“Hold it with both hands. That gives the best control.” Though the words are encouraging, Earl’s voice lacks sincerity. He has no confidence in Hakon—a position I understand. The boy has been engaged in military practice under Earl’s instruction since his birthday, and so far shows no inclination toward any of the weapons.
Hakon, however, seems deaf to the tone of Earl’s comment. He grips the sword with both hands, swells his chest with energy, and chops at the bush. He’s merciless.
I gape. It is a terrible thing to see an eight-year-old destroy a bush, but he’s so happy to be doing it, and it is such a surprise, I have to smile.
Satisfaction softens Earl’s face. “Well, well, well. It looks like the sword is your weapon after all. We’ll continue with it for the rest of the afternoon.”
I step forward. “No, we need archery practice too. Like always.”
Earl shrugs. “All right.”
Thank heavens. I regularly urge Hakon forward in his pitiful attempts at spear throwing—which can’t be his fault, as the spears are longer than he is tall—and stake throwing, which actually can be his fault, as some of the stakes are short and should be manageable. I am constant in watching him hack with sword and ax—which are not real, since both sword and ax are made of wood—but which don’t interest me because they require nothing but brute force. All this I do ostensibly out of a big sister’s love. Though, indeed, Hakon is dear to me, the real reason for my dutiful behavior is that Earl allows me to be part of archery practice. So it is only fair that we should not skip it.
Archery matters. Battles lie ahead. Thorkild named me Alfhild—elf warrior—that day in the fishing boat. He did it out of fury. But over the years I’ve come to understand it was prescient. Rescuing Mel will not be easy; nothing in life is easy. I don’t have the strength to hurl a spear, or the heart to swing an ax or sword into a body close by. But I could aim an arrow at a body that was far from me. I could be the fiery arrow my Irish name said I’d be. I lock my jaw and feel the nerves along it twitch. I can and will be ferocious in that way if I have to.
I watch a second bush get hacked to shreds, and a third.
Then we get our bows and shoot at targets. I’m good at this. I was good right from the first day, maybe out of motivation, but I’m getting better all the time. I can face one direction, then twirl around and shoot fast and hit the target behind me. I can walk along and hit a target without stopping. Today I walk faster and faster. Soon I’ll be able to shoot as I run. Each time I hit a target, I feel more exonerated from my failure to meet my goal so far. I’m sorry, Mel. I’m sorry it’s taking me so long to grow up. But at least I’ve been getting ready. At least I’ll be able to fight for you when I finally come find you.
When archery practice ends, Earl takes Hakon off on a walk along the fjord with the shield in one hand and a stake in the other. Hakon’s job is to understand the weight of the shield and learn how to move with it regardless of what obstacles Earl puts before him. The shields are made of wood, with leather covering and a reinforced iron edge. There’s an iron plate—a boss—at the center, and across from it on the inside is the handgrip. The boss protects the hand. Since the shield stands higher than Hakon’s waist, it is quite remarkable that he can stride along holding it. Usually I walk by his side just to celebrate this feat. But today I stay behind and continue target practice.
Only I’m no longer aiming at the prearranged targets. I select a leaf on a tree and shoot it. Then the leaf beside it. Then the one beside that. I spy a feather in the grasses. Maybe an eagle feather. Maybe the eagle whose bone became the flute in the youth’s hands this morning. I shoot it. And there’s a gray stone, the color of the youth’s eyes. I shoot it. I am shooting at everything now, anything. I am shooting at my memory of the youth—the boy who said he wants nothing of me. I am shooting at the thought of the king asking my own servants to report my actions to him. I am shooting at whoever still holds my sister captive. And I am hitting everything I shoot at.
That feeling of conquest coats my lips as the afternoon passes, and it lingers as we dress to go to the great hall for a feast. I don the dress of a royal daughter now, with gold and silver brooches, and accept the limitations that clothing imposes on my behavior. Queen Tove smiles at me in approval. She manages to control her anxiety over my excursions in ordinary clothes so long as I maintain the proper demeanor when I’m dressed royally. She herself wears the hawk-plumage cloak I love so much.
“The evening is neither hot nor cool,” I whisper to her as we walk. “Those feathers must feel perfect.”
