THE PEOPLE OF Foreverfroze had gathered in the open space before the hall, examining the strangers with interest. Fathers hoisted their children onto shoulders so the little ones could see the warlord and his companions. Larger children wormed their way to the front. There was a holiday atmosphere, cheerful and expectant. Martine felt that she was as much a focus of interest as Arvid — the strange woman who looked like one of them.
Skua and Fox led her through the crowd, following the others. Safred, Arvid, Cael and Zel reached the hall steps first and turned to watch Martine come through. Men and children and old women touched her lightly as she passed: on the arm, the shoulder, the back, patting, saying “Welcome,” a word that sounded exactly as it had in her own village. Tears rose in her eyes and a woman clucked gently at her, “Now, now.” She felt overwhelmed by the sense of family. She wondered if she could come back here to live after… afterward. Perhaps, finally, she had found somewhere she could belong. Then she looked up and saw Arvid.
He was staring at her as though she were a miracle. She flushed, the lingering cold of the wind banished by pulses of heat, by a deep blush that swept through her, from head to foot, the fire spreading as though she stood before the altar in the middle of the ritual. She kept walking, trying to control her face, but she could see from his expression that he had seen her reaction. His breath was coming faster, his eyes darker than normal. As Martine reached the group, trying to focus on Safred and Zel instead of Arvid, Skua gave her a little push so that she stumbled and landed in his arms.
Skua said, “Hah!” and Fox slapped her hand, mock reproving. Martine was only just aware of them. One of Arvid’s hands was under her elbow, the other on her back. Her own hands were spread across his chest, fingers splayed. Every point where they touched was alive, warm, intense. She didn’t dare look at his face, although they were almost the same height and all she had to do was raise her eyes to his. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek; fast breaths that comforted her because it was clear that whatever was happening, was happening to both of them.
“She’s cold! Better warm her up, lad!” Skua said. The crowd cheered and laughed and Martine broke away from Arvid and turned, glaring at Skua.
“I’m too old for these games,” she said sternly, and Fox, for the first time, laughed.
“Never too old,” she cackled, digging Skua in the ribs. The two of them chuckled and made some clearly lewd comments to an old man standing behind Skua, speaking too fast in their own language for Martine to understand. He took it with a private smile buried under a long-suffering air, and exchanged a glance of sympathy with Martine. She had forgotten this part of having a family — the lack of privacy, the assumption that the aunties knew best, the interference. She was too old for this, too old to get accustomed to it again. Her vision of a future homecoming wavered.
Then they took pity on her and chivvied everyone into the blessed warmth of the hall, and fed them fried whitefish and salmon roe, mushrooms and greens, snowberries and smoked eel. Martine made sure she wasn’t sitting next to Arvid, but she ate the whole meal with every sense tingling, aware of each move he made.
Toward the end of the meal, Arvid spoke directly to Skua. “The ship?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
He nodded, satisfied, then said, “There may not be room for the horses.”
For a moment, Martine didn’t realize what he meant, then she and Zel and Cael all spoke at the same time. “Trine’s coming!”
Arvid was perplexed. “It’s just a horse.”
“Bramble’s horse,” Safred said quietly.
He shrugged. “Very well then. The wagons will arrive tomorrow, we can load and sail with the next tide,” he said. He grinned at Martine and she had to bite her tongue to stop herself smiling foolishly back. “One thing about Foreverfroze, there’s always lots of strong men around to help load ships!”
“Why is that?” Martine asked Safred.
“The shipmasters prefer women fishers,” she said absently, picking over a platter for the last of the mushrooms.
“But why?”
Arvid turned toward her. “Because the shipmaster has to pay a levy to the family if a fisher is lost at sea, and when a ship is blown far off course and has to limp home, women take starvation better than men and are more likely to survive,” he explained seriously.
Martine smiled grimly. “So it’s a matter of silver,” she said, leaning forward so she could hear him better above the hubbub in the hall.
“Silver and gold,” Arvid agreed. “A ship that loses its crew will bankrupt the shipmaster and he will lose the ship.”
“Shipmasters are men?”
He shook his head. “Not always. But to steer a ship in rough weather, you need a man’s strength, so the shipmaster is either a man or has a steersman as a husband.”
“You know a lot about it,” Martine observed.
“They are my people,” he said simply. “It is my job to know them.”
She realized abruptly that she had been lured into private conversation with him, and sat back, trying to seem calm. The memory of the moment outside rushed back and to cover her embarrassment she spoke with severity. “And to make sure they know you,” she said. “And your guards.”
“Of course,” he agreed gravely, but with a hint of a smile, “they must know their warlord and the people who protect them.”
She sniffed with disbelief, and he laughed.
“Don’t judge me so swiftly, stonecaster! Things are different up here in the north.” Heads had turned as he laughed, and indulgent glances were cast at them.
Martine couldn’t wait to get out of Foreverfroze, and preferably without Arvid. She pushed herself back from the table and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said.
He let her go, but called after her, “Go breathe the northern air,” he said. “It clears the head.”
She threw him a withering look, but he looked back without a smile, his guard down, eyes dark with emotion and desire. For her. The fire flared up inside her again.
Martine went out the door fast and into the bracingly cool air. She turned away from the houses and made for the ridge, where she might find solitude and time to reflect. The climb was a stiff one, but there was a path and she ploughed up it, glad of the movement after the day spent riding. At the top, she had used up enough energy to stop and appreciate the view. The sun was setting and the light had changed quality, losing its brilliance and becoming misty and golden. The moon was just rising, huge over the dark, moving sea. She stood on the ridge and reached out her hands, one east and one west, until the sun and the moon seemed to sit in her palms, and felt herself and the world come into perfect balance, poised on the ridge as if she were riding some great beast, one of the giant bulls of the Ice Giants, or a sea serpent, and she a hero out of the legends of her people: Mim, or the Prowman, or old Dotta herself, savior of the fire.
For the first time since the fire had roared and rejected her, she was herself again. Whole. Calm. Back where she ought to be. Her breathing eased and grew slow as the sun slipped out of her hand and disappeared, and the moon swam slowly aloft, turning silver as she swam, and laying down the gleaming hero’s path on the shifting sea. Martine lowered her arms.
Arvid’s footsteps below her came as no surprise. She half-smiled, expecting to find that this, too, had returned to normal. That now the fire was gone, she would be able to look at him as she looked at any other man.
Then he reached the top of the ridge and she met his eyes.