Laughter and delighted cries rang out everywhere as thick raindrops fell on the wedding guests. Randvi found Eivor's face across the crowd; her beloved was grinning like a child. Meanwhile, Birna was shouting, "Mighty Thor is with us! Come, let us roar louder than he does!" Her fellow drengir bellowed to the top of their lungs in response. Several of the children followed their example; their howls were not as powerful, but one could not deny their enthusiasm.

"Change of plan!" Valka called above the clamour. A big grin showed on her face, which was unusual. "Let us start the bridal race! Last one to reach the longhouse must serve ale to the rest!"

That got the village going. Birna shot like an arrow, closely followed by Sunniva and Tove. Many people laughed as they ran, burdened by food and ale casks. Erlend grabbed his two children; little Signy and Birgir giggled, safely tucked beneath his strong arms. Meanwhile, Ulfric used his cape to shield Kiúli from the rain.

The fastest, of course, was Eivor. She often glanced back as she ran, meeting Randvi's gaze. The latter picked up the pace, determined not to be left behind. Another of those grins graced Eivor's scarred lips. Randvi's heart thumped in her ears—and not from the strain of running.

Eivor was the first to reach the entrance of the longhouse. She turned as Randvi arrived behind her. The rest of the village gathered, waiting with bated breath. Usually, the groom carried his bride over the threshold—demonstrating that he possessed the strength to protect his new family. Eivor searched Randvi's face for a while. Finally, she held out her hand.

Randvi grabbed it without missing a beat. "Together?"

"Together," answered Eivor.

They crossed the threshold hand in hand, to the cheers of their guests. As the crowd rushed inside to warm themselves around the hearth, Eivor called, "The ale is on me tonight! Drink! Feast as if there is no tomorrow! Be loud enough to shake the foundations of Asgard! Make me proud, my Ravens!"

"To Eivor Wolf-Kissed!" shouted Birna. Already, there was an ale horn in her fist. How had it gotten there so fast, Randvi wondered?

"To Randvi Raven-Kissed!" answered Sunniva. "To Ravensthorpe's success! To friends from across the isles!"

"Skal!" cried Vili.

"Skal!" followed Sigurd.

The very air vibrated from the force of these shouts. "SKAL! SKAL!" cried the Ravens and the Raven-friends. Valka pressed a cup of mead to Randvi's hands. She took a sip, then gave it to Eivor. Those clear blue eyes never left Randvi as she drank deep from the cup. When she was done, she reached for Randvi, crashing her lips against hers. The kiss tasted of honey, sweet as sunlight. Randvi felt herself melting in her beloved's arms. She wanted nothing more than to tear that rain-drenched tunic from Eivor's hard form, to touch those lean muscles to warm her cold fingers. But, of course, they could not, not while they were surrounded by a cheering and cackling crowd. Eivor pulled away; within those blue eyes, Randvi could read the unsaid promise. Soon. They grinned like a pair of besotted girls discovering the spark of first love, resting their foreheads together.

Then Eivor called, "What are you all staring at? I told you to drink and feast! Put some ale in your bellies! Some music in your ears! I want to see these feet tapping! I want to hear these mouths singing loud enough to drown Thor's fury!"

Bragi happily answered her call, starting an upbeat tune with the rest of his musicians. People danced despite their wet clothes—Erlend with Signy, Vili with Sunniva, even Rowan with Yanli (that was a new development, Randvi noted with a raised eyebrow). Of course Eivor took Randvi by the hands, making her twirl and laugh. She even stole a kiss or two, at one point briefly pressing her lips below Randvi's jaws. The latter felt the familiar heat flooding her cheeks. Eivor grinned that lazy grin, blue eyes dark with desire.

"Change partners!" Bragi cried, and the dancers obeyed his call, Eivor now dancing with Sunniva, while Randvi found herself holding hands with Erke of Lunden. He was a handsome man with an easy smile, his feet effortlessly following the beat of Alvis' drum.

"The child you brought," Randvi said, loud to be heard above the clamour, "is he…?"

"Our son?" Erke's grin was ever so proud. "Yes! A sweet lad, isn't he?"

Randvi glanced to her right, where the little boy was hopping in a circle, holding hands with Eohric of East Anglia, Ingrid and Sylvi, the latter dictating all of their steps. "He's beautiful. It is kind of you, to have taken him under your wing."

