At last, Gunnhild went back to the front of the hall to fling blood up onto the statues of Thor, Odin, and Frey—and suddenly all three hearth fires rose again. The assembly cried out in wonder and, duly blessed, they started to cheer as Hrafnhild’s servants began making their rounds with pitchers of ale. Several large horns of mead were filled and passed around after Gunnhild smeared blood across the runes carved upon them. The bull was hauled out to be butchered for the feast.
Heads turned when Gunnhild made her way to the doors, still holding the bowl and bundle of twigs. At her sideways look and nod, Oddny, Runfrid, and Ulla followed her out into the night and donned their wools, and the few of them who carried weapons grabbed them from the pile. Oddny, thinking of the enemy witches with a shudder, felt instantly better after she’d put her belt and knife back on.
She cradled her mother’s statue in the crook of her arm as they waited for stragglers. To her surprise, more than a few of the other women joined them, including Thora and Saeunn—and then, shockingly, Katla and Thorbjorg materialized out of the crowd and went to stand at the head of the procession with Gunnhild. No one questioned this—they were seeresses, after all, and their presence would seem appropriate enough to anyone who didn’t know their true motivations.
Gunnhild made a very good show of ignoring them, but Oddny saw the way her shoulders stiffened at their approach. Oddny shifted closer to the front, scarcely daring to breathe, as though the witches would startle if they took notice of her.
Thorbjorg seemed to sense she was being watched: She looked over her shoulder at Oddny for the briefest moment before turning back around, the confidence in the motion indicating that she did not consider Oddny a threat.
Oddny thought of her mother and her brother and Signy, and had the sudden urge to drive her knife into the woman’s back. The only thing that staunched this impulse was the memory of her own words: Without proof of wrongdoing on the witches’ part, murdering them would be a futile gesture that would do nothing to add to Eirik and Gunnhild’s credibility.
Gunnhild led them all in a silent procession to each of the outbuildings, where she flung blood onto the statues of Frigg and the goddesses in the workshop, and then onto the statues of Tyr and Thor and Odin in the empty armory, and then onto the massive icon of Odin in the temple. And then, inexplicably, she headed toward the woods. The rest of the women traded uncertain looks before trailing her—all except for Thorbjorg and Katla, who’d followed without hesitation, and Saeunn, whose knee was giving her trouble, as Oddny’s tea from earlier had worn off. Thora opted to stay behind to help her back to the workshop.
Oddny’s trepidation built as the procession continued, Gunnhild leading them farther from the main hall than many would dare to go during a sacred feast night.
“Gunnhild,” Oddny said warily as they passed the artisans’ cottages, “where are we going? It’s cold. We should go back inside.”
“There’s one more statue I have to bless,” Gunnhild said without turning around.
As she watched the back of Gunnhild’s head and the witches who flanked her a step behind, Oddny’s anxiety continued to escalate. Who would strike first? Would Thorbjorg or Katla choose now to make their move? Would Gunnhild be dead before the sun came up, and with her, Oddny’s hope of finding Signy?
This isn’t a ceremonial procession anymore, Oddny thought as she swiped at the cold sweat on her forehead. It feels like we’re being escorted to our deaths.
None of the other women seemed concerned except for Ulla and Runfrid, who walked on either side of Oddny, holding their lanterns aloft. Runfrid’s hand rested on the hilt of the small seax she wore at her belt.
Once they were deep enough in the woods, Gunnhild led them off the main path and to a birch grove in the center of a clearing. The largest tree had a hollow in it, in which sat a small wooden statue of Freyja. Gunnhild flicked it with blood from the offering bowl before wedging the bowl itself into the hollow.
“I’m sorry to bring you all so far out here, but my goddess has been too long neglected in this place,” Gunnhild said to the rest of them, again without turning around. “You may return to the hall and enjoy the feast. Thank you for joining me tonight.”
The women whispered among themselves and began to disperse. To Oddny’s surprise, even Thorbjorg and Katla—after pricking their fingers and leaving their own personal blood offerings to Freyja—followed. Only Oddny, Runfrid, and Ulla lingered with Gunnhild and watched them go, and it wasn’t until the witches were out of sight that Gunnhild let out an audible sigh of relief.
“That was them, wasn’t it?” Runfrid asked.
“Yes,” said Oddny, “but why didn’t they do anything? What was that all about? Why even—？”
“They wouldn’t,” said Gunnhild flatly. The last traces of the night’s formality were gone, and there was anger in her eyes. “It would be too suspicious, same as if we were to strike against them first. If something were to happen to me, with so many witnesses, it would only prove Eirik right. They’re more subtle than that, Oddny. They have to be, and so do we. They were only trying to intimidate me.”
“Did it work?” Ulla asked in a small voice, but Gunnhild offered no response. She turned on her heel and stalked out of the clearing, her blood-spattered dress and her wild hair fading out of their lanternlight and into the darkness before the other three women could utter another word.
Runfrid shifted, hand still on the hilt of her seax. “Is she going to be all right?”
Oddny didn’t know. She motioned for them to follow, and they kept Gunnhild’s shape in their sight all the way back to the workshop to ensure nothing happened to her.
“Saeunn will be in there, and probably some of the other women by now, so she’ll be safe,” Ulla said when they saw Gunnhild disappear inside the workshop. After a short discussion they realized none of them were in the mood to attend the feast, so Oddny and Ulla walked Runfrid back to the armory with the intention to retire to the workshop afterward.
But when Runfrid opened the door to the armory to reveal Halldor sitting inside, she turned to Oddny and whispered, “Have you asked him yet if he’ll help Arinbjorn keep an eye on the witches during the ritual?” At the look on Oddny’s face, she smirked. “Well, now’s your chance.”
* * *
—
HALLDOR WAS THE ONLY one in the armory. He sat on a stool near the fire, fletching arrows, their wooden shafts sticking out of a bucket at his feet. On his left sat a bowl of arrowheads, a roll of twine, and a pile of split and trimmed feathers.
“Tired of the feast already?” Runfrid asked him, tousling his hair as she crossed the room to the loft’s ladder. “It sounds as though everyone is already good and drunk.”
Halldor waved her off, but one corner of his mouth twitched up in amusement, though he didn’t look up from his work. “I hate crowds, and I only get drunk at Yule. The rest of the year I prefer to keep my wits about me and let others make fools of themselves.”
“No wonder Arinbjorn likes you so much,” Runfrid said. “Tea?” When they all said yes, she fetched a small clean pot from the loft, filled it with water, and stuck it in the fire, all the while shooting Oddny pointed looks as if to say, Ask him!