Peaceweaver (7 page)

Then the pain in her elbow stopped and a gentle arm slipped around her and a scent she knew and loved filled her nostrils. Her head fell to her mother’s shoulder, and even though she didn’t hear the words her mother was saying, relief washed around her as if she were waking from a nightmare. She slipped into darkness.

When she opened her eyes, she was in her own cabinet bed, carved cats chasing mice in an endless procession around the wooden trim. The bed’s doors hung open and firelight cast shadows on its ceiling. Hild lay silent, listening, wondering. Something had happened, but she couldn’t remember what, or why she was in bed when the fire was still dancing on the hearth. Her head pounded. Had she been ill?

A movement made her turn. It was her mother, crossing the room to look down at her, her face grave, one finger on her lips, warning her to silence. Why?

Hild gazed across the floorboards to the loom beside the door. Her loom—she had been working at it when Arinbjörn had come looking for her.

Remembrance came flooding back, and she looked at her mother. Without thinking, she opened her mouth to speak.

Her mother’s hand came down quickly, gently, cool fingers covering her lips, quieting her. She held Hild’s eye until Hild nodded that she understood she was to remain silent. Then her mother walked toward the closed door and stood listening. Seeming satisfied, she moved back to Hild, silently pulled the stool to the bedside, and sat, looking into the bed frame as if it were a window into Hild’s world. “Tell me,” she breathed, her finger to her lips again.

“Arinbjörn,” Hild whispered. “Is he all right?”

Her mother nodded.

Hild stared into her mother’s dark eyes, at the golden flecks of firelight illuminated in them, at the creases in the skin around them. “They were going to kill him.”

Her mother said nothing.

“I—I knew they were, I don’t know how.”

Did her mother believe her? Hild couldn’t tell.

“The red-haired man. His dagger—the blade was poisoned.” Hild blinked in surprise. How had she known that? She didn’t remember knowing it before, but now it was a certainty. The fire snapped and she looked up at the bed’s ceiling, at the twisting pattern, lines interlaced like a slave girl’s braid, carved into the wood. Where they met the trim, the lines turned into cats’ tails.

Her mother exhaled; it was the loudest sound she’d
made since Hild had woken. “Your grandmother was a far-minded woman.”

Hild looked at her. Of course her grandmother had been far-minded; everyone knew the stories about her. But what did her grandmother, dead long before Hild was born, have to do with her?

“Her grandmother was, too. So they say.” Her mother touched the fine wool blanket, smoothing its ridges and valleys into a flat plain. “I’ve wondered if you might be.”

“Me?” Her voice squeaked and she followed her mother’s gaze to the door. Nothing happened. Her voice lower than a whisper, she spoke again. “Me? Far-minded?”

Her mother nodded. “Even when you were a little thing, you showed signs of it. Do you remember how you used to stroke your aunt Frea’s stomach? Before even she knew she was with child?”

Hild shook her head. She could barely remember her mother’s youngest sister, who had died when a fever had swept through the kingdom.

“No, you were too young. But when your father was killed …”

Hild closed her eyes. That, she did remember. She’d been nine winters old when her father had ridden out on a border patrol. He was to be gone for weeks, but the third day after he’d left, Hild had thrown herself onto her parents’ bed, crying inconsolably. She hadn’t known why, but she
still remembered the terror and emptiness that had overtaken her. Her mother, her sisters, Aunt Var—all had tried without success to comfort her. Two days later, his men had brought her father’s body home.

But why shouldn’t the gods have told her about her father? As a late baby whose siblings were almost grown when she was born, Hild had been his favorite, his constant companion, his gift from Freyja to care for him in his old age. Young fathers had no time for their children, but Hild’s father, old enough to be her grandfather, hadn’t needed to prove himself anymore. He’d had time to make her laugh, to teach her to wield a sword, to show her squirrel and field mouse tracks in the snow. She hardly needed to be far-minded to know that he had died.

But how else could she explain what had happened today? She looked at her mother.

“It can be a blessing and a burden,” her mother said. “Your grandmother didn’t always understand the gods’ messages. She said that sometimes they were clear as a winter day.” She ran her fingers lightly over Hild’s forehead, pushing a few stray hairs into place. “But sometimes, she said, it was like staring into muddy water.”

