The fox’s eyes narrowed, and Gunnhild knew that she was right: Thorbjorg was well aware that she’d made a mistake—several of them, and big ones at that—but was not willing to admit it. Instead, she’d chosen to double down.
Leave now, said Thorbjorg. Go back the way you came. Or we’ll shadow your every step, as we’ve shadowed the men whose company you now find yourself in. Stay with them, and we’ll make your life miserable.
Gunnhild was startled. When Thorolf had described the men he’d had to kill this summer and their yellow eyes, her first thought had been of Thorbjorg. But to hear the other witch admit outright that she was harrying the hird—did this change things? This couldn’t be a coincidence. But that wasn’t Gunnhild’s immediate concern.
If Thorbjorg thought she could threaten her into submission, she was dead wrong.
She leaned in and whispered, “I hope you realize that you’ve done the exact opposite of what you set out to do. Once I’ve assured that my friends are safe, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to end you. And that’s a promise.”
The fox growled and lunged for her throat.
Gunnhild jolted awake, panting, drenched in cold sweat. Her hand throbbed beneath its bandage, crusted with dried blood, and she held it to her chest and tried to slow her breathing.
Invading a person’s dreams—that was a skill Heid hadn’t taught her. How had Thorbjorg done it? More important, how could Gunnhild prevent it from happening again?
Her first thought was a protection charm. I could come up with something—maybe a bindrune?—that will form a barrier around my mind so she can’t get in. It’ll be complicated, but if I do it right . . . if I keep it on my person at all times, or—she looked down at her hand—carve it or tattoo it on myself so it can’t be taken away . . . yes. That will work.
But that would take her some time to do, and her more immediate task was securing a way home, so she put it to the back of her mind. Once she’d salvaged some semblance of calm, she stood on wobbling legs, smoothed her hair, and looked down at her hand. It didn’t hurt as much as earlier. That was a good sign.
She squared her shoulders and strode out of the tent with her head held high. Dusk was near; this far north, the sun was still up despite the lateness of the day, although the nights had been steadily growing longer for the past three moons.
Eirik, Thorolf, Arinbjorn, and Svein sat talking around the fire before Eirik’s tent. All of them turned to her as she approached.
She stopped directly in front of Eirik, held up her hand, and unwound the crusty linen wrappings to reveal a pink scar where, a short time earlier, there had been a bleeding wound. The stave that had been tucked into the bandage clattered to the ground, a crack bisecting the bloodied runes Gunnhild had carved into it. She picked it up and tossed it into the fire, then held her hand up again so that all could see.
Thorolf’s shoulders sagged fractionally in relief. Arinbjorn and Svein looked impressed. But Eirik’s face was completely inscrutable as he stood and regarded her.
She met his eyes and didn’t look away. “Well?”
The king pressed his lips into a thin line, jerked his head sideways as if to indicate she should follow him, and started walking. She looked at Arinbjorn, hopeful that he would be coming along, too—it seemed to her that he was Eirik’s voice of reason—but he didn’t move. But Thorolf gave her an encouraging nod and she turned to follow Eirik.
10
EIRIK LED HER TO a small copse of pines over the next hill, keeping the camp within sight but out of earshot. Gunnhild sat down on a stump and crossed one knee over the other. The king remained standing, leaning against a tree.
“So,” he said.
“So,” she echoed. “Let’s outline the situation, shall we? I’ve proven I’m a witch. I need to go home. You don’t want my silver. You do want to hire a witch to work for you, but I regret to inform you that I have more important matters requiring my immediate attention—”
“Then why are you wasting my time? Why bother proving your skills if you didn’t intend to offer them up in exchange for your passage?”
“Let me finish.”
He folded his arms and waited.
Gunnhild took a moment to consider her options. What could she offer that wouldn’t help him too much but might at least help his men? They seemed decent enough despite having made the questionable choice to swear themselves to him. She remembered with a pang the look on Thorolf’s face as he’d told her of the friends he’d had to kill.
Then she recalled her dream: Thorbjorg’s admission that she’d been shadowing the hird, her undeniable skill with mind magic, the defense Gunnhild had thought up when she’d awoken.
It was a finite task. Something she could stomach. Something she’d already planned on doing anyway, which would assuage her guilt at stooping so low as to aid a witch-killer.
“Thorolf told me what he and Arinbjorn had to do this summer when several of your men turned on you during a battle,” she said at last. “He said it was as though someone else were controlling them. That their eyes looked strange.”
Eirik’s expression darkened and he looked away, which was enough to confirm that Thorolf had told her the truth.
“I can create a bindrune that will prevent this from happening again. To protect their minds from witchcraft,” she continued. “Will that suffice as payment?”
“A bindrune?” Eirik repeated.
“Yes. I’ll combine several runes into one unique sigil, and unlike the rune stick I carved earlier to heal myself, its magic won’t run out—it’ll work as long as I’m alive.”
He nodded at her hand. “Will it weaken you, like your healing spell did?”
“Yes and no,” she said. “What I carved on that stave were individual runes, a spell that I poured power into at once. Bindrunes feed on a witch’s power little by little. One must be careful not to create too many in one’s lifetime.” She fixed him with a stern look. “I’m only trying to impress upon you that I don’t make this offer lightly. It’s more than worth the price of you taking me to my father’s.”
Eirik didn’t argue that point. “How will it work, exactly?”
“I’ll have to find the right combination,” Gunnhild said. “Once I’m done, I can either carve them onto bits of wood or antler that your men can wear as necklaces, or they can have it tattooed on their bodies so it can never be lost or stolen from them.”
Eirik thought for a moment. “I have a tattooist in Hordaland, where we’re wintering. She’ll surely be up to the task. Will you need to be present for the bindrune to be effective?”
A woman tattooist? Gunnhild fought down her curiosity and answered, “Yes. Unless . . . I could pour all the magic into one carving and she can keep it with her as she works. But it’s one or the other—I can’t make thirty individual necklaces and one carving with the power of thirty bindrunes for the tattooist to use. It would be too much.”
“I’d rather it be permanent, if the men consent to it,” Eirik said. “I’ll take the risk of waiting until we make it back to Hordaland.”