“An educated lying thief who tells the truth,” concludes the skald.
I step forward, standing in front of Ari.
“This form of poetry must be foreign, for I have never heard such beautiful rhymes.”
My voice drips with sarcasm—thick as honey on porridge. I realize I am speaking out of line, above my status. But the jarl roars with laughter, throwing his head back. To my surprise, I hear Ari laughing too.
“This one is trouble,” says the skald, catching his breath.
“Maybe Thyra was right,” says Jarl Sigurd. “Not all horses can be broken.”
“Riders know,” I say, “that a good bond with their horse forges loyalty. A loyal horse dies for its master. A broken horse fears the whip.”
“Well spoken,” says the jarl.
“I’m starting to like you,” says Ari, “but I feel sorry for the fool who chooses to become your master and ride you, loyal or not.”
His eyes spark—annoyance, or interest. I don’t know, but my pulse quickens. His tongue spews a viper’s venom. I’ve never met a sober man so rude. The jarl snickers, enjoying the duel of minds taking place before him.
Of course, I understand what is implied. A personal insult. He speaks of me being ridden. Even so, I decide to play Ari’s game. I turn to the skald, raising a playful eyebrow.
“One man may own a stable full of horses, and never catch up to the man who has chosen to ride a single mighty steed.”
“You must be on Sleipnir,” Ari says with a coy smile.
“Odin’s horse is the greatest mount—though not as pretty as his wife,” I say. “Unfortunately, I do not have eight legs.”
Jarl Sigurd is howling with laughter. I’m winning him over. This man’s favor will protect me, maybe even… lead to myfreedom. Hope warms my chest—I didn’t expect to feel this bold. If I can make the jarl laugh, I can make him listen. And listening might be the first crack in the chain that binds me. A slave should be loyal to her master, but my master will be loyal to me.
Ari—I’m not so sure. It’s hard to read him. He might like me and hide it well, or hate me and hide it well. His speech is sharp as a blade. Yet I stood my ground. If words are weapons, mine just drew blood.
Sigurd slaps a hand on his armrest.
“The two of you—like you have been married thirty years.”
Ari bares his teeth in a wide grin.
“I am not that fool, and I already have a strong bond with my horse.”
Narve never challenged me like this. I could say anything and he’d just smile, eager to please.
“And I, if I were a horse,” I say, eyes on the skald, “would prefer a rider who can hold on without falling.”
“And I,” says Ari, returning a fiery gaze, “know Sleipnir was born of Loki’s trickery.”
“Enough,” says Sigurd. “Enough, both of you. Most entertaining. A great show. But I did not summon you to be amused.”
Ari and I turn to the jarl. It’s strange, standing here, sparring with a skald before a jarl. You’d think I was a noble woman, not a slave. Even if I still smell of yesterday’s labor. The skald straightens his back, assuming a powerful pose. Ready for his orders.
“Please, my lord, tell us why we are here,” he says.
“I have come to an agreement with the Volva. She will make camp, with her entourage, in the forest up the mountain.”
A Volva, coming to the valley. This will either be a stroke of luck or my doom. Jarl Sigurd stands, giving his two subjects their orders. He clearly expects them to be followed.
“Kilda, you will expand on your knowledge of magic. Enchantments, rituals, lore. Your training as a Volva continues!”
Ari turns to me, a slow look of reappraisal. I can’t suppress a silly smile. He raises an eyebrow.
