“The Jarl is overseeing the sacrifice of the animals for the feast,” one of the women replied. Torunn closed her eyes and swallowed her anger. It was not the woman’s fault that her brother was a short-sighted fool. He knew as well as any of them that a large sacrifice was not possible.
But aside from that, she should have been present for such a thing. As the dead Jarl’s daughter she should have had a place of honor and received a blessing from the priests. But Hallvard was keeping all of those honors for himself.
The greedy pig.
She thanked the woman and stormed through the village to where the priests did their business. They lived apart from the village, but close enough that she could hear the scream of the animals they sacrificed to the gods on their feast days.
A bull bellowed loudly as she rounded a corner and she felt a shiver run up her spine. She hated to watch the sacrifices, but it was a necessary part of life and she could not pretend that it did not happen. She ate the meat that the animals provided and enjoyed the protection of the gods their sacrifice honored—she owed it to them to watch.
As she walked through the cloud of sacred smoke she paused briefly to dip her hand into the jar of dark clay that had been set out for those who entered. She smeared her fingers across her forehead and wiped her hand on her tunic before she took a deep breath and followed the sound of cheering that signified another life given to the gods.
Torunn let out a frustrated grunt and charged forward. A group of men and priests were gathered around a corral that had been decorated with winter greenery. She pushed through the men and saw Hallvard seated atop the fence, straddling it casually to get the best vantage point while the priests did their work. He had always been fascinated by these rituals, but Torunn suspected it was for a different reason than the piety he always claimed.
“Hallvard— You sent for me,” she said loudly.
Hallvard glanced down with an angry look on his face, and two guards stepped forward to block her path, but as soon as he recognized her, his frown cleared and a wide smile replaced it.
“Sister!”
In the corral the bullock that had been sacrificed was dragged away, and Hallvard’s attention was drawn for just a moment before he looked back at her. “You have missed all the fun.”
Torunn blinked at him in surprise. ‘Fun’ was not a word used to describe something as solemn as these rituals. The priests who overheard him exchanged dark looks and Torunn met her brother’s eyes nervously.
“What did you want?”
Hallvard’s cheeks were marked with lines of dried blood, and his pale eyes looked ghoulish in the sunlight. He jumped down from the fence and put his arm around her shoulders. Hallvard was not much taller than her, but he seemed to carry himself at a different height since he had returned to Skaro.
“I have been thinking about your house,” he said.
“You have?”
“Of course! I am hurt that you would want to be so far from your brothers.” He pouted just a little, but Torunn sensed that he was mocking her as he did it. “Is it truly so terrible to live under the same roof as your Jarl? You did not mind so much when our father was alive.”
“I am older now,” Torunn choked out. “It does not seem right. You and Asgaut will take wives and fill the house with children. There would be no place for me.”
“Ah, yes. You should be in your husband’s house, dear sister. I am so glad that you brought that to my attention.”
“I—”
Anger filled her belly once more.
“Do not worry, Asgaut and I will see to your happiness. Once this night is over, we may begin anew. Do not be in such a hurry to run away from Skaro, little sister. This is your home!”
Torunn gritted her teeth. Her brother’s tone was too cheerful, and something about it felt hollow and dangerous. If she argued with him, the warriors who stood just behind him would spring into action, and she would not be able to defend herself.
“What of the preparations for tonight?” she blurted out. “You have not given me any tasks. What shall I do? What will be my purpose?”
Hallvard laughed. “Why, you will be there in support of your Jarl, and you will look beautiful and celebrate the passing of our father into the halls of Valhalla. You do not need a duty, Torunn, not when your burden is the greatest. You are the most powerful woman in Skaro, and all of the people know it!”
Torunn nodded dumbly. She did not feel powerful, but he was right. Perhaps that was why he was treating her so well.
“So, put all thought of a house out of your mind,” he said with some finality. “After our father’s funeral we will talk more.”
“But the slave—”
“Ah, yes,” Hallvard said thoughtfully. “The rebel. Are you certain that you can trust such a beast?”
“He is not a beast, he is just a man.”
“A man with dangerous ideas,” Hallvard said and his arm tightened on her shoulders. A warning. “People will talk.”
“Let them,” she snapped. “If he says anything that displeases me, I will kill him myself.”
Hallvard nodded and released his hold on her, but as she went to step away from him, he grabbed her tunic and pulled her forward roughly. “Do I have your loyalty, sister?” he asked softly.
“Of— of course,” she stammered. His face was close to hers, and she could smell mead on his breath and the bull’s blood on his cheeks. The combination was sickly sweet and vaguely threatening, and it made her want to recoil, but she had to stay still.
“Good. Good. That was what I had hoped you would say.” He released her tunic and stepped back, and Torunn felt a shiver as she noticed the warriors behind them relax their hold on their weapons. What was happening?
“I will go and prepare for tonight,” she said as she turned away. She walked quickly through the priest’s complex and glanced over her shoulder at her brother. He raised an arm in farewell and called out something she could not hear. It was a simple gesture, but it filled her with foreboding. She had never trusted her brother. But now that he was Jarl, he was even more dangerous than before, and she could not shake the feeling that she had to tread carefully around him.
10
The bathwater steamed in the frigid air and Torunn sank below the surface of the water. The wound in her shoulder ached, but it had healed cleanly. She had not bothered to look at it since Iarund had removed the stitches, and she had not allowed Heldi to put any of her creams on it to lessen the scarring. What did it matter?
She had finished soaping her hair and washed the last of the previous night’s celebrations from her skin, but she still felt unclean—everything about the funeral was wrong. Everything about her brothers was wrong. And the way she felt about her father’s death was wrong, too. It should not have felt so painful. She should have been happy to see him take his place among their ancestors. Funerals were not sad, not when a warrior met his end at the point of an enemy blade… But she did not know how her father had died. It was the mystery of it that unsettled her the most. She hated not knowing.
What if the rumors were true. What if he had returned to the Saxon churches, not to raid them, but to worship in them?
What then? Would the gods even recognize his face when the time came? Or would he be lost at the gates of Vahlalla, wandering aimlessly looking for a gate that would never open for him…