Peaceweaver (14 page)

Still, she’d always been far more afraid of enemy warriors than the creatures of mountain, lake, and forest, and with good reason. It was only one winter past that Helmings had surprised the kingdom. The women and children had been rushed into Gyldenseld to wait out the violence, hoping no one would torch the hall, and Hild had held a weeping Faxi on her lap, trying to comfort him, wishing her nephew’s warmth would comfort her. They had been lucky that time. Not a single Shylfing had died and the wounds had been minor, but Faxi still woke from nightmares.

Now, however, an enemy she could see, a
human
enemy, seemed preferable to the unseen creatures that might be watching her from behind the trees.

The day never brightened. The same solid gray that
had surrounded them when they left the stronghold followed the company, making it hard to tell whether time was passing. Finally, though, Hild grew certain that the light was fading and the Between Time was upon them. The evening song of a solitary bird confirmed it. Soon, she knew, Mord would call a halt.

She tensed at the sound of hooves, but it was only Hadding, back from scouting out the trail. He conferred with Mord, pointing, and Mord turned his horse in the direction Hadding indicated. The rest of them followed. As they rode, the trail narrowed and branches and underbrush began to grab at their cloaks. They splashed through a fast-running stream. Just beyond it, the woods opened out again. Mord stopped and dismounted, the signal for the others to, as well. Before she did, Hild gazed around her and saw a ring of fire-blackened stones surrounded by felled logs. It was a campsite stocked with fuel for hunting and raiding parties. Gizzur was already taking kindling from a pile near a tree to build a fire.

As Hild lowered her aching body to the ground, she realized Brynjolf was standing near her—but not too near. “Your horse, my lady?” he said, not looking at her as he reached for Fire-eyes’s reins. She searched his face, the splash of freckles across his cheeks, his nose the same snub shape as his sister’s. His jaw clenched, but he stood unmoving.

A wave of sorrow rushed over her and she dropped her
eyes. So this was how it would be: they would treat each other formally. She knew Brynjolf had no other choice, and for his sake, she would be distant, too, but it grieved her. Without looking at him again, she handed him the reins and stood with her head bowed as he led the horse away.

“My lady,” Unwen said beside her, and the urgency in her voice made Hild turn. “Perhaps you should show me how to unsaddle a horse.” The expression in the slave’s eyes mirrored her tone.

Instantly, Hild remembered the hidden blade. Unwen must know about it, too. Without speaking, they hurried after Brynjolf.

The confusion was evident on his face when they approached him. “My slave will do this,” Hild said, now glad for the formality between them, which would keep her from having to explain.

Brynjolf started to speak, then shut his mouth and bowed. He took a step back but hovered, ready to help them. She had to get rid of him.

“I’ll need some water. Would you fetch it for me, please?” she said. He nodded and turned toward the stream, stumbling in his hurry to get away. Hild felt a twinge of sympathy. This couldn’t be easy for him.

The moment he was away, she whispered, “Now, quick,” and reached for the sword hilt.

“Here, my lady,” Unwen said, holding out the blanket
that had been rolled up behind Hild’s saddle. Hild laid the sword in it and stood shielding Unwen’s body until she had wrapped the blanket around it. Then Unwen put it on the ground, and together, they unsaddled the horse.

By now, Gizzur had a fire blazing in the pit. A look of complicity passed between Hild and Unwen. Hild walked over to the fire and leaned down to warm her face and hands. She could sense Unwen’s movements behind her as the slave made beds for the two of them, unpacking bags and placing them over the blanket with the sword in it. Both the Shylfings and the Geats were busy, none of them watching Unwen with suspicion, but Hild couldn’t ease her tension.

Finally, the slave joined her beside the fire and Hild let out her breath.

“Here’s water, my lady,” Brynjolf said, coming toward them with a bowl in his hands.

“I’ll take that,” Unwen said, stepping forward. “Come, my lady, we’ll go someplace private for you to wash.” She looked at Hild with a pleading expression, urging her to do something, although Hild wasn’t sure what.

