Oddny’s face heated. “I didn’t mean—it’s not as though I was assuming—I’m going to stop talking now.”
Halldor leaned back against the chest again and ran a hand through his curls. His face was a mask, stony and unreadable and—worried? Was he truly so disquieted by the thought of marrying her? Oddny thought she might die of shame.
But then he said, “I just—I never thought—” Seeing the look on her face, he blanched. “Oh, gods, Oddny. It’s not you. I promise. It’s just that I never considered that my life would go this way. I spent nine summers learning to fight. I’m a raider. I’m a warrior. I always thought—”
“That you’d be dead by now,” Oddny finished quietly.
“Something like that,” Halldor said after a beat. “But now I know things don’t have to be that way.”
Oddny gave him a tentative smile. “You could live, and be happy.”
“I am happy.” Halldor smiled back, one of his soft smiles that made her heart melt, and put his arm around her again. “I was thinking—you should come with us when the hird goes on the progress. Gunnhild will be going, too, so I’m not the only one who will miss you if you stay behind. But I know it will depend on what Signy wants to do . . .”
It was Oddny’s turn to go quiet. The truth was that she hadn’t thought much past Signy’s rescue. What would become of the two sisters then? Would they indeed stay with Gunnhild, or would Signy wish to go somewhere else? Would Oddny have to choose between them?
There was no use dwelling on it until Signy was safely by her side again.
“What are you thinking about?” Halldor asked.
“Signy.”
He tightened his arm around her. “It won’t be long now, Oddny. Winter is almost over.”
“But part of me wishes it would never end,” Oddny whispered, turning to him, raising a hand to cup his smooth cheek. “I know it’s selfish of me, but—”
“I don’t think it’s selfish to cherish happiness when you find it, for as long as you can.” Halldor put his hand over hers, seeming troubled—but why?
The question was on her lips, but he silenced it with a kiss, and the rest of the world faded away along with her worries.
29
GUNNHILD HAD ALWAYS CONSIDERED winter her least favorite season. Before now it had meant carving her runes with stiff fingers or sending out her mind with Heid, only to return to a body she could barely feel for the cold. And prior to that, she’d been trapped indoors, unable to escape her mother.
This winter was entirely different. Gunnhild had gone from spending the season sleeping on a frozen dirt floor to waking up and swinging her legs over the side of a bed, only for her toes to meet a plush bearskin rug. The only time she knew cold was when she went outside.
Was it selfish of her to savor these comforts? She knew Oddny thought so, but as much as Gunnhild had tried to distract her friend from her guilt, there was no running from her own. So she turned her mind to other things, like the frustrating protection charm she was trying to create. Even when she did get the runes right, in order to make the spell powerful she would need to pour weeks’ worth of energy into it. Preventing shallow slashes on her arm was one thing, but what about stabbing blows or arrow wounds or the incoming swing of an axe? She wasn’t going to run a blade through her own heart to test the charm’s effectiveness.
She could only hope that it would hold up if Thorbjorg decided to do as much to her, or worse.
Late one night after her conversation with Oddny in the loft, she woke to find Eirik slouched on the box chair, deep in his cups, a lit soapstone lantern on the stool nearby, a half-mended tunic in his lap. He stared into the fire, looking lost.
This was a normal enough occurrence, but it was beginning to rankle her. Am I not enough to make you happy? she sometimes wanted to scream at him. Am I not enough to keep the memories at bay, to keep you here with me?
She slipped from bed and stripped off her pleated linen underdress. It was one of the only ones that still fit; winter had filled out her body in ways both she and Eirik appreciated, and also had created vivid red stretch marks on her breasts and hips and belly, of which she remained unselfconscious as she crossed the room. She took his mending from his limp hands and slid into his lap, leaning her head against his shoulder as he put one arm around her back and the other around her legs as she curled them up to her chest.
“Can I tempt you to bed?” Gunnhild asked, examining the half-mended tunic. “Or are you too busy not sewing? I don’t think you’ve made a single stitch since I went to sleep.”
Eirik gave her a flat look.
She secured the needle in the fabric and tossed the tunic onto the rug. “Peace, Eiki. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“There’s a surprise.” He said it with less venom than he might have a few moons earlier, and he nearly smiled at the diminutive. The first time she’d said it, he’d said, “No one’s ever shortened my name before,” with the same wonder on his face as when Thora had been kind to him at the docks. “Not even my mother. Not even Arinbjorn.”
“Why won’t you take that sleeping draught Oddny made you?” she asked him.
“Stop trying to mother me, Gunnsa.”
That nickname, the one only he called her, made her feel warm. But she wouldn’t be deterred. “I could always sneak it into your ale at dinner.”
“Without my consent?” Eirik rolled his eyes. “How honorable of you.”
“As it happens, I’m not above such things if they’re for your own good.”
His lip curled slightly. “And you always know best, do you?”
“Yes. Haven’t you realized by now?” She relaxed against him, and they stayed like that for some time, she looking at him worriedly as he stared into the middle distance. Then she sat up straighter, put her lips to his temple, reached to brush his hair behind his ear, fingertips lingering at the base of his jaw, and whispered, “Where are you?”
She had never asked before. If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it.
“The same place I always am. The night I burned Rognvald and his men,” he said, and it was the first time she’d heard him speak of it as something he had done rather than something that had simply happened. When he continued, his words were slow and deliberate, as though the scene were happening now, before his very eyes. “He had burned some herb to put the rest of them to sleep—the place stank of it. I only saw the shapes of them. But my brother, he—he sat there right in front of the hearth, facing the open door. He knew we were coming. He could have run. I left the door open as I ordered fire set to the hall. I watched him burn with my own two eyes. Why didn’t he run? I’ve asked myself this question every day for the past seven winters.”
Gunnhild felt chilled to the bone.
“Perhaps he knew there was no escape,” she offered. “Perhaps he knew your father was determined to see him dead—”
“Maybe I should just let her kill me,” Eirik said, so quietly that Gunnhild thought for a moment that she’d imagined it.
She gaped at him. How long had he been thinking this way? Was this truly what kept him up at night? “What? No. I won’t hear of it.”