Erke laughed. "As if you and Eivor didn't gather a whole flock of fledging of your own!"

Randvi then noticed a glint of silver around one of his fingers. "Why, you are married as well! Why weren't we told, Eivor and I?"

"It is very recent," Erke replied. "After finding Leif, Stowe and I, well… Leif will be heir to my clan, our clan… it needed to be done properly, you see?"

"Eivor will be very disappointed that she wasn't invited to the ceremony!"

"There wasn't one. It was only the two of us, Leif, and the priest."

Randvi giggled. Gods, the ale was starting to get to her. "Oh, we would have wanted to see that, we would! What sort of priest would be willing to marry a pagan man to a Christian one?"

"A drunken one!" Erke answered, making Randvi laugh once more.

Eivor's head was swimming, and her feet weren't stepping where exactly she wanted them to step. Her partner, Sunniva, was younger, and not quite as drunk, evidently enough. Nearby, Randvi was dancing with Erke. The sweet sound of her laugh filled the air. Eivor smiled stupidly as she stared at her, thinking, that's my wife, my pretty wife, my fox-maiden.

Randvi's lovely mouth formed a perfect circle as Eivor's fumbling feet caught into a groove in the carpet. Eivor tried to regain her balance, only to topple backward on a table. Randvi advanced toward her, worry evident on her pretty face.

"I'm all right!" Eivor managed, waving her arm awkwardly. "'S fine, love. Took worst falls, I did."

Eivor felt all gangly limbs as she stood on her feet. She found herself finding the concerned blue eyes of Birna upon her.

"Are you all right, Sunbeam?" said the drengr. "You nearly flew into our table!"

"But I didn't," Eivor said, moving to sit in a smooth motion, all clumsiness gone as she managed a smug grin.

Birna laughed. She seemed to be playing orlog with Eira, of all people. The young girl's cheeks were tinged pink, showing she had drunk a fair amount of ale. Birna's head was swaying a little as well. After pushing a tankard of ale toward Eivor, she reached for her own mug. Beside her, Petra shook her head.

"Didn't you have enough?" said the huntress, not without some humour.

To her credit, Birna grinned despite the barb. "That's how I gain the gods' luck. The drunker I get, the more they show me their favour, see? It's a calculated risk, my sweet lady hawk."

"Then you clearly need to drink more," Eira said, cheekily. The girl was lounging in her seat as if it was a throne. Gods, how had she grown so tall? She was all gangly limbs now, towering over her own mother. She took after her father in that aspect, Eivor supposed. "Else I don't know how you'll be breaking that losing streak."

Birna continued to grin. She'd heard worse from more ferocious opponents, obviously. "Cheeky thing you are, pup. Your mam would tan your hide if she heard you talking like that, she would."

"Well, my mam isn't here, so…"

In response, Birna only lifted her mug. She drank and drank, not stopping despite Petra's words of protest. Then, she slammed the tankard on the table, smirking… only to make a gagging motion one moment later.

Birna sprang up from her seat while Eira burst into laughter. Eivor glared at the girl before running after Birna. The latter managed to reach the entrance of the longhouse before she started to retch. Eivor rubbed her back, holding back her hair as well. The rain fell more softly now, and Thor's fury had given way to a cool evening breeze. Eivor welcomed it with a relieved sigh; the meadhall had gotten hot and stuffy over those last few hours.

"Oh, fuck," Birna said, after she'd finished vomiting, "this tasted better going in than going out…"

Eivor chuckled. Gods, how many times had she been in Birna's place, with Sigurd beside her, laughing at her misfortune? She could not count. "Breathe in, breathe out… there you go…"

Birna wiped her mouth, face twisting into a scowl. "Freyja's tits, but what a display. Eira drank as much as me, and she isn't puking out her guts right now."

"Eira is—"

"Ten years younger, yes!" Birna snorted. "Gods, it's like looking in a mirror. You know she wants to take up raiding, yes? Her mother told her to wait a few more seasons."

"She'd make a ferocious raider, aye," said Eivor, "with a few years more under her belt."

Birna gave her an odd look. "You might not want to wait too long. You know Rollo wants to leave the crew, don't you?"

