They had been home less than half a day, having stayed at Fellur a while to help Virk’s sons raise a barrow over their father. Afterwards Mord and Lif had welcomed them to their hearth and fed them well on salted cod and smoked salmon, but the mood had been dour. Mord had muttered oaths of vengeance and Lif had shed constant tears. By the time Orka, Thorkel and Breca left, the two boys had calmed a little, both pale and red-eyed. Thorkel had invited the young men to their steading in the hills, but they had declined. Many boats still bobbed out on the fjord, moored to the Oath Rock as the Althing continued, and Thorkel had advised the two brothers not to return to the gathering.
It was late, now, the darkness thick as oil outside, a wind soughing through the forest, and all of them were tired and hungry, after their climb into the hills and then seeing to the chores of the steading. Spert had complained vehemently that they were conspiring to starve him to death, neglecting to bring him his blood and spit-soaked porridge on time, but Breca had eventually placated the vaesen creature with a bowl twice as large as he was usually given. Spert was asleep in his small underwater cave now, satiated and swollen.
Orka picked up a wooden bowl and gave it to Breca, took some flatbread that had been warming on stones around the hearth fire and spooned some skyr and thyme on to it, then stabbed a slice of ham and placed it on the flatbread, finally pouring fried onions on top of it all.
Breca took his eating knife and skewered the ham, ripped a chunk off and stuffed it in his mouth. He made huffing noises as he tried to chew, the meat too hot.
“Have some patience. You’ll scald your belly,” Orka said to him.
Thorkel held his plate out and Orka filled it. He stroked the back of her hand as she did so, sending a warm sensation tickling into her belly. She was glad of it, because a wyrm of worry had been squirming in her gut since they had carried Virk’s corpse from the Oath Rock. She had thought it would fade once she was back in her home, away from the Althing, but instead the sensation had grown inside her, a creeping dread spreading through her veins like poison.
Orka filled her own plate, then looked down at Vesli, who was staring up at her, pointed nose twitching, a line of drool glistening from mouth to chin. With a grunt Orka nudged some of her ham and onions into a bowl and held them out for the tennúr. Tentatively the creature reached out and took the bowl, then dipped its head. There was a chewing, grinding sound, as Vesli tore through the food.
Orka frowned.
“I hate Guevarr and Jarl Sigrún,” Breca said abruptly, his eyes fierce as he blew on his hot food.
Orka was still watching the tennúr eat, its two rows of teeth slicing and grinding at an alarming rate. The bowl was empty in heartbeats. Vesli smacked her lips and licked her chin, then looked up at Orka.
“Tasty,” Vesli said. Orka just scowled, imagining her crunching through human teeth.
“Hate?” Thorkel said, raising an eyebrow, onions stuck in his beard. “Hate does no one any good,” he shrugged. “Sometimes killing has to be done, but do not do it with hate in your heart. It will eat at you, like maggots laid beneath the skin.”
“But what they did,” Breca said. “Virk won, and then they killed him. It is not fair.”
“No,” Thorkel agreed, “it is not. But Vigrie is not fair. All that can make the world fair is this.” Thorkel leaned forward in his chair and put a finger to Breca’s temple. “Your thought-cage. The choices you make. Choose to treat others fairly: you’ll sleep better for it.”
“But what about when others don’t treat me fairly, like they didn’t treat poor, dead Virk fair,” Breca said, his face screwed up in anger.
“Aye, that’s a deep-thought point for one so young,” Thorkel said through a mouthful of flatbread and skyr. “If you can walk away from a fight and keep your head and your honour, do so. Virk spoiled for a fight, and he won, you’re right. But picking a fight with your jarl’s nephew was not a deep-cunning choice. If Virk had held his tongue, or spoke with more respect and less anger, he would most likely still be breathing.”
“Did he have good teeth?” Vesli squeaked.
They all stared at the little tennúr.
“The dead do not need their teeth,” Vesli shrugged, looking at the floor, a ripple in her paper-thin wings.
Thorkel laughed.
“If I were a grown warrior, I would have helped Virk,” Breca said quietly. He looked at Thorkel. “I want to learn sword craft.”
“I prefer an axe,” Thorkel said.