Maidensong

by Mia Marlowe

  * * *

  As Rika and Bjorn climbed the little rise together, she cast sideways glances at him. His face was pale and strained. He looked like a man who expected to be drowned in a bog in the morning.

  At the top of the hill, they came to the stone. A serpent pattern writhed over the rock. Along the Snake’s body, runic letters were carved in slashing strokes. Rika wrinkled her forehead as she concentrated on the lettering.

  “What does it say?” Bjorn asked.

  She touched the words as she voiced them. “Far-Bjorn and Edmundr set up this stone for their brother, Roald. He fared like a man after gold. Roald went far into Aeifor and so gave food to the eagles.” Her fingertips lingered on a group of slashes. “What does Aeifor mean?”

  “Always fierce,” Bjorn said.

  “Roald went far into always fierce? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It does if you’ve been down the Dnieper,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. “The Dvina is a pretty tame river, easy currents and shallow banks. We’ll make good time till we come to the headwaters and have to portage. After we travel overland to Kiev, we start down the Dnieper. And that river is another thing entirely.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There are five cataracts between Kiev and the Black Sea. And the largest one is Aeifor.” Bjorn shook his head. “More white water than I’ve ever seen and rapids that end in a fall five times higher than a man’s head. If this Roald went into it, I think he did not come out.”

  Rika was silent. She had not considered until that moment that in saving her brother’s life, she would be endangering others. “Is there no other way to Miklagard?”

  “There is a western route. We could sail south of the Isle of the Angles, past the Frankish lands, around the home of the Moors and through the inland sea, but that would take much longer,” Bjorn said, folding his arms across his chest. “And I’m sure you’re in a hurry to meet your new husband.”

  She dreaded what awaited her in Miklagard so much, she hadn’t even allowed herself to think about the Arab. Even though Bjorn was behaving like a surly jailer, she was in no hurry to have him dump her into her new husband’s harem. “Whichever route is safest would be my choice.”

  “There are hazards either way,” Bjorn said. “A long ocean voyage has perils to equal Aeifor, and without the option of porting around them. You know I don’t swim, so there’s no chance of me running rapids anytime soon. Not when there are portage routes established all down the river. Don’t worry, skald. I’ll see you safe to your wedding. I promise.”

  How she wished he would say her name. When he called her by her title it was as though she had ceased to exist for him. Perhaps that was his point.

  He reached out a finger and traced some of the runic lettering. “ ‘Wealth dies, kinsmen die. Cattle die and wheat too. But this thing never dies: word fame! Word fame never dies for he who achieves it well,’ ” Bjorn quoted the old proverb. “Long after you and I are dust, people will know of this Roald’s journey into Aeifor. It’s recorded here forever as a testament to him. To have a man’s deeds remembered after him is the best he can hope for. It must be a grand thing to understand the mystery of the runes.”

  “I could teach you,” she said.

  He drew back his hand quickly. “I care not for magic.”

  While it was not unusual for women to seek power through the dark arts, men who dabbled in seid craft were deemed effeminate and suspicious.

  “It is no magic,” she said. “It’s just a craft, a tool if you like, for capturing words and freezing them in stone or wood. It’s easy.”

  She slid close and reached for his hand, guiding him to run his forefinger through the grooves of the first rune. “The symbols are called the futhark, after the first few letters of the alphabet. This is the first symbol.”

  Together they traced the first letter of the name Farbjorn. She tried not to enjoy the feel of his hand under hers, warm and strong, but it was a losing battle. Rika was intensely aware of every detail of this man, down to the crisp dark hairs on the back of his hand. His flesh called to hers, blood to blood and bone to bone.

  “It represents the f-f-f sound,” she blew air over her teeth and lips, trying to ignore the way her insides tumbled about. “But it can also mean cattle or wealth. Each symbol has a double meaning.”

  “A double meaning?” He raised a brow at her and she suddenly realized that her breasts were pressed against his side. When she started to pull away, Bjorn turned to her, capturing her hand between his. “It sounds like a lot to learn.”

