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My heart, wiser than me, plunged into my empty belly. “He killed someone.” It wasn’t a far-fetched guess at all, but the instant I said it Astrid blanched afresh.
“Oh, aye.” And there it was, the shadow of fear in her dark gaze as if I had some sooth-knowledge and not simply a working head upon my shoulders. Even those who love a weirdling hold them in caution, as the proverb goes. “A son of a great House in the north. Bjorn hit him, he fell and struck his head upon a stone. There was nothing to be done.”
The bonfire staggered, or maybe I had simply closed my eyes because the disaster was, while not exactly what I had surmised, absolutely within the bounds of possibility and I should have expected it. “Which house?” Owing weregild is not a comfortable thing, and did I know who now required it I could make some guess as to what would be asked for.
“Father knows them, or so I think.” Astrid’s hands were busy at her belt; she drew forth a small package. “Bread and cheese; I toasted it myself. Ulfrica has a skin of ale and Albeig will send much more in some short while. There are guards coming as well; I told Father I would hasten here beforehand. I think Bjorn regrets his rashness, but what else could he do?”
It was the same song I had heard since birth:What else could Bjorn do?
I had a list of things which might have served him better, but it was useless. I gave Astrid the kindest smile I could manage, beckoning Arn close. My shieldmaid, of course, was very interested in the aleskin, and Ulfrica quaked as Arn snatched that coveted object.
“My lady Astrid.” My shieldmaid greeted my sister with a single chin-tip. “I was beginning to think we’d been forgotten.”
I did not quite wince. “A few swallows only, small one, then you must have some bread. Which design do the Northerners bear, Astrid? Not the ones with the rune-mark upon their armor, I hope.”Thatcaptain—Uldfang—had a hungry look. Father did not like him either, despite the courteous words exchanged when the black-clad men arrived at the greathall to lay themselves under pax-law for the festival.
A pax Bjorn had broken.
“The… the wolf-ones.” Astrid, her delivery of news and food complete, shivered and drew her cloak closer. “They are very grim, and the one Bjorn… well, he was the younger son of their great lord.”
That is not a pleasant tale.I had seen all the high-ranking travelers both North and South last night at the great welcoming feast, of course—who could not? The wolf-marked ones were dark, though a few bore gazes as clear as my mother’s, and all three groups were tall in plain but high-quality armor. They were upon some pressing business; rumor had not quite provided any believable information about what it entailed.
Father would have given me at least some intimation upon his return from the last of the Althing’s formalities, had not this disaster intervened.
“What of the Northerners? The wolf-ones?” Arn capped the aleskin with a quick motion, then accepted half the cold bread with cheese toasted onto its side. “I did not hear their House’s name, but they are from far away indeed. Almost to the Black Land.”
I suppressed a flare of irritation; the Black Land was either ancient history or a myth. Still, mentioning that blasted, cursèd place was ill done, especially so close to the newborn fire.
Astrid swayed, her eyelids half-dropping as she shivered, and I shook my head. “Take her home, Ulfrica.” Bjorn and I had scared our youngest sibling ruthlessly with tales of the far North’s monsters and the long-dead Great Enemy; she was still young enoughto shudder at such amusements. “Don’t let Father send her out again tonight, though we’ll take our dinners as soon as Albeig has time and hands to send them, thank you.”
“They’re sending guards too,” Ulfrica squeaked, and hurried my sister away past the bonfire, stopping only to bob in front of its glow as if she suspected she’d need all the luck she could gain for the rest of the evening, not to mention the year.
“Guards,” Arn muttered, tearing into her bread. I watched my sister reel away in Ulfrica’s care. Astrid, for all her fineness, was not the type to swoon or pretend some ill; she must have been overwhelmed indeed. “Finally. After you had to walk here alone.”
“I am not alone.” At least Father hadn’t sent Bjorn. I might have tipped himintothe fire for adding yet another tangle to the festival, one I would no doubt be called upon to sort in some unpleasant fashion. We would have to strip all the roof’s gilding for this. “I have my Arneior. Try to chew instead of just swallowing it.”
“Look to your own dinner, weirdling.” She laughed, turning her head slightly to gaze at the thickening line. Many had now satisfied the first bite of hunger and were coming to make god-offerings; Frestis, Kolle, and their apprentices were at their own feasting, and would not return until just before dawn. “And do not drink all the ale.”
“You were not listening.” I shivered, took a giant mouthful of bread and cheese. It tasted as fine as Fryja’s own baking, for my hunger was sharp.
“What need have I to listen, especially to their babble? You’ll tell me what it means.” She licked at her fingertips, motioning for the aleskin again. “What of the Northerners?”
“Bjorn killed one of them.” I surrendered the ale, knowing she’d leave me at least a swallow, and set myself to the rest of my bread and cheese.
My shieldmaid halted, staring at me as if she suspected some manner of jest. But though I am fond of sharp words and she had been known to make a riddle or two, neither of us prize lightsome speech. “Well,” she said, finally. “What does thatmean?”
“Some manner of weregild.” I bent to my own work, for I was hungry. The flame always needs fuel.
I was not wrong. Yet I did not guess how steep the price would be.
Arguments
The gods gave us light and the Enemy gave us war. But we mortals invented the pax, and well we did or we might be crushed between gods and the Allmother’s firstborn. Weregild is a smaller price than death, after all, and many is the marriage made in that fashion.
—Arjeson the Riddler
Agood double-hand of my father’s men arrived not long after my sister’s visit, all fully armed and armored despite the festival’s pax. All ten were all old veterans, too, none of the boys I’d grown up with. Perhaps Father meant it as some manner of signal, but I was too cold to care and the bonfire needed more supper, too. Every household had contributed to the blaze, and there were stocks enough to keep it fed until morn.
Or so we hoped. I stared at a heap of sullen coals near the fire’s foot, the scent of roasting and burnt feathers whisked away downwind. Young boys chest-puffed with the importance of their mission brought more wood, arguing good-naturedly about where to place each load.
