“It’s an invitation. To the Jotnar.”
“Impossible,” cries Thyra.
“It says what it says,” I snap back.
“So what does it say?” asks the jarl.
Gods protect us. Those who believe—they know. A pulse ripples from the runes, like they are alive. A shimmer the eye can’t capture. My mind wanders briefly. Flickering legends ride by.
The roots dig deep for their grip. Where the wells fill. The Norns, oracles of destiny—they foretold it all. The hammer seems gloomy now, its polished shine only a cover. I know what is coming. The veil is thinning.
An icy finger traces my spine. The cold ones return.
It says “Giant.”
CHAPTER 7
The sun beats down on my neck, forcing sweat from every part of my body. Every fold of skin is leaking. But I am not complaining. I was allowed to sleep as long as I wanted. The hammer’s bite drained me—on top of the long journey here. Even so, waking so late left a sour knot of shame in my belly. They had eaten, washed, and worked for several hours by the time I opened my eyes. Thralls get beaten for less.
A hearty meal had been shoved in my hands by the silent rotund woman from the day before. Steaming porridge, speckled with tiny strawberries. The smell had made my mouth water. Even though she still hasn’t spoken to me, her lip lifted slightly when she set a bowl of salt flakes in front of me. I think she likes me. I will force her to, by charm alone.
A magpie swoops down and lands not far away, keeping a curious eye on me. I swing my arms at it, shooing it from theberry patches. Birds love to snatch the little rows of red berries, even when they are still sour.
The golden-haired woman I saw with the two girls yesterday has been assigned to show me around. I am to help her with her daily tasks—feeding animals, cleaning, and now weeding. Tossing her a glance, I hook my fingers around a shoot and wrench it free from the base of a redcurrant bush.
Her name is Eidunn, and though she isn’t openly hostile, she keeps a wide chasm between us. A frigid mask to push me away. She greets other people the same way. It’s just how she is. I sense she’s guarding something—a sadness she fears might escape if she starts sharing. Her eyes give it away. It’s like they are hollow. I hope she will open up to me eventually.
“Only two dozen left,” I joke, tossing a glance down the rows of berry bushes. We have only weeded four so far, and have to clear two entire rows. How long will I be hunched over like this?
“Right,” she answers. No fun.
She wears a dark brown dress, a loose fit that hides her figure. For being such a pretty girl, I’m surprised she doesn’t put more energy into her appearance. She could find a husband within the week.
“Thanks for the dress,” I say, trying to keep a light tone. “It’s the finest one I’ve had.” It really is. High-quality wool. Though it had no dyes, I was still given the choice between brown, dark gray, and light gray. I went for light gray. Darker colors attract the sun’s heat, and besides, gray is Odin’s color.
“I’m not the one who made it,” she says without raising her gaze.
Eidunn’s mood is a rainy cloud, but I feel merry. I can’t help it. I was even given linen undergarments, a shirt, and underskirt. How silly am I—made a slave, yet happy for a new dress. But how they treat me gives me hope. Good food, good clothes, my own bed. Horror stories abound about how farmers mistreatslave girls. Beatings, hard labor with little rest, nightly visits without the wife knowing. I shiver at the thought. I would rather die, dragging an abusive farmer with me to the grave.
“How long have you been here?” I ask her.
Eidunn stands abruptly.
“You talk a lot for a thrall,” she snaps before stomping off to a bush farther off. Guess it’s best to back off, give her time to warm up to me. I stand to wipe my brow, watching Eidunn tear at the earth.
Two small shapes storm in our direction. Their loose hair glitters in the sun, bouncing with every step, bright like stars. A beautiful sight. I smile as they approach. I’m happy anyone wants to talk to me, even if they are children.
“Hello there,” I say.
“Greetings,” says the older one—maybe ten years old. “You’re the new slave.”
The word lands like a gut punch. I haven’t even been here a day, so slave is not how I would describe myself. I am a traveler. I will be a Volva. Still, I’d better lie low for the moment.
“Uh… right, my name’s Kilda,” I say.
“Mamma says you’re trouble,” says the younger girl, with the soft R of small children.
“Does she?” I ask, genuinely intrigued.