"Does he, now?" Eivor said, frowning. It was not surprising; he'd been upfront with her about his intentions from the moment he'd joined her raiders. "He's free to go, of course. We had a good run, all of us together…"

"What about me? Would you let me go, if I wanted to leave?"

The smile disappeared from Eivor's lips. Her raiding crew without Birna… it was almost impossible to imagine. She felt a pang at the thought. "Of course I would," Eivor said, after a while. "I'd be saddened by your departure, but…"

"You understand, don't you?" Birna said, rather quietly. "You made a truce with Soma's killer. I understand why, all the fucking politics that led to the moment, but I can't make my peace with it, y'know? I don't want to live in an England where that snake Aelfred draws breath while Soma's ashes are lost somewhere in the shithole that is Wessex."

"I understand," Eivor said, gravel in her throat. "I understand completely."

She hated and respected Aelfred of Wessex in equal measure—she disagreed with his ideals, but admired his resolve. What would come out of his dreams of reforming the Order that his brothers and father had led before him? Eivor didn't know, and she almost dreaded to find out.

"I wasn't even there when Soma was…" Birna trailed off, unable to finish. "I was on the opposite side of the village. Gods, if I had been there—"

"Even if you had been there," Eivor said, softly, "the Valkyries still would have spirited Soma away to her righteous place among the gods. Would you have fought the Swan-maidens themselves?"

"Oh, yes," Birna said, with a chuckle. "I would have fought a Valkyrie for Soma's sake. I would have fought a hundred Valkyries to keep her safe."

"Would you have really?"

Birna frowned. It seemed to cause her great pain to say, "No. It's as you said. Soma deserves her glory in Valhalla."

"I would like to think," Eivor continued, "that she would have been brought to Folkvangr, to spend her well-deserved eternity beside Freyja and her chosen."

"Oh, I like this!" said Birna. "Much better to fight alongside the fair Lady and her shieldmaidens… and her army of cats!"

"And her army of cats," Eivor agreed, nodding sagely.

Birna grabbed her by the shoulder, crushing her in a one-armed hug. "If I stay… if I stay, it'll be because of you, Sunbeam, and no one else. All of England can rot in a ditch… except for you, Wolf-Kissed. I know I can count on you to stay true in a world that's gone to shit. This, I know."

"Think on it," Eivor said, returning Birna's madcap grin, "and come back to me when you have your answer. Whatever you choose, know that the Raven clan is your home if that is your wish. Aelfred might have won his war… but Ravensthorpe will never recognize him, nor any other of those so-called kings, as its master."

"Aye!" Birna agreed. Then, she called, loud enough to wake the draugir in their burial mounds, "You hear that, Aelfred of Wessex? We don't want your bony arse here! Crawl back into the shithole you come from and stay there!"

Somewhere, somehow, Eivor imagined Aelfred of Wessex looking up from one of his many dusty tomes, scowling as the last echoes of Birna's foul-mouthed declaration invaded his ears.

It was childish, oh-so-very childish… but Eivor found herself laughing all the same.

Eivor was sitting with Birna and some of the village women, laughing loudly. Randvi smiled at the sight. How she loved seeing Eivor's face whenever she laughed: the crease forming between her brows, the dimples on her cheeks, those little lines resembling a crow's feet at the corner of her eyes… Eivor had had little reason to laugh as she did now those last few months. It was good to finally see her losing herself in her mirth.

Through the cheerful clamor, Randvi's ears picked up another sound, so soft she almost wondered if she had dreamed it. She turned, finding two women sitting apart from the main crowd. Ljufvina, laying a comforting hand over a sobbing Swanburrow's back. The sight was sobering, especially contrasted with the collective merriment on display. Randvi headed toward their table. The two women looked up at her as she approached, with Swanburrow hastily wiping her eyes.

"Oh, hello, Randvi," she said, forcing a smile. "H-How are you?"

"I'm quite fine," Randvi said, taking a seat beside her. "What is wrong, Swanburrow?"

The poor woman looked away. "Oh, it's so silly of me, it's just… I saw Bertram with Mayda, and… and he was touching her belly and smiling and…"

Ljufvina rubbed her back as Swanburrow let out another hiccup. "It's not silly," the older woman said, "not at all."

