But that did not stop you, sister, from plaiting and braiding and weaving flowers through it. We used to sit by the fire, and Bera, you were there, too, with your sewing. We would sit and gossip in whispered laughter about the goings-on in the hall.
And the whole time I would fret about my hair.
My brown hair.
Do you remember what you said to me, Asa? Do you remember how you consoled me?
“You have the softest hair I’ve ever felt.”
That is what you said.
CHAPTER 5
STONE
The next day I wander down to the icy shore, then off into the woods to be alone and to think. I miss Hilda terribly, her prancing presence about the steading, but something in what my sister said to me last night has lessened the ache I feel inside. Asa needs me. And the way Harald hugged me when I returned tells me that he needs me, too. I’m not sure what either of them needs me for, but it feels good to be needed for something.
And after the way Raudi spoke with me, I wonder if perhaps we can be friends again. It would make me so happy to have him back, especially here and now, when every thing is so uncertain.
The woods around me are completely still. I enjoy the silence as I walk deeper into them.
And then I come upon a runestone.
It rises tall and narrow from the snow, like one of the black tree trunks that surround it. I did not know it was here. No one has ever spoken of it before. The inscription has long since weathered to a whisper. I run my hands over the faint tracks and dimples that remain, wondering what king or chieftain the stone once might have honored.
Runestones usually mark a grave or barrow. I shift my feet and look around for a swell under the snow, a mound of earth or piled stones. Something tingles at the nape of my neck, a cold breath, and I turn to look behind me. I am still alone. But I do not feel alone.
I know that death is not the end of the body. The person can live on … no, not live. The body can persist in the grave, a haugbui, the undead. I’ve heard stories of corpse-black figures, warriors of dark magic and infernal strength. They guard their resting places jealously against any who would defile them. By simply standing here, I could wake something. My heart beats faster.
I imagine a dead king shifting in the earth below my feet, flesh corrupted, and the tall runestone takes on a sinister cast, a darker hue and sharper edges. The gaze of an unseen observer crawls over my skin, leaving a trail of ice. I tell myself I am imagining it. It is just this moment and this place. But then a twig snaps off in the trees. I hold my breath and listen.
Nothing.
Nothing but the trees overhead and the unquiet ground beneath my feet. I back away slowly from the runestone. Only when I am several yards away do I turn and run from the woods, to the shore near where the berserkers have secured their ship, chased by a blinding fear back up the path to the steading.
It takes several hours to feel at ease again, and then around midday I look for Alric. Of anyone here, he may know who is buried down in the woods. I find him in the hall, dozing on one of the benches, an arm draped over his eyes. I sit down near him and he rouses.
“Hello, Solveig.”
I greet him, tell him about the runestone, and then ask, “Do you know whose it might be?”
“Possibly.” He rubs his eyes. “I’d like to see it. Will you show me?”
The sensation I felt around the grave returns, a chill, and I hesitate in answering him.
He nods and chuckles. “I think we’re safe from a haugbui during the day,” he says, and I wonder what kind of sight he has that he can know my thoughts.
He rises and extends his hand. “Come.”
I allow him to help me up, and we leave the hall together.
Out in the yard, Hake walks up alongside us. “Where are you off to?”
“Solveig has found a forgotten runestone, and she’s going to show it to me. Care to join us?”
No. I do not want him to come. Hake hasn’t said a word to me since my outburst in the yard yesterday, since I found my poor Hilda. I am still heartsick, and I suspect it was Hake who killed her. I want to stay as far away from the man as I can.
“Yes, I’d like to join you,” Hake says without looking at me.
“Wonderful,” Alric says. “Solveig? Shall we?”
I can’t see any way out of it, so I nod without looking at Hake, and lead them through the gate. We walk down to the frozen waterside, and I take them into the woods. Before long, I catch glimpses of the runestone, like a slice of shadow, waiting off in the trees. I point to it, Alric and Hake peer ahead, and soon we’re standing under it. Alric walks right up and traces with his finger the few lines still visible. Hake stands back, rubbing his beard.
“Well?” the berserker asks.
Alric doesn’t answer.
Hake chuckles. “It seems the monument has outlived the legend, eh, skald? Your weapon of choice in preserving your king seems to have failed this one.”
“Not quite.” Alric frowns. He steps back, looking askance at the runestone. “This is very, very old. Older than almost every story I know.”
“But do you know whose it is?” I ask.
He turns to me and nods. “But I shall need time to remember the details of his life.”
“Then you can recite it for us,” Hake says. He turns and stares off into the trees. “I’m going to have a look around.”
He stalks away, a giant among the branches, and he doesn’t make a sound. When he is at a safe distance, I let out a relieved breath, and Alric raises an eyebrow at me. He looks in Hake’s direction, then back at me, but doesn’t say a word.
He circles the runestone several times, looking it up and down. His boots tear a seam in the snow, an opening in the white above the grave.
“Do you really think there might be a haugbui dwelling here?” I ask him.
He stops and looks at the ground beneath his feet. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before. I doubt they truly exist.”
“But you tell stories about them.”
