Oddny was about to ask if she’d heard correctly—that this tattooist they were going to see was, in fact, a woman—when Gunnhild said, “Not so fast, Arinbjorn. What did he say to you before he went off to sulk?”
Arinbjorn smoothed back his short dark hair and gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “King Harald is on his way here from Vestfold, where he was visiting Olaf, who was also being visited by Halfdan at the time. And they’re all accompanying King Harald here for the festival.”
“Are they wintering here?” Oddny was confused; back in Halogaland, Winternights was more intimate, with only close neighbors assembling. “It doesn’t seem sensible to cross the country for a feast at this time of year.”
Though, she supposed, Halfdan did employ a witch who seemed to have a knack for weather magic, and the west coast of Norway never froze, so perhaps he wasn’t overly concerned about getting back to Trondheim before the season turned.
“Only King Harald is wintering here, as far as I know,” Arinbjorn said. “But apparently Queen Gyda accused Eirik of spreading rumors about his brothers using witchcraft against him. She suspects Olaf and Halfdan were trying to convince King Harald that he’s lying. She’s not completely convinced herself that it’s true, but she dislikes Olaf and Halfdan more than she does Eirik, so it remains to be seen whose side she falls on.”
“But we’ve seen the witches’ tricks with our own eyes,” Oddny protested.
Arinbjorn grimaced. “And speaking of which, Thorbjorg and Katla are with them, and Queen Gyda was considering having one of them perform the disablot during the festival.”
Gunnhild and Oddny looked at each other, dismayed—and not just at the prospect of meeting the witches face-to-face. The sacrifice to the disir, minor goddesses whose whims could grant both good fortunes and bad deaths, was a huge responsibility that would affect the fortunes of all present at the feast, at least for the coming year. If Thorbjorg or Katla was put in charge of such an important task, the fates of their enemies would be sure to take a foul turn—and Oddny didn’t know how many more of those she, Gunnhild, and especially Signy could handle.
“Who usually does it?” Oddny cut in. Back home, the sacrifice was performed by either the lady of the house or whichever devotee of the gods felt most up to the task. “Can’t they just do it again?”
“It depends. Queen Gyda, or someone from the temple, usually,” Arinbjorn said. “But she suggested one of the seeresses because there hasn’t been one here in decades, and she thinks King Harald wouldn’t object to a good prophecy to keep people happy. But obviously Eirik doesn’t trust Thorbjorg or Katla, so he volunteered Gunnhild to perform the disablot instead.”
Gunnhild could not have looked more shocked if someone had come up behind her and dumped a bucket of freezing seawater over her head. Oddny tightened her hold on Gunnhild’s arm in reassurance, even knowing it was futile.
If this sacrifice went as poorly as the ritual Gunnhild had tried in her father’s cookhouse, it would not only compromise Gunnhild’s career as a seeress but complicate her terms with Eirik if he were to realize that she wasn’t at her full power. And should he divorce her before spring, she and Oddny would lose their ride to Birka. To Signy. Gunnhild would still have her dowry and bride-price to get them there and to buy Signy’s freedom, but finding a new ship and crew to hire would cost them valuable time.
“I take it that this is not, in fact, good news,” Arinbjorn observed, not without sympathy.
Gunnhild pulled herself together enough to grumble, “Would that he’d consulted me first.”
Arinbjorn raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as one to balk at the chance to prove yourself. Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” said Oddny before Gunnhild could speak. “We’re all tired from the journey. The sooner you take us to this Runfrid so Gunnhild can deliver her bindrune, the sooner we can get to the textile workshop and someone can tell us the best place for a woman to bathe.”
Arinbjorn’s keen gray eyes regarded her a moment too long, as if he were trying to detect a lie, but then his smile returned. “Right, then. Follow me.”
* * *
—
ARINBJORN LED THEM ACROSS the grounds, pointing out the textile workshop and a few other buildings as they went. Each was larger than Oddny’s father’s hall. The people they passed on the way looked healthy enough, their clothing worn but of good quality—not humble farmers, Oddny thought, but not wealthy, either—and they greeted Arinbjorn and spared a curious look at the women before continuing on their way.
Once they reached the armory, Oddny was not surprised to find that it, too, was larger than the home she’d grown up in. The space was lined with racks of spears and axes, with retired splintered shields fixed to the walls above them. Small wooden icons of Odin, Tyr, and Thor sat on a shelf over the spear rack. The statues were splattered with dried blood, probably from previous rituals—or so Oddny hoped. There was a loft at the far end of the room, but Oddny could not see anyone or anything up there.
The hird bustled about, dropping off their weapons and ship boxes in haphazard piles. Oddny saw no sign of Halldor, Svein, or Thorolf, but assumed they’d gone to bathe. Several of the hirdsmen were already wearing clean, dry clothes and brushing out their wet hair and beards.
Oddny felt a stab of jealousy. At this moment she wanted nothing more than a bath.
“It’s usually not as much of a mess,” Arinbjorn said, gesturing at the chaos around them, “but then I suppose everyone is eager to get cleaned up before supper.”
“We can relate to that,” Oddny said pointedly.
“All in due time, Oddny Ketilsdottir.” Arinbjorn went to the ladder leading up to the loft. “Oi, Runa!”
“Just a moment!” came a woman’s voice from above.
“You know, most people would be more eager to see their beloved return from a summer of dangerous adventure, but my ship just got in and you weren’t even at the docks,” Arinbjorn said conversationally, leaning against the ladder with his arms folded.
Beloved? Gunnhild mouthed to Oddny, who shrugged. This was the first either of them had heard of Arinbjorn being romantically attached.
“I did hear that the ship was coming,” came the mystery woman’s voice, along with her light footsteps, “but you know where to find me, Arri.”
Arinbjorn pouted. “That’s not the point.”
A woman poked her head over the edge of the loft, her features in shadow. “Forgive me for wanting to enjoy my last moments of peace and quiet before you lot returned—and just when I thought I’d cleared this place of the smell.”
Smoke wafted down from the loft. The woman was burning something—juniper, to Oddny’s nose—to battle the damp, musky odors that had followed the sailors to the armory.
“Fair enough,” Arinbjorn said. “Also, I brought friends, and a task from Eirik.”
“How much is he paying?” the woman asked.
“Would you just come down here, please?”
The person who descended the ladder was unlike anyone Oddny had seen before. She was small, roughly Oddny’s size, and dressed in a pale green woolen tunic and gray pants, with light blue leg wraps secured over thick nalbound socks. Her hair was black as pitch and thicker even than Gunnhild’s, and it was pulled into a braid roughly the same size as her forearm; her skin was a deep copper brown and covered in tattoos, some faded and others bright and richly pigmented.