The Enchantment Read Free

replaced by a crafty, wide-growing grin.
    â€œThis is a grave matter, Sword-stealer.” Borger covered his eagerness with a frown. “No man may take sustenance from my land, drink my water, hunt my game, and cut my timber without paying just tribute.”
    â€œAhhh, but I have done you service, Jarl. Guarding the north reaches of your realm . . . remembering your name to the North Wind in winter and the Singing Brook in summer,” Serrick responded, watching Borger closely.
    â€œThe North Wind owns no silver and spins no silk. Nor do mountain brooks run full of Frankish wine.” Borger had always been one to honor the gods and the forces of nature, but never at the expense of profitable human commerce. “If all of Midgard sighed my name,” he declared, “there would still be mouths to feed and backs to clothe . . . swords to forge and sailcloth to buy.”
    â€œYou have not changed, Red Beard.” Serrick gave Borger a calculating look. “Except that now there is hoarfrost in your beard and in your welcome. You do not even offer a stranger a horn of ale in hospitality.”
    Borger stiffened. Lack of hospitality toward a stranger was a most serious charge among the clans of the Norsemen. The gods were believed to assume mortal shape now and then, to walk among men and test the generosity of jarls and chieftains. Borger fidgeted on his seat as he scrutinized that felt hat and the unusual eyes beneath it. The Allfather, Odin himself, was known to wear a wide-brimmed hat as a disguise among men . . .
    . . . a fact Serrick had considered in choosing his raiment for this occasion. Aaren’s mouth quirked up on one side. Father Serrick was a clever one. Seeing him match wits so effectively with the jarl bolstered her confidence in his decision to bring them here. Father Serrick knew what he was about.
    â€œAle!” Borger bellowed. “Bring a mead-foaming horn for an old warrior, a comrade in battles past.”
    Serrick’s face creased with a gap-toothed smile as he took the horn and downed it in the fashion of a true warrior: all in one breath. Then he shoved the empty horn back at the thrall who had served him.
    â€œNow about this debt I have come to pay,” Serrick said. “Twenty years of tribute, Jarl. And though I have no silver, you will be well paid.” He turned and walked back through the hall to fetch Aaren’s sisters. Aaren lowered her head as she trailed them through the press of revelers and stopped in the shadow of one of the great pillars that stood on either side of the high seat.
    All craned their necks to watch as Serrick ushered little Miri and Marta before the high seat and pulled the hoods from their heads. Sounds of astonishment rippled through the gathering.
    Aaren’s little sisters were twins . . . young and flaxen-haired and fair as summer. When Father Serrick dragged their cloaks from them, there were gasps of delight at the sight of their willowy curves and slender white arms. They were robed in linen tunics with fine pleated sleeves and soft woolen kirtles fastened by handsome carved brooches. Their garments were expertly stitched and bound with red woven braid that bore testimony to their skill with the loom, dye-pot, and needle. But it was their faces that drew the eyes of every man in the hall. Such fresh and comely faces: delicate ovals of pale cream inset with eyes as blue as summer sky and lips the color of ripe berries.
    Borger thrust to his feet and slammed his drinking horn to the floor.
    â€œWhat is this, old man? A trick of some kind?”
    â€œNo trick, Red Beard. It is your payment. Made in womanflesh.” Old Serrick’s tone bore a hint of pleasure that caused Borger to tear his gaze from the twin vision and look at him. Serrick smiled. “These are my daughters . . . maidens, untried by men. I bring them in payment of my tribute. They will be yours, to do with as you please.” He paused, then