A long silence stretched.
“Too long ago to remember clearly,” Biórr said.
Elvar knew he was lying. You were young, then, she thought. Most likely a bairn. She felt a wave of pity for Biórr, and a flush of anger at whoever could have done this to him. “When we have the wealth of Oskutree I will pay a warband a chest of silver to hunt down whoever it was who did this to you. I will make them pay.”
“No need,” Biórr said, a finality in his words that made Elvar feel like that deed was already done.
“How old are you, Biórr?” she asked him.
“I have twenty-two winters weighted across my back,” he said, and tapped her forehead. “What is happening in your thought-cage, to besiege me with these questions?” He smiled at her.
“I want to know you.”
“I think you already do,” he said, smiling again, his hand stroking her sweat-cooling belly. She shivered.
“More than that,” she said. “In other ways. Where are you from? What food is your favourite?” She paused, looking intently at him. “Who are your kin?”
He stiffened, then rolled away, on to his back. “My kin are all dead.” He sat up, reached for his breeches and pulled them back on, then searched for his tunic. “I’m hungry,” he said as he stood and looked down at her. He offered her his hand.
We all have our scars, and not all of them are etched in our skin. It was a long time before I would speak to anyone of my father, and I still do not like to talk of my mother, though she deserves to be spoken of far more than my father ever does. Elvar rolled from the ground and found her clothes, dressed quickly. Finally she slithered into her brynja and buckled on her weapons belt.
They stepped out from the cover of the carts they had been hiding within, walked through the hobbled horses and into the camp. It was night, Elvar thought, judging by the mist-like twilight that was settled about them. Wind hissed in the boughs above, bringing a chill from the north, though the fires of Eldrafell still warmed the ground, keeping it free of frost.
Biórr strode to the fire pit and spooned out two bowls of food, passing one to Elvar. She looked in the bowl and sniffed it.
There was a pad of footfalls and Grend approached.
“Hungry,” he said.
Biórr smiled at the old warrior and handed him a bowl.
“Nettle and garlic,” Biórr said, then snatched up a handful of cold oatcakes that sat at the edge of cooling stones and strode away.
Elvar nodded a greeting at Grend, then followed Biórr. She heard Grend sigh behind her, followed by the pad of his footfalls as he strode after her. For a big man he could walk lightly.
Elvar walked through the camp, men and women gathered in small groups, eating and drinking, some singing quietly, others telling tales. Sharpening weapons, stitching kit. She followed Biórr and saw that he had found Uspa. Elvar thought he always sought her out because of his guilt over her son, how he had been their guard the night Bjarn was taken. Uspa was sitting with Kráka and the Hundur-thrall, as was her way. Biórr offered them all oatcakes as he sat with his back to the trunk of a fallen tree and they took them happily. The Hundur-thrall sniffed the air.
“Soup smells good,” he said.
“It is nettle and garlic,” Biórr said, “and it is good.” He offered his bowl to the thrall, who waved a hand, declining, looking alarmed.
“You should be able to tell what kind of soup it is,” Elvar said as she joined them. “What kind of Hundur-thrall are you if you cannot smell nettle and garlic?”
“His name is Ilmur,” Biórr said, a note in his voice that made Elvar feel ashamed. She sat down, wondering why she had never thought to find that out.
Grend joined them, sat and silently slurped on his soup.
“What is wrong, Uspa?” Elvar asked the Seier-witch. Her face was drawn, eyes pinched, as if she were in pain.
She sucked in a long breath. Held it, then blew it out.
“I think we shall see Oskutree on the morrow,” she said.
Elvar almost leaped to her feet, a thrill jolting in her belly and tingling through her limbs.
“Why did you not tell Agnar this earlier?” she asked.
“Because I am not sure. It is just a feeling,” Uspa said. “Like a song in my blood. A throbbing in my skull.” She shook her head. “I may be wrong.”
“Ha,” Elvar said, looking at Grend and grinning. He regarded her over his soup spoon, then slurped some more. “You should look a little happier,” Elvar said to Grend, “and you, too, Uspa. This will be the greatest moment of our lives. To look on the great tree, on the place the gods fought hardest. Their bones…” She shook her head. “It will be a wonder.”