“Yes, I’d like to wash,” she said, keeping her eyes on Unwen’s.

The slave nodded. “Come, then.” She started for the woods and Hild followed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mord strode forward, glaring at the two of them.

“Just a little way into the woods, sir. My lady needs privacy,” Unwen said, her voice light. “We won’t be long.”

Hild stood silent, as pleasant an expression on her face as she could muster. She felt bone tired and wished she knew what Unwen intended. She wanted to glance back at the sword to make sure it was hidden under the blanket, but she didn’t dare.

Mord stared at them for a long minute. “No farther than twenty paces,” he said.

“Of course not, sir,” Unwen said, and gave him a smile that couldn’t have come easily to her. Hild couldn’t remember ever seeing the slave smile before. Even when Unwen laughed, her habit was to give her lips a sardonic twist.

Mord turned back to the horses, and Hild followed Unwen toward the woods. Again, they were stopped, this time by Thialfi, the Geat with the damaged arm.

“My lady,” he said in his drawling accent. He bowed, and when he raised his head, she saw the perplexed glance he threw at Mord. Then he focused on her again, and she had to struggle to understand his words. “My lady, you should have a guard.” He drew out the
you
for the space of at least three words. “These woods, this time of night—” He shook his head. “It’s not safe, my lady.”

Hild looked toward the dark trees and tried not to think of what might be hiding in them. Reminding herself that there would be seven warriors close by, their weapons at the ready, she inclined her head toward the Geat. “I thank you,
but I feel quite safe,” she lied. “Now, Unwen?” She walked past the man, who stood watching her.

Unwen followed, water sloshing out of the bowl. “Oh, dear, my lady,” she said. “Look at what I’ve done, spilling the water that way.” She shook her head. “Shall we go back to the stream and you can wash there?”

Hild understood immediately. If they could only get a little distance away, the noise of the stream water might cover their voices. She followed Unwen to a place where trees crowded around the stream.

They looked back at the campsite. The Geat was watching them. So was Mord.

“This won’t do,” Unwen said. She pulled off her cloak and held it up to shield Hild from the men’s view. “Now, my lady.”

Hild knelt on the rocks beside the streambed. The water was icy on her hands.

“Here, my lady, look in my pouch,” Unwen said, her arms spread to hold the cloak. She indicated the little leather bag that hung from her belt.

Hild shook the water from her hands and opened the flap, reaching into the pouch. Her fingers touched something cold and hard.

“Hurry, my lady,” Unwen said, casting a glance behind her.

Hild pulled the object from the pouch and gasped. It was her mother’s blue cloisonné brooch, the one Hild’s
father had given her. Hild ran her fingers over the runes that ran around the edges.

“She gave it to me for you,” Unwen said, keeping her voice low. “Splash water, my lady. Like you’re washing. And put the brooch back into my bag.”

Hild cupped water in her hands and scrubbed her face with it, hardly noticing how cold it was this time.

“After you’re there, the king will attack the Geats.”

“I know. Arinbjörn told me.” Hild splashed again.

“Your uncle has forgotten honor. Ari Frothi thinks he’ll kill you, too, because he fears your power.”

That part Hild had already started to work out, even if it was hard to bring herself to believe it. What to do about it, however, she didn’t know.

“My people live south of here. There’s a river we can follow, Ari Frothi says, if we stay with the men a few more days.” Unwen looked over her shoulder again. “Wash, my lady.”

Hild stared at her, then put her hands into the water again.

“Your mother wants me to take you there. Until then, my lady, we must act as if nothing is amiss.”

Hild nodded. Her mind was on fire. She would escape after all! Hope such as she had never needed before flooded into her. She looked up at Unwen, her eyes shining. “You’ll know when we get there?”

“I think so, my lady.” She gestured toward the camp with her head. “We should go back.”

Hild scrambled to her feet, brushing her skirt and pulling her cloak around her. The day’s weariness melted away and she felt full of strength. “Come,” she said, and led Unwen back through the dark woods toward the fire’s light.