"Oh," Swanburrow said as she realized, "you've lost your husband as well, and here I am blubbering, at a wedding even—"

"It's all right to feel grief, Swanburrow," said Randvi. "Eivor herself still mourns for Hunwald and Hjorr, and she did not love them the way you two loved your husbands. Never apologize for your sorrow." The gods knew Randvi had carried enough guilt for feeling sorry for herself while her husband recovered from torture and Eivor bore the burden of not saving him sooner.

Swanburrow put her hands over the slight swell of her belly. "My poor little cygnet will never know their father…"

"They won't," said Randvi, "but they will hear of him through your tales. Through Eivor's tales. Your child will know how valiantly he fought to make a home in England for his family."

Even as these words left her mouth, Randvi could only hear Eivor's voice, hoarse from grief and rage. "He didn't need to be there," she had said, when she had described the events of Cippanhamm. "He ran to his doom—and for what? He took unnecessary risks because he wanted to be like me. I brought him there, I asked him—"

"The fault does not lie with you, my love," Randvi had answered. "You said it yourself: he was glad and proud to be by your side. Would you have rather him live with the shame of running from the fight when you most needed him?"

"Yes," Eivor had said, without hesitation. "Yes, I would have preferred if he'd lived, even in disgrace. I would have preferred if he'd lived and gone home to his Swanburrow."

Randvi mulled over the memory. This was the same Eivor who had once cursed her father's memory for putting down his axe in an attempt to save his clan. Gods, how the years—and the sorrows they had brought—had changed Randvi's beloved…

"You are not alone," said Ljufvina. "The clan will welcome your child as a blessing."

"And your little family will always have a home in Ravensthorpe," Randvi continued. "As Eivor would say, you are all Ravens now."

Swanburrow managed a chuckle. "Then my child would be a swan as well as a raven. Oh, my Hunwald would surely say something silly, like—"

"That you will give birth to a black-feathered cygnet?" Randvi said, having well heard enough of Hunwald's mangled metaphors to complete Swanburrow's thought.

Now Swanburrow was openly laughing. Randvi and Ljufvina exchanged a smile.

"P-Perhaps I should try to mingle more," Swanburrow eventually said. "Enjoy a bit of the festivities. Don't you think?"

"Go on," Randvi said. "Show us a few steps."

"Oh, I'm a dreadful dancer." Still, Swanburrow left her seat, heading toward the circle of dancers.

As Randvi stood to follow her, she heard Ljufvina say, "Wait, Randvi. There is something I'd like to ask of you…"

Randvi stilled, looking back at the woman. She was struck by the strangeness of a moment—a still grieving widow and a newlywed bride, the former masking her sorrow, for just one night, to make sure she would not darken what was supposed to be a bright, joyful occasion.

"You are among friends, here, Ljufvina," said Randvi. "Ask anything. I will be glad to provide help."

Ljufvina's smile wavered a little, but it appeared genuine. "Over the last few days, I've been thinking… there is nothing left for me in Jorvik. I've no wish to partake in the petty bickering of the lords helping themselves to Halfdan's scraps now that he is gone. And my husband's clan sees me only as his widow, not as the true successor to his legacy." Her expression was tinted with bitterness. "Nearly two decades I've helped Hjorr build his empire, only to have that hard work invalidated the moment he is not there to stand for me. I've left my home, my people, my family, to ensure their wellbeing, and this is how I am repaid? Gods, but I would rage if I had any more energy to spare."

Her words struck at Randvi like a blow to the chest, bringing back a familiar taste of bitterness in her mouth. How many women had suffered similar fates, finding themselves bound to husbands who never appreciated their contribution to their clans? Too many to count, she was sure of it. The thought made her blood boil.

She put a hand over Ljufvina's shoulder. "You are welcome to live in Ravensthorpe, if that is your wish. We will be glad to have you among our Ravens, Ljufvina of Bjarmeland."

"I will make sure to pull my weight, then." Ljufvina's grin grew a bit sly. "And perhaps show those overly proud drengir of yours a few tricks from one who has twice the experience they have."

"Eydis will be pleased to have assistance to whip them into shape," Randvi said, returning her smirk. She took Ljufvina's hand, prompting her forward. "Come! The night is still young! Swanburrow is right, we should be moving these feet of ours. Come, my friend!"

