Peaceweaver Read Free Page B

guide her up the steps. It was one of the queen’s kinsmen, a visiting Bronding whose name she couldn’t remember. Her eyes still scanning the crowd for her uncle, she thanked him.
    Then she was on top of the wooden platform, alone. She breathed in, then out again to quell her nerves. A slave handed her the long, curved drinking horn and she took it, careful not to spill the mead. She stood uncertainly at the back for a moment, then moved forward, taking her place at the front of the dais, hoping she was doing the right thing.
    How different the hall looked from here. She had never seen things from the king’s perspective before. At the farend, daylight streamed through the massive oak doors, shining on the guards’ spear tips, while a group of grannies sat making thread in the hall’s north corner and three little boys chased each other around one of the brightly painted beams that held up the roof. Her eyes traveled up the beams to the banners hanging from the rafters. Even they looked different from this perspective, torchlight illuminating the woven images of Odin, of Freyja, of the lesser gods. She pictured the tapestry just taking shape on her loom at home and realized she should be considering the role fire and shadow would play on the design. That was where it would hang when she finished it, she decided, choosing a prominent position easily visible from where she stood. The story the banner told would remind the king of the women and children left behind when he sent his warriors into battle.
    She looked down again, at the men who stood beside the long wooden mead benches on either side of the blazing fires, the slaves hovering in the background waiting to serve. Women, among them her aunts and cousins, crowded the walls. Her mother and Siri leaned against a beam, their heads bent toward each other. They were too busy whispering for her to catch their attention. But there was Beyla, her hair in her eyes, standing with a group of girls and ignoring their chatter as she waited for Hild to notice her. They gave each other a solemn look before Beyla grinned. She pantomimed taking a slurp from the horn and wiping her mouthwith the back of her hand. Hild hoped her friend had heard how she had made Brynjolf laugh earlier.
    When a tall warrior moved, blocking Hild’s view of Beyla, she turned her focus back to the heavy drinking horn in her hands. It was full to the brim. Tiny bubbles on the edges of the golden mead winked at her, and firelight danced on the polished silver fittings. Her arms were starting to ache from its weight. She hadn’t anticipated quite how heavy it was, and she prayed to the goddess that she wouldn’t spill it—or worse, drop it.
    A hush fell over the crowd. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The boards shuddered beneath her feet as her uncle moved across the dais to stand beside her. Just behind him came Bragi. Hild watched her uncle shift his eyes to the skald. Bragi inclined his head, as if he were giving the king permission to begin.
    Then her uncle looked out at the hall, and as he did, Hild followed his gaze, finally allowing her eyes to settle on the five travel-stained warriors, who stood closest to the dais, their mail shirts clinking lightly as they swayed around the men’s legs. She tried to make herself look at the others, but her gaze kept straying to Garwulf. Firelight reflected off the metal band that encircled his arm, a gift from the king for his prowess.
    Then their leader stepped forward. Mord, one of the king’s trusted thanes, but hardly one of his shoulder companions, wore two rings to Garwulf’s one.
Not for long
, Hildthought, remembering the way he’d treated the slaves that morning, and the way he was always ready to start a fight, or to prolong one.
    “Hail, Ragnar, King,” Mord said, lowering himself to one knee and holding both hands before him. Gold glittered in his fingers. The raiding party had done well. They had brought not just slaves but also