“Hawk plumage allows me to move with grace and authority among strangers.”
“You always have grace and authority.” This is true.
The queen smiles. “This kind of cloak is called a valsham, like what the goddess Freyja wears. It’s especially good for traveling. It makes me feel strong, fearless.”
“What a wonderful thing. Someday I want a feather cloak.”
The queen takes my hand. “Tomorrow you can wrap it around yourself so that it forms a tent you are entirely enclosed within. Then shut your eyes and travel.”
“Travel?”
“Inside yourself. The best kind of journey.”
The queen mixes tales of gods and goddesses with the lives of humans. I know that, of course, for she sometimes asks me if I miss my true father—and I can sense she means both whoever that may be and specifically Høking, the sea king that she has claimed as father for me. So I should not be surprised at the mystical nature of her words now. But I am. I float on them. And I realize this is the second time today that I’ve been drawn into a conversation about voyaging. I feel mystical myself—like a visionary. Something is about to happen.
Outside the great hall, food is being baked in holes in the ground, packed around with heated stones. I expect meats and fish, like usual, but this smell is new. Something is carved already and arranged in overlapping slices on wooden trenchers. The pieces are cooked brownish purple at the edges and pink in the middle. My cheeks go slack; it’s whale, of course. That’s why every earthen oven has the same contents. And, of course, it is the right thing to eat; so much slaughter must not be allowed to come to naught. Yet this knowledge brings no consolation. I am standing on the bank of the fjord again. I am seeing the white beasts bathed in their own blood. Something shreds inside me. I put my hand over my mouth and nose—I refuse to taste these smells—and walk past the coals into the hall.
The walls of this hall are lined with woven wood—wicker. I’d never seen wicker before coming to this city. Small tables and four-legged stools clutter the room. Stools I knew—we had them in Eire. But I’d never seen them in Jutland before. Right now I am so grateful for wicker walls and stools and tables. I can love this hall, regardless of what those around me are nibbling off the tip of their knives. I can pretend I am alone here.
Except I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by crushing crowds. The music is loud, and it pulls me past the gaming boards and the people laughing in little groups. The spirit is infectious; I’m getting happy again too, when the servant Gorm hands me a glass container full of purple liquid.
I stare at it. We drink beer and milk and fruit juices and water from wood cups, and horns sometimes too. We drink mjøð—mead—often from small silver vessels. But we rarely drink anything from glasses. I hold it gingerly to my nose and breathe the aroma. “What is this?”
“Wine. One of the guests brought it. He brought the glasses, too. They’re imported.”
“Where from?”
“Ask him.” Gorm points toward the other side of the room. “He’s with the king.”
I can’t see past all the people, but I’m intrigued by this drink. Grapes for wine don’t grow in Jutland, and importing fruit means half of it is spoiled before it gets here, so what’s the point? But once last year I sniffed deep of red wine in the king’s cup. It smelled exotic. I dip my tongue tip in it now. It tastes exotic. I drink it all down and work my way over to the king.
When suddenly here he is, in front of me, the youth I’ve been imagining ever since this morning. He watches me approach. His eyes are liquid.
“Princess, indeed,” he says. “The princess of the curly hair.”
“Have you met my Alfhild?” says King Hók, looking quizzically from the youth to me.
“Only briefly.” The youth clasps my forearm. “I am Alf.”
“How strange. I’ve never met a man with a truncated form of my own name.”
“Nor have I met a woman with an elongated form of mine. Do you like the wine?”
“Yes.”
“Have another glass.” He takes my empty glass and hands me an already full glass from a round tray on the floor beside him.
I drink it down.
Alf laughs. “Wine is to be sipped.”
My head spins. I totter.
The king puts his arm around my waist from behind. “We’re not accustomed to this drink.” He pulls me to him.
I would normally protest; I’m not a child. But given how unsteady I am on my feet right now, I lean into him with gratitude.
The king and this Alf talk on and on. People sing and dance. Someone announces a skald has come. Who? I look around, and from nowhere appears a large man, hairy-looking from behind. I panic: Beorn has come to Heiðabý at last. I will be exposed. And then I realize that I have nothing to fear for or from him anymore. No one will connect me to Beorn. I am the king’s daughter now—I can stay the king’s daughter forever, or at least as long as the hoard holds out. Nothing is to prevent Beorn and me from simply talking a moment.
