Peaceweaver Read Free Page A

Besides feeling rejected by her sister, Siri suffered in other ways. Whenshe’d heard the raiding party ride in, she had no doubt run to see if it was her husband returning. Hild knew that her sister’s cheerful face hid her disappointment that it hadn’t been him—and her fear that he might follow Wonred and Harr and too many other warriors to an early funeral pyre.
    As Hild’s mother and sister worked at the brooches that held up her gown, Unwen, standing behind her, tried to comb her hair.
    “Turn this way,” her mother said, pulling Hild toward her so she could get a better grip on the brooch. When she did, Unwen sighed noisily. Hild and Siri exchanged another smile at the familiar sound. Unwen had been their slave since Hild was a little girl. She could barely remember the newly arrived Unwen, who’d wept silently and fumbled through her tasks, not at all like the Unwen of today, with her brisk authority among the other slaves, and her way of showing her opinions through her wordless sighs and grunts of disapproval. When Hild had gotten older, she had come to understand that Unwen hadn’t always been a slave, that she’d been among a group of people—Hild wasn’t sure from what tribe—who had been captured by a raiding party headed by Hild’s father. Unwen ought to consider herself lucky, Hild thought; not only did her captors speak the same language she did, she served a noble family. The gods didn’t always see fit to give captives such a fate.
    She felt the comb on her scalp again. Now that her mother and Siri were through with the brooches, Unwenworked with swift, sure strokes to tame Hild’s hair and tie it into the complicated knot at the nape of the neck favored by the women of the kingdom, letting the remainder fall loose and silky down her back like a horse’s tail.
    While Unwen put the last touches on Hild’s hair, her mother looked her over and pronounced her fit for the hall. She led her to the door, Unwen running after her with the comb while Siri picked loose threads off Hild’s sleeve. She would make it just in time.
    The way to the hall was crowded, but when people saw the king’s sister—Hild’s mother—approaching, they stepped off the path. Hild craned her neck as they neared Beyla’s house, but she couldn’t find her friend. She must already be in the hall, trying to get a good place in front of a beam. Hild’s fingertips tingled with anticipation.
    “This way,” her mother said, leading them the back way into the hall, through the kitchens. It might be the quickest route to the dais, but they had to be careful not to run into someone heaving a bucket of water or pulling a steaming pot from the fire. Kitchen workers rushed past them, barely acknowledging Hild and her mother and sister in their haste, but none of them so much as touched their skirts.
    At the door to the hall, Hild paused while her mother checked her over once again and patted a stray hair into place. Then she smiled at Hild, kissed her on both cheeks, and pushed her in the direction of the dais.
    Hild fought the impulse to look back at Siri. Instead,blinking as her eyes accustomed themselves to the firelight, she moved toward the group of men who clustered near the front of the hall. Bragi, his harp tucked under his arm, looked her up and down from the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t otherwise acknowledge her. She held her head higher and kept going, pushing past Hrethel, a high-ranking earl, who smiled at her and inclined his head graciously. Hild smiled back. She moved past two thanes, who were so deep in a whispered conversation that they didn’t notice her, then winced as Olaf the Peacock trod on her toes. “So sorry, my dear, so very sorry,” he said, but he was brushing off his embroidered tunic, not looking at her, as he spoke.
    She was almost to the dais now. Where was her uncle? She wondered if she should wait for him, but when a man held out his hand to her and bowed regally, she let him