“And if I do?” he asks as his eyes turn to my hand on his body.
“If you do, then don’t worry.” I turn to walk out the door, making sure my hips are swaying that little extra. “I’m not the one to pick a mangy crow over a prime ox.”
“Mangy crow, that’s a good one,” he shouts after me.
I turn and wave with a smile, practically overheating. I’m grateful to feel the cool night air brush against my neck.
“See you soon,” I shout back before leaving the building.
I move hurriedly toward the kitchen. I’m flustered at the exchange. My body is excited, vibrating. What a man. I think he likes me more than a simple fling. And yet, I am a slave girl. What jarl’s son marries a thrall? Sigurd would never allow it.
I shake my head to clear it. I need to fetch water for the kitchens, then repair some furs, then I can rest. I’ll be needing it. Two nights and my training begins. I’ve been repressing it. I can’t let nerves dominate my life.
A different Volva than Groa? How will she be? Groa was fair and loving, even if strict. This witch could be another story. I wonder what kind of Seidr she performs. I’ve heard of darker types than the intent-based magic Groa taught me. Types that can scar the mind, scar the soul. Blood magic.
I’m not interested.
I stop in thought, looking up to the mountains pressing out of the forest. The waterfall barrels down the side of a sharp cliff, its sound thundering across the valley. Funny how I barely notice its crashing roar, and yet it’s always there, shaking the air around me. We remain ignorant of what is constant. I will walk through these woods soon, to find my new teacher. Walk with Ari, the mangy crow. The bastard.
“Kilda,” a harsh whisper hits my ear. “Kilda!”
My heart is a horse, hammering its hooves against my ribs. Speak of the wolf and he’s at your door, they say. And here he is—the poet.
“Ari?” I whisper, not quite sure why we are not speaking in our normal voices.
He approaches me quickly, appearing from the cluster of houses where his own stands.
“I’ll be brief,” he says, moving dark hair out of his eyes. He is wearing a loose linen shirt. Feeling heated after my exchange with Vidar, I let my eyes greedily roam Ari’s body. He isn’t a mountain like Vidar, but there’s more there than I’d given him credit for. Lean muscle, clearly defined. The bastard’s been hiding it under his dark leather. I hadn’t known. For whatever reason, I had just imagined him as weak, wiry, frail.
“Go on, skald,” I say as I redirect my gaze.
“Meet me tonight, a while after everyone is sleeping.”
“Meet you? At night? What for?”
A nervous laugh escapes me. It’s hard to take him seriously. What silly girl meets a man after dark? A skald, no less. Known scoundrels. He must imagine me to be some cheap traveler trollop. Or some wide-eyed naive girlie.
“Nothing bad, I promise. Come to the Stabbur.”
“The storehouse? Why would?—”
“Just come,” he whispers as he stalks off.
I’m left alone. Meet Ari in the dead of night? For what? Probably the inscription on his house. Or perhaps our coming trip to the Volva. In any case, I’m intrigued—even if every rule of honor or common sense says I should deny the invitation.
A tingle spreads in my stomach as I consider his proposal.
I will go.
But meeting a man alone under the moon? Risky business.
I will bring my knife.
CHAPTER 17
It’s dark out, or rather, it’s darker. The night is whiter here than it is farther south where my people spend most of their time. My people… no more. A dusky white light highlights shadows on every surface, giving the world a blue tint. Everything is visible, yet coated in a layer of mystery.
Knowing my dagger is safely tucked in my pouch, I walk briskly toward our meeting place. The stabbur is large, lifted off the ground by crisscrossed logs, to keep out both dampness and animals. Steps of stone lead to its door.
