meditated, that meant Maeve should meditate more. If some received it when they fought, Maeve should fight more. She didn’t understand that most witches meditated because they wanted to be stronger at sending their spirit forth, a task that Maeve had already mastered.
The wyrd was just…luck. Ever since she’d begun training as a witch, she’d waited for her wyrd. Nothing said it was more likely to come at the Thraindahl or at any time. It came to other witches all through their lives, but Maeve was still hoping it would come now, just as Aesa was chosen for a ship. That would make for the best story.
Deep in the woods, at the heart of the campsite, Maeve stepped past the bone-covered trees that marked the edge of the witches’ tents. She hated it here, hated watching others struggle with what had always come easily to her, the innate talent she’d been born with that others sought their entire lives. Anyone could train to be a witch, to learn to send their spirit outside their body, but no one knew what his or her gift would be when the training began. Those with little to no power would often choose another profession. But those with a strong power like hers felt a calling, and no other life would do.
Warriors ranged among the tents, seeking witches for their thrains. New warrior recruits were chosen through the games, but witches were always picked through conversation, a single question: what is your wyrd or wyld? Women and men clustered around each warrior, telling tales of their abilities, what boons they would make for any crew.
Maeve couldn’t help but look to the side, to those who lingered behind trees or tents, the witches who had no wyrd, no wyld, those who were still considered thralls. They were young, old, everything in between. They hovered at the edges of the camp like ghosts, wrung their hands, and cast hopeful looks or bitter ones. Sometimes, they offered passing warriors a cup of mead or something to eat. The warriors gave them every look from pity to dismissal to contempt, the same looks as their families probably gave, the same way their bondmates felt.
The wind sighed through the trees, knocking the bones together, a hollow echo that mourned with those who felt they had nothing to offer their people. Better to cast off magic completely, to live as a farmer or fisherman than turn into one of these, eternally waiting for a wyrd or wyld, for a chance to join the raid.
And if they couldn’t stand that life? Maeve clenched a fist and strode to the huge tent that dominated the witches’ camp. She would not be such a creature of pity; she would not! She would bring on a wyrd through sheer want, like some hero from an old tale.
Inside the tent, incense coated the air like fog. Maeve waved in front of her face and fought the urge to cough. Seated bodies filled the tent, and she had to step carefully to the first open space atop a scattering of furs. She hated meditating nearly as much as incense, but once she did it, she could take that back to Aesa, proof that going inside herself had already taught her all it could.
After a few moments of boredom, Maeve cracked her eyes open, looking at the witches surrounding her. Most as young as her, a few younger, they appeared relaxed, transfixed. She could sense their spirits venturing forth. One young man thrummed with tension, and she felt the well of her own spirit waiting to be tapped, shining ins
ide her like a beacon. It was the easiest thing in the world to stretch her spirit toward his light and soothe it.
The elder witches had been dumbstruck when they saw how easily she healed, how she threaded her spirit through the ill or injured and cured their every woe. But even with their amazement, they’d smugly said she still had much to learn. She’d doubted them, but years later, no wyrd, and even the older witches couldn’t explain it.
Those with lesser skills had received one, no matter their spirit power. And a thrain would choose any of them over her. They didn’t allow anyone on a raid without a way to defend themselves. Some witches who never got their wyrds or wylds learned how to handle a weapon and competed in the games, but that wasn’t for Maeve. All that running and shouting and waving axes would give her a monstrous headache.
She couldn’t hold in a grin, one she buried quickly when an elder witch glared at her. A good mood couldn’t last long in this place, and not just because of the incense. There was too much to think about. Not letting her on a ship just because she didn’t have a wyrd was stupid. The thrains wouldn’t even think of all the good she could do, all the hurts she could mend. Maybe they wanted scars. All the warriors she’d known hoped for a glorious death. Maybe they thought she’d get in the way of that.
Maeve didn’t even last an hour before she stood and stepped over the many cross-legged forms on her way out, seeing nothing in meditation except a chance to become more depressed.
Hald lounged just outside the tent flap, stuffing a roll of leaves into a wooden pipe, his legs crossed on the ground in front of him. “Young Maeve.” He tossed his long gray witch’s braids over his shoulders. “Still no taste for meditation?”
“I just can’t.”
He whispered above the pipe, summoning his wyld, and smoke rose as the leaves lit, but Maeve sensed nothing from him. If she’d had a wyrd, she could have felt his magic even though wyrds were a bond to the living world, and men’s wylds were bonded to the elements. Both could be used for great destructive power, but until she had a wyrd of her own, she’d never sense them as she would spirit powers like her own, when the spirit was sent from the body. Wyrds and wylds were summoned from outside the body, called to life by a chant like the one Hald had so easily whispered into his pipe.
Hunger gnawed at Maeve’s belly, and she didn’t know if it was jealousy or a real need.
“My wyld settled upon me in such a place as this tent,” Hald said.
She shrugged.
He sighed. “A wyrd or wyld only requires that—”
“You be at peace with yourself,” they said together. Maeve nodded. “I know. And in that spirit, I should go make peace with Aesa.”
He didn’t lose the amused look in his eye. “Perhaps that will do it. And if not, well, I hear there is much to be gleaned from the simple joys of home and hearth.”
She barely kept her smile. “Of course.” Yes, stuck at home tending a hearth while Aesa went out and did deeds worthy of song. Simple, simple joy. “Good health, Hald.”
He waved as she trooped away, trying not to drag her feet. There was still time. The games were over, but the Thraindahl wouldn’t be complete until the thrains made their choices, had the grand melee, and then welcomed their recruits into their crews. And none of that would happen until the next day. Plenty of time.
“Please,” she added, just in case her wyrd was hovering around, listening. She stretched as she walked, trying to break her melancholy. Time to seek out something she enjoyed, something far more active than choking in a tent. A simple joy, indeed.
