by Mia Marlowe
“You’ll see. Goods from all over the world find their way to the bazaars of Miklagard—silks, spices, tin, silver and gold, gems that sparkle with such fire you’d swear they were alive. Anything can be had for a price. And the people ...”
“What about them?”
“You never saw so many different kinds. Greeks, Arabs, Jews, men from Abyssinia who are black as jet, Mongols. Uncle Ornolf was always after me to stop staring, though I must admit they stared back readily enough. Seems Northmen are considered quite exotic there.” He chuckled softly. For a few moments, the fact that he was taking Rika to Miklagard to marry another man seemed to have slipped out of his consciousness.
“You sound excited to be going back,” she said.
Reality crashed down on him with more force than the falling pine. “No,” he said soberly. “I could stand not seeing the great city again.”
He urged his mount into a lunging scramble past her up the path. The muscles of the gelding’s heavy flanks bunched and flattened with the effort.
Rika found Ketil helping to load a long, thick tree trunk onto a sturdy wagon. No doubt Jorand’s clever hands would find a keel for a longship or two buried in the heart of the lumber. When Ketil saw her approaching, he wiped the sap off his hands onto his tunic and ambled toward her, a wide smile on his face.
Rika dismounted and ran to meet him, clasping him in an embrace. They sat down in the shade of a broad ash tree and talked happily with each other while Bjorn picked the horses’ hooves a discreet distance away.
After awhile, Ketil’s face grew serious. “I had a dream last night, Rika.”
“What about?” She was almost afraid to ask. Suddenly she remembered Ketil’s last dream. The night of Magnus’s death Ketil had wakened blubbering that she would be sent away to a big city. “Was it about me going away?”
“No,” he said with a shudder. “I was the one who went away.” Ketil’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“To the place with the big trees and the dead things.”
Ketil had been so upset eight years ago when they went to Uppsala with Magnus, the old skald had sworn not to go to the sacrifice again, never mind that it was practically mandatory for a devout Odin man.
Ketil’s new dream solidified Rika’s resolve. It was within her power to thwart this evil prediction. She would make it not be true.
“Ketil, that will not happen. I swear it,” she said, sneaking a glance at Bjorn, who busied himself with the horses. She had to make certain she was not overheard. “I made a bargain with the Jarl of Sogna, and he has promised me that you will not go to the sacred trees at Uppsala.”
“Really?” His broad face beamed for a moment and then crumpled. “But he has bad eyes, sister. How do you know he’ll keep his promise?”
“I’m sure he will, because I’m doing something he wants in exchange,” she said solemnly. “I told you I made a bargain with him. In return for his promise, I have to go away. Do you remember your dream about the big city?”
“Ja,” he said shakily.
“That’s where I have to go.”
“And they won’t let me come with you,” Ketil said flatly. It was not a question.
“No, you’ll stay here with Surt.” She forced a smile.
“Surt is my friend.” He nodded slightly. Then a new thought struck him and he turned to her. “Will you come back?”
Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes and she drew her lips into a tight line. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t think so.”
Ketil put his arms around her and squeezed.
“You’ll see me again,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”
She took his face in her palms and kissed him, once on the each of his cheeks and once on the lips. Then she leaned to touch her forehead to his for a moment, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Good-bye, Ketil,” she whispered. Rika tore herself away from him and fled back to where Bjorn stood holding the horses.
Ketil waved at her and watched till she and Bjorn were out of sight. Her shoulders twitched and he knew she wept.
“Don’t cry, Rika,” he said softly. “You’ll see me again. At the place with the big trees.”
Chapter 17
Rika’s route to her wedding would be a long one. Gunnar envisioned her progress as an ambassadorial entourage and decreed some of their stops. At his order, Bjorn sailed the Sea-Snake up the crevice of Viksfjord to Kaupang, the better to display the lavishness of Sogna’s jarl to the citizens of that important trading center. Ornolf cast some longing glances at the fine soapstone kettles that would fetch a princely sum in Miklagard, but decided against them on the basis of bulk and weight.