  “Perhaps it is,” she said. His dark eyes dared her to look into them and she made the mistake of doing so. Swirling in those black depths was a passion, a turbulent fire, she’d only seen hints of before. She looked away as if he’d scorched her. “But you said it’s a long way to Miklagard and learning something new might help the time pass.”

  “Ja, it’s always good to learn.” Bjorn leaned a hand on the stele, pinning Rika between his body and the standing stone, close but not touching her. A current of longing rippled between them. “And what can I teach you in exchange?”

  His mouth was so close. All she need do was turn her head and he’d be on her. She closed her eyes tightly and a vision of their mouths on each other, probing, demanding, burst into her mind. Then she saw their bodies strained against each other, writhing hot and slippery, in a primal dance of lust. Her eyelids flew open and she looked up at Bjorn. He’d almost been able to send her an image that night in his room when she’d nearly given herself to him. Was he doing it now? Or was the vision a product of her own desire? She had no way of knowing for sure.

  She ducked under his arm and slipped away from him.

  “I know what you could teach me,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “You’ve been to Miklagard. Did you learn any of their tongue?”

  “Some, but it’s been a long time,” he said. “Ornolf would be better to teach it.”

  “Maybe he could teach us both when you can’t remember,” she said, feeling suddenly relieved to think about another party in their tutoring sessions. She was sure Bjorn could certainly teach her many things, but none that a maiden on the way to her wedding should know. “After all, I don’t want to embarrass Sogna by my ignorance.”

  “No, by all means, let’s remember Sogna,” he said flatly.

  “It looks like the Valkyrie is ready to sail,” she said, and started down the bluff to the waiting craft.

  Bjorn watched her for a moment, the scent of her hair still in his nostrils. It had grown longer now, covering her ears and curling over her head like a coppery nimbus. He longed to tangle his fingers in those curls. He wished he could call the moment back, wished he’d kissed her, whether she invited him to or not. This whole trip was going to be excruciating. One long good-bye. He looked back at the standing stone.

  “Maybe you were the lucky one, Roald.”

  Chapter 19

  Bjorn was right. The Dvina was a comfortable river. They sped upstream before fair winds, using the Valkyrie’s small sail to good effect. It also kept the men—Ornolf, Torvald, Jorand and Bjorn—from wearing themselves out rowing each day.

  Occasionally Rika saw scattered bands of grubby, unkempt tribesmen on the riverbank, but when Bjorn and Jorand stood in the swaying boat with arrows nocked on the string, the natives melted back into the thick woods. Previous skirmishes with Northmen, who topped the locals by a head, proved a powerful deterrent to attack, even of so small a group.

  By night, they pulled the Valkyrie ashore and camped alongside the gently rolling river. Around their fire, Rika taught Bjorn to carve runes on smooth pieces of wood. He showed himself to be a fast learner and she frequently found evidence of his practice on small scraps of kindling before she tossed them into the fire. He carved the names of each member of the group, then worked on the symbols to form nautical terms.

  Bjorn’s memory of the languages he’d heard when he was in Mi
klagard as a boy proved scattered. So each evening, Uncle Ornolf gave them all rudimentary instruction in Arabic as well as in-depth tutelage in Greek, the tongue of the educated all over the world.

  “It is well not to let anyone know you speak their language at first,” he warned. “Much information can be gleaned if your lips are closed and your ears are open. I’ve made many advantageous trades feigning ignorance.”

  “Enough study for one night,” Jorand said, splaying his long fingers on his knees. “All this learning is making my head swell.”

  “There’s not enough between your ears to fill an old woman’s thimble and you know it,” Bjorn said, cuffing his friend good-naturedly.

  “You’re probably right.” Jorand grinned at him. “Rika, how about a story? After all these lessons, we’ve certainly earned one.”

  “Oh, ja,” Helge piped up. “That’s just what we need, so we do.”

  “Very well.” Rika cast about in her mind for just the right tale. She glanced up at the black sky, where the stars congregated in a gauzy strip across the wide expanse. Just the thing.

  “Gaze upon the glittering stones in the sky,” Rika said, her voice taking on additional depth and resonance. “And I will tell you the tale of Freya and the fabulous Brisingamen necklace.”

