CHAPTER ELEVEN
The tips of Inga’s fingers were white and wrinkled.
Like old snowberries. Dry and dead. Perhaps they would look like that when she was old. Withering to dust. . . Is that all life is? A slow and steady rot into death. . . and shadow.
She rubbed together thumb and forefinger to smooth the wrinkles, but the little folds persisted, as in her mind.
‘You’ve been staring at your hands for ages.’ Inga blinked and looked up. Einna’s narrow face stared back. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied hazily. Or was it nothingness?
‘Well, while you’re thinking about nothing, keep washing! Just look at all this.’ Einna threw up her hands in dismay and splashed them in her washtub.
Inga gazed about her as if she’d just awoken, a little frightened that it took some moments to remember where she was. The shingle-wood tiles, the smoky beams, the gnarled pillars, and beside them two huge piles, one of unwashed linen, one of coarse-spun blankets. Some were hanging from the rafters of the washhouse, dripping wet but clean.
They would take for ever to dry in this damp weather. Perhaps they should make a fire. She imagined flames dancing, higher and higher; then the wool catching light, the fire devouring the cloth until it was burned to nothing.
She groaned inwardly. Why did her thoughts spiral so often into nothingness these days? She shifted her weight on her haunches and went back to wringing out the linen. Turning, squeezing.
Inside my head, it’s the same. Turning, squeezing. She felt so far from herself. She was used to her mind galloping free, swift as a stallion, soaring like a swallow. Life was a dance she could do with her eyes shut, a song she knew by heart. Gossip and japes and stories – quick wits and quick words – she was used to weaving them all into a bright and beautiful pattern, not a stitch out of place. But now. . . now, everything in her head was moving too fast. Confusing. A thousand thoughts writhing and twisting together like a nest of serpents.
Hakan had been gone days; probably he’d be away days more. She needed him back. But what would she tell him? She used to know what to say about everything. Now, nothing made sense.
No, that’s not true. Hakan still makes sense.
With him, she could find her way through a forest of fears. And yet, when she tried to lay hands on each fear to face it down, it proved ephemeral as a mist.
She had started to believe that strange powers must be moving against her. How else could all this have arisen? And now her uncle’s will was against her, intent on this horrible arrangement. She remembered how one of the battle-names they called him was Stoneside. Stoneheart is nearer the mark. She had to find the will to fight – now more than ever. For the life inside her.
So why did she feel so weak just when she needed to be strong?
She had prayed to the good gods. The high god of the Vanir, Ingvi-Frey, her namesake. Her life had been bound to his since she’d come into the world. He must protect them, because their love was pure and good. And the high god’s beautiful twin Freya, too. Wasn’t it the goddess of love who gave passions of the heart, and the secret ecstasies between man and woman? Inga had lived to please both these gods. They must defend her.
Yet somehow, the shadow remained. Inescapable.
She felt so tired.
Maybe the shadow knows. My blood is marked. Her father’s death, her mother’s sorrow. The shadow only laughed, knowing her turn would come.
Einna was prattling away about one of the Birlung boys whom she had met over at Hildagard, her shock of hair bobbing back and forth with ever more enthusiasm.
Time wasn’t long past when Inga would have teased Einna without mercy. And together, they would have laughed and laughed. But instead Inga said nothing. Einna’s words confused her. She tried to concentrate, but none of her thoughts held together.
Eventually, Einna trailed into silence, and there was a splash of sodden linen. ‘What’s wrong with you, huh?’
Inga started.
‘Where’s my darling Ingaling?’
‘Hey?’
‘You’re not here!’
Inga shook her head, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I must have been daydreaming.’
‘Can’t have been a very nice dream, judging from your face.’ Inga only sighed.
‘You’ve hardly said a word in days. Tell me what’s wrong, little dove?’
‘Just leave it, Einna.’
‘Come, you can tell.’ Inga wished she would just stop. ‘Why are you being so stubborn, silly?’
