Freya nodded. “You would have liked her. She was always the funny one.”
Wren sniffed.
“You’ve been awfully quiet all afternoon,” Freya said. “Come to think of it, I haven’t heard you talk to the Allfather once since I got back.”
“No.” Wren sighed. “No, we’re not speaking right now.”
Freya glanced at the girl again. She was sweating and shivering, with dark shadows under her eyes, and her breathing sounded just a bit labored, and wet. Freya grabbed Wren’s shoulder and yanked her thick red hair up and away from her face, revealing the tall and pointed ear beneath it. Wren tried to pull away, but Freya held her still as she stared at the ear.
Wren too?
“When did this happen?” she asked as a lump began to form in her throat.
“Last night.” Wren wrenched herself away and Freya let her go. The girl stepped back and kept her eyes on the ground. “I was guarding the cell, and a good thing too, because some men came to kill Katja. But after they left, I went to check the door because it looked rusty. I shook the handle. And I shook the bars on the window.”
Freya glanced at the iron door. “And she bit you.”
Wren nodded.
“I’m sorry, Wren.”
“It’s all right.” The girl sniffed and dragged her sleeve across her nose, revealing her hairy hands for a moment. “It probably would have happened anyway, right? I mean, back in Denveller. They would have gotten me sooner or later. At least this way, I get to live. Instead of being killed by the reavers, I’ll be one of them. I can run away. Far away. I’ll live in the north, and I won’t hurt anyone, I promise.” She dropped her chin to her chest and began to cry.
Freya held the girl to her chest. “Maybe not. That man I told you about, the one who cut off Leif’s arm and Fenrir’s head, he’s working on a cure, a real cure.”
“There isn’t time,” Wren said hoarsely. “I only have another day or so. I should leave the city now, while I still can.”
Freya stared down into the wild nest of red hair resting on her chest, and she saw one of the tall white ears poking up through the girl’s ragged braids.
She’s right. I can’t protect her, even if I lock her up in a cell, she won’t be safe as long as she’s in the city.
“Okay. You’ll go tonight, during the feast. It’ll be loud and dark, and everyone will be drunk, and I’ll make sure you walk out of here and no one will notice. All right?”
Wren nodded. Together they walked back around the side of the castle and saw the men building up the bonfires in the courtyard and setting out benches and tables made from whale bones and tightly bound leather sheets. They continued inside past the cooks and butchers arguing about the food, and they were nearly back to Wren’s room when the girl paused and pointed to the end of the hall. “There’s something else. Something you should know about,” the girl said.
Freya followed her down the hall, and then down a narrow stone stair. When they reached the bottom it was so dark that Freya couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, and she was about to suggest that they fetch a torch when a faint orange glow lit up Wren’s face. The light came from the ring on her finger and it gleamed just barely bright enough to reveal the dim outlines of the stones of the floor and sacks of potatoes around them. They crossed the room, and Wren stopped, pointing to the corner. There in the darkness, Freya saw a gaunt woman with dark skin and curly black hair.
“Who is she?” the huntress whispered.
“Her name is Roosa, or something,” Wren said. “She’s the one who was flying the skyship when it crashed in Hengavik eight years ago.”
Freya darted forward, dragging Wren and her light with her to inspect the woman. “The pilot! Omar told me about her.”
“Omar? Is that the old man with the dangerous sword?”
Freya grinned. “Very dangerous. It’s solid rinegold.”
“What!” Wren stared at her. “There isn’t enough rinegold in the entire world to make a knife. How can he have a whole sword of it?”
“Apparently, there is quite a bit of it out in the world. It’s just very hard to find. In fact, that’s why he came here in the first place, eight years ago. He was looking for more.” Freya turned her attention back to the woman in the corner. “Omar seemed to think the pilot was living in the city. I don’t think he knew about this, though.”
“Skadi said they put her down here because she was sabotaging the drill, stealing parts to build a ship so she could leave Ysland.”
They both looked at the stranger, and the stranger stared back at them with her wide, sunken eyes. She sat at an awkward angle, leaning against the cold stone wall in her ragged, colorless clothes. Her bony hands trembled in her lap, and her breaths were short and shallow.
“I think she’s dying, very slowly. No thief deserves to suffer like this.” Freya reached behind the woman to yank on the chain clasped around her ankle, and found it quite sturdy. “But even if we set her free, I don’t think she’s in any condition to escape, much less survive outside the city on her own. We’ll have to leave her here, for now.”
The dark woman blinked at them. “Morayo.”
“What’s that mean?” Freya asked.
“I’m not sure. I think it’s someone she doesn’t like,” said Wren. “Maybe you should ask Omar. Maybe he knows.”
After a few more moments holding the stranger’s hand and trying without success to coax her into speaking, Freya and Wren left the cellar and returned to their room upstairs. Wren eased into bed with a violent shiver, her teeth chattering.
“Does it hurt much?” Freya asked. She touched the girl’s forehead and found her burning up.
Wren shrugged. “Only when I’m awake.”
“Then get some sleep. I’ll come get you tonight when it’s time to leave.”
Freya spent the rest of the evening in the courtyard as more and more people came inside the castle walls to eat, drink, and sing. The bonfires burned brightly, the people shouted and stamped their feet, and even though she found herself within reach of Skadi or Leif, Freya found herself almost enjoying the evening as stranger after stranger rushed up to embrace her and praise her and thank her.
The sheer noise and movement and press of life, the parade of smiles, the echo of laughter, and the smell of the food stampeded through her. She was a creature of the hills, of long silent nights lying in wait, and long sultry nights lying with her husband. The sound and fury of the celebration swept her along on a current of human joy and relief, the likes of which she had never felt before.
Countless men, women, and children thronged around her to hear the story of the great hunt and the great battle with the demon Fenrir, and she found that with a little encouragement and a little mead, she could tell the story quite well. And she told it truthfully, for the most part.
She let Erik stand for Omar, whom she never mentioned at all, and at the very end of their battle in the snowy ravine she gave Erik a death so heroic and godly that people were soon singing the praises of the Silent Stalker of Thaverfell. But after telling the story three times, others were able to take up that duty, and she found a seat among the guards to watch the festivities and eat, and to keep an eye on the queen.
The women sang songs of love, and the men sang songs of war, and then the women and the men sang in a battling round that ended with more drinking and laughing and more than a few couples stumbling around the corners and shadows to celebrate with even more vigor.
A brief lull settled over the crowd at one point. There was a moment when everyone seemed to be wiping a merry tear from their eye at the same time, when everyone was reaching for a glass at the same time, and everyone was thinking about finding an outhouse or ditch at the same time. And in that moment a small, elderly man stepped forward into the clearing between the tables and cried out, “I sing the song of Ivar Ketilsson, King of Rekavik, warrior, father, and hero to his people.”