“Today,” Hild whispered, “it was clear. I knew the moment I saw them.”

Her mother nodded. “Your uncle will understand. After all, it was Mother’s far-mindedness that told us he would be king.”

Hild knew the story—the skalds sang it often enough. The youngest of four brothers, Ragnar could hardly have expected to become king. But his mother—Hild’s grandmother—had known from the moment he was born, and she’d raised him to expect it, too. Hild had always thought of it as a good story, but she’d seen it from her uncle’s point of view. Now, with a flash of realization, she saw what it had meant for her grandmother: if she’d known her youngest son would be king, she’d also known her three older sons would die before him. She raised her eyes and her mother met her gaze with a look of sympathy, as if she knew where Hild’s thoughts tended.

“It can bring you great honor,” she whispered. “But it can be a heavy load.” She reached for Hild’s hand and took it between her own. A log shifted on the fire and popped, sending up a little shower of sparks. “We’d best tell your uncle.”

After Hild had emerged from the cabinet bed and smoothed her skirts, her mother worked the comb through her tangled hair, the touch of her fingers calming Hild. Her mother retied the knot at the nape of her neck and smoothed the hair that fell down her back. Then, giving Hild a reassuring nod, she led her to the door.

Two fully armed warriors were standing outside, masked helmets hiding the top halves of their faces, spears in their hands. As Hild’s mother opened the door, the spears came down to form a barrier. Hild’s lips almost quirked into a
smile at the way she and her mother both squared their shoulders at the same time—but her smile fled as soon as she saw the grim set of the warriors’ mouths and remembered why she was here.

“My daughter will see the king.” Hild’s mother’s voice held quiet authority. “You will take us to him now.”

Both men straightened and bowed. Holding her breath, Hild followed her mother, stepping between the two soldiers, who fell into place just to the edges of her line of sight.

It was the Between Time, the day more dark than light, when birds would be settling into their nests, and mothers putting sleepy children to bed. Yet in the dusk ahead of her, a group of children and slaves crowded beside the lane to the hall. She looked at them curiously, wondering what they were doing out at this time of day, before realizing they were watching her and whispering to each other. Of course. They must have heard that she’d killed the Bronding, but they didn’t know why. They didn’t know how close the kingdom had come to losing the heir to the throne.

Did Beyla know? She was still with her granny, but surely someone had told her.

At Freyja’s temple, a group of women stood in the doorway, watching silently. The two nearest her—Groa, her cousin’s wife, and Jord, who had taught Hild a complicated knot to use in her weaving—looked away when Hild glanced at them. It wasn’t their fault, she told herself;
they didn’t know what had happened. She focused straight ahead, wishing she didn’t feel so rattled.

Outside the hall, another crowd awaited them, men, women, and children trying their best to see inside the wide hall doors, their faces dark shapes in the twilight. The sight of a little boy jumping up and down repeatedly in a vain attempt to see over the broad backs of the three men blocking his view made a bubble of laughter form in her chest—until she remembered. She had killed a man.

At the broad doors of Gyldenseld, hall guards pushed people out of the way with their spear butts. Garwulf was one of them—he must have had only a few hours of rest before returning to duty. Hild looked at him, hoping for a hint of acknowledgment. He wouldn’t think it proper to recognize her while he was standing guard, she knew, but it wouldn’t hurt just this once, would it? Angrily, she turned her gaze away.

Her mother, a half step behind her, gave Hild’s fingers a squeeze.

Then they entered the hall.

Flickering torches lined the walls, and in the long pit that stretched up the center of the structure, all the fires had been lit. Smoke rose to the holes in the thatch high above. Past the banners and beams and mead benches lining the long tables on either side of the fire pit, men crowded around the dais. Someone must have signaled to them, because as Hild tried to calm herself, they turned to look at her, their
faces half red, half shadow in the light of the flames. Silence fell.

Suddenly, a sense of unfamiliarity gripped her, as if the hall where she’d spent her entire life, where she’d played as a child and grown into a young woman, where everyone knew and respected her, were a foreign place. As if she no longer belonged here. Cold air collected around her, fingering at her neck. Somewhere outside a dog barked. Another answered it.