I remember the sound of Beorn’s voice so well, I can almost hear it at this moment, hear the care in it. He can tell me news of Ástríd. I can finally give him the antler comb I bought for her—a luxury beyond her dreams. I can learn what Búri and Alof’s latest triumphs are. I break away from the king and push my way past everyone and grab Beorn by the arm, my heart nearly bursting with love.
The big man turns. It isn’t Beorn. Of course not. The look on his face changes from a question to a leer.
From behind the giant, the man Torel appears. He takes this giant by the arm and speaks to him of some business deal. Torel is among the richest traders in town. So this giant isn’t the skald at all; he’s come to make business.
I back away, with the crowd closing in front of me, blocking off the image of the giant and Torel. I have the sensation that I’m sinking backward into water, until it all becomes solid and I’m flush against a wall. Nothing is right. All I want is to leave. I have never missed my family in Ribe more. Not a night passes that I don’t think of Ástríd, that I don’t think of Búri. Sometimes I fear I’ve merged Ástríd and Mel in my dreams. And I know I’ve merged Búri and Hakon, though the two boys have every right to be distinct. My arms ache for Alof. My heart can hardly beat.
“Are you all right?” Alf stands before me.
“No.”
“Can I help?”
Would that he could. “Are you trustworthy?”
“I believe myself to be.”
“Do you travel often?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever travel to Ribe?”
“Once a year, at least.”
“Will you deliver something for someone?”
“Yes.”
“At what price?”
Alf moves to lean his back against the wall, so we are standing side by side, looking into the room. If he says he wants nothing from me, just as he wanted nothing from we three girls for the mermaid purses, I will stamp on his foot. “If you had not just drunk wine, I would have asked a price.”
I remember Egill wanting a kiss. My lips curl. “What price?”
“It doesn’t matter now. I can’t ask, the state you’re in.”
“It does matter. What price?”
“A truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to know something you believe—something you hold true.”
“I feel challenged by the price, and dulled by the wine. Everything takes so much effort.”
Alf nods. “And if it doesn’t take effort, perhaps it’s not worth doing. Thank you for this piece of wisdom.”
“Wisdom? It was a description of my present state. Wisdom. Do you fancy yourself a soothsayer? I thought you chased fun and pirates.”
“Your words smart.”
“Do they really?”
“Does everything have to be a challenge with you?”
“You bring it out in me.”
He sighs. “So what is it you want me to deliver to Ribe?”
“Come.”
I lead him as steadily as I can back to our home, then leave him at the front gate while I dig through my personal chest of belongings. When I come back outside, he’s gone. I step through the gate and look up and down the road. Bleak. The whole world seems bleak and horrid. I sit on the ground. Who cares if dirt stains my clothes? Who cares? Who cares? My head drops backward, and my hand goes to my throat. My eyes feel like they are glass beads that will fall backward through my brain. I want a reason, an excuse, to howl in grief. The heavens are empty.
“Have you got it?” And here he is, sitting on the ground beside me.
“I thought you had gone.”
“I wanted you to think that.”
“But why?”
“To see if you’d be sad.”
“You’re tricky.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not tricky enough, though. You don’t know why I was sad—whether for lack of you or for lack of a messenger.”
The question wavers in the air. It swirls now. It could make me shiver if I let it. “You haven’t earned an answer to that one.” I empty my hand into his. “A toilet set. For Ástríd, wife of Beorn, mother of Búri and Alof. And maybe others by now.”
“Beorn the skald? He used to come through Jelling every year when I was a boy. Then he got married and came no more. Is Ástríd your sister?”
“Not by blood.”
“Those can be the best kind.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that!” I grab hold of his arm and throw my weight on him to help me get to my feet. “When will you deliver it to Ribe?”
“I’ll leave soon.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, in fact. I had other plans, but plans are meant to be changed.”
This feels too good to be true. I turn in a circle. “There is no moon.”
“No stars, either.” But he’s looking up at me, not at the sky.
“Heaven is empty.”
“No. Just full of clouds.”
“They’re filling my head.”
“Then I’ll bid you good night.”