Guilt filled my core, for while I’d considered the danger my mother was in, I’d not considered the practical difficulties caused by my absence.
“So thoughtful of your husband to send someone to care for me,” she continued, taking my hand as she looked me over. I did the same, noting the new dress and boots, as well as a thick silver bracelet around her wrist.
“Seems you got what you wanted, love,” she finally said. “A true warrior now, just like your brother.”
Bjorn snorted and I shot a glare over my shoulder before turning back to my mother. “Are you well enough to walk with me?” The questions I wished to ask were personal, and I didn’t need Birger listening over my shoulder.
“Of course, love. Birger, those goats aren’t going to milk themselves. And mind you climb the roof sometime today to find that leak, else it will be you sleeping beneath the drips.”
Birger’s mouth opened and shut as he looked between me and my mother, knowing full well he wasn’t supposed to give me the chance to take her and run. “I’ll escort them,” Bjorn said. “You get to your chores.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Firehand.” My mother’s voice was frigid. “I’ve heard no end of things about you, and I’ll not have you at my back. There’s firewood that needs chopping, which you may attend to.”
“There are many who seek Freya’s death,” he answered. “So if you wish me to chop your wood, you’ll have to remain close enough for me to dissuade anyone with ill intentions.”
My mother scowled, leveling her cane at him. “If you think—”
“It’s not up for debate,” Bjorn interrupted. “I’m not risking Freya’s safety just because you don’t care for my reputation.”
My mother’s scowl deepened and, seeing a fight brewing, I swiftly caught her arm. “We’ll stay close.”
For a heartbeat, I thought both of them would turn on me, but Bjorn only pulled off his shirt and started toward the woodpile. My mother resisted my tugs on her arm, only conceding when Bjorn’s axe appeared in his right hand, slicing through a thick block of wood with one swing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I said once we were out of earshot. “I—”
“I know precisely your circumstances, Freya.” My mother’s jaw was tight. “It’s my fault that you are in them.”
“How so?” This was the first I’d heard of it, though in truth, my mother had always said little about my heritage and nothing about the events surrounding my conception. I, having no interest in details of intimacy between my parents, had never asked, which I now regretted. “Did you know it was Hlin you invited to your bed?”
My mother was silent for a long time before answering. “It was not Hlin we took into our bed, Freya, but another.”
I blinked. “But—”
“It was another,” my mother interrupted. “We’ve never spoken to you of this, but Geir…he was a sickly baby. The herb women could do nothing, told us the merciful choice would be to leave him out for the cold and the wolves, but…I couldn’t do it.”
It was the way of our people, I knew that. Had known women who bore sickly babies that were in their arms one day and then gone the next, never spoken of again. But to think that my mother was told to do such a thing to my brother made my blood run cold. “It is well you didn’t, Mother, for they were wrong. He grew up strong.”
Of body, at least.
“They weren’t wrong.” My mother’s throat moved as she swallowed, and I glanced at Bjorn. He was swiftly working his way through the pile, tattooed skin glistening with sweat, and definitely not out of earshot. “What happened?” I asked.
“I prayed to the gods to spare him,” my mother whispered. “Prayed to Freyja and Eir and all who’d listen, offering up sacrifices to show my devotion, but he only grew worse, soon too weak to eat.” Her hand tightened on my arm. “I believed they had all chosen to ignore my pleas, that this was my son’s fate. Night came, and I knew it would be his last, your father holding us both in his arms as we waited for his chest to still. And then a knock sounded at our door.”
It was like a story passed down from generation to generation until it barely seemed possible it could have occurred. Tales of the gods stepping amongst mortals to do good or ill, depending on their moods, which were ever fickle. But this wasn’t a story—it was my life.