From there, they negotiated the Danish archipelago and stopped at the Dannevirke to pay Gunnar’s respects to the Danish King. Rika was welcomed warmly in the mighty fortress of oak and earth, but the joy at court over her coming wedding was tempered by the news of Magnus’s death.
Royal courts swirled with gossip like a cesspool with slime. Now Bjorn understood why Rika said Magnus couldn’t stay at one for too long. The sibilant voices hummed around him. Rika’s demeanor was a bit glum for a bride, they noted, but everyone knew how devoted she was to her father, so it was easily explained.
And wasn’t the Jarl of Sogna a fine man to arrange so advantageous a match for an orphan like Rika? Gunnar’s generosity was praised even as the court evaluated his astuteness in the choice of a strong, wealthy alliance. There was definitely a new power rising in distant Sognefjord.
When he overheard snippets of these conversations, Bjorn clamped his lips shut. Gunnar’s plans were succeeding. Again. But they’d have to do so without him from now on. He was bound by his word to take Rika from Sogna forever, but it would be no breach of his oath not to return himself.
With the eye of a warrior, Bjorn studied the heavily fortified ramparts of the Dannevirke. The earthworks had held back the Frankish kings, and even Charlemagne himself, from overrunning the Danes. Bjorn was no stranger to battle and he’d decided the time to support himself with his own blade was fast at hand. Now that Rika was going to another man, even the pull of the land had dimmed. Bjorn couldn’t go back to managing his brother’s holdings, even if all he ever won for himself was a foreign grave.
They were blessed with fine weather, and their next port of call was Birka, the bustling trading port that sparkled like polished amber in its inlet setting. A man could walk from Sogna to Birka if he had to, crossing the spine of mountains and dropping down into the southeastern edge of the Norse peninsula, but Bjorn couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to trudge that weary way when he could sail.
“Thank the gods!” Helge clambered out of the long-ship. “It’s a fine thing to have solid earth beneath these old feet.”
“I don’t mind sailing, but I’m glad to be ashore,” Rika said as she watched Bjorn tying up the Snake at the wharf. The ship would ride quiet there, thanks to a breakwater surrounding the sheltered lagoon.
“Can you attend Rika on her trip to the market?” Helge asked Bjorn. “I’ve got to find the herbalist and mix up some of Torvald’s medicine or he’ll be unfit to stand, so he will. Thor knows, you young people don’t want to stand around and watch herbs ground.”
“I’ll go with her,” Torvald said, as he frowned at the old woman and tried not to wince when he put weight down on his big toe. Pain from the inflamed joint must have shot up his leg, for he settled back down onto his sea chest. “Maybe Helge is right, just this once. But a bride can’t walk unescorted in a strange town. You’ll take her?”
Bjorn nodded sullenly.
Jorand helped his captain secure the ship, then sniffed the air appreciatively. The yeasty presence of a nearby ale house wafted over them. “Sailing is thirsty work. I’m tired of curdled milk and stale water.”
“You’ll have to wait for your ale till the second watch. We’ve too many goods on board to leave her unguarded,” Bjorn said to his friend. “After I escort
the skald around the market, I’ll come back and spell you.”
He hardly ever used her name anymore, Rika noticed. It was yet another way of keeping the distance between them and she supposed she should be grateful, but it still stung. The way he said ‘the skald,’ with no more warmth than he’d use to say ‘the fur bale’ or ‘the amber,’ made her feel like cargo. Just one more item of trade goods he was forced to carry.
Which was exactly what she was.
Nevertheless, she straightened her spine and strode with her chin up, determined not to let him see that she felt the slight. As they walked up the planked path to the market, she noticed an oval fortress rising from a long bare rock south of town.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A safe haven. A place to retreat in time of trouble,” Bjorn said. “Birka is a rich town, too tempting for some to resist. If a fleet of dragonships heads into the lagoon, the merchants gather their goods and make for the fort.” Bjorn met her eyes for the first time in days and she felt herself being pulled into those dark orbs. “You know what men are. When they see something they want, their natural inclination is to take it.”