“I do.” He lays a flat hand on the runestone. “But if stories were told for their facts, I’d be hard-pressed to find an audience willing to listen to them.”
“So you don’t believe your own stories? They aren’t true?”
“Forgive my boldness, but you’re asking the wrong question. A story is not a thing. A story is an act. It only exists in the brief moment of its telling. The question you must ask is what a story has the power to do. The truth of something you do is very different from the truth of something you know.” He leaves the runestone and comes to stand over me, looking down. “My tale last night. Did it comfort you?”
“Yes.”
“And was the comfort real? Was it true?”
“I thought it was.”
“Then the story was true. And that is what is most important in the telling, whether Thor’s chariot is really pulled by two bucks, or not.”
I look up into his eyes. At first I see mischief in them, but I realize it is something else. Alric sees the world differently than we do, and I think he simply takes plea sure and pride in carrying a secret that no one else knows.
Hake emerges from the trees.
“Did you see anyone down here before?” he asks me.
“No. But I thought I heard someone. Thought I felt someone watching me.”
“I found tracks,” Hake says.
“That’s not so unusual,” Alric says. “Surely one of your men —”
“My men have not been down here.” Hake’s voice is low.
“How can you be so certain?” Alric asks. “Perhaps one of your men came down without telling you.”
“If that’s true, then one of my men hid his presence from the king’s daughter. And none of my men would do that.” He turns to me. “I assure you.”
But I remember how one of his men treated Asa that night in the hall. I was right. I was not alone before. Perhaps not a haugbui, but a man. That thought causes
a very different unease.
“Let us return to the steading,” Hake says. He marches several yards before turning back. “Please come, Solveig.”
I do not like it when he says my name. But Alric and I follow after him.
Later that afternoon, when the sun has set and the winter twilight has poured in like an icy river, I go to fetch some firewood from behind the hall. As I approach the corner, I overhear a hushed conversation.
“I have questioned all my men.” That is Hake’s voice. “None were down there.”
“I checked with Egill and Gunnarr as well.” That voice is Per’s. “And the servants.”
I peer around the corner. The two of them are standing near the woodpile, an axe buried in the stump between them. They speak quietly, but their low voices carry to where I stand and listen.
“What about the old man?” Hake asks. “The thrall.”
“Ole?”
Hake folds his arms.
“No,” Per says. “He is loyal.”
“He served another king before his capture.”
“He is loyal,” Per says more firmly.
“Then we are left with only one possibility. A spy has somehow reached us.”
I am holding my breath, hugging the wall. A spy? How? The sea and mountain pass are frozen shut. Are we not safe here after all? Was I in danger before? The same prickling feeling returns, the sense that I am being watched.
“We need to double the watch at night,” Per says. “Possibly even during the day.”
“Agreed. I will see to it.”
“And the king’s first daughter must not leave the steading without a guard.”
Hake tips his head to one side. “And the king’s heir?”
Per stammers. “Right. Of course. He must be protected as well.”
Hake waits.
And me? Has Per forgotten me? I bow my head against the sting of tears and the pain of not mattering.
“And Solveig,” Hake says. “She must be protected, too.”
“Of course,” Per says without stammering.
Hake grunts a farewell and turns to leave. I scurry back down the side of the hall and reach the end before either Hake or Per round the corner. I pretend as though I have just come from the front of the building and walk toward them. Hake doesn’t say a word as he passes me, but Per stops.
“What brings you out in the cold?” he asks.
“Firewood,” I mumble. He did not think of me. He failed me a second time. But Hake didn’t.
“I’ll fetch the wood for you,” Per says. “You go back inside.”
I nod and return to the warmth of the hall, where Bera sees my empty arms.
“The firewood?” she asks.
“Per is bringing it.”
Bera sighs. “I don’t know what we’d do without him.”
I nod a weak agreement. I used to feel that way, but I don’t know if I do anymore. I thought he was my friend.
I am watching the doors when he enters the hall with an armload of logs. He sets them on the ground near the hearth and bends to stack them. His features are so handsome in the firelight. His hair glints like bronze. He looks up, notices me, and smiles. That same smile he has always given me.
I offer a smile in return, then quickly look away. I thought his smile meant something. I thought it set him apart from everyone else. But now I don’t know what it means, even though it still warms a part of me. I am so confused.
I cannot sleep. My thoughts are like a winter gale trapped in a barrel, tossing and tumbling me in my bedcloset. The steading was supposed to keep us safe, a refuge from the dangers of war. But if what Hake and Per said is true, and an enemy has found us, then the steading has become a prison. The icy fjord may keep enemies out, but it will just as surely keep us in. And something dangerous may have been sealed in with us.
I have lost all privacy.
Everywhere I go, I am accompanied by a guard, either one of Per’s men or one of the berserkers. They hang back and try not to intrude, but they are there, smelly bears and wolves loping after me. I prefer Per’s men to Hake’s, but I would prefer Per most of all. He spends all his time watching Asa, and sometimes Harald. Usually, it is Hake who follows Harald around, and my brother has become quite fond of the berserker captain. Harald hangs about him like a cub at the heels, eyes up, admiring.
