Signy gave her a baleful look, but didn’t argue.
Gunnhild soared upward and beat her wings to hold a safe position above the ship. Come on, Father. The fog is gone. Come and help your neighbors—
But a flurry of activity caught her attention: Two birds were fighting in the air above them. Like Gunnhild—and the fox—each had a gossamer thread extending from its chest. One was a massive brown eagle Gunnhild had never seen before, but the other was a crow she knew well.
Heid! she cried, hurtling toward her mentor.
Save yourself, child, said the old witch with a calm belied by the frantic beating of her wings, the patches of feathers missing, the scratches and blood visible on her exposed skin. Go!
Gunnhild had never been particularly good at following orders.
She whooshed past Heid and slammed into the eagle with the full force of her small body, channeling every bit of her power and will into knocking the other witch out of the sky. The impact sent both birds spiraling before they stopped midair and righted themselves.
Heid hovered nearby, panting. Gunnhild could tell that they needed to get home and soon, but it was safer for them to stay together. She stole a last glance over her wing as the ship passed into the strait. More movement from her father’s island, but still no ships. They’d be too late.
I’m sorry, Signy, Gunnhild thought to herself. I’ll find you. I promise.
She turned her attention back to the fight.
How dare you interfere in our business? said the eagle, whose human eyes were a flat, pale gray, her voice gravelly. Who do you think you are?
It’s her. Gunnhild. The fox was below them, paddling through the water, her little white head bobbing up and down. Kill her.
The eagle rocketed forward and had the swallow in her talons before Gunnhild could react. But then Heid dove—not for the eagle but for its thread, which she clutched in her beak and yanked. The eagle squawked, thrown off balance, and released Gunnhild. And before the larger bird could regain herself, Heid took off toward land, dragging the eagle behind her.
Gunnhild darted after them. Heid! What are you doing?!
Katla! the fox cried.
The eagle screeched as she was hauled along, flapping uselessly; she might have been bigger, but Heid was clearly the more powerful witch of the two. Truce, you old hag! I yield!
But Heid didn’t stop until she reached the woods, where she wove her way purposefully between trunks and limbs. By the time Gunnhild arrived, the old witch had managed to subdue her opponent: The eagle was suspended between two trees, hopelessly tangled in her own thread.
Gunnhild found the crow resting on a branch. When Heid saw her, she said weakly, That should keep them busy for a while.
Will you be all right? Gunnhild asked, landing beside her teacher.
Thorbjorg! Help me! the eagle cried as she struggled.
We must go. Heid took to the air again.
Gunnhild looked back toward the water one last time: The ship was nowhere in sight, and the fox had dragged its sopping body to shore. She met Gunnhild’s eyes and bared her little teeth in a snarl that gave Gunnhild the visceral impression that this was not the last time their paths would cross.
Then Gunnhild tore her gaze away and flew upward, and as the crow and swallow cleared the treetops, the fox and eagle were lost to view.
* * *
—
THEY FLEW FOR QUITE some time, mountains and valleys and forests passing below them, for they were a very long way from home.
Around nightfall, Heid suddenly listed sideways and began to fall. Panicked, Gunnhild followed her, grabbing her teacher’s thread in her talons and hauling her along as best she could.
But Gunnhild was mentally exhausted, and it was beginning to manifest in her swallow.
Leave me, girl, Heid croaked.
I won’t, Gunnhild said. We’re so close.
They managed to make it to the edge of the clearing where the cottage lay before Gunnhild’s strength gave out and the swallow and crow crashed to the underbrush. Heid did not move after they hit the ground.
The swallow skittered forward across the clearing and slipped through the cracked door of the cottage before flying up and into the back of a young woman with auburn hair, who sat very still atop a stool in front of a dying hearth fire, a wooden distaff in one hand—the staff that had, until that moment, anchored her thread, keeping her body and her bird-self joined—and an earthenware cup on the floor at her feet.
Gunnhild’s eyes snapped open the moment her mind rejoined her shape. She dropped the distaff and scrambled around to the other side of the fire, where Heid had tipped off her stool and lay as still as the crow outside, her own staff clutched tightly in her hand. The witch had become even smaller over the past twelve winters, her frame thinner and her teeth fewer in number, with only a few wisps of white hair remaining on her head.
But the old woman was still breathing, and Gunnhild noted with relief that Heid’s iron staff still had its thread attached, extending out through the door and into the crow in the clearing. It shimmered like a spiderweb catching the sunlight.
Gunnhild staggered into the clearing and scooped up the crow, then went back inside and put it atop Heid’s chest. Once the bird had been reabsorbed into the witch, Gunnhild picked her up as carefully as she would an infant and slid her onto the rickety bed pallet to examine her. Heid’s wounds reflected those inflicted upon her in her crow form and they were much deeper than Gunnhild had thought, though not deep enough for stitches. But Heid was already so fragile.
Gunnhild grabbed a healing salve from their stores, smeared the green paste onto Heid’s wounds, and arranged the musty furs around her. Then Gunnhild crouched on the packed-earth floor of the cottage and grabbed her mentor’s gnarled, knobby hand.
“Heid, say something. Please.”
The old woman’s lips moved, but only a whisper of air came out. Gunnhild leaned in close to try to decipher her words, to no avail.
Then Heid let out a rattling breath as her chest fell, and it did not rise again.
“Heid?” Gunnhild said feebly. “No. No, no . . .”
This can’t be. I’m not ready. I’m not established.
I can’t be alone. Not yet.
A dangerous thought occurred to Gunnhild then, and she took up her wooden distaff once more, along with her cup, which contained the remains of the henbane tea she’d consumed in order to loosen her mind from her body. She dragged her stool over to Heid’s bedside and sat, then drank the dregs of the tea, which made her stomach twist; she had been fasting since the day before in preparation for this journey, which she made periodically to check on her friends and family.
Then she began to mime spinning as she sang the warding songs. She would have to leave part of herself behind to keep her body singing while she went under, and she’d never attempted such a thing alone. She wasn’t supposed to. It was dangerous. It was something Heid had always warned her about in the direst terms: “Travel with a companion always, or have another woman sing for you, for there are witches who know the charms that can sever your mind from your body—and that, dear child, will lead to a slow and painful death. It’s a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies.”
Recalling those words filled Gunnhild with an icy terror. Cold sweat dripped down her back despite the heat from the fire. Her hands shook on her distaff.