FOURTEEN

N
OTHING IS AMISS
, H
ILD REMINDED HERSELF, TRYING TO
curb her spirits. She and Unwen had a plan! The very idea of it made the corners of her mouth twitch. Best not to let Mord see, lest her smile raise his suspicion. She set her face in a neutral expression as she and Unwen returned to the clearing.

At the fire, Hadding bent his substantial frame over the flames, roasting a bird. A pile of feathers lay on the ground beside him and bits of fluff clung to his tunic. He must have wiped his hands on his tunic, too, judging by the dirt and grease that streaked it. He was still wearing his helmet. When he glanced up at her, his eyes hard behind the helmet’s mask, Hild looked away. Yet the smell of sizzling meat made her realize how hungry she was. The day’s riding—and Unwen’s news—had whetted her appetite.

“Are you feeling refreshed, my lady?” the Geatish leader asked, approaching her.

Simple as the words were, it took a moment for Hild to untangle them. “Yes, I thank you, Thialfi,” she said. She took a seat on the log near the fire and stretched out her hands, her fingers still tingling with her secret knowledge. Across the flames, the two younger Geats crouched in front of a meal they were making, and suddenly, Hild was ravenous. She stared at the bird Hadding was cooking, at the juices dripping into the flames. Her mouth watered. Hadding pulled the roasting stick out of the fire, poked at the bird with his meaty fingers, blew on it, then crunched into it.

On the other side of the fire, one of the Geats stood and Hild saw that he, too, was watching Hadding, an odd expression on his face. Anger? Surely he hadn’t expected Hadding to share with him.

The second Geat stood and the two spoke in low voices as Thialfi joined them.

Hild tensed. Had the Geats already grasped the treachery her uncle was planning? She watched their faces but their expressions were foreign to her. What were they thinking?

Thialfi stepped around the fire toward Hadding.

Hild wished the sword Arinbjörn had given her was sheathed by her side, not hidden in the blankets several paces away. She moved forward on the log, ready to flee if a
fight broke out. Was this the moment she and Unwen were waiting for? Would the distraction of a fight allow them time to saddle Fire-eyes and the pony? The river—she didn’t know if they’d be able to find it on their own.

“Is it the custom …” Thialfi said to Hadding, who looked up from his meal, a feather hanging from his mustache. “Among the Shylfings,” Thialfi continued, “is it the custom to not offer meat to the lady first?”
Cooa-stom
, he pronounced it, holding on to the first syllable for an improbably long time.

Hadding stared, his mouth too full to speak.

Across the fire the other Geats stood watching.

A movement behind Hadding made Hild look to see Mord coming forward. He kicked Hadding’s foot, not hard, and said, “Didn’t you serve Lady Hild before you ate?” Then he turned to Hild. “My lady, accept my apologies for this hungry warrior.”

“Of course,” Hild said, not meeting Mord’s eye. He was playing along to pacify the Geats, she realized, and he expected her to do the same. There would be no fight. The tension that had gripped her body fled, leaving a deadly weariness in its place.

“Ah, I see your slave has a meal prepared for you,” Mord said as Unwen stepped up to hand Hild a bowl of dried goat meat and a piece of bread, hard-baked to last on the journey. Hild took it, her tongue still hungry for fresh fowl, her body almost too tired to chew the cold, dry meal. Dutifully,
knowing she needed to keep up her strength if she and Unwen were to escape, she ate, then let the empty bowl slip from her fingers onto the ground. Her head slumped forward to rest on her hands. The cold seeped around her, chilling every part of her body that was turned away from the fire. Her eyes closed and her mother’s face swam before her, followed by a procession of people she loved: Siri and Sigyn, her nephews and nieces, Beyla, Arinbjörn, her father, dead these many years. She dozed.

A cry sounded in the trees, high-pitched and terrible. She jerked upright. Swords rang out as men unsheathed them and stood, their weapons raised.