Her pulse jumped under his steady gaze and she suddenly wished for a safe haven herself. If she let him look at her like that, soon he’d see that he wouldn’t have to take her. She’d give herself willingly. If not for her bargain...
“There’ll be no taking today,” she said firmly. “The merchants here look like they expect silver in exchange for their goods, not steel.”
“True,” he said, nodding at the guards who roamed the streets in this home of a thousand souls. “Even the shopkeepers are armed. Birka has a good market. But if you don’t find what you need here, we have a stop yet at Uppsala before we make for the mouth of the Dvina.”
“Uppsala?”
“Ja, Gunnar was very particular about it.” Bjorn said. “He was concerned for your religious sensibilities since you’ll be so far from Odin’s temple in Miklagard. He was sure you’d want to see the sacred grove once more since you’re not likely to see it again.”
It wasn’t her faith Gunnar was concerned about. He wanted one last chance to remind her of the consequences to her brother if she violated her agreement.
“I was never one for Odin,” she said. “I’d be just as pleased not to go to Uppsala.”
“As you like,” he said flatly. His frown told her he thought her eager to get to Miklagard and her new husband.
They passed a silversmith and watched while he poured the molten metal. Fascinated, Rika noticed that he was making both a hammer pendant and a Christian cross on the same stone mold. She fingered the jewelry that was already finished, letting the silver slide over her palm, cool and smooth.
“You make amulets for both Thor and Kristr?” she asked.
“Ja,” the craftsman said. “In Birka, people worship Red Thor and the White Christ, as they choose. Old gods or new, we get along.” A wry smile crossed the smith’s face. “And I sell to both of them. Which can I sell to you?”
“I used to wear a hammer,” Rika said, still missing the smooth, glowing amber. “But it seems Thor has deserted me, so I’ll wear no god’s emblem now. Good day.”
Bjorn looked at her sharply as they walked on down the main street. “Lost your faith, have you?”
“Misplaced it, I think,” she said. “The gods of Asgard are all I know. I was weaned on their adventures, but lately they all seem distant.”
“When have the gods ever taken much interest in us, anyway, unless it suited their own purpose?” Bjorn said. “None of them have much use for a second son or a fatherless girl.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But I used to feel that, well, that someone was watching out for me, making sure I was safe. I used to believe that someone was Thor.”
“I’d think you’d still feel that way.” He didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “After all, you’re about to become the wife of a very wealthy man. What more could you want?”
You! You stupid, stupid man! almost tumbled out of her mouth. Instead, she bit her lip and lengthened her stride. He matched her pace easily. They spoke no more till they rounded the next corner and Rika saw a building whose shape was foreign to her, spiky staves jutting at angles and a tall spire.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It must be the Christ’s church,” Bjorn said. “They’d just started building it ten years ago when Uncle Ornolf and I came through here. A little priest came from the south and won some converts so they erected this building to celebrate. Even Hergeir, the city prefect, defected to the Christ.”
“Do you know much about their religion?” she asked.
“Not much,” he said, his eyes taking on a hazy quality. “My first raid was on a monastery. All I know about Christians is that they die easily. They seem to care fiercely about their fancy books and silver chalices, but they aren’t willing to kill to keep them. What do you know of their faith?”
“Only what Magnus told me,” she said. “He spoke at length with a priest who’d come to convert the Danish king. Magnus said their Christ was a powerful skald. He told stories to teach his followers.”
“Did he also say that their Christ died?”
“Yes, like poor Baldur,” she said, thinking of the hapless son of Odin whose death by poison would herald the beginning of Ragnarok, the epic battle that signals the end of the world. “But Christians believe their Christ came back to life and lives forever.”
“Not even the gods do that.” Bjorn’s gaze followed the tall spire to the cross on the church’s top. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Those who worship Thor wear his hammer, the symbol of his strength, while the Christians wear a cross, symbol of their God’s weakness.”