  Bjorn stretched out his long legs and leaned back against a fallen log. His fingers locked behind his head, the better to gaze upward into the endless night. Rika caught herself watching Bjorn covertly during the day, noticing the easy grace of his movements and the strength in his body. Now, while everyone’s attention was diverted skyward, she could drink her fill of him.

  “The goddess Freya is the Lady of Asgard, more beautiful than the sun and so desirable that gods, giants, and men have all sought her favors. Some say she is wild, for Freya takes her pleasure with whomever she will. It is she who grants love to men and women. Unhappy lovers would do well to direct their petitions to her, for the goddess has a sympathetic ear for those who have lost in love,” Rika said, laying the foundation for the story.

  Bjorn’s gaze abandoned the night sky and wouldn’t leave her face, his look questioning. She forced herself to turn away.

  “But for all her lovers, Freya was devoted to the god Odur. It is said that though many enjoyed the delights of her body, only Odur held her heart,” Rika said.

  Bjorn’s snort told her that he didn’t think Freya’s devotion to Odur was very strong.

  “In time, she and Odur married. Freya gave him two daughters and Odur showered her with gold, which, as you know, is the one thing the lady covets greatly. Her life in Asgard was pleasant enough,” Rika said as she looked up at the sky to avoid Bjorn’s gaze. “But Odur was a traveler and once when he was gone, Freya took to wandering herself.”

  Rika made the mistake of glancing back at Bjorn across the campfire, the light pulsing on his rugged face. She was beginning to crave him with the hollow-bellied yearning of one who knows only hunger. Her gaze darted away guiltily.

  “One day as Freya was walking along the border of Svartaelfheim, she saw four Brising dwarves. They were master craftsmen and had fashioned a necklace of such delicate strength, it was more dazzling than the night sky in its grandeur.”

  Rika peeked under her lashes at Bjorn to see him looking up again as all the rest were, each seeing Freya’s necklace strung in pinpoints of fire against the black sky.

  “Freya’s heart would not rest until she had the necklace, so she offered them gold, for she had it aplenty, but they would have none of it. The only treasure the dwarves desired was the goddess herself. She must spend one night with each of them and then the necklace would be hers. Even though the dwarves were hideously ugly, such was the power and beauty of the Brisingamen necklace that Freya agreed to their demand. She would bed them all, one night of love apiece.”

  Rika’s voice wove a spell over the group around the little fire, as they imagined the supremely glorious goddess engaged in lascivious acts with beings far beneath her. Only Bjorn tore his gaze from the heavens to watch Rika.

  His soul shone through his dark eyes, pain-filled but with a glimmer that Rika thought might yet be love. When Bjorn looked at her like that, she had difficulty drawing breath. Her insides rioted and she felt warmth between her legs. Was it possible for a man to make love to a woman with only his eyes on her, hot and knowing? Part of her wanted to be as wild as Freya and fly across the campsite at him, begging him to bed her and Loki take the rest of the world.

  “And then what happened?” Jorand prompted.

  Rika shook herself slightly and resumed the tale. “After the four nights of dwarvish love, Freya returned with the necklace to her home in fair Asgard to find that Odur had arrived at home,” she said, noting Jorand’s disappointed frown. He must have been hoping for more salacious details. “Loving the dwarves had meant nothing to Freya, so she felt no need to tell Odur how she came by her new trinket. They were supremely happy together with Odur none the wiser.”

  “Isn’t that just like a woman?” Uncle Ornolf said cynically.

  “More like most men, if you ask me.” Helge raised a wiry brow at him.

  Rika continued with the tale. “But Freya’s deception could not be overlooked. Loki, the trickster, is never satisfied that joy should reign either among the gods or here in Midgard amid the realms of men,” Rika said. “Loki told Odur the price Freya had paid for her gorgeous new necklace and his heart was enraged. Odur stormed out and left Asgard to roam the wilds of the nine worlds forever.”

  Love betrayed is love lost. The theme was potent enough not to need any elaboration and Rika waited for her audience to absorb the sorrow of it. She knew the pain of it too well herself already.