Aesa waited at their camp, and before she had a chance to bring up wyrds again, Maeve kissed her deeply, tongue sliding past her lips to skim across her teeth.
“Come on,” Maeve said. She slid her fingers under Aesa’s belt in a grip that wouldn’t be argued with.
Aesa smiled widely. “Dain and some others are making dinner.”
“Let’s sate one hunger, then another.” She pulled Aesa into their tent and shucked their clothing. Her touch glided over Aesa’s flesh, leaving little time for kisses and none at all for conversation. She pressed between Aesa’s legs until Aesa ground against her fingers.
“Ah, Maeve.” Her head dipped forward, and she groaned into Maeve’s neck. In moments, she sagged, and Maeve lowered her gently to the furs.
Maeve grinned at Aesa’s sweat-slicked face, her limp body. A bruise stood out against the pale skin of her stomach like a mark of soot. “Why didn’t you ask me to heal you?”
Aesa smiled weakly. “You didn’t give me a chance.”
Maeve sent her spirit out, and the bruise faded. Aesa gasped, the sound sending little shivers down Maeve’s spine.
“You needn’t have done that. It was only a bruise.”
“I don’t like to see you in pain.” And she didn’t like that she’d forgotten it, but it flew from her mind again as Aesa arched up, tongue flicking over her breasts.
“And I don’t like to see you in need.”
Maeve chuckled as Aesa pulled her down. Her mouth roamed Maeve’s body, and she murmured and hummed, unable to keep her appreciation quiet, or so she’d once claimed. It would have made Maeve laugh now if she wasn’t so caught up in what that clever tongue did to her. Her fingers threaded through Aesa’s long hair as her eyes rolled up in her head. What new wonders could she discover if the witches replaced meditation with this?
*
All through dinner, Aesa fidgeted and spoke little, filled again with nervous energy. Maeve knew her every thought turned to Gilka, who camped somewhere nearby and pondered which warriors to choose.
“Do you want to go find her camp?” Maeve asked.
Aesa spit her ale across the fire. “You can’t just walk into Gilka’s camp!”
Maeve shrugged when she wanted to grin. “Is she a god returned to life? Or do you think she’ll melt if you look at her too hard?”
Aesa shifted. “You wouldn’t want me to seem too eager, would you?”
No, that wouldn’t do. Still, Maeve couldn’t stand the thought of sitting by the fire worrying all night. Even their lovemaking had been hurried, nice because of the passion, but Maeve didn’t think she could keep it up all evening. “Let’s just wander then. If we see her camp, we won’t stop.”
Aesa agreed, though she didn’t lose her haunted look. She didn’t want to stop and speak with any of their friends as they wound through the dark, the campfires bringing everyone’s features into sharp relief. She definitely wasn’t interested in meeting anyone new. She stalked through the dark trees as if on a forced march, twitching when anyone called their names. Maeve thought they could have marched the entire length of the camp two or three times for how quickly they walked. She focused so much on trying to keep up that she bumped into someone without realizing it.
“I’m sorry, I—”
A tall woman scowled back. Her gaze darted through the darkness, more than a little fear in her blood-red eyes. A blood witch, then, but without the black veins in her cheeks that accompanied those who threw curses. She had no witch’s braids in her lustrous, curly black hair, and her skin was a light brown that stood out among those around her.
When the blood witch scowled harder, Maeve realized she was staring. “Sorry,” Maeve said again. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“I’m not so frail.”
She was bundled for the dead of winter in a thick woolen tunic that only showed a hint of her breasts. A heavy scarf hid her neck. Maeve noted the glint of some other fabric under her tunic. Silk, perhaps. She pointed to it. “I’ve seen clothing like that before. Are you from Asimi? Like the jarl’s consort?”
Her thin lips parted slightly. “Why does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Perhaps you should mind your own business.”
“Watch your tongue,” Aesa said when she’d marched back to join them. She laid a protective hand on Maeve’s arm.
Maeve tried to wave her off. Whoever this i
mperious, frightened foreigner was, Maeve would laugh at her high nose rather than take offense. But Aesa was nervous, and that could quickly turn dangerous.
Maeve turned to tell her to go back to their camp, but the blood witch said, “Or you’ll watch it for me?”
Wonderful. “Come on, Aesa. Let’s just go.” Maeve smiled into the blood witch’s face. “I hope we get the chance to speak again.”
That put her off a step, stammering and blinking. Before Maeve could drag Aesa away, a gruff voice called, “What’s happening there?”
A man stepped from the gloom, drinking deeply from a cup before eyeing the three of them. “Are you hassling my witch?”
The blood witch grimaced. “Your witch? I haven’t agreed to sail with you even if you—”
He began to glance her way, but when he caught sight of Aesa, his eyes widened. “You! You tried to embarrass me on the field today!”
Aesa looked him up and down, and Maeve willed her not to say anything. “You embarrassed yourself well enough without me.”
Wonderful again. Maeve wanted to throw her arms into the air.
He snarled. “First my prowess, then my witch. Do you seek your own death so eagerly?”
Maeve sputtered a laugh. He had long thrall’s hair like Aesa, another hopeful recruit. When he glowered at her, she laughed. “Oh, please tell me I’m not the only one who sees the humor in this?”
“Who are you to hand out eager death?” Aesa asked.
His chest puffed out. “I am Einar Laerig, and you would be wise to treat me with respect.”
Maeve began to say, “Farewell, Einar Laerig,” but Aesa broke in with, “Why should I?”
He went for his belt knife, Aesa doing the same. The blood witch grabbed him just as she did Aesa, but he shouted, “You will meet me in an hour near the chanting square, and we will finish this.”
“I can’t wait,” Aesa called.
Thrall Page 2
