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“I need to see the jurls,” Revni insisted.
The redhead smirked. “You look like you got washed in on a seaweed tide.”
The younger man beside him laughed.
Revni’s cheeks heated. These idiots were going to get everyone killed. But she knew the formalities. “I’d like to request an audience with your jurl, by the grace of Kyrianos.”
The blond gave a long, amused whistle. “Oooo, Kyrianos, eh? Better let her in, Svei. Don’t want her to rip your throat out.”
The man who was Svei pushed himself to standing. Close up, he was easily six thumbs taller than Revni, and his red beard had two long gray streaks on either side of his chin. “What do you want with my jurl?”
“I will tell him when I see him.”
His gray eyes traveled over hers, a hard scrutiny that made her stomach twitch—but also reminded her of her father. She stared back. He gave a huff, and turned away.
“Come back when you are sponsored. Or wait for the winter Council.”
Revni’s anger flashed. “He will want my news.”
“What news?” The blond’s muscles flexed as he gave a dismissive wave. “No one cares that some feather broke your heart. Cry to your mother.”
Revni’s fists clenched at her sides. “News from Lordinius. News from Isfjold. From the Dinaeii and Caerdeneii and the Sculpae. News of Aleterian ships traveling on Idi’s tide.” That got their proper attention. “I am Revni Hyldyttr, granddaughter of Gon of the Golden Scar, last surviving heir to the settlements north and west of the Snake, the land of the black soil earned in battle and trade and the surrender of the jurlssons of Eaborik. I am here under the grace of Kyrianos, and I come to take her revenge.”
The windows were open to let in the breeze, and Eaborik was splayed before her—the Aleterian square where the prefect’s house stood, the gold horns on its red roof piercing with light; the blue horizon in the distance, bows of boats dancing in and out of sight between the soft curves of low buildings.
It wasn’t an official Isfolj Council, but this was another oddity of Eaborik—jurls all meeting together in the top room of the Hall, only a few loyal soti allowed in while everyone else had to wait below. This wasn’t the way things should be done. Revni’s skin prickled. No cup was offered. No chair. Was this an audience or a trial? She had a sudden, sinking feeling that she couldn’t be sure.
“Who are you?” The man in the center had brown hair he’d shaved at the sides, one long, single braid down his back. “How do you come to Norbucum?”
“Are you the jurl of Eaborik? I hold my news for him.”
A few of the men reacted in surprise. Revni's cheeks heated.
“I am Toer Bjerson, a jurl appointed by Aleteria.” Revni’s heart sank and raced at the same time. This wasn’t how it should be. Like the longhouse—so close to being hers and yet so different as to make everything stand out. “Eaborik does not have one, single jurl, as any true Isfolj would know.”
What kind of jurl took his place through appointment? You took it at the edge of an ax—and you took if for yourself, not to be part of a group that shared it. How could decisions be made if you had to argue them? Who would take the credit or the blame before the gods?
“Who are you?” he said more sternly.
“I am here to demand vengeance.”
“For what?”
“For myself. For all the Isfolj, branded in the south. For the taking of Eaborik. This was our city, and the jurlssons gave it up. I demand we take it back.”
“Who are you to make such demands?”
They’ll gut a Gondyttr. But what choice did she have? At the repeating of her titles and her claim, she braced herself, but she was only met with murmurs and chuckles of disbelief. No blades drawn yet.
Svei held up his hand.
“No new settlers have arrived in Norbucum within the past two moons.”
She had kept a small spark of hope that Ulf and the others had come here after the failed raid—but there was the pinch, snuffed out.
“No, they wouldn’t have. We were trying to avoid Eaborik. We didn’t want to bring old arguments to new lands.”
A few of the older members nodded appreciatively, and Revni allowed herself a breath. They believed her, then.
