“Who are Thorbjorg and Katla?” Ulla asked, cocking her head.
Runfrid lowered her sewing. “Wait, isn’t the point of a ritual to tell everyone’s futures? Why make it private?”
Oddny and Gunnhild exchanged a long look. Neither of them were sure whom they could trust here, especially with the identity of the third witch still a mystery. As for Runfrid and Ulla, Gunnhild had come to like them over the course of their very short acquaintance, and both were now looking at her with sincere concern and confusion. Oddny, who seemed to have spent more time with the two than Gunnhild had, nodded and elbowed her softly in the arm as if to say, Tell them.
Gunnhild relayed everything from the beginning, from her leaving home and learning magic, with Oddny helping to fill in the gaps until she got to the day of the raid and everything that had happened since she’d met Eirik, ending with the conversation she’d overheard between Eirik and his father, and what she’d said to King Harald before following her betrothed into the woods.
“But I lost sight of him in the trees, and haven’t seen him since,” she finished. It was the only untruth she’d told. What had happened in the grove had stirred something in her, something she wished to keep private until she could either rid herself of it or put it into words.
By then Gunnhild’s cider had gone completely cool, and Runfrid was so furious that she threw down her sewing and dug her fingers into her knees.
The tattooist said, “To say nothing of how King Harald has treated Eirik—which I can speak to at length, and by the gods, Gunnhild, you were right to say to him what you did, even if you pay for it later—I can’t believe that’s what happened in Bjarmaland. The men still won’t speak of that battle. Not even Arinbjorn will tell me anything. By Skadi’s bow, it kills me to see him like this, that look he gets when he thinks I’m not watching him—and it’s all because of her? This witch?”
Ulla was more contemplative than angry. “This Thorbjorg. Can we not simply”—she splayed her hands innocently—“poison her breakfast?”
“No,” said Oddny, turning to Gunnhild. “You confronted her publicly at the docks. If she were to be found dead, you’d be the first person they suspected. And if that happens, there’ll be more proof of your wrongdoing against her than of hers against you.”
Ulla sighed. “I suppose that’s true. And Thorbjorg is replaceable, isn’t she? King Olaf could always hire another witch.”
“Right,” said Runfrid. “So you need to keep her and her friend distracted while you ask the spirits to help you find Oddny’s sister, and you need us to sing for you while you do it. Is that correct?”
Gunnhild’s lack of ability to commune with the spirits was something she’d left out of the story—something no one could know besides herself and Oddny, lest it somehow get back to Eirik that her powers were hampered. She could only hope that this time, with so many voices and at such a powerful time of year, things would be different. They had to be.
“Yes,” Gunnhild said. “Exactly.”
Ulla clapped her hands together. “Well, then, I’m sure we’ll make it a great success.”
“I can ask Arinbjorn to keep an eye on Thorbjorg and Katla,” said Runfrid. She turned to Oddny. “Why don’t you ask Halldor to watch them, too? That way if one or the other of the men gets drunk or falls asleep—”
“Why—why would I be the one to ask Halldor?” Oddny stammered.
Runfrid blinked at her. “Ah, well, when I was doing his bindrune tattoo, he spoke very highly of you. I’d thought you were friends—”
“Friends?” Gunnhild scoffed. “He was one of the raiders who destroyed her farm. He owes her twelve marks of silver.”
“Eleven and a half,” Oddny said.
“Maybe I misinterpreted what he was saying.” Runfrid did not sound convinced.
“I’ve barely spoken to him since we arrived,” Oddny said. “But—yes, I suppose I could ask him. It’s a good idea to have a few of the men know what we’re up to, in case things go badly. But we shouldn’t tell anyone else, just in case.”
“We could ask more of the women here to sing, couldn’t we?” Ulla asked. “Isn’t that how the warding songs work? More voices, more protection?”
Gunnhild cast a furtive glance around them before replying. “We have reason not to trust everyone here. Because of the third witch, like we told you.”
Ulla looked troubled. “Who do you suspect?”
“No one, so far,” Gunnhild assured her. “But what happens to you once you send your mind out is reflected in your physical body, so if we see anyone with a bruise on their face—”
“But Arinbjorn told me how fast you were able to heal your hand with magic back in Finnmark, Gunnhild—if Eirik’s kick had left a visible mark on this witch when she was a seal, couldn’t she have just healed it herself before anyone noticed?” said Runfrid.
Gunnhild was quiet, seeing the reason in this.
Ulla added, “In terms of who to trust, there are a few of the new girls that I’m not too sure about. But the rest I’d vouch for without question.”
Runfrid shrugged. “Well, that’s good enough for me. I’m friendly with some of the artisans around the estate. Hrafnhild and the cookhouse girls, too. I could invite them as well. The ones I don’t suspect of being murderous sorceresses.”
“We can’t let this get too big,” Gunnhild said, raising her hands. “The way King Harald talked about me—about witchcraft—I suspect worse things than a broken engagement will happen to me if he catches even a whisper of this.”
“He won’t,” said Ulla with conviction. “Saeunn told me once that there hasn’t been a seeress at Alreksstadir since the days of Queen Ragnhild. People will be too excited to want to spoil it, even though they won’t be hearing their own fortunes. Just to sing and to bear witness—I think that would be enough.”
“Let us help you,” Runfrid said softly, and Ulla added, “Please.”
Gunnhild took a deep breath and set her hands in her lap, curled one around her cold cup of cider. “Right, then. Tell them it will be here, on the third night of the festival.”
The other women nodded. The first day of Winternights was the disablot, during which Gunnhild, were she still to perform it, would likely be too visible to sneak away; on the second, the most extravagant of the feast days, with the heaviest drinking, she would be married; and the third was only a feast day. Guests would be so tired by the third night that it wouldn’t be notable if some of the women retired early or otherwise slipped away.
Yes, Gunnhild thought. This plan will succeed. It must.
The alternative, the loss of the power that made her not just a sorceress but a seeress as well, would be too much to bear. She thought of Heid’s staff—her staff, now—hidden safely in her chest below the platform, thought of the blood she’d offered to Freyja that afternoon.
Thorbjorg was wrong. She was worthy of the staff. She’d given up half her life to earn it, and earn it she had.