By now all the women have raised their cups, holding them up against one another. Only one is missing. All eyes turn to Eidunn. Finally, she raises her cup with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. All the women cheer as we smack them together in unison, making thin ale spill all over the table. We all laugh before taking a long drink. Even Eidunn grows a smile. The room brightens with her, even if she doesn’t notice. She’s reachable.
The men, noticing us enjoying ourselves, do the same, cheering before emptying their own cups. They are quickly refilled. The atmosphere in the room is lighter—everyone finds common ground when spilling ale as one.
Father’s crew did the same. Drunks holding up their cups as if they still had something to celebrate. This is different.
“Kilda,” says Ausveig, after the noise has died down. She speaks with her mouth full. I suppress a laugh. “I hear you read runes.”
“I’m a beginner, but yes.”
“Can you bless us with enchantments?”
“I was training with a Volva before I was captured. I have not mastered enchanting yet, but I will.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Eidunn paying attention to our conversation.
“Well,” says the cook. “Spending time with a Volva, surely you have learned a few tales?”
“Indeed, I have.”
“Won’t you do us a kindness? Tonight, share a story with us. Just the ladies.”
My heart glows—what a great idea. Just the women. I will gain their trust. They will be grateful. Influence.
“What a brilliant idea,” I say, beaming.
“Then it is decided,” says Ausveig.
The women around the table nod at me, eager for entertainment. Only Eidunn keeps her eyes in her bowl. She avoids eye contact. She avoids conversation. What is plaguing this poor woman? I have a role to play. On an impulse, I stand and walk around the table, leaning over Eidunn so only she can hear me.
“If you ever want to share your burden,” I say, “my ear is yours—without judgment.”
Eidunn’s shoulders twitch, as if she’s bracing for an attack instead of support. For a second, I hope to see her open up. But she just looks up at me, her brow furrowed.
“Don’t you come here thinking that?—”
“Kilda,” I hear a man behind me. Vidar. “My father wishes words.”
Eidunn stiffens, turning her face away.
“One second,” I respond, holding up a finger. “What were you saying?” I ask her.
Vidar grabs my shoulder gruffly. I had forgotten my status. I am a thrall. I am owned.
“I wasn’t asking.”
He pushes me to the door. He treats me as his father treats him. Like a child.
I can only obey.
CHAPTER 11
Rowdy. The hall is much more chaotic than the thrall room. Men are shouting, dancing, arm-wrestling. Most of them are farmers, traders, but they also look like warriors to me—much tougher than my own folk. We wouldn’t stand a chance. Some women seem entertained by the raucousness. Others try to keep a semblance of elegance, holding civil conversations.
The hall is filled with tables, which in turn are filled with bodies. Thrall girls run about, serving and cleaning. A lot of cleaning. Large hearths brighten the room. The smell of food, drink, and sweat is overwhelming. I’m not sure if it excites or disgusts me. A few men can’t sit upright—their eyes glazed like my father’s always were. Ale-mad.
I follow Vidar as he leads me along the edge of the room to the jarl’s table. It’s raised on a platform to display thosehonorable enough to sit with the chieftain. I see Thyra, stone-faced. I see Ari, a sly smile. I see a dozen faces I don’t know. Then, sitting next to Jarl Sigurd, a face I recognize. Asbjorn. My heart sinks. The weight of my crime returns.
Am I to be punished? Sweat trickles down my temple as I remember stories of how slaves are disciplined. Shaved hair. Drowning to near death. Mutilated breasts.