Randvi was dancing in a circle, holding hands with Swanburrow and Ljufvina. Eivor was glad to see smiles upon their faces. She knew nothing could ever hope to fill the hole left in their hearts when their beloved husbands had been torn out of their lives. Still, love could be found elsewhere, easing the coldness of grief with newfound warmth. Eivor had learned this lesson herself, first with Sigurd in her youth, then with Randvi once the Nornir had made their paths cross.

Satisfied, Eivor continued her tour of the longhouse. Here, Valka was sitting with a group of women, grinding something with a pestle and mortar, explaining her actions as she worked. Was she teaching them about some of her remedies, Eivor wondered? Not far away, Tewdwr was sitting beside Tove, his torso bared as she worked with her inking tools. Eivor looked at him with surprise, and the man proudly explained, "A memento, to remember this day and my friendship to the Raven clan!" Eivor shook her head as she walked away, hoping his new bride would not mind having a husband whose skin had been marked by Norse hands.

Some of the children rushed past her, giggling. Beside a pillar, Hytham was covering his eyes with his hand, counting numbers aloud. When he reached ten, the man called, "Ready or not, here I come to find you!" Eivor heard someone laugh by her feet; Ingrid was hiding under a table. She met Eivor's eyes, making a shushing motion with her finger. Eivor nodded slightly, moving as to not give the girl's hiding place away.

An eclectic bunch sat a nearby table, made of Oswald of Elmenham, his brother-in-law, and the whole of Eivor's raiders. A bemused Eivor took place beside Oswald, curious to know what context had brought all of this strange crew together.

"Exchanging mead and stories with my crew, are you?" she asked the king.

"They remember me from the raid on Serpent's Landing," Oswald explained. "Your raiders invited me to a drinking game, but…" He glanced at his tablemates; most seemed stuck in a stupor, with Revna propping up her chin with her hand to keep herself from falling face first into her bowl.

"You won?" Eivor asked, mystified.

"Well, most of them were already drunk when I got here, so…"

"I'm not down yet!" Rollo suddenly exclaimed, pushing himself off the table. "I'm still… still in the game…"

"M-Me…" said Broder, and he punctuated that with a loud burp, "me neither… I'm… I can still go… going… I'm…" And he made a vague motion at the mug in front of him.

"Wonderful," Oswald said, dryly. "Absolute marvelous."

"I'm not losing to the likes of you!" Rollo said, jabbing a finger at Oswald.

The latter rolled his eyes, giving Eivor a long-suffering look. Oswald had a few years on Rollo—perhaps a decade, even!—and yet he looked like the reckless drengr's fresh-faced younger brother. No wonder Rollo was underestimating him.

"You should watch your tone, Rollo," Eivor chided, though gently. "That's a king you're challenging."

"King for how long?" Rollo said. "Everyone knows what the treaty with Wessex entails. What Guthrum intends to do with East Anglia."

To his credit, Oswald retained his mild expression. Another man would have scowled at those words, or even erupted in anger. Eivor knew many such men; some even feasted beside her on this most blessed of days. For his part, Oswald only sipped from his mug and said, "Why, yes, I will lose my title and my crown. My days as king are numbered."

"Does this grieve you?" Eivor asked. The man had gambled away his reputation, his honour, to gain his crown. He had won it through blood, sweat and tears. Any anger would be well deserved in such a situation.

Oswald simply shrugged. A humble man, to the last. "Why would I be grieved? My duties remain the same. Guthrum will reign over East Anglia, but I will still serve my people as one of the new king's vassals. That's all I ever asked—to be able to watch over them and protect them from harm. I am proud to be given the privilege of their trust."

Rollo squinted at him. It was obvious he'd not understood a word. Eivor smiled softly at Oswald. "Wise words, my friend," she said. "Wise words…"

"Well, I don't geddit," said Rollo. "King Guthrum, he… you…" It seemed difficult for him to convey his idea through words. The boy was a ferocious fighter, but his wits failed him sometimes—even when he was not ale-addled as he was right now.

Oswald continued to smile, taking another sip. He was quite deliberately choosing not to explain it further. It was obvious he derived some form of fun from Rollo's cluelessness. "I'm still wondering why they call you Walker," he finally asked, turning toward the younger man. "It's a strange nickname, isn't it?"

"I don't ride on horses," Rollo said smugly. "Y'see, I'm fast enough on foot to keep up with any beast!"

