Soon afterward, the women trickled in: Saeunn first, then Oddny, Runfrid, and Ulla; Thora, smile twinkling as though she was grateful to be in on this secret; a few of the other workshop women, whose names Gunnhild didn’t know; then Hrafnhild and a few of the other cookhouse girls.
The last person to arrive was none other than Queen Gyda, who took up a place beside Saeunn, her smooth expression revealing nothing of her thoughts. Gunnhild tried not to let the old queen’s presence rattle her.
From her stool atop the platform that lined the hall, the looms at her back, she watched the women arrange themselves in a semicircle before her. Once they were all in place, Gunnhild stood, her staff in one hand and her steaming clay cup of henbane tea in the other, and realized that she didn’t know what to say or how much to tell them. It wouldn’t do to mention Thorbjorg’s mischiefs, for fear Queen Gyda would step in and call her claims false. No—she would stick to her one and only goal. And what would Heid say if she were me?
“Welcome, my friends. Thank you for coming,” Gunnhild said. “When I was a child, I took a blood oath with my dearest friends, Oddny and her sister, Signy. We swore to always be there for each other, no matter what happened. But now their farm has been destroyed and Signy sold away. The raiders who carried out this fell deed have not been found, and nor has she.”
The women’s reactions were varied: Thora gasped and put a hand over her mouth, looking as though she might cry; Hrafnhild and Saeunn seemed sympathetic; Queen Gyda’s expression remained unchanged; Runfrid and Ulla each put a hand on Oddny’s shoulder; and Oddny met Gunnhild’s eyes and nodded for her to continue.
“But Oddny and I mean to find and rescue her by seeking help from the spirits, and for that, we need your help. And so I must ask you all . . .” Gunnhild asked them the same questions Heid had asked the women in her father’s hall so long ago: “Are you willing to help me summon the spirits tonight, to sing the warding songs? Will you call them here, and keep out any who mean us harm?”
“Yes,” said the women in unison.
All except for one: Ulla. She stepped forward holding a leather bag, the outline of something round inside. When Ulla opened it and pulled out a drum, Gunnhild’s throat constricted, for it was lovingly painted with figures of people and animals and other shapes, similar to the drums that Juoksa and Mielat used in their practice.
“Queen Gunnhild.” Ulla raised her chin. “I don’t know the songs. But if you would allow me to join this ritual by playing one of my family’s sacred drums, it would mean very much to me to help you however I can.”
“Yes,” Gunnhild said as she blinked back tears. “Yes. Please. You would honor me.”
Ulla nodded once, pleased. She dropped the carrying case, raised the smooth bone mallet to the stretched and painted skin of the drum, and waited.
Gunnhild addressed the circle: “Let us begin.”
She sat back down on her stool. Ulla beat the drum, and the singing began.
Saeunn and Hrafnhild were the first to raise their voices in the haunting, ethereal melody. Then Runfrid’s voice joined, then Oddny’s, and at last the rest of them. The opening moments were difficult, their harmonies imperfect, the pacing off—Thora wanted to go faster, Runfrid more languidly, Oddny hitting different notes than the rest of them, for the songs varied in style by region—but Ulla’s steady drumbeat forced them to settle into a rhythm before long.
Gunnhild closed her eyes and waited for the song to even out. Once she was satisfied, she took a deep breath and downed the tea in one gulp.
The effect was immediate and familiar, yet always a bit unsettling: She had a sudden sense of vertigo as her mind began to loosen itself from her body, and before it could get any worse, she stuck the iron staff under her arm and imitated the motions of spinning.
When she opened her eyes again, she was in the dark place.
* * *
—
SINGING VOICES HIGH ABOVE, joined by the drum.
But down here, Gunnhild was alone. Again. Just her and her internal glow, the gleaming thread extending from her chest and stretching upward into the darkness.
“Where are you?” she whispered. “Where is everyone? Why will you not come to me?”
“It’s not too late to give up, you know,” came a voice, and when Gunnhild turned she saw a woman standing before her, a cloak hiding her body and a hood hiding her face. Her voice was distorted, as though coming from underwater.
Gunnhild knew her presence, though. She’d recalled it every night in her dreams for weeks.
The seal. The third witch.
“Thorbjorg has made you this generous offer already,” the hooded woman continued, “but this is your last chance. Flee and we may yet let you live. If you can’t speak with the spirits, you’re unworthy of taking on your mentor’s name—but you can at least peddle your petty sorceries, no?”
“What are you doing to me?” Gunnhild snarled. “How are you keeping me from contacting the spirits?”
The woman giggled, the sound as warped as her voice. “You poor little fool. Nobody is keeping you from anything. You know as well as I do that the spirits choose for themselves whether or not they wish to appear, and for whom. And tell me—when was the last time you managed to speak with them? Were you working with your mentor? Or were you alone?”
Gunnhild startled. “I was—”
She’d been working with Heid. Every single time.
“Mmm,” said the woman, clearly savoring the look of horror on Gunnhild’s face. “You see, my dear, the dead know all. Which means that they know you for what you are: a selfish, foolish girl. A fraud. The reason you won’t receive the knowledge you seek is because they don’t wish to give it to you, not because of anything we’ve done.”
“You’re lying,” Gunnhild said, but her voice was thick with panic and rage. She started toward the hooded woman, her hands curled into claws. “You’re behind this. I know it. You’re tracking me when I leave my body and you’re—doing something now. You think I’m afraid of you? I am not afraid of anything—”
The woman took a step forward and vanished.
Gunnhild jerked to a sudden stop midstep as someone grabbed her from behind, an arm locked around her neck.
“And that,” the woman hissed in her ear, squeezing, “is precisely your problem.”
Her vision blurred at the edges as she struggled, kicking at the woman’s shins as she was lifted into the air.
The song and drum echoing from above stopped abruptly.
Oh, gods—Oddny’s voice sounded very far away.
We have to wake her up! Ulla, panicked.
Runfrid. But how?!
Oddny again. Let me—
Then with a jolt she felt herself being hauled upward through the darkness.
26
HER FRIEND BEING CHOKED by nothing was the most horrific thing Oddny had ever seen. Gunnhild clawed at her compressed throat, gasping, eyes bulging, lips turning blue.
Oddny pulled the glowing thread up from the floor.
The results were instant: Gunnhild took a huge breath and pitched forward on the stool; her clay cup hit the ground and shattered to pieces, her iron staff clattering beside it; and the thread dissipated. She would’ve fallen flat on her face if Runfrid hadn’t caught her.