“I wouldn’t pay you for it,” said Eirik grouchily as he grabbed a jug of ale from where it sat beside the chest, then snatched Arinbjorn’s cup out of his hand. “Also, this is my cup.”
“I don’t see your n—”
Eirik turned the cup over and showed him something on the bottom, which Gunnhild could only assume by the look on Arinbjorn’s face was the king’s name scratched in runes again.
“Oh, fine.” Arinbjorn turned to Svein. “I would pay you. How much?”
“You’re not paying him to compose a poem about the fish heads,” said Eirik.
“We should speak with him before they start talking more about the pranks. That’s a sure way to sink his mood,” Thorolf whispered to Gunnhild as he started forward.
She followed—and as she did, the cart squeaked loudly and all three men turned to look in their direction, and Gunnhild got her first look at the king’s face. His beard was trimmed short and neat, and he had a snarling wolf tattooed at each collarbone, noses nearly touching at the hollow of his throat. His eyes were a glacial pale blue, limned by the remnants of the charcoal-and-beeswax mix that many sailors smeared across their eyelids to protect against the sun.
He looked her up and down, taking in her piecemeal kaftan, her raggedy dress. She’d never had to worry much about her appearance, and Thorolf’s geniality had put her at ease. Lulled her into a false sense of security. Now, before the king, she felt suddenly exposed.
She sucked in a breath. Yes, he was handsome. But that was of little consequence to her; even if she hadn’t known of his past deeds, she would have detested him for the way he was looking at her right now, as though she were dung beneath his shoe.
Gunnhild had not realized that it was possible to loathe someone on sight. Yet here was Eirik Haraldsson.
He hadn’t even spoken to her, and already she despised him.
“Thorolf,” Eirik said, “who is this . . . person?”
“You sound unsure that I am in fact a person, King,” said Gunnhild before Thorolf could answer. “If you want to know who I am, ask me, not him.”
Thorolf let out a small sigh, as if this was going exactly as badly as he’d expected. Eirik’s mouth hung open and he glared at her, offended, as though he somehow hadn’t expected her to hear him—let alone admonish him.
She held his gaze. The audacity of this man!
Arinbjorn, however, looked at Gunnhild as though she were a gift from the gods as he walked up to her and took both her hands, smiling. “Hello. I’m Arinbjorn Thorisson. It’s great to meet you, my new favorite person, whose name is . . .?”
“Gunnhild,” she said, and she couldn’t help but smile back. He was of a height with her, his face open and kind but his eyes shrewd and full of mischief, and she decided that anyone who could rankle a king the way he did was likely a good ally to have. “My father is Ozur Eyvindsson, a hersir in Halogaland.”
“Ah! We stayed with him on the way here. My father, Thorir, is a hersir in Fjordane,” said Arinbjorn approvingly, dropping her hands. He gestured to an empty stool. “Have a seat.”
Gunnhild sat. Thorolf hovered at her shoulder, equal parts awkward and protective, which she had to admit was endearing.
Arinbjorn reassumed his place at Eirik’s shoulder. “I have so many questions. How did you come to be here? And for how long?”
“I’ve been studying witchcraft these past twelve winters. My teacher was—” Killed yesterday. She sat up straighter. She couldn’t show weakness in front of these men, and especially not in front of the king, to whom she now turned. “She’s gone now, and I must travel home as quickly as possible. Thorolf mentioned that you were going south and brought me here to ask you for passage. I can pay in silver.”
Still looking at her with utmost disdain, Eirik leaned over with one elbow resting on his knee, the other hand holding the cup he’d swiped from Arinbjorn. “How do we know you’re truly Ozur’s daughter? You’re a stranger to us. So my answer is no, and there’s nothing you can offer me to change my mind. Keep your silver and take your mischief elsewhere.”
Gunnhild was stunned at his refusal. Thorolf had made him out to be as desperate as she was. Is he bluffing or just a fool?
“Then Thorolf seems to have misled me.” She affected as smooth a voice as she could muster under the circumstances. “He mentioned that you were in need of a witch’s assistance, and I’m well versed in the magic arts.”
The sneer dropped from Eirik’s face and he cut a glare to Thorolf, who shrugged.
“She isn’t wrong,” said Arinbjorn, looking at her with interest. “We need a witch, brother.”
“I know,” Eirik said quietly. “But this is too convenient. It could be a trap.”
“Or it could be fate.” Arinbjorn lowered his voice, too, but Gunnhild could still make out his words: “You don’t have to like her. You just have to strike a deal.”
“She came out of nowhere,” Eirik hissed back. “It could be another trick.”
“She could be our last hope.”
“Or she could be our doom.”
“I surely could be, should you continue carrying on as though I’m not sitting right here,” Gunnhild said loudly, and both men turned to her.
Arinbjorn said, “Please excuse my brother, Gunnhild. He can be a bit difficult”—Eirik grunted and folded his arms—“but we can grant you passage south. In exchange for—”
“No.” Eirik stood, causing her to stand as well. “How do we know she’s truly a witch? We’ve never heard of her, so it’s clear she hasn’t made a name for herself. How can we trust someone with no reputation? And if she is a witch, how do we know she’s even any good?”
Like Thorolf, he towered over her. Gunnhild was a woman of average height, but in the shadow of these two giants, she suddenly felt very small.
And that made her angry.
I won’t be intimidated by the likes of you. She stepped around the ship box holding the tafl board, bringing herself uncomfortably close to him. “Would you like me to curse you? Would that be proof enough for you to strike a deal with me? I do quite enjoy curses.”
“Well, now, that’s reassuring.” Eirik rolled his eyes and moved away, gesturing at her. “You see, Arinbjorn? She’s only proving my point. Go back where you came from, woman. You’re trying my patience.”
Gunnhild’s temper flared. “Why, you horrible—”
“Eirik, think this through,” Arinbjorn said, in a way that made Gunnhild feel like he’d said those exact words a thousand times before. “Gunnhild, peace. Ignore him. We can come to terms—”
“No, we can’t,” said Eirik. “How could we possibly trust that anything she’s saying is the truth?”
Gunnhild tossed her thick auburn braid over her shoulder and folded her arms, trying to hide how badly her hands shook. “If I prove to you beyond a doubt that I’m a witch, would you be willing to treat with me?”
“Yes,” said Arinbjorn at once. “Yes, that sounds like a fine idea. Eirik?”