  Then she continued softly. “Freya still wears the Brisingamen necklace she bought so dearly, for it has great power, but nightly she searches for her lost Odur. As she travels through Midgard, the goddess weeps for her love, leaving golden tears behind her.”

  “A man might think more of those tears if he believed they were genuine,” Bjorn said, looking sideways at her. “Favor that can be bought with baubles, no matter how fine, shows a certain . . . shallowness. Love without faithfulness, love without a life together is no love at all.”

  Rika’s lips tightened into a thin line and she wouldn’t meet his eye.

  As Bjorn studied her, he wondered whether she was trying to tell him that Gunnar was right. She was marrying the Arab for his wealth. If that were truly the case, he knew he should despise her. But when Bjorn saw her chin tremble, he knew he would always love Rika, however she might shred his heart.

  Rika’s hand went to her neck, where the little hammer used to reside. “Men who find Freya’s tears do value them highly.” Her voice quivered. “They have become a glowing substance so prized we even bear some to faraway Miklagard. Freya’s tears are what we call amber.”

  She paused for such a long time, her listeners shifted restlessly.

  “The next time you wear amber, remember the woman who made a poor bargain and lost her love in the process,” Rika said softly. Bjorn noticed she had said ‘woman,’ not ‘goddess.’

  “Rika, the time for you to wear amber is now,” Torvald said. He drew the little hammer from the pouch at his waist and dangled it before her. “I heard you’d lost this and might want it back.”

  Astonishment kissed her face and she reached for the necklace, open-mouthed.

  “How did you ever . . . ?” She looked at the hammer in wonderment. In the glow of the firelight, the tiny orchid trapped inside winked brightly. It was her necklace, without a doubt.

  “I’m glad it pleases you.” Torvald reached around her slender neck to tie the leather cord. “It belongs on the neck of a beautiful woman. It always has.”

  Bjorn slitted his eyes at the old man. What was he playing at? First Torvald wanted to see her freed, almost to the point of coming to blows with Bjorn, a man less than half his age and in his fighting prime. Now Torvald was giving her presents like a hope
ful beau.

  “Thank you so much! How shall I ever repay you?” Rika gushed. When she wrapped her arms around Torvald, Bjorn mentally kicked himself for not thinking to retrieve the necklace from Astryd for her. She might have been embracing him instead of hugging the stuffing out of that old man.

  “I thought your faith in Thor had dimmed,” Bjorn said flatly.

  “This isn’t about faith,” she said. “This necklace is my one link to the past, my last remembrance of my father.”

  “Your father?” Torvald blinked.

  “Ja, Magnus Silver-Throat,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Magnus always told me I have worn this emblem since I was a babe.”

  Bjorn saw a shadow pass over Torvald’s face, a stricken expression that faded so quickly he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. His distrust and dislike of the older man was growing by the moment. Bjorn still didn’t understand why Torvald had insisted on coming on this long, weary trip. He’d seen well over fifty winters, maybe more than sixty. Occasionally, Torvald was nearly crippled when the painful gout in his foot flared up. He had no business on a trip of this length and they hadn’t even reached the most dangerous part of the journey yet. Why would the old man push himself to make the voyage?

  When he saw the warmth in Torvald’s eyes as he gazed at Rika across the fire, Bjorn was beginning to think he knew why. And he didn’t like it one bit.

  Chapter 20

  They reached the headwaters of the Dvina sooner than Rika would’ve liked. She enjoyed the relaxed travel up the placid waterway and the easy camaraderie of the party. But sometimes the tension between her and Bjorn was so thick, she was sure the others must feel it vibrating in the air around them. If they did, they gave no sign, and each night Bjorn’s eyes sent Rika silent messages of desire.

  Part of her knew it was foolish to extend the torment for them both. Yet another part of her was grateful for one more day to spend in his company, to watch his muscles working as he bent to the oar, to hear his laugh when Jorand said something ridiculous, and to feel him caressing her with his gaze across the fire each night. She was storing moments, saving snippets of time forever in her memory, like her orchid trapped in amber. They were stolen treasures to be savored the rest of her life once the harem doors slammed shut on her.