Peaceweaver (13 page)

Ahead of her, the gate loomed, the door between Hild’s past life and the one her uncle and Bragi had decided for her. A harsh sound made her jump. It was just the croak of a raven landing on top of the wooden palisade, a dark shape
in the misty air. She tried to calm the fluttery feeling in her chest.

Behind her, another noise made her turn to see the pony she had been meant to ride. Unwen was struggling to mount it.

“Oomph!” she said, sliding to the ground. Finally, a guard stepped forward and helped her up.

The pony trotted forward too quickly as Unwen tried to find her seat. Hild watched them, pulling Fire-eyes out of the pony’s path just in time.

“What are you doing?” she asked, more brusquely than she’d intended.

“It’s better than us both riding on the same horse, my lady,” Unwen said.

Hild stared at her, not comprehending.

“You didn’t think we’d let you go alone, not with all these men, did you, my lady?”

Words failed her, but Hild took a shaky breath. Unwen would be with her.

Ahead of her, Mord led the party, followed by the scouts, the three Geats falling in directly behind them. Hild followed the Geats, and behind her came Unwen, her muted gasps making it clear just how unaccustomed she was to riding. Brynjolf brought up the rear.

Then she was at the gate. Despite a wild desire to look back, she kept her face forward as she rode through it, leaving the stronghold, and her old life, behind.

On the other side, fog blanketed the fields and swallowed sound. Except for hooves hitting the path and an occasional “oomph” from Unwen, Hild heard nothing until a hawk shrieked in the trees—a warlike hunting cry. She glanced to her right but saw only ghostly trunks in the distance, beyond the troll rocks. The last time she’d seen those trees, golden leaves had flickered in the sunlight while she and Arinbjörn had practiced swordplay.

She looked away.

Ahead of them, the fog had lifted enough that she could make out the low buildings of a farm in the distance. As they approached, Hild saw a few scattered figures at work. One of them looked up when they neared, a farmer no older than she was. He stood watching her, then bowed low. As he looked up again, her hand, moving as if of its own volition, rose in greeting—and in farewell.

Then he was gone, and they were past the farm and on the rolling, rocky plain that led to the Wolfholt, still a line of dark trees in the distance. Hild laid her palm against her horse’s neck, and he gave his head a shake as if he was no more eager to enter the forest than she was.

The mist dissipated into gauzy wisps as the morning wore on, but the sun stayed hidden. No one spoke, and Hild felt the weight of the gray air settle over her. She made her mind a blank to keep away the image of her mother’s face, of Beyla’s. Arinbjörn’s eyes looking mirthlessly into hers. This morning he had seemed much older than the boy she
knew. What had changed him? Was it what she had done? Or was it what he knew about the treachery his father was planning?

She shut out the thoughts, refusing to tangle with them. There was nothing she could do. She was a peaceweaver. She knew the stories, and how often they ended in tragedy, even when both sides’ intentions were honorable. It took only one old warrior, recognizing a sword that had belonged to his dead friend, and now worn by the man who had killed him, to rekindle the flames of war. He’d point out the sword to the dead man’s hotheaded nephew or grandson, who would seek vengeance, and the whole cycle would begin again, leaving grieving widows and lovers and children behind.

But in her case, there were no honorable intentions. The peace she had thought she was being sent to weave would be rent and bloodied before her loom was even in place.

Gizzur and Hadding had broken away from the others and ridden ahead to scout out their path. Hild assumed they were looking for routes an army could take on its way to subdue the Geats. How long after they left her in Geatland would it be before a troop of Shylfing spearmen returned to attack? Would they be fast about it, or would they wait out the winter, until spring hunger weakened the Geats?

But after the fight, they would bring her home! She sat up in her saddle, hope kindling in her heart. Then she
slumped again. Bragi had no love for her and he had her uncle’s ear. She would not be going home.

A noise made her turn to see Unwen coming up beside her. “Oh, my lady,” she groaned. “How do you bear it?”