Hild took a deep breath and started forward. As her feet touched the wooden hall floor, the sensation left her and she began to feel at home again, despite the unusual hush. Her shoes barely made a sound on the floorboards—her skirts whispered more loudly. She stared ahead at the group of men and held her spine straight, her head high, willing herself not to look at people’s faces. Not to look for Arinbjörn.

Where was he? She didn’t remember seeing him after … She closed her eyes to erase the memory of the expression on his face, the look he’d given her.

She wished he would step out from the crowd to walk beside her, but neither he nor anyone else did. No matter: soon he would know the truth and everything would be as it was before.

She reached back for her mother’s hand, but her fingers met air. She stiffened. There was no one behind her. She was on her own.

Ahead of her, her uncle stepped out of a circle of men to stand directly in front of his throne. Bragi positioned himself just to the side and a little behind the king. As she neared them, she steeled herself, narrowing her focus. None of the men who lined the way to the dais—not even Arinbjörn, wherever he was, and certainly not Bragi—mattered in this moment. She had eyes only for her uncle, the king.

She sidestepped the fire pit and wove around a long bench, careful not to waver in her gaze. She didn’t need to look down to find her way, so familiar was the hall to her feet. She remembered to avoid the board that always creaked, and approached the long tables where the king’s hearth companions ate their meals. Once she was clear of them and in the wide expanse before the dais, she could hear someone’s wheezing breath. Somebody coughed. Men stood on either side of her, watching her, but she blanked them all from her mind and kept her focus on the steps to the dais.

Reaching it, she stopped and sank into a curtsy, not all the way to the floor with lowered head, as would befit a supplicant, but halfway down and then up again, her eyes never moving from her uncle’s face.

She swallowed, trying to wet her dry tongue. Then, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack, she spoke without waiting for permission. “Ragnar, King. Your mother, my grandmother, was a far-minded woman. She foretold that you would rule.”

No one spoke. The king regarded her impassively. Never had he been so good at wiping all emotion, all judgment from his expression. She wished he would give her the barest hint of what he was thinking.

Then she realized he had—by not stopping her from speaking.

She took a shaky breath. “Her grandmother, it is said, was also far-minded.”

Again, no one reacted.

“My lord.” The muscles in her neck stretched impossibly taut. “Ragnar, King, I, too, am far-minded.”

From the rustle of clothing and the creaking of floorboards, she knew that the men who weren’t still staring at her were turning to see the king’s reaction.

There was nothing to see. He held her eyes, again shielding all his thoughts from her.
Say something!
she wanted to shout into the silence.

Footsteps sounded behind her, the light patter of a woman in slippers walking quickly. Hild flinched as her mother’s hand touched her shoulder.

“It’s true, my lord. My daughter is far-minded.”

The king took a step forward. Almost imperceptibly, the men standing nearest him moved back. “Far-minded Hild may be. Nevertheless, a visitor to my kingdom, a Bronding nobleman, is dead.” His gaze seemed to bore into Hild, but she kept herself from looking down or even blinking. “What do you have to say to that?”

“My lord,” she said, her voice low but steady. “The Bronding nobleman was planning to kill your son.”

“That’s a lie!” a man said, pushing his way forward. His words served to unloose the tongues of all the other people in the hall, and in the noise, Hild watched him, recognizing him as one of the companions of the Bronding who had tried to murder Arinbjörn.

The king raised his hand. Immediately, the voices quieted.

Hild watched her uncle’s face. Did he believe her?

“Whether or not it is true is not my question,” he said to the Bronding, who scowled. Then the king turned to Hild. “If, by some power of far-mindedness, you knew the man’s intentions, why did you not call for the guards?”

“There wasn’t time, my lord.”

“They were within shouting distance.”

She stared at him. Hadn’t he understood? She had saved his son’s life. The life of the atheling, the heir to the throne.

“As you say,” her uncle continued, “my mother was a far-minded woman. Yet she gave her knowledge to the king. He decided what to do with it. She didn’t kill men she suspected of murderous intent.”