Maidensong (23 page)

 
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 Mikla
gard?”

 
“
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
al
lowed 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 any
time 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 turbu
lent 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 cur
rent 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 know
ing 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 wed
ding should know. “After all, I don’t want to embar
rass 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.”

 
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 wear
ing 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 deter
rent 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 Miklagard 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 ex
panse. 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, gi
ants, 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 neck
lace, 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 de
mand. 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 god
dess engaged in lascivious acts with beings far beneath
her. Only Bjorn tore his gaze from the heavens to watch Rika.