Heid inclined her head and said coldly, “Then I respect your decision, and your unwillingness to break the oath you’ve sworn your friend.”
No. She’d been so close. Horror welled up from the pit of Gunnhild’s belly, but as she turned to run from the hall, she caught the twinkle in Heid’s eye.
A twinkle that clearly said, as if the seeress were speaking in her own mind: This is not over.
Gunnhild pretended not to notice. She shot her mother a doleful look—Solveig smirked back at her, satisfied—and fled to the bunk room instead.
The chest that the seeress had brought with her sat open in the middle of the room, empty save for her deconstructed stool and some spare clothing. Gunnhild was peering at it, considering whether she was small enough to fit inside, when the woman herself parted the curtain and swept into the room.
“I see now why you wish to leave this place,” Heid said after a moment. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be a young girl with few prospects, forced into a marriage she doesn’t want.”
Gunnhild hung her head.
“And worse yet,” Heid went on, “was to see how you’re treated here, not because of anything you’ve done but because of the prophecies of one of my sisters. For that, I apologize.” She reached over and put a shaky hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You are not a bad child. You are not a burden. I’m sorry that you’ve been made to feel that way.”
Gunnhild had never thought that anyone would say those words to her. It took everything in her power not to cry as she looked up at the old woman.
“I understand now, too, why you wish so badly to become a seeress,” Heid added. “No matter what your parents say, I wish for you to leave here with me today.”
“Really?” Gunnhild’s dark blue eyes were huge and pleading. “But my father would be furious. You’d be making an enemy of a hersir. You would really do that for me?”
“I fear no man,” said the seeress. “And as for your mother, she didn’t tell you the whole truth.” A sigh. “But then again, neither did I. There are things I held back last night.”
Gunnhild felt cold as she waited for Heid to continue.
“Your fate is intertwined with that of your friends; that much was true. As for you, Gunnhild Ozurardottir—I see blood in your future. Blood and terror,” Heid told her. “But I also see greatness. These things are, in many ways, inseparable from one another.”
Gunnhild committed her words to memory.
“And my friends?” she whispered. “Will this—will the blood and terror—will I hurt my friends?”
“That, I don’t know,” Heid said sadly. “That’s why I refused to say more when you stepped into the circle. Sometimes saying nothing at all is better than speaking without seeing the entire picture, and I hadn’t seen enough to rule one way or another. I didn’t wish to curse you, and yet it seems I’ve done so anyway.”
Heid considered her for a moment. “Gunnhild Ozurardottir, if you come with me, I can teach you not only how to gain the knowledge of the spirits as a seeress does but all manner of witchcraft I know: how to curse and to heal, to conjure storms and befuddle enemies, to cast charms to protect and destroy, to use the runes for magic, and to travel out of body. But I won’t lie to you: It’ll be difficult. Nothing in this life worth having comes easily. You’ll spend many years with me in isolation, but at the end, you’ll be a seeress and a sorceress both. You shall be a witch. Do you understand and consent to this?”
The shallow slice on her palm started to burn a little as if in warning, and Gunnhild winced. How could she leave Oddny and Signy behind after they’d vowed to always be there for one another? But her mother had been right—their prospects were ruined now, thanks to her. Perhaps the best thing she could do for her friends was disappear.
The seeress—the witch—was still staring at her.
“Yes, I consent,” Gunnhild said fervently. “Take me with you. I wish to learn.”
Heid gestured to her chest. “Then pack only what you need, and we’ll hide you away in here.”
Gunnhild made to do so, but then hesitated. “But, Heid, if my future is to be terrible, why take a chance on teaching me? Aren’t you afraid that I’ll—that I’ll harm you?”
“If I thought I had anything to fear from you, child, I wouldn’t be making this offer. Only time will tell how your story goes. There’s nothing that will cause you greater grief than trying to fulfill or avoid a prophecy.”
“I don’t understand,” Gunnhild said weakly.
The old witch bared her yellow teeth in a wide grin.
“Oh, my girl,” she said. “You will.”
PART II
TWELVE YEARS LATER
4
ON THE EARLY-AUTUMN MORNING that her life changed forever, Oddny Ketilsdottir woke up with a stabbing pain in her lower abdomen and a curse on her lips. She curled up into a ball, gritted her teeth, and braced herself to begin another day.
“Ah. Mother figured that was why you slept in,” came Signy’s voice from above her. “She told me to let you sleep, but how could I let you miss such a delicious breakfast?”
Oddny took a deep breath and tried to muster the will to sit up. “Give me a moment.”
“All right, but guess what we’re having,” Signy said. “Ah, I’ll spoil it for you—it’s curds.”
“What’s spoiled is you, sneaking cheese all summer at the dairy,” Oddny grumbled.
Signy put her hands on her hips. “Well, with Mother about to preserve the vegetables and Vestein about to cull the herd, you’d think we’d be able to eat something fresh. But no, it’s curds. It’s always curds for breakfast and fish for dinner. You know I actually start missing pickled turnips at this time of year? And porridge. Gods, I wish I could have some porridge right now.”
“You’ll be glad of it when we have enough food to eat come winter.” Oddny heaved herself to a sitting position and doubled over. The pain was worse today than it was yesterday—her blood would be upon her soon.
Signy sat down beside her on the bench where she’d slept. “Do you want me to ask Mother to make your tea?”
Oddny shook her head. “I’ve been making it myself.” But I need to go foraging for some of the ingredients. Get them dried to last the winter, too, along with the last of the herbs from Mother’s garden.
“Look at you. Mother’s little prodigy.” Signy nudged her sister playfully with her elbow. But then she sobered. “And speaking of which, before you ask, we haven’t heard news of Solveig.”
Oddny grimaced. She’d been learning the art of healing from Yrsa since her early teens, and the two of them had been monitoring Gunnhild’s mother’s illness all summer. When they’d last visited Solveig a few weeks ago, Oddny had been stunned at the sight of their patient: cheekbones jutting, eyes sunken, red-streaked silver hair falling out in chunks.
Though Oddny had little love for the woman, she remembered the pall that had fallen over the room when they’d entered and seen Solveig’s state, remembered the lantern burning low, remembered an unseen bird tittering away in the rafters. Most of all, she remembered the shock she’d felt when Yrsa had withdrawn a smooth, flat stick of wood from her pack in lieu of her usual supplies.