‘Maybe I’m tired of listening to your endless jabber!’ Inga snapped. ‘Can’t you just. . . just be quiet for a while?’
As soon as she spoke, she regretted it. Poor Einna didn’t know her secrets. She doesn’t even know me. Not any more. Einna gave a tetchy flick of her hair and turned back to her washing.
Inga groaned. ‘I’m sorry, little one.’ But Einna was already lodged in one of her sulks, and there would be no prying her out of it.
Her back ached. It ached a good deal these days. She wondered how big their child was now. Under layers of clothing, the bulge in her belly was growing – unmistakable to the touch, but unseen.
For now.
How could she conceal herself till the spring? It was foolish to hope no one would notice. The only slight reassurance was that winter was coming on and no one would heed a few more layers as the days grew colder.
But truly – our plan is absurd!
She stood up, feeling the blood fizz down her legs. She would leave Einna to her sulking. She needed to breathe.
‘I’m thirsty.’ Einna only scowled in reply, so Inga pulled her cloak tight and stepped out of the washhouse into the yard.
She set off for the water butt, careless of her skirts dragging through the puddles. The mud was thick as pitch. She’d only gone a few steps when she missed her footing and slipped. She lurched, managed to catch herself, but her back jarred, the pain stabbing like a stick in the spine.
She wanted to yell in frustration, but clamped her mouth shut and leaned back, trying to ease the muscles in her back. Her gaze drifted up into the blanket of drab clouds overhead.
So tired.
Tired of chasing answers down the warrens of her mind. Tired of worrying for the little life she felt growing inside her. She closed her eyes and let her mind become blank as the sky, and for one sweet moment, she thought of nothing at all.
The pain leaked away until, at last, it was gone. She opened her eyes.
There was Tolla – standing in the doorway of the hall, bucket in hand, a quizzical look on her face. Inga straightened up and called a greeting.
The nurse tucked away a loose strand of hair and made her way over without a word. Inga watched her. Something was different about her.
‘Come here, Einna,’ called Tolla.
The younger girl looked up from her tub. Tolla held out the bucket of scraps. ‘Be a good girl and take this to the pigs.’
‘It’s always me!’ Einna slapped her apron, exasperated. ‘Why can’t she do it? She’s done nothing all morning.’
‘Just do as you’re told. I need to talk with Inga.’
Hearing this, Einna conceded, with a glimmer of satisfaction.
They both knew Tolla only spoke like that when someone was in trouble. Inga’s neck prickled with foreboding as Einna squelched off with the bucket of scraps. A few other farm-thralls came and went about their work nearby. Tolla beckoned Inga to the back of the washhouse, her face giving nothing away. Inga followed, apprehensive.
‘I’ve been watching you, Inga.’
‘You have?’
‘More than you reckon.’ When Inga didn’t answer, Tolla gave a flick of her head. ‘What’s with your back then? Giving you trouble, is it?’
‘Nothing. Just slept funny, is all.’
‘That a fact?’
‘I guess.’
‘That’s an awful shame.’ But Tolla’s weathered face didn’t look very sympathetic. ‘Only it’s not just your back, is it?’
Inga tried to play baffled. But inwardly, she gathered her wits.
‘Something’s up with you. You’re not yourself.’
Inga shrugged. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Lately, every time I see you you’re moping around.’
‘Maybe it’s the rain,’ murmured Inga. ‘I hate this time of year. Everything is dying.’
‘It’s not the rain. No, I’ve been asking myself why. And the only thing I can think, I don’t like at all.’
‘Well?’
‘You haven’t fallen for that silk-tongued weasel, have you?’
‘Who?’
‘Konur, of course. You’ve not been the same since he came by. And when he left, you wanted to be all secretive.’
‘I told you why.’
‘Part of the reason, maybe. Now tell me the truth.’
‘You’ve got it so wrong, Tolla. I hate Konur.’ Inga took a strange pleasure in saying the words out loud. ‘Really. I hate him.’
