Page 5 of The Source of Storms

He passed me a little pouch of coins, and pulled out another which he handed to Noirin. We always received a cut of the proceeds from the yarn we spun. Father liked to teach us to earn for ourselves, and often reminded us that we may not always be able to depend on a husband to do it for us. The insinuation that we might not be able to find husbands, or might not be motivated to contribute to the household if we did, had always mildly annoyed me, but I appreciated his belief in building our independence nonetheless.

My mother exited the house and walked into the yard as we began to unpack the cart. I watched from the corner of my eye as my father hugged and kissed her, more exuberant in his affection than she was in her receiving of it. Grinning, he handed her a small, folded cloth, which she unfolded to reveal two intricate silver earrings, twisted in a swirling knotwork design around luminous blue gems. She smiled, holding one up to catch the soft light diffused through heavy clouds.

“Must have been a good market,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Have to keep you around somehow,” my father half joked in reply. I turned back to my work, grimacing at the truth in his words.

I finished my chores in a rush that evening. If Father was back, then Sigurd was back. Any excuse, any reason at all I could dredge up to ride to his family’s steading was more than welcome.

Although my mother seemed to expect it coming, she didn’t know our relationship had already begun. The thrill of it was intoxicating, but terrifying. If my father found out I had been sneaking off to meet Sigurd in damp fields, ducking behind barns with him… The thought of it made my stomach twist. While my mother apparently had little objection to it, my father definitely would, and she could offer me no protection against his anger.

But I was driven by love. Fresh, untainted, young love. And what better to risk his wrath for?

I rushed through my dinner like I’d rushed through my chores. Head down, quiet, drawing no attention to myself. Only as I rose to clear the dishes did I ask, “Can I take the new horse for a ride? See how he goes?”

My mother turned to my father in practiced deferral, raising questioning eyebrows to him and shrugging –– the strongest sign of her permission I would get.

My father sighed. “I was hoping to spend some time with my daughter after being away, but yes. Just be back before dark.” He glanced out the window. “Which is soon.”

I brushed off his attempted guilt trip, quickly cleaned my plate, and hurriedly helped Noirin with the rest of the dishes.

As I tugged on my boots, my father called to me with a tone of warning, “Halja, make sure you’re back before dark. Just the other day there were reports of a suspected daergdue in Skeioholm. And Glyrdsson told me last week he saw two balori kill one of his sheep.”

“I will, Father.”

Shadowfiends were never far away, in his eyes. I swept my cloak off its peg in the entryway and raced to the stables.

The new horse was quiet in his stall, almost asleep by the looks of it. I saddled him quickly. To my surprise, he was undisturbed by my hurried actions. We began at a slow walk, taking two turns around the yard in case he bolted. Young horses in a new place sometimes ran for the home they’d come from when given the chance, and I was a new rider to him, even more reason for him to act out. I was attentive to his gait, felt his measured steps ripple beneath me.

When I was satisfied that he would behave, I opened the gate and led him out, then encouraged him into a trot. Soon I had coaxed him into a gallop, pushing him down the road toward Sigurd.

I let us in the back gate of Sigurd’s family’s steading. The horse’s hooves squished through soft mud under a layer of fresh snow. The ground was not yet frozen, but a film of ice formed fragile panes across the puddles in the road.

I heard Sigurd’s voice in the barn as we approached, and anticipation hammered in my chest. When I walked through the open door, I saw him mumbling to the goats, a full pail of milk in one hand. His blond hair caught the dim evening light of the barn, pale against the shadows of the dark interior.

“You didn’t take long to find me,” he said with an easy smile. His blue eyes glinted like glacial ice in the low light.

“Couldn’t help myself,” I smiled back.

I crossed the barn and threw my arms around his neck, hugging him close. He smelled like straw and goats, with an undertone of citrus and vanilla. He smiled down at me, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, and kissed me. His lips were rough, chapped from a long day on the road in the wind, but I melted into his kiss just the same. My core twisted and warmed with the excitement his touch invoked.

“How was Skeioholm?” I asked after we pulled apart.

“Good! I brought you something,” he said.

“You did?”

“Of course, silly. Can’t go to the last market of the season and bring nothing back for my girl.”

Sigurd reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped cloth, which I unfolded to reveal a handful of silver hair beads. The tallest was set with a band of jade, and all were decorated with twisting swirls of knotwork designs. They had the same stylistic signature as the earrings my father had given my mother.

“They’re beautiful! Oh Sigurd, thank you. I love them.” I threw my arms around him again and reached up to kiss him. His cinnamon beard scruff scratched my face.

“Let’s see them on then,” he said.

“I have to braid it first, be patient,” I replied, before sectioning out a lock of my silvery hair and beginning to braid ittightly. He leaned expectantly against a stall door, watching me. “There,” I said as I finished the braids. “How do they look?”

“Beautiful,” he said. “Just like you.” He pulled me to him and kissed me once more. I kissed him back with the fervor of days apart, the unpracticed passion of young love. He pulled back and said, “It feels so wrong to be away from you. I don’t like it, not even for a few days.”

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