“Let her speak,” says the jarl, holding up a hand to his daughter.
“I can… uh…” I sniffle. I’m not sure what to answer. I’ve only cleaned my own clothes, father’s at times, when he vomited on himself or worse. I haven’t learned to clean a house. The times I tried keeping our carriage, Father would ruin it shortly after. If I am brutally honest with myself, I’m a horrible cook. Groa taught me—so I know herbs, I know runes, I know… It dawns on me. Of course.
“Groa was training me as a Volva. I am an enchantress.”
The jarl purses his lips, nodding slowly, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Is that so?”
I nod. A little lie. I am not an enchantress just yet, but I know the basics. I just need to perform. Just once. Then I can keep growing. Freya, bless me now. Let this happen. Please. Light my path.
“She looks more like a slave to me, a bad one at that. Only fit for sacrifice,” says the jarl’s daughter. Her smile is gone. A pit forms in my stomach. I’m not sure she’s joking. Sacrificed. Offered to the gods in some brutal fashion. Why does this living Valkyrie already hold a grudge against me?
“Not surprising, Thyra, that your eyes see a slave. She has a shackle around her neck,” says a deep voice.
A man steps out from the corner behind me. He was there all along, in the shadows. An unusual elegance in how he moves—masculine, not effeminate. His presence commands the room. I can’t look away.
“Even the Golden Giver is of the Vanir, and held prisoner by the Aesir,” he says. “And we all know Fenrir, Chained by Gleipnir, will break his shackles in the final days.”
“We may be like the Aesir,” snorts Thyra, “but surely you don’t claim this…thingbefore us is Freya?”
“It was a kenning, my lady, a metaphor.”
“Most men I know speak directly,” she responds.
“Most men aren’t skalds,” says the skald. A poet. His dark hair falls down beyond his shoulders, glowing yellow in the torchlight. Small braids with silver beads frame his handsome face. A smile shows in his full but well-kept beard.
He’s a full head taller than me, larger than Narve, but not enormous like Vidar or Asbjorn. Not imposing or threatening.
“If you want it said directly, my lady, I mean that both fair woman and beast can find themselves in chains. But I stand with you. I would not trust a thief to tell the truth.”
He glides to the center of the room without acknowledging me. A poet who speaks ill of me while denying my presence. I’ve heard most skalds were self-absorbed piss buckets. He proves the point. The jarl clears his throat.
“The girl recognized Yggdrasil when she walked in. I heard her whisper the world tree’s name.”
“Who wouldn’t know an image of Yggdrasil?” says Thyra.
“I have to agree with Thyra, my lord. Even slaves know of the World Tree,” says the skald. “Let her prove herself.” My eye twitches. “Answer me this, thrall girl.”
He turns to me, and despite everything I’ve survived, he makes me feel ill-prepared. I am rugged, dirty, unwashed. My hair is ruffled and messy. I have sweated from anxiety. I have cried from sorrow. How many times have I fallen to the ground? My dress is ruined, at best. My neck is chafed, raw. The worst first impression possible.
By any right, I should not care what this well-preened and charming skald thinks of my appearance. And yet, dignity, pride, respect. They all course through my veins. I am human, even after my freedom has been robbed.
I look into his cold blue eyes, holding his gaze. Thrall girl?
“My name is Kilda,” I say.
Everyone in the room laughs except the skald. Heat floods my face. The jarl shakes his head.
“Are you sure about this gift, Vidar?” says Thyra, “Not all horses can be broken.”
I had wanted this woman to like me. She’s so impressive. Thyra may look like an Aesir, but she is a Jotnar, a troll. At least on the inside. I want to attack her, test her. She may be stronger, larger, but on my grave—I am faster, nimbler. I hold my tongue now, but I will make sure of one thing.
Thyra will learn some manners. Some damned respect.
“Thrall girl Kilda, then,” says the skald with a smile. “Tell me, the runes on Mjolnir—what do they say?” He points at the metal hammer hanging among the shields.
I turn to the jarl. Playing his strings is the best strategy. If he views me highly, I am protected.