“Magnus said they saw it as strength because it meant their forgiveness,” she said.
“Forgiveness?” Bjorn scoffed. “A man has to bear the weight of his own actions, good or bad. Only a weakling expects to be forgiven.”
“Yet I seem to remember you asking me to forgive you,” she said. “For Magnus.”
Bjorn’s dark gaze held hers. “When it comes to you, I am weak,” he admitted. “And I remember you telling me you would never forgive me.”
Many times since her father’s death, she’d heard his voice in her head, admonishing, prompting, gently laughing, but now there was only silence. What would Magnus want her to do? She could only follow her feelings. This was something she needed to do, both for Bjorn and for herself.
“I was wrong. From my heart, Bjorn, I want to forgive you.” She reached out and touched his arm, his skin warm under her palm. His tight muscles relaxed as she felt some of the tension drain out of him. “But can you forgive me?”
“For what?” He covered her hand with his own ever so gently, as if simply to touch her was a gift.
She barely breathed.
“Can you forgive me for marrying the Arab?”
“I can if you repent of it now,” Bjorn said urgently.
“It’s too late,” she said, sadness crackling her voice. No matter what, she couldn’t risk both Bjorn and Ketil coming to harm for her sake. His warmth stole up her arm and almost made her knees buckle. It had been a mistake to touch him. She tugged her hand away gently. “I can’t repent of my agreement with Gunnar. But I do still want your forgiveness.”
They stood frozen on the square before the Christ’s church, merchants and shoppers bustling around them. Bjorn couldn’t believe she would make such a request.
She was asking for the impossible. How could he forgive her for ripping his heart from his chest and stomping on it? Her sea-green eyes held a beseeching look of such intensity, he had to look away. “You shall have to remain wanting.”
Chapter 18
In accordance with Rika’s wishes, they didn’t sail to Uppsala, but made straight for the mouth of the Dvina at the far corner of the Baltic Sea. Ornolf had left his light riverboat there in the care of a local tribe of Slavs
. The cargo from the Sea-Snake was offloaded and repacked for the smaller vessel.
The Valkyrie was a trim, high-riding craft, perfect for navigating shallow waterways and built to be hoisted onto a wagon for portage. A square sail could be run up when the wind was favorable and there were four oar ports for when it was not. It was small enough to be manageable with just four men, yet roomy enough to accommodate their cargo and the two women in comfort. Ornolf’s pride in the Valkyrie was evident each time he laid a large-knuckled hand on the vessel.
Bjorn stood looking his last at the Sea-Snake. Two dozen backs bent and flexed in rhythm as the bulk of his crew returned to Sogna. When they were out far enough, they shipped the oars and rigged the mast. A fair wind billowed her sail and she lifted, surging into the waves like a sleek porpoise. Bjorn followed the Sea-Snake’s progress with his eyes. He’d never see her again.
“Bjorn?” Rika stood beside him.
“What? Are we not speeding to your bridegroom fast enough for your taste?” he said, not tearing his eyes away from his receding ship.
“No, it’s not that.” Her tone flared briefly at his surliness, then softened. “I just wondered what was wrong. You look so . . . Are you well?”
“I’m fine,” he said curtly. “Anything else?”
“I was also wondering about that.” She pointed to a tall rune stone propped on the bluff overlooking the mouth of the river.
“A memorial of some kind,” Bjorn said. “I can’t read runes, so I’ve no idea what it says.”
“But I can,” she said, smiling. “There’s just one word in the inscription that has me puzzled.”
Bjorn sighed as he glanced once more at the Sea-Snake bounding out of his life, then turned back to gaze up at the stone stele. He’d always been inquisitive about rune stones, but since he couldn’t decipher the characters, the carvings were nothing more to him than unusual patterns.
“Let’s go see if we can solve your mystery,” he said, knowing that the outline of the Sea-Snake, sparkles of spray capturing the sunlight in tiny prisms around her, would be forever burned on his mind.