Tolla peered closer, exploring her eyes. Inga felt naked as a babe under Tolla’s scrutiny. Always did. At least this time, she was telling the truth. Tolla drew away, apparently satisfied. ‘Well, I’m glad there’s still some sense left in that pretty head of yours. I don’t trust that boy. Haven’t from the start.’
‘He’s a bully,’ blurted Inga. ‘Worse than a bully.’
But Tolla seemed occupied with her own ponderings. ‘So if it’s not him, then what’s the matter with you? You’re awful distracted. And so low. Like the spark’s gone out of you. Are you sick?’ She stepped forward and put the back of her hand to Inga’s brow.
Inga recoiled like a startled deer. ‘No!’
‘No?’
‘I mean there’s nothing wrong with me. Or there is. . . I’m. . .’ She dried up with despair.
‘Just say whatever it is, honey,’ said Tolla, seeing her distress.
Inga considered telling her. Wanted to tell her everything. But could she trust her? Would Tolla help them? Perhaps if she gave her one piece of the truth, it would be enough. ‘It is to do with Konur,’ she admitted, at last.
‘Go on.’
‘My uncle wants me to marry him.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Tolla. ‘Marry him? Since when?’
Inga felt tears sting her eyes. ‘He told me a few days ago. Said it was part of some agreement with Konur’s father.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Tolla, shaking her head. ‘What happened? Tell me quickly.’
So she told her everything that had passed between them, their argument and how they had left it, saying how she detested Konur and how she had railed against Haldan’s plan, but leaving out why.
Even as she was speaking, she didn’t know why she couldn’t tell Tolla what Konur had tried to do. Was she so ashamed? How could there ever be room for shame with Tolla? She had nursed her from her mother’s dead nipple, knew the worst of her, and still loved her. Maybe it would have to come to that.
‘Can you help me?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you talk to him?’
‘I’ll try, sweetling. But I can’t promise anything. You know how stubborn he is.’
‘But you’re stubborn too, aren’t you?’
Tolla smiled. ‘Aye. But once your uncle has an idea in his head, he’s like a dog with a bone. Especially when it comes to land and bloodlines and such.’
The old jealousy surged inside Inga. ‘Our bloodline,’ she said, bitterly. ‘The mean old fool is obsessed. Why does he treat me like dirt, yet Hakan is so precious? His “Chosen Son”. . . Chosen for what! It’s not fair.’
‘He loves Hakan. And you. In his way.’
‘He’s incapable of love! Everything is sacrificed for the good of his land or his people. But you can’t hold land in your arms, can you? You can’t hold a people.’
‘Once he loved very deeply. Too deeply maybe.’
‘I can scarce believe it. Anyway, how can you love too deeply?’ She was weeping openly now, but she was beyond caring.
Tolla’s face mirrored hers, pained by her pain. ‘I’ve never told anyone this,’ she said. ‘Lord Haldan made me promise never to tell what I’d witnessed. But I think somehow you need to know. And one day, long after he and I are gone, you must tell Hakan as well.’
‘Hakan? Why?’
‘You never wondered why he was called the “Chosen Son”?’
‘I thought it was just a stupid name to show he was special.’
‘He is special. But he was also chosen.’ The nurse sighed. ‘You were only little when his mother died so you won’t remember her well. But Lord Haldan loved Guthrun deeply. You never saw a man prouder of his wife when she fell pregnant. Nor more protective. She was huge! The womenfolk round here agreed they never saw a woman so big. One of the older women said it was twins, and sure enough, she gave birth to a pair of boys, as alike as two grains of barley. But it was a hard, hard birth, and left her weak as a lamb.’ Tolla went on, telling how Guthrun came to the threshold of death, and there she stayed a long while.