"That's not it," said Hrefna. "His stupid arse's so big, the poor horse just…" She dissolved into giggles rather than complete her sentence. Beside her, Revna blew a raspberry, miming something going splat. Hrefna snickered again.

"Fuh-funny," Rollo slurred. "Very funny."

"I've heard from Birna you were thinking of leaving my crew," Eivor asked him, when the laughter finally died down. "Where will you go then, Rollo Rognvaldsson?"

"Anywhere the people will sing my saga!" the lad answered. "This land's not big enough to contain my legend as well as yours, Wolf-Kissed. And I'd like… I'd like to find a-a woman worthy of my…" Rollo stopped abruptly, eyes lost in some faraway dream. "Worthy of Estrid of Frankia. By Thor, but what a woman…"

Eivor smiled slyly. "Wise and witty. And good with her tongue as well."

"Mm-yes," Rollo slurred. "Though there are beauties in England as well. Saxon beauties. Briton beauties. And gods, Dane beauties. Just here, Eivor, I spied one among your guests, a queen among women I tell you… tall, dark-haired, with the rune of Tyr marked upon her chin…"

Oswald raised one single eyebrow. Broder slammed his hands on the table and exclaimed, "That's my sister, you wet ballsack!"

"Your sister?" Rollo's grin was lopsided. "By Freyr's cock, how can she share blood with someone as ugly as you?"

Broder stood up. "I'd rather see your blood, piss-stain!"

"Come at me, grandfather!"

"You know that if she were here," Oswald said, rather loudly, "Valdis would knock both of your heads together so hard your brains would melt and drip down your ears?"

At this, Broder and Rollo gave him the same blank look. Oswald replied with a stern glare. The two meekly returned to their seats.

Eivor felt a slight grin upon her lips. "You handled that dispute well," she told Oswald, echoing the first words she had ever said to him. In that moment, she had glimpsed the king he would make—the king he had become.

The king he would remain, even without the crown sitting atop his golden curls.

"Of course I know how to handle that sort of dispute," Oswald said, loftily. He gave a pause for added effect, before saying, "I happen to have two small children, after all."

At this, Eivor roared in laughter, the sound soon echoed by the rest of the table. Revna and Hrefna pushed another mug of mead toward him, and Eivor's drengir chanted, "Chug, chug, chug!" Oswald took the tankard, made sure to look at each and every of his tablemates, before drinking it in one draft. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—looking a wee bit smug, if one had to ask Eivor—and slammed the mug on the table.

Eivor's crew went utterly mad with glee.

Randvi's feet ached. How long had she been standing, to dance or speak with her guests, accepting drinks raised in her honour? She'd lost the count of time. Outside, the rain seemed to have stopped, and sunlight had given way to starlight. The celebrations showed no signs of stopping, however. More food had been served: roasted boar and lamb stew, made with fresh herbs and fresher vegetables. Children stole fruits from their parents' plates, laughing as the adults ineffectively grumbled about devious, but sweet-faced thieves. A table had been cleared, and Sigurd and Vili had climbed atop it to entertain their audience with a quick-paced jig. Sigurd might have lost his sword arm, but his feet remained as swift and true as ever. Vili, meanwhile, had all the trouble in the world following his steps.

Randvi found herself seated beside Valka, Sunniva and the queen of East Anglia. The latter was rocking her daughter—Eivor's little namesake—to sleep. Valdis was exchanging words in low tones with the seer; she was asking about how to brew a certain remedy for nausea, if Randvi understood correctly.

"You'll want chamomile, then," Valka explained. "Fennel might work as well, though the taste might not be to your liking."

"Thank you," said the queen. "The völva of my clan remained in Denmark. She was too old and too sick to make the trip to England. I wish I had taken more time to learn at her side."

"I often wish the same when thinking of my mother," Valka said. "She taught me as best as she could, but I believe the world grew a bit dimmer the day she left us to join the gods. All that knowledge… gone, like leaves scattered in the wind."

"I am sorry," Valdis said, inclining her head.

"Oh, don't be like that, Valka," said Sunniva. "Old Svala would be proud of you. She couldn't have a better successor, a better daughter. She loved you more than anything in the Nine Realms, she did."

"I know," Valka said, with a sad smile. "Still…"

"Still?" prompted Sunniva.

The völva sighed. "Nothing. I worry when I should not. Pay me no mind."