“When I am king,” he says one night, “I will have you as my captain, Hake. Just like my father.”
Hake bows his head. “May I live so long, little prince.”
“I’m not little,” Harald says.
“You will be big and strong soon enough.”
“And I will be a berserker like you.”
“A berserker king?” I ask.
“Why not?” Harald shrugs. “I can be whatever I want.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I close it. Harald can be what he wants.
“The life of a berserker would not suit the duties of a king,” Hake says.
“What do you mean?” Harald asks.
“For one thing, a king must have a queen and an heir. A berserker can have no family to divide his loyalties. How could I die for my king if I had a family to live for?”
As Hake speaks, I notice that the lines around his eyes have the slightest pinch, like a wince he almost hides. For the first time, I see the man under that great bear pelt.
Hake is lonely. He is vulnerable to pain, like me, and trapped by that pelt as surely as I am trapped by the order of my birth. And then I realize that same birth order traps Harald. And Asa, too, sitting silent across the room. Bera and Raudi are trapped by their servitude. We are all prisoners, bound with shackles at birth that only tighten as we live and grow. Only Alric seems free, laughing at the rest of us. Harald leans back with his arms folded. “It’s not fair.”
“And neither are the seas,” Hake says. “But what mortal man can change their course?”
On the darkest night of winter, when Odin’s Hunt was at its wildest, Asa, Harald, and I left out sugar and oats for Odin’s steed as he charged across the sky. And in return, Odin left us each a gift. A new belt of fine leather for Harald, with a golden buckle. A silver brooch for Asa, bejeweled and adorned with the clever shapes of birds and animals. Do either of you remember what was left for me?
A new knife and spoon.
And did you hear what Father said to me as he patted me on the head? “Perhaps these will help you put some meat on those skinny bones.”
I took my gifts into a corner, and I watched Harald strap on his belt. I watched Bera pin Asa’s brooch to her apron. I held my knife and spoon in my lap and I cried.
But then, Ole, you called me over to your corner where you sat mending your nets. With a wry smile, you took your bone knife and sliced away some pieces of rope. And then your fingers went to work twisting, and knotting, and tying. And when you were done, you handed me a doll you’d made before my eyes.
I took it and I hugged it to my chest. It smelled of the sea, and I slept with it in my bedcloset. I carried it around Father’s hall until it was so tattered it couldn’t hold together any longer.
CHAPTER 6
RAVEN
A few days later, Hake comes to me in the yard with something large and square in his arms, wrapped in a sack. Everyone watches him, and he shifts back and forth on the heels of his boots in front of me. He is so rough, and yet it was he who thought to protect me when Per did not.
“I have something for you, Solveig,” he says. “It is a gift.”
I manage a nod.
“Can we go inside?”
I nod again. We turn and approach the hall. There is an awkward moment standing before the door when Hake clearly wants to open it for me, but he looks at the bundle in his arms. “Let me,” I say, and open it.
He steps through, sheepish, and looks around as if to make sure we are alone. It seems we are. Bera and Raudi are out milking the cows in the shed. Asa may be hidden away in our bedcloset, but I’m not sure.
&n
bsp; Hake sets the bundle on the ground, and I hear a flutter inside. “First, I must confess something to you.”
I wait.
He clears his throat. “It was I who killed your goat.”
I know that, or had guessed it, but his integrity touches me. His voice becomes quieter. “I am sorry for that. I had no idea you had become so fond of the animal. So in recompense for what I did, I wanted to give you something. Something else you might be fond of.” He looks at me as though waiting for me to reply, and when I don’t, he kneels on the ground. “Here is your gift,” he says, and whips off the sack.
It is a cage made of sticks and fastened with leather cords. A young raven sits inside the cage, flicking its black-jewel eyes at me. Its feathers are glossy as pitch, almost blue. The bird makes a few halfhearted caws and hops around the cage. Its head is plucked bald in patches, as though someone had started preparing it to eat, and I can see its pink, wrinkled skin. Its wings are short, the flight feathers clipped, and one of them is bent at an odd angle.
Hake notices me looking at it. “That wing made it easy to catch him, as he can’t truly fly. It looks like it got broken some time ago, and you can see where the other birds have pecked him. I’m surprised he’s survived.”
“Poor thing,” I say. He’s an outsider, which is how I often feel.
“Ravens are smart. I once saw a man who had trained his raven to fetch things about the steading for him. They can even learn to talk. This one is young, and after he’s bonded to you, he’ll ride your shoulder.”
I am nervous about having this bird for a pet, but out of politeness I thank him.
“He’ll eat anything,” Hake says. “Your table and kitchen scraps. They’re scavengers.”
“Thank you,” I say again, wishing I could think of something more.
He hovers, hands behind his back, looking back and forth between the bird and me. “Do you like him?” he asks.
The bird hops toward me in the cage, looks up at me, and makes a clicking sound. I imitate the sound back at him, and the raven cocks his head and makes the clicking sound again, as if we’re talking to each other.
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