Haldan couldn’t bear to lose her. She caught a chill that burrowed deep into her lungs, and every day they thought it would be her last. While his wife languished, Haldan charged Tolla, a girl of twenty summers back then, to watch over the two boys. And all the while, Haldan grew mad with the thought of losing his wife, until one day, a seidman came peddling his black craft. Tolla figured he had heard of Guthrun’s sickness and the Vendling lord’s distress, because he came with a promise. He could cure his wife, he said, but it would come at a cost that was perhaps more than Haldan was willing to pay. He had pointed at the boys in their twin cradle. A life for a life. One of them for his wife to live. When Tolla heard it, the horror of it was almost too much to bear.
Inga listened as Tolla told how she pleaded with Haldan to run the seidman off the land, but the shaman was nimble with his words. And the idea he’d planted gnawed at Haldan’s mind. He believed Guthrun would live, and he would be spared losing the thing most precious to him in all the world.
Guthrun heard of the seidman’s offer, but wanted nothing of it. In the moments when her sickness abated, she begged Haldan not to do it; tried to persuade him to accept her time had come. But he would not. And one night, he came to Tolla and told her he had decided.
Inga watched a shadow settle on Tolla’s face as she described how Haldan had stood over their cradle a long while. The boys lay side by side, arms wrapped around one another, as was their habit. Guthrun lay weeping nearby, pleading with him, but his ears were stone. Finally, he just picked up one of them, prising off the other’s little fingers, took the baby outside and gave him to the seidman.
‘What did the seidman do?’
‘He took him away. Gave him up to the sea. To the—’ Tolla’s voice choked with sadness. It was some moments before she could speak. ‘To the sea-god.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
‘How horrible,’ murmured Inga.
‘So it is. I’ve never forgotten the seidman and his kind for what he did, nor forgiven them. Nor will I ever. Their practice is wickedness.’
‘And what about my uncle? You must hate him.’
Tolla sighed, wearily. ‘I didn’t blame him. It was the choice he was given that maddened him. What he did, he did out of love for Guthrun.’
‘And she lived.’
‘She did. But whether from his sacrifice or not, who can say? Soon afterwards the sickness broke, her strength returned. By then, Haldan had made his choice. And he named the boy he kept, “Hakan”. His “Chosen Son”.’
‘Poor little wretch,’ murmured Inga, thinking of Hakan’s twin.
‘Aye.’ Tolla’s face clouded. ‘The irony was Haldan made the sacrifice to keep his love. His punishment was to lose even that.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause though Guthrun lived another ten years, she stopped loving him the night he gave away their little boy. And though he loved her till her last breath, by the end she despised him.’ She gave Inga a thin smile. ‘You were too young to remember, but there was a frost hung over this hall all those years that never quite thawed.’
Inga didn’t know what to make of all this. She thought of her uncle, his brooding features, his implacable will. She knew those ice-blue eyes had seen terrible things, but never could have guessed at this.
‘So you see why his heart is hard to anything but his Chosen Son?’
‘I still don’t believe it. Don’t believe after all these years he could cast me away like Hakan’s brother.’
‘I respect your uncle. He’s wise and strong. But tender, he is not. The sooner you understand why, the easier you might accept it.’
Inga’s heart sank. The chance of finding a way through seemed more remote than ever. ‘But you will speak to him.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Then there’s hope.’ She looked pleadingly into Tolla’s eyes. ‘Tell me there’s hope.’
Tolla, usually so quick to reassure her about anything, furrowed her brow. But then she nodded, forcing a smile. ‘There’s always hope.’
But Inga could see the lie in her eyes and felt sick.
‘Are you quite well? You look so pale.’ Tolla reached out and touched her cheek. ‘So hot.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘What’s the matter with you, girl? You’re burning up. Whatever are you doing with so many clothes on? You’re going to give yourself a fever. Come, let me take that off you.’
‘Tolla, I’m fine!’ screeched Inga, snatching back the hem of her cloak and folding it round herself.
Tolla let her hands fall. ‘As you wish.’