Hild watched the slave, so unaccustomed to riding, put her hand to the small of her back, then grab for the reins again as she wobbled unsteadily on her perch.

“It gets easier,” Hild told her. But she knew it wouldn’t get much easier for Unwen. They would be riding every day until they got to the land of the Geats. How long that would take, she wasn’t sure, but it must mean many days of riding, and Unwen’s body would be stiff and aching until they arrived at their destination.

Ahead of them, saplings marked the edge of the Wolfholt. Gizzur came riding back to confer with Mord. Hild watched as they looked over the rest of the company, making sure everyone was in place before they entered the unfriendly forest. Mord’s eyes, glittering from behind his masked helmet, stopped when they got to her face, lingered for an instant, then flicked away.
Does he think my eyes can harm him?
She wondered if Mord feared that she could read his thoughts the way she had read those of the men who tried to kill Arinbjörn. If he did, what would he not want her to know? He was an ambitious man from a powerful family, but not quite powerful enough, not one of the king’s closest advisors. Mord always seemed to crave something more. What would he do to get it?

Suddenly, she remembered what had happened the day she had served the mead in the hall. She’d been so intent on honoring Garwulf that she’d hardly thought about Mord at all. But Mord would have seen things differently. To his mind, it must have seemed that she had insulted him in front of the entire hall. In front of the king. What a fool she’d been. She couldn’t have found a better way to make an enemy if she’d planned to.

She twined her fingers in Fire-eyes’s mane, trying to allow the horse’s warmth to steady her. It didn’t work.

As she watched Mord, he twitched his horse’s reins and rode into the trees. She had no choice but to follow.

Once they were under the forest eaves, the woods became a mixture of fir and ash, water from the morning mist dripping down on them from the few brown leaves that still clung to the branches above. Notches cut into tree trunks here and there blazed the trail, but this close to the Wolfholt’s edge, the path was wide and trodden enough that they could have found their way without the marks.

On the forest floor, pine needles and leaf mold covered the ground and muted the sound of the horses’ hooves. A lone squirrel skittered up a trunk and disappeared. The quiet seemed ominous. No birds called from the tree limbs that loomed overhead. Hild thought she might have preferred to hear wolves howling or the grunts of bears than to feel creatures were watching her silently, just out of sight.

Directly in front of her, the two younger Geatish warriors
rode side by side behind Thialfi, the Geat with the damaged arm. They carried themselves with the ease of young men accustomed to the saddle, their backs straight and tall, their blond hair tied back and emerging from under their helmets. One was taller and more broadly built than the other, his hair darker blond, but they wore their cloaks identically, thrown back over their shoulders. She regarded the cloth critically; it was well made, if unadorned. Whoever had woven it was skilled, which surprised her. It must not be Geatish work—she wondered if the seaweed-eaters stole cloaks and tunics during raiding parties, not just gold and weapons and slaves the way the Shylfings did. It seemed like the kind of foolishness they might resort to.

Behind her, Unwen moaned. Hild knew the slave must be hurting, but there was nothing she could do. Yet she, too, was relieved when they rode into a clearing and Mord called a halt.

As she began to dismount, one of the Geats, the smaller of the two who’d been riding in front of her, stepped to her side and offered his hand to help her. Angrily, she brushed it away. As if she needed help getting off a horse!

The Geat stepped away, bowing briefly to her as he did, a hank of his white-blond hair flopping into his eyes.

She gave him a curt nod, then slid from Fire-eyes’s back. As her feet touched the ground, she stumbled and inwardly cursed herself, certain the Geat was still watching.

Not that it mattered. The Geats would all be dead—or
slaves—soon. And she would be … Well, she supposed she would be dead, too.

Another Geat was helping Unwen from her pony. Hild turned her head away and leaned against Fire-eyes’s flank. After so many days of being cooped up inside, of having so little activity, the long ride had left her shaky.

As she rested her head against the horse, something odd caught her eye—a flap of leather that she didn’t recognize, a part of the saddle that seemed out of place to her. She reached for it and then stopped.

