“What for?”
“To eat, some light drink, a story or two.”
“A feast for the slaves?”
“Just a stew, and some light ale.”
“What is your goal with this?”
“Since I have arrived in Opdal, I have slept in the same room as them. I hope to prevent any jealousy by having them warm my new house with laughter.”
Sigurd raises his eyebrows, nodding his head slowly.
“Very impressive,” he says. “You have the makings of a leader, Kilda. A true Volva.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You may invite the girls to your quarters and take the food and drink that you need. But Kilda…”
It’s hard to control my excitement. A large grin splits my face as I meet his eyes. But he is not smiling. He is dead serious as he speaks.
“I expect your loyalty,” he says.
I drop to my knees and bow my head, grateful for this opportunity to bond with the girls. He needs to see submission. Trust is built on gestures like this.
“Until death, my lord.”
Or, at least, until I am released.
“Is this an oath?” he asks with a snort.
“On my honor.”
Sigurd is silent. Unable to resist, I raise my eyes and meet his gaze. A smirk is on his face. The face of a man who rules others. A man who believes a thieving slave’s word.
I wouldn’t betray Sigurd. He is fair. But how can he possibly?—
“Your word is bond. I accept. Raise yourself, my Volva.”
He stands, gesturing to the door behind his throne. I take quick steps to catch up, dwarfed behind him. These Opdal men—a special breed. It’s easy to tell where Vidar gets his size from.
“Today,” he says. “You enter where very few have been before.”
The throne room is so plush. I’m expecting Sigurd’s personal quarters to be even more impressive. I’m expecting rare, exotic pelts, amber, gold, tapestries the size of ships. Opdal is wealthy. It’s only right its jarl lives in splendor.
“Come in.”
As I step over the threshold, my jaw drops. I’m… disappointed.
“Not quite what you were expecting, perhaps?” says Sigurd with a chuckle.
The room is practically bare. A bed in the corner, no better or larger than mine, is covered in furs that have aged visibly. There is nothing along the walls, just a door across the chamber. The space is dominated by a table, uncarved. A single wind-eye sits high on the wall, allowing smoke to escape from the humble fireplace under it.
I’m speechless. My own quarters are more lavish than this.
“No, but… my lord?—”
“When my wife was alive, Kilda, this room reflected her beauty,” says Sigurd with his back turned. “Now, it’s a reflection of my life without her.”