‘Look, here’s Einna!’ Relief washed over her at her friend’s return. Tolla was eyeing her curiously. ‘I should get on with all this.’ Inga motioned at the piles of washing. But Tolla was only half-listening, stroking at her long nose thoughtfully. ‘You will speak with my uncle, won’t you?’
Tolla nodded slowly.
‘Thank you.’ Inga dropped down by her tub and took up her washing. But all the while she felt Tolla’s eyes on her. And it was a long time before her footsteps squelched away in the mud.
Smoke billowed from damp firewood. Hakan crouched, waiting. Listening. Watching the outline of furs beside the dying fire.
Three leagues away, his companions slept on, oblivious to the empty blankets beside them. He had risen without a whisper and followed the path west, fording the stream that emptied into Odd’s Sound, before turning southwest towards Karlsted.
He’d wondered whether Konur would ride through the night. In summer, he might. But now? Only madmen and shape-shifters and sheep-thieves rode through a night like this one.
And murderers.
The rain had moved on, leaving a silver sheen over everything. He hadn’t ridden far when a solitary orange light had winked at him out of the darkness. He had tethered his horse and crept forward, stealthy as a shadow, his mind numb to the pain in his ankle.
Now he waited, the tang of horseflesh sharp over the rotting leaves. The wind was blown out. Stillness hovered in the treetops, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he was surrounded by shadows. Draug-spirits – the souls of the unquiet dead. Curious. Impatient.
He listened to Konur’s heavy breathing, in and out like waves on a shingle shore. And suddenly his long-knife was in his hand. Just like that. Without thinking.
It wasn’t too late to go back. But then the madness would linger. If only the poison in his head could be drawn, once and for all. Just by doing this thing. Such a little thing, he thought, looking down at his knife. Better the poison is drawn. Anything was better.
Creeping the last few paces was a child’s game. No one ever heard him. Shadow-sneak, Leif used to tease him, and get a bloody nose for it. But Leif had done all the bleeding he would ever do. Now he was nothing but ashes on a cold ocean. And Hakan was here.
The horse whickered. Hakan stopped, knife in hand. But Konur never stirred.
Now was the moment. Two steps and he could sink the blade into his neck. Two steps and Konur would never wake again. Two steps. . . and he would be a murderer.
‘Get up.’
Konur rolled over. ‘Get up,’ Hakan repeated. ‘You sack of shit.’ Hakan slid his knife in its sheath, relieved it wouldn’t be that way, instead pulling his shield over his shoulder and unhitching his axe.
Konur was blundering to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes, sword belt clutched to his chest. ‘Who are you?’
Hakan didn’t reply. Only pushed back his hood, feeling the firelight touch his face.
Konur’s eyes grew wide. ‘You!’ And in a moment his sword was in his hand, the sheath flung in the dirt. ‘What do you want?’
Konur’s shield lay on the ground. Hakan hooked a boot under it and kicked it towards him.
‘Blood.’
The shield landed at Konur’s feet. He scrabbled for it. But there was no rush. He could take all the time he wanted.
‘Is this about your slut of a cousin?’
‘You’re going to die for what you did to her.’ Hakan flexed his grip, fingers cramping with anticipation. Axe against sword was no easy contest. But what else had all those hours sweating in the training circle been for? An axe can beat a sword, Garik had promised. He was about to find out what that promise was worth.
‘You’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’
‘She’s carrying my child.’ Somehow, it felt good to have said it, even if it was to this grinning bastard.
Konur gave a hollow laugh. ‘So that stuck-up bitch opened her legs to her own cousin, hey?’ He flicked his sword around his wrist, ready. ‘After all that, she’s a kin-fucker. Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘One more word and I’ll cut out your tongue.’
‘That’ll be hard to do after I’ve gutted you like a pig. And I promise you this, cripple. When this is done, I’ll drown your Hel-spawned brat and fuck your darling cousin up her tight little—’
Hakan sprang at him.