Sunniva did not look convinced, but she did not press the issue. Valdis, however, said, "I noticed you had a church built in the village."

Her words had the effect of a rock disrupting the calm waters of a pond. Sunniva grimaced, while Randvi tightened her hands into fists beneath the table. Valka, however, remained as still faced as ever.

"We had it built at the demand of the villagers," Randvi explained. "Many Christians live in Ravensthorpe. They deserve a safe place to worship and conduct their ceremonies."

For one, Mayda and Bertram had been married inside the small chapel; their child would be baptized there, once he or she would be born. Randvi suspected more such events were to come. Knud was courting a Christian girl in Grantebridge, to the horror of his parents. "What if her parents force him to convert?" Runa had told Randvi. "How will we appease the gods' wrath if he turns his back on them?"

"Runa, you've raised your son well," Randvi had told her. "Trust that he will choose the best path. He is grown now, nearly a man. He must make his own choices."

"But he's barely got a beard on his chin!" the woman had said, despairing. "Oh, Randvi, how has it come to this? My sweet boy, a Christian… I dare not imagine it!"

Randvi herself did not want to dwell on the topic. The construction of the church had been the cause of a row between herself and Eivor, their first as a committed couple.

"Eivor, I dislike the idea as much as you do," Randvi had told her future wife, "but it's what the villagers want. Would you have us treat our Christian brethren differently because of their faith? Is that the sort of Jarlskona you would like to be?"

"You don't know their priests as well as I do," Eivor had retorted. "At best, they're scheming backstabbers. At worst…" She had shaken her head, face twisting in disgust. "I'll not give them an ounce of power in the place where are found all the people I love, all the people I must protect."

"I'm not talking about us joining the Church as an institution. I'm talking about building a place where our own Christians can safely pray and speak to their God. Where is the harm in that?"

Poor Eivor had looked so tired as she had let out, "Where is the harm indeed…" The Jarlskona had conceded afterward, though she grit her teeth whenever she caught sight of the little chapel. She had also spent the whole of Mayda and Bertram's marriage with her hands tightly clasped behind her back.

Randvi met the queen's eyes. The woman appeared to understand Randvi's weariness, seemed to share it, even.

"My husband is Christian," Valdis said, eventually. "He is comforted by the thought of being with his God when he passes on. Our children have been baptized as well. Oswald is willing to compromise on many topics, but on this he would not budge. The thought of our little ones not being allowed in his Christian heaven is… terrifying for him."

"And?" Sunniva said with a shrug. "Why does this matter? You're still pagan, are you not?"

"I am," Valdis answered. She shared a significant look with Valka, before adding, "Did you know that the people who settled in Mercia and East Anglia were not Saxons? They called themselves the Angles. In time, they mingled enough with the Saxons of southern England that it became difficult to tell one tribe apart from the other." Valdis brushed her daughter's dark curls. The child mumbled a bit in her sleep. "I look at my little ones, and I wonder… will they be Christian or pagan? I think our children, and our children's children, will not be Danes or Saxons. I think they'll be something else entirely. Something new."

"Like what happened with the Saxons and the Angles," Randvi realized.

Valka made a strange sound. It was hard to describe—half-between a sob and a joyless laugh. Randvi had never seen the seer look so troubled.

"What gods will they keep?" Valka said, with obvious emotion. "What will they remember of women like my mother, what knowledge will they preserve from the long line of wise healers and seers who came before her? What will remain of our faith in a world where Christians wield quills the way they wield swords, where their kindness is a weapon to be feared?"

Randvi remained silent. Valdis kissed her daughter's hair, holding her a little closer. Sunniva grimaced.

"Gods," she told Valdis and Valka, "but you two are as grim as your names suggest!"

The two women stared blankly at her. Sunniva just raised one eyebrow in response. Then, Valdis burst out in laughter. In front of her, Valka let out a tired chuckle.

"Why, we are acting like peddlers of ill omen, are we not?" the seer admitted. "On this day of joy and unity, no less." She directed her smile toward Randvi. "Sunniva is right. Let us enjoy this night while it lasts. Times of change are upon us… but tonight, we are among friends and family. Tonight, the Nornir gift us with a precious moment preserved in time. Let us savour Verdandi's favour while it lasts."

