Page 57 of Lord of Fire and Ice

The younger women chuckled in agreement, and Katla laughed along with them. For once, Brandr’s slave collar wasn’t even mentioned. His universally appreciated maleness was the only issue.

Her body tingled with the awareness until she remembered Brandr wouldn’t share her bed again that night. He’d leave as soon as she struck off the iron.

She willed herself not to care. This was the only way to best Finn at his own game.

But since she had all her women together and out of earshot of any man, she couldn’t resist asking, “Have any of you ever known inn matki munr?”

“The mighty passion?” Gerte said. “What’s mightier than a fine man’s thing?”

Giggles burst out again, but once they subsided, Gerte began speaking again.

“I never had the pleasure of inn matki munr myself, but I knew one who did. Once,” the old woman said. “’Tis a rare thing, you see, that kind of soul bonding. Scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Could they really speak to each other without voice?” Katla wondered.

“Ja, they could. It was my grandmother and grandfather. That’s how I know of it,” Gerte said, enjoying the rapt attention of the other women. “And it mattered not how distant they were from each other. She could hear him, and he her.”

“Truly?”

Gerte nodded sagely. “But I think she’d have wished not to be blessed with it at the end. His ship capsized, and she had to listen to him drown, though he was half a world away. She was never the same after that. I think she died a bit with him.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the moisture condensing on the ceiling, pattering down on the slate floor. Then Gerte clapped her gnarled hands together.

“But we’ve a bride to prepare, so let us be merry,” she said.

Katla’s women hustled her back into the longhouse and gathered in her chamber to put the finishing touches on her finery. She was draped with her best amber and silver jewelry. Gerte brushed her dark hair till it shone.

Last of all, Katla selected the key that opened the largest of her trunks, the one that held her most prized possessions. From this, she drew out her father’s sword.

It was crafted from Spanish steel, and the hilt was crusted with amber and carbuncle. Katla drew the sword from its ornate baldric and tested the edge against her thumb. A bead of bright blood appeared. The blade was still sharp.

She’d not seen the sword since she gave it to Osvald during their wedding. By rights, it should have accompanied him in his soul-boat burial mound, but she couldn’t bear to part with her last link to her father. Instead, she’d returned the short sword Osvald had given her during the ceremony. If he thought that stunted blade adequate for a bridal gift, Katla reasoned it should be sufficient for his needs wherever his spirit wandered in the other worlds.

Gerte took her father’s sword from her and balanced it across a tablet-woven cushion. The old woman would carry it for her to the place prepared for the ceremony.

There was no way to avoid offering the blade to Brandr. It was tradition. Her first duty as a wife was to present her husband with a sword. Offering her father’s sword was ripe with meaning for a couple truly committing to each other. Since she still had her father’s weapon, it would be considered a grave insult to withhold it. Katla wondered if she’d be able to barter for her father’s blade back after this sham of a ceremony was ended.

If the blade had rested with Osvald, at least she’d have known where it was. Brandr wasn’t called “the Far-Traveled” for nothing. He might take her father’s sword to Jondal or Novgorod or Iceland. She’d never see it again. Or him.

“’Tis time, my lady,” Gerte said gently. “Your bridegroom awaits.”

Chapter 20

Katla led the way out of the longhouse. Finn was waiting to escort her to her wedding. He cast her a lopsided grin that seemed vaguely apologetic.

“I see you’re wearing your best tunic and newest trousers,” she said as she took his arm. “Have a care, or people will think you’re turning into a terrible peacock.”

Finn wasn’t usually vain, but he’d taken special pains with his appearance this day, combing and braiding his hair in ornate plaits. He smelled of Katla’s lavender-scented soap, and his cheeks above his beard had been scrubbed so hard they were still ruddy. But Finn didn’t appreciate Katla’s drawing attention to his clean habits, lest others considered him effeminate. Norse men feared very little, but being thought less a man was at the very top of that short list.

“It’s tradition. I must be seen to do you honor, sister,” Finn said gruffly. Then he covered her hand with his and squeezed as they walked toward the circle of smooth stones. He leaned toward her and softened his tone. “I know you don’t think so, but I truly do want to see you happy.”

“Ha,” she said softly, conscious the eyes of all were upon them. “You’re more concerned about the bridal price than anything, and we both know it.”

“Ja, when I started this, that was true. Einar and Haukon have made some bad choices. All right, me too, come to that,” Finn admitted. “I needed to figure a way for us to get a fresh start. When Gormson first approached me, I thought I’d found it, but I didn’t know how I’d be able to convince you to take his offer. You never seem to need anybody.”

Katla blinked hard at that. If he only knew the times she felt lost and alone. So many people depended upon her that she didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in her own needs.

A large contingent followed Katla up the gentle slope, but most of the guests, her neighbors as well as members of the household, had gathered around the circle of stones, jostling for the best view. After all, it wasn’t every day a well-born lady wed a thrall. This was a wonderment worth an elbow or two to the ribs to secure the best vantage point.