Peaceweaver (11 page)

Ari Frothi’s voice guttered like a candle flame. Hild looked at him as he swallowed and coughed. “That song’s for men younger than me,” he said, shaking his head ruefully.

“Sing me another, then,” Hild said. “One that’s right for wise old skalds.”

He looked into the distance, running his fingers over the harp strings. His voice might be weak, but his hands were still supple, and the harp sang for him. Suddenly, its tone changed. “Listen!” he said, the word commanding Hild’s attention. The skald beat twice on the harp’s wood, then strummed the strings brusquely. “Never have I heard of one so mighty as Ingeld,” he chanted, his voice low and stronger now.

It was a lay Bragi often sang, not one Hild would have chosen, but she supposed it was easier on Ari Frothi’s voice. Still, hearing about the deeds of the famous Heathobard hero only made her own lack of freedom cut deeper.

The skald struck the strings again and caught her eyes, holding them.

Hild blinked. Bragi had never sung these lines—not that she remembered, anyway. They sounded more like one of Aunt Var’s songs. Ari Frothi turned back to his harp, dipping his head as he chanted.

The skald’s voice dropped so low she had to lean close to hear him. He looked up at her from under his bushy eyebrows and whispered, “Your uncle. He follows Bragi’s lead. They have plans but you mustn’t trust them.”

This wasn’t part of the lay. Hild waited for him to explain.

Instead, he coughed and spoke more loudly. “If I had the golden tongue of youth …” He turned to the corner of the room. “Do skalds merit no ale in this house?” he asked plaintively.

Unwen hurried over with a cup.

He drained it and handed it back to the slave. “I’ll be back when the god of poetry has returned me my voice.” As he rose, so did Hild, giving him her arm to steady him. “Take courage, dear heart,” the old man whispered, squeezing her arm. Then he opened the door.

It was the closest Hild had been to the outside since she had first been shut in, and she blinked at the sudden slap of cold air against her cheek, the bright sliver of sky visible just above the high roof of the hall. She caught a glimpse of the crescent moon hanging in the blue air, its horns glowing with pale luminescence.

Then the door closed with a solid thud, sealing her in again.

Before, she hadn’t felt at all. Now a sense of desperation filled her, making her clutch her arms around herself as if she’d been outside with no cloak.

Her mother must have noticed. “Come get warm,” she said, leading Hild back to the fire.

Hild sank onto her stool again, staring at the flames as they danced—now joining together, now separating and dancing alone. The heaviness that had weighed down her limbs left her and a feverish feeling overtook her. She rose and paced across the floor to the west wall, then the east, then back to the fire to gaze into the flames again. She knew her mother was watching her, her brows raised in surprise and concern, but Hild walked past her, straightened
a nonexistent wrinkle in the blanket Unwen had left in a tidy square on the chest, and returned to the fire for a third time.

She repeated the old skald’s words to herself, trying to tease out their meaning, wondering if the lay was part of his warning. What did Ingeld have to do with her? Or had Ari Frothi simply been working his way around to telling her about her uncle and Bragi? Whatever they had planned for her, she couldn’t stay here to find out. Desperate as the exile’s path was, she would tread it.

But how would she get away?

She didn’t know how closely she was guarded; she’d been sunk so deeply inside herself that she hadn’t paid attention.

Night would be best. If she could get past those guards …

“Hild.”

Her mother’s voice made her jump. She followed her mother’s gaze to her own hands and saw that she’d been unraveling threads again, this time on the sleeves of her gown.

Willing herself to be calm, clenching her fists to still her fevered fingers, she sat on the stool in front of the fire and tried to quiet the beating of her heart before it gave her away.

She had to break free of here.

She had to escape.

ELEVEN

U
NTIL TONIGHT
, H
ILD HAD CRAVED SLEEP
. S
HE HAD
longed for the moment each day when her mother and Unwen would allow her to crawl into the bed and close its doors. All she had wanted was for her eyes to be shut, for the world to disappear.

Now everything had changed. Although it was deep night, she lay rigid with wakefulness, listening for telltale signs of guards outside the door, trying to determine their habits. She felt as if her thoughts would burst through her skull, yet she couldn’t focus them. One idea spawned countless new ones, and from each of those, hundreds more sprang forth. Whom could she trust? Her mother, of course, but Hild wanted to protect her from the anger of both the king and Bragi. She would have to hide her intentions from her mother. Ari Frothi she was sure of, but how could she make
any plans with him when he wasn’t here? Maybe she could send a message through Unwen—but she didn’t know what message to send.

How could she get away? Even if she was able to get through the gates, where could she go? No farmer would hide her and risk the king’s wrath. The idea of entering the Wolfholt made her shudder—wolves weren’t all that roamed there. Could she take one of the fisherfolk’s boats and cross the lake? Doing so would mean hiking over a mountain range, the dwelling place of giants, before she could reach the Heathobards—who would have no incentive to take her in, and plenty of reasons not to.

It was early morning before her frenzied mind finally allowed her to sleep.

She was still drowsing behind the bed’s doors when raised voices wove themselves into the pattern of her dreams. What they were saying she couldn’t tell, only the tone, and that her mother’s voice was one of them.

Heavy footsteps pounded across the floor. Hild startled fully awake.

“Get her up. Now.” It was Bragi.

Her heart thumped wildly. Did the chief skald know about Ari Frothi’s visit? Did he suspect her plan to escape?

The footsteps retreated and she heard the door open and shut as Bragi left the house. Hild sank heavily back into the mattress, letting out her breath and, with it, all her
hopes. Last night had been her chance to get away and she hadn’t taken it. It was too late now.

She waited, trying to compose herself. Whatever was to become of her, she was about to find out.

The bed’s doors opened. Her mother looked in at her, her face pale, shadows etched under her eyes. Without speaking, Hild rose and allowed her mother to help her dress. She didn’t ask why she needed to wear her best gown, the red one she’d worn to serve in the hall. Unwen drifted into and out of her view, trying to assist, but her mother claimed Hild for herself, running the comb through her hair, arranging the knot at her neck, running her fingers through the long black tail that hung down Hild’s back. And all with no words.

Asking would do no good; if her mother was going to tell her anything, she would have done so already. But when her mother insisted on helping with Hild’s shoes, Hild’s apprehension grew close to a breaking point. Desperately, she tried to still her hands and her mind, to accept whatever the gods decreed.

She looked up at Unwen, who stood beside the bed, where Hild sat while her mother knelt at her feet, taking more time than anyone could possibly need to tie a pair of shoes.

Unwen met Hild’s eyes with a steady gaze, but her face revealed nothing. Hild wasn’t sure how much the slave knew.

Someone pounded on the door, making them all jump.

Her mother rose and took Hild’s hands in her own, pulling her gently to her feet.

The pounding came again.

Hild swallowed. With her mother’s arm around her, Unwen a step in front of them, they crossed the room.

At the door, Unwen paused and looked at Hild’s mother for permission. Then she opened it—directly onto a fist poised to pound again. Bragi’s fist. Warriors stood on either side of him, their weapons drawn. Garwulf wasn’t among them. For that, at least, Hild was grateful.

The skald looked Hild up and down. Then, without speaking, he stepped onto the path that led to the hall.

Hild and her mother followed a short distance behind him, the guards falling in after them. Hild glanced back to see Unwen standing beside the open door, kneading her right wrist with her left hand as if it was stiff.

She turned her face back to the path, inhaling the first fresh air she’d tasted in days. It was cold. While she’d been shut away, harvest season had ended. The sky was white and hostile. Its brightness stabbed at her eyes, making her lids flutter.

As they walked, a few curious onlookers glanced at them, but the crowd Hild had faced before was absent. She looked for Beyla but couldn’t find her. When they got to the hall, its wide doors, flanked by guards whose helmets obscured their faces, loomed before her. She didn’t need to see his face to recognize Garwulf standing stiffly at attention.
Sudden tears surprised her and she blinked them back angrily, keeping her gaze before her as she took the steps that led into the hall.

At the threshold, she stopped. She hardly needed time to allow her eyes to adjust to the inside firelight, she’d grown so accustomed to it. But she needed time nonetheless.

Her mother’s arm slipped from Hild’s shoulders to the small of her back, gently propelling her forward. “I’ll be with you,” she whispered, so quietly that Hild wasn’t sure she’d really heard it.

With her mother behind her, so close Hild could feel her warmth, she followed Bragi through the hall, where people leaned against beams and sat on the benches. They passed the tall fires, which leapt and crackled. People turned to look at Hild, but she didn’t return their glances. Instead, she kept her eyes on Bragi’s finely furred cloak and the knot of men standing near the dais. Where was the king?

As she approached the men, her mother’s hand went again to Hild’s back in a comforting gesture, as if to say,
I am here
. Instead of calming her, it made her more nervous.

Then the king broke from the crowd. He raised his head and, seeing Hild, smiled and came toward her, his arms wide and welcoming.

“Ah, here she is,” he said, sweeping a hand to her shoulder and turning back to a group of men standing near the dais. “Hild, my sister-daughter.” When he pushed her forward, his touch was gentle.

Hild stood dazed at the seeming return of the uncle she recalled from her childhood, the one who always had a kind word for her.

“My dear,” he said, looking back at her with a smile. “Greet our visitors from the kingdom of the Geats.”

She turned from the king to the three men who stepped forward, and as they bowed, she sank into a stiff curtsy, her head swimming with confusion. Had her mother or Unwen told her about these visitors when she hadn’t been paying close attention? Why was her uncle treating people from Geatland—seaweed-eaters—so courteously when the Shylfings were at war with them? Of all the feuds the Shylfings were involved in, the one with the Geats was the longest-standing, stretching back generations. Besides, they weren’t just enemies; they were country oafs. It didn’t make sense.

“And my sister, Hild’s mother,” her uncle was saying, and now, beside Hild, her mother was curtsying, too, while the visitors bowed again.

Hild looked at them, three men clad in well-worn clothing neither fashionable nor particularly clean. Two of them were young, no older than Garwulf, while the third, whose thinning hair and crow’s-feet marked his age, stood a little in front of the others. As he bowed, one of his arms seemed to dangle beside him, as if he couldn’t move it. When he rose, his eyes met Hild’s, making her bridle. What right did a mere Geatish messenger have to look her in the eye?

“Our king sends you greeting, my lady,” he said. His
voice was soft and husky, and he pronounced the words so oddly, stretching them out unnaturally, that it was hard to understand him. The messenger glanced behind him at one of the other men, who stepped forward, holding out a bag made of rich cloth. As he approached, Hild could see the moth holes scoring the fabric. The older man tugged at the bag’s string, then reached in to pull out a handsomely wrought torque. As he held it out, firelight gleamed on the necklace’s patterned gold and flashed off its inlaid rubies. It was a kingly gift. She wondered who they’d stolen it from.

The king moved to stand beside Hild and reached for the torque. “As beautiful as the necklace of the Brosings,” he said, his voice resounding throughout the hall. He turned it in his hands, holding it up so the men standing nearby could see. Then he gestured to Hild, and she realized by his movements that he meant for her to wear it.