Randvi took up a mug, raising it. "I might not know what tomorrow will bring, but I know all of you. I could not be surrounded by truer, more steadfast people in these uncertain times. We will hold through these storms. We will endure, and turn our faces to the sun once it emerges from beyond these dark clouds."

"We will," promised Valka, lifting her own mug. "Skal."

"Skal!" answered the other women in one voice. "SKAL!"

The clamour died down. The ale casks grew empty, the tables became bare. Around the meadhall, Leofe could see people yawning, some offering lethargic goodbyes as they left the longhouse for their own homes. Here and there, wedding guests retreated to the comfort of furs and woollen blankets, while a few simply fell asleep on their seats. Two of the women who had accompanied Eivor in her fight against Beorthric—the foul-mouthed one and the tan-skinned huntress—were cuddling, eyes closed as they surely wandered the world of dreams.

In another corner—and Leofe's cheeks grew crimson at the sight—two men were drunkenly locking lips. Eivor's brother and his dark-haired companion seemed unaware that they had an audience of one. Leofe hastily looked away; she hadn't known that men could even—God, just thinking about it made her face grow even warmer.

Leofe walked away, not finding the one to whom she wanted to speak. She spotted another couple speaking softly together, each holding a sleeping child. The husband smiled soppily, saying something Leofe could not quite catch, and his wife answered, "Ah. Didn't come out of that drinking game unscathed, did you? Let's go. If my brother hears your sweet talk, he will puke."

"But I like sweetening you up," answered the husband, making his wife laugh.

On a table beside them a man lay sprawled, bare-chested. On his right shoulder, dark ink shone on angry red skin, forming the image of a raven, wings spread in a show of power and pride. He mumbled something in a language Leofe did not know, a trail of drool leaving his mouth. Farther away, Randvi was conversing with a woman who surely was her sister. The two embraced, and the other woman retreated to another corner of the longhouse, where a man and two children were already sleeping under a pile of furs.

"What are you looking for?" a voice said, rather suddenly.

Leofe yelped, spinning on her heel to find Alfrún standing behind her. The girl was holding the orange kitten—Kiúli—in her arms, stroking his pretty little head as he slumbered.

"Oh, Alfrún," said Leofe, "you gave me a fright!"

Alfrún had an impish smile. "Hah! I am getting better at sneaking up on people, then. Won't take long before I manage to surprise Hytham, one of these days." In her arms, Kiúli spread his little legs in a lazy stretch. Alfrún kissed him between the triangle-shaped ears. "Did you enjoy the celebrations?"

"Yes," Leofe said, surprised at her own honesty. "Yes, I had a lot of fun." Today, she had acted like a carefree child again, unburdened by worry. As a result, Leofe felt light, so very light—or perhaps that was all the ale she had drunk. "Have you seen Eivor? I wanted to… well…"

Alfrún motioned to the side, indicating a door leading to another room behind the Jarlskona's throne. "I was looking for her as well. Should we go together?"

They headed toward the throne, hearing Eivor's voice filtering through the open door.

"… so that order of yours serves no master," she was saying. "Then, it's really not a faith or a cult?"

"We follow a creed," answered a man's voice. Hytham. "There are three tenets to follow: do not harm the innocent, hide in plain sight, and never compromise your brethren. We seek to break the chains holding down mankind, to ensure we shape our own fates. That is why we strike at those who would control us from the shadows."

Leofe could see Eivor within the chamber; the woman appeared to consider these words. "It is strange," she said, "to think of a world where men and women are their own masters, not the gods or those who speak for them. Strange… but appealing, in its own way."

Hytham chuckled. "Not so long ago, I believe you would never have said these words. Your faith was strong, Eivor. What happened to shake it so?"

"In Norway, I witnessed events that—oh, my apologies, Hytham. I'd forgotten about—"

"There is nothing to apologize for," the man murmured. "You could not have predicted that he would—that Basim would…" Hytham sighed, before continuing, "I still cannot believe it. What brought him to betray a beloved ally, to betray our creed and brotherhood? I cannot fathom it. He was… he was like a father to me, and I—"

"Hytham," Eivor said, gently. "Hytham, it is not your fault. The blame lay sorely at his feet."

"What will I do, now that he is gone? The Order is disbanded in England, but the glory of that feat solely rests on your shoulders. I am crