Page 25 of A Curse Carved in Bone
He reached for the bucket of steaming water and set it in front of me. “Your stink. It wasn’t me you were smelling, Firehand.”
“Besides that.” I wrung out the cloth and set to washing, waiting to see what he’d say.
He shrugged, then shoved a pile of clothes toward me. “Una sentthese up with me. Put them on so I don’t need to look at your stomach. It makes me want to give up mead.”
“Start talking, and I’ll put on clothesandput in a good word for you with Una.”
My friend huffed out a laugh, but then his face turned serious. “It was as though Harald’s focus went with you to Skaland. He was obsessed with every piece of information that could be gleaned and left everything else to Skade.” He made a face. “You know how she is.”
I grunted in agreement, digging a razor out of the chest and testing the edge. “What has my mother said on the matter?”
“Couldn’t tell you. I haven’t seen Saga once since you left.”
I lowered the razor. “Truly?”
“Not once. I heard that Skade brought her over to Skaland to see you at Fjalltindr but not until after the fact. Saga’s been even more reclusive than usual. I don’t even think she allows Harald to visit, because I don’t recall the last time he traveled to see her.”
The metal of the razor reflected my frown, no part of me liking that Harald hadn’t mentioned this. “Does he still heed her council?”
Troels hesitated, then said, “I believe her council serves primarily as justification for his obsession with Snorri. Islund has taken advantage, but he cannot see past your mother’s prophecy. Snorri. The shield maiden. Skaland. There is nothing else.”
Troels’s words added fuel to the fire of doubt in my chest over my father’s intentions for Freya.
“But perhaps he’s in the right.” My friend unfastened the wineskin at his belt and took a swig before handing it to me, the smell of strong drink filling my nose. “Everyone knows that the only thing I’m good for is knocking over the threat right in front of me. Harald always sees the long strategy and he’s never led us astray. Has led meawayfrom astray, for which he will always have my loyalty. But suffice it to say, Bjorn, I’m glad you’re back.”
“It’s good to be back.” But as I took a mouthful of the liquor, it struck me that every time I said those words, they felt more and more like a lie.
Though my body was exhausted, the glimmer of hope that Harald had put in my chest infused me with more energy than a night’s rest. Servants hurried about to provide me with supplies. I was given fresh clothes and leathers, as well as a glittering set of mail. A servant named Una wove my swiftly washed hair into tight war braids while another added to the bag small comforts, such as soap and rags for my courses, that only another woman would know I’d want on the journey.
Harald’s servants seemed strong and healthy, and they were all men and women who resided in Hrafnheim rather than thralls captured in raids. They were dressed well, and though their nervousness was betrayed by the way they watched me as though I might bite, they did their duties without complaint. I made a half-hearted effort to learn more about Harald, but in truth my mind was all for whether Saga would fuel the spark Harald had ignited or whether she’d crushit.
Stepping out from behind a woven hanging depicting Freyja and Freyr, I walked back to the main room of the great hall. Though such places were usually bustling with activity, Bjorn sat alone at a table,absently flipping a knife in his hands while he stared at the glowing hearth fire. I paused and took a moment to watch him, for he was so deep in thought he’d not heard my approach.
He had taken time to wash, and the sides of his head were freshly shaved so that the inkwork was clearly visible, the long black lengths twisted into a knot with a piece of braided cord. In flagrant disregard of the customs of our people, his face was also freshly shaven, the scruff of dark beard no longer hiding the sharp line of his jaw. The muscles in his arms flexed above his bracers as he flipped the knife. The motion made the chain mail that ended just above his biceps jingle softly. He’d changed clothes, and I wondered if they were garments he’d packed away before going to Skaland. Another reminder that this had been his home, not a prison. That these people were to him a family, not his enemies. That Bjorn was a Nordelander through and through.
“Have you gotten your eyeful, Born-in-Fire, or do you wish me to sit still a moment longer?”
I scowled, annoyed to be caught staring at him. “Merely considering the best places to stick a knife, though I think ridding myself of your tongue is where I should start.”
Bjorn turned his head to look at me, green eyes drifting up and down. “You’d regret that choice.”
My insides flipped but all I said was, “I doubt that.”
I hefted my bag across my shoulder and crossed to his table. “Are you brave enough to allow me a weapon?”
He handed me the knife he’d been flipping. “I’d find you a shield, but you’d do just as well with a cooking pot.”
“If that is a not-so-subtle hint that I should cook for you on this journey, consider yourself warned that I will spit in every meal I make for you.”
Bjorn only shrugged. “Won’t be the first time I’ve tasted your spit, Born-in-Fire, and I think not the last.”
I stared at him, my cheeks burning hot. “You think I wish to hear jokes from you?”
“Was not a joke.” Heaving a pack over his shoulder, he gestured to the door. “Do you wish to go, or do you wish to stand here arguing with me?”
“Arsehole,” I growled, then I shoved his knife into my belt. A sword would have been better, but my father’s weapon had not only been ruined when Bjorn had hit it with his axe in Grindill, it was now likely turning to rust in the hot springs where I’d left it. Though it was impossible to mend a warped blade, a pang of sadness hit me, as it was the last thing I had of my father. The last thing I had of my family at all, and its loss made me feel even more alone.
Skoll and Hati trotted beside us as Bjorn led me through Hrafnheim’s narrow streets, walls rising high on all sides so my only view was occasional glimpses of the sky. Laughter emanated from buildings, drowned out from time to time by the heavy clanking of blacksmiths at work, far more in number than I’d expect for a town this size. We walked through the market square, which was full of merchants, most local, but many with the darker skin of those from the distant south. More than a few southerners were traders that I recognized from Halsar’s market, so I pulled the hood of my cloak forward. Harald might be content to share my identity with the entire fortress, but any steps that I could take to delay Snorri’s discovery of where I was seemed wise tome.