Konur yelped like a kicked dog, wrenching up his shield. Steel cracked against pine and the blow glanced away. Hakan moved fast, driving his shield-rim at Konur’s teeth, but his opponent had gathered his wits. He ducked, flinging out his shield, cutting down. The sword flashed, murderous; Hakan dodged, the blow juddering against his shield.
The two backed off, circling each other like wolves.
‘You should’ve brought a sword, cripple.’
‘Give me a fucking spoon and I’d find a way to kill you.’
They went at each other again, wheeling round, looking for an opening, blows probing against wood and iron. In reach, Konur had the better of Hakan. His sword cut, lunged, wound around Hakan’s axe, arcing in overhead.
Karsten had him well trained. But Hakan blocked every stroke, his axe gouging chunks from Konur’s shield while he strained to remember what Garik had taught him. Look for a weakness – a man loses a fight more often than he wins it.
Konur’s shield was fast. Maybe too fast. Hakan feigned low; Konur’s arm jerked down. Hakan kicked the rim, hard. Bone crunched against metal, pain ripped up his leg, but Konur wasn’t ready. The shield smashed into his face, jerking back his head.
‘Gaaaaaah!’ he squawked, blood bursting from his forehead. Seeing him dazed for a moment, Hakan hooked his axe over Konur’s shield-rim, yanking hard as he could. The shield flipped away.
Konur saw the danger and went on the attack, a slashing, hacking wind of steel. Hakan parried each blow, giving ground till he could feel the flame-heat on his back. Any further and he’d be in the fire. Suddenly Konur snatched his cloak from the ground. Hakan struck at him, but the cloak whirled, tangling his axe. Konur’s sword fell; Hakan wrenched up his arm. There was a splintering sound and his shield flopped down like a broken wing.
He threw himself forward, heard a crack as his head butted Konur’s face, felt teeth splinter on his crown. Konur wailed, clawing at his face, but Hakan clung on, tight as ivy.
They wrestled, scuffing up ash, Konur gouging at Hakan’s mouth and eyes. Hakan bit down hard through wet wool, tasted blood. Konur screamed, gave ground, then slammed his knee in Hakan’s groin.
Hakan buckled in agony.
Next thing he knew his legs were kicked away. Konur yelled in triumph, then vanished in a fog of smoke and cinder and flame. Hakan screamed, fire scorching his back, as he fell into its midst. He smelled burning hair, saw Konur’s bloody mouth grinning like a devil above him, sword raised for the killing blow.
Without thinking, Hakan plunged his hand into the embers. He shrieked, fingers burning, and flung a cloud of sparks at Konur.
The Karlunger howled, dropped his sword, pawing at his scorched face. With his last strength, Hakan rolled away and hauled himself to his feet.
Konur was doubled over. Smoke and ash clouded everywhere. Hakan’s arm swept down; he felt a dull, thick thud.
His axe was buried in Konur’s spine.
Konur let out a strange sigh. Almost weary. Then reared up, hands pawing uselessly at his sides. A shiver passed through him, he dropped to his knees, and then, very slowly, toppled into the ashes.
Hakan pulled out his knife.
Konur lay twisted, eyes full of fear, yet somehow expectant. As if he wanted just one more word from this world before he went to the shadow-lands of death.
Hakan seized his tunic. Konur hung limp, eyes black with ash – swallowing and swallowing. Like he was thirsty, or had something to say. But no words came.
‘See you in the High God’s halls,’ Hakan whispered, sinking his knife into Konur’s heart. ‘Or else in Hel.’
He gripped tight, until the last shudder had passed. Then he let him fall. Konur lay there, still as stone.
Hakan tore out his knife and staggered backwards, gasping.
Hate is chaos.
What chaos had he loosed now? His father’s plans lay shattered as the body at his feet.
But in his heart, all he heard was a voice. Quiet. Insistent.
She’s mine. Mine.