From the angle where she stood, she could just make out the edge of a blade hidden under the leather flap.

She wasn’t weaponless after all. Arinbjörn had armed her.

THIRTEEN

T
HEY DIDN
’
T REST LONG
. B
EFORE
H
ILD
’
S BODY FELT READY
, she was in Fire-eyes’s saddle again. She could hardly keep her fingers from reaching for the sword hilt. Her father’s lessons, the time she’d spent practicing with Arinbjörn—she was grateful for them now. Before, they had been nothing but pastimes, amusements. Now they might mean her survival.

Nearby, one of the Geats helped Unwen onto her pony. It wasn’t just herself she was responsible for, Hild thought. She could protect Unwen, too, when her uncle’s army came to do its deadly work.

She drew alongside the slave. “Sit back a little more,” she said. “And don’t hold the reins so tightly.”

Unwen relaxed her grip on the reins for a moment but immediately clenched her hands around them again,
scrunching her shoulders up to her ears and sitting forward as if the pony were about to break into a gallop.

Hild reached over and touched the other woman’s shoulder. “Sit back,” she said again. “The pony isn’t going anywhere—it’s just going to follow the horses.”

Unwen lowered her shoulders but Hild could see how taut her body was. She leaned down, took the pony’s reins from Unwen’s hands, and held them loosely in her own. The pony didn’t change its pace but ambled along beside Fire-eyes.

“Oh, my lady,” Unwen said, looking up to catch Hild’s eyes. She pursed her lips as if she was about to say something else.

Hild waited, but Unwen took hold of the reins again and looked away just as the jingling of a bridle announced that Brynjolf, who had been riding in the rear, was catching up to them.

“By Balder’s pretty toes, looks like you’ll be sore tonight!” he said, grinning so broadly at Unwen that Hild could see his chipped front tooth. She remembered when he’d gotten the chip, falling off his horse during the midsummer races a few years earlier. He’d grinned when he’d broken it, too, even though it must have hurt. And that silly saying about Balder’s toes—it had been on all the boys’ tongues recently. Hild and Beyla had teased Brynjolf mercilessly about it.

She wished he would look at her, but she knew how difficult his position was. Even if he wanted to be friendly
with her, this was his first time to ride out with the men. The warriors would be judging him, and they would have plenty to judge. With his helmet tucked under his arm and his dagger in his hand, Brynjolf trotted past Unwen, then maneuvered his horse around the Geats and up to where Mord was leading the party.

Hild cringed, knowing exactly what would happen next. Mord’s voice rose in anger, allowing all of them, maybe even the scouts, who were riding somewhere nearby, to hear him berating Brynjolf for leaving the women unprotected.

Unprotected? She smiled grimly. Mord didn’t know about her blade. Could she pull it out without cutting the horse—or herself? And if she could, would she be able to defend herself on horseback? The Shylfings preferred to fight on foot, but if she stayed on Fire-eyes’s back, she would gain both height and power. Could she do it?

As Brynjolf made his way back through the other riders, an abashed grin on his face, Hild imagined him coming at her with a sword and tried to determine how long it would take her to unsheathe her own weapon. Once she did, her height—and the length of her arm—could give her an advantage if someone as short as Brynjolf ever attacked her. So would the element of surprise: nobody expected her to be armed, nor would they expect her to fight from Fire-eyes’s back.

She wished she could tell Brynjolf about the sword and have him practice with her. She wished …

She stopped herself. Wishing was pointless.

The day went on forever. The trail wound past an endless succession of trees, with nothing to distract her except the dread of what lurked unseen in the forest. Every tree appeared to be watching her, hiding behind it a slavering wolf—or worse. She tried not to think of the creatures she had heard about in Ari Frothi’s lays. In the safe confines of her uncle’s stronghold, she had enjoyed the frisson of fear those tales had caused. But now she recalled the warrior whose mangled body had been brought through the East Gate when she was a little girl. “Trolls,” she remembered people saying before her sisters had rushed her away from the scene.