Once she’d helped Runfrid lay Gunnhild down on the platform, Oddny paused and stared. “Your neck. Good gods.”
Gunnhild coughed a few times and croaked, “How does it look?”
“Like someone tried to strangle you,” Oddny said, gingerly touching the bruised skin. “What happened, Gunna?”
Gunnhild looked away.
Oddny hopped off the platform, dragged her chest out, and rummaged through her healing supplies until she found a tonic in a little clay vial and a salve she’d stored in a small wooden cup, both stopped with waxed linen covers.
“Were you able to speak with the spirits?” Ulla asked, but the longer Gunnhild’s silence lasted, the more the excitement drained from Ulla’s face. Beyond her, Runfrid looked worried, Thora seemed on the verge of tears, and the other women hung back, their expressions a mixture of uncertainty and fear. Even Queen Gyda’s brows had drawn together in concern.
Oddny massaged the salve into Gunnhild’s throat with both hands, ignoring her friend’s short, pained grunts of protest. “This will hasten your healing. And I’m giving you a draught, too, for the pain. You should feel better by the morning.”
“Thank you,” Gunnhild said hoarsely. “Will you . . . help me . . . back to my room?”
“But what happened?” Runfrid pressed.
“Not now,” Oddny said, and hauled Gunnhild to her feet.
Thora came up beside her and put one of Gunnhild’s arms over her surprisingly strong shoulders. “I’m headed to my chamber as well. I’ll help.”
Gunnhild did not say a word as they walked, and though the healing salve was visibly working, Oddny figured it probably hurt her to speak. The three women wove their way through the rowdy feast hall, most of the revelers too drunk to notice anything was wrong. Those who did probably thought the new queen had had too much to drink again.
Out of the corner of Oddny’s eye, she saw Thorbjorg and Katla sitting and whispering with their heads close together—and though they snapped to attention as the women passed, they looked mildly confused at Gunnhild’s state, and Oddny could tell at a glance that their reactions were genuine. She turned and saw Arinbjorn playing a dice game with Halldor. Each had a direct line of sight on the witches, and when Halldor’s eyes met hers, he gave her the subtlest of nods.
Oddny tightened her hold on Gunnhild. But if both of them were here—then what happened to her in there? Could it have been the third witch?
Eirik was not in the bedchamber when they entered—nor, Oddny noted, had there been any of his hirdsmen present in the hall besides Arinbjorn and Halldor. Curious.
“Poor thing,” Thora cooed as they helped Gunnhild lie down on the bed. She turned to Oddny and said softly, “I don’t know what happened just now, but she wasn’t in a fit state to begin with. This family can be very demanding . . .” Her hands were soft and warm when she gave Oddny’s own a squeeze. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“No,” Oddny said, touched. “I’ll watch over her. Thank you for your help.”
With a last concerned look at Gunnhild, Thora took her leave, and Oddny helped her friend into a clean dress and got her settled into her very nice, very soft bed.
“Reapply the salve before you go to sleep,” Oddny said. “Do you wish me to stay with you?”
Gunnhild had already rolled over to face the wall. “No.”
“Well, have a servant call for me if you change your mind.”
“I’m sorry,” Gunnhild whispered as Oddny turned to leave.
“Gunna—”
“I failed.”
Oddny had suspected as much, but hadn’t expected to hear it confirmed. She’d known Gunnhild long enough to know that she didn’t easily admit defeat. Whatever had happened—wherever she had gone—the results had clearly been the opposite of what she’d wanted.
“Do you truly have so much faith in her?”
Oddny forced Thorbjorg’s words from her mind. For all that the witch had offered to give Signy back to her, Thorbjorg was the reason she’d been taken in the first place. That Gunnhild’s ritual had gone wrong tonight was probably likewise due to outside interference. Somehow. Oddny knew it in her bones: Her faith in Gunnhild was not misplaced. She’d reappeared at the exact moment Oddny had needed her most, and there was nothing they couldn’t do together. That was exactly what Thorbjorg was afraid of.
She had to hold firm. She couldn’t waver.
“It’s all right,” Oddny said without turning around. She couldn’t let Gunnhild see the disappointment on her face.
“It’s not,” Gunnhild said miserably. “I’ve failed Signy. I’ve failed you.”
“We’ll start the search at Birka as we planned,” Oddny said. “It isn’t a great loss.”
It was, though. Gleaning Signy’s exact location from the spirits could have shaved weeks or even moons off their search. But she didn’t want to make Gunnhild feel worse, which was exactly why she had no plans to tell her of the conversation she’d had with Thorbjorg.
“Good night, Gunna,” she said over her shoulder.
Gunnhild didn’t reply. Oddny slunk out of the room and shut the door behind her. The heat and light and noise of the longhouse were stifling, so she made her way back through the crowd and into the cold night air outside, where she found Runfrid waiting.
“Is she all right?” she asked before Oddny had even closed the door behind her.
“No,” Oddny said.
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Also no.”
Runfrid sighed and shook herself. “Well, I’m going to the armory, then. It seems we haven’t missed the ceremony—they were waiting for Arinbjorn and Halldor.”
“Ceremony?” This was the first Oddny had heard of it.
Runfrid grinned. “Come.”
* * *
—
THE ARMORY WAS FULL of Eirik’s hirdsmen who hadn’t yet gone home for the winter, plus a dozen hopefuls, including Halldor, all drinking and laughing. Runfrid dragged Oddny through the claustrophobic press of male bodies and toward the ladder to the loft. On the way, some of the men turned to give Oddny a curious look, until they realized Runfrid was with her, and moved to let the women pass.
When they ascended the ladder, Oddny saw that the loft was bare except for two bedrolls pushed together and a few chests, none of which could be seen from below. Tallow candles had melted into clusters on the floor near the smoke hole at the gable, and all were lit, illuminating Runfrid’s charcoal sketches on the bare wood. The largest number of candles surrounded Runfrid’s bloodstained wooden statue of the huntress Skadi, staring proudly and fiercely ahead, a bow clutched in her hand. It was exactly what Oddny had expected Runfrid’s living space to look like.
There was a call for quiet, and silence fell upon the armory as Eirik beckoned the hopefuls forward. Oddny and Runfrid scooted to the edge of the loft, swung their legs over the side, and looked down on the proceedings.
Oddny hated to admit that Eirik looked good. For the first two feasts he’d been in plain bloody linens like Gunnhild, but now he was back in his finery, as were the rest of his men: combed hair and beards, clean tunics and pants and leg wraps, arm and finger rings and neck torques glinting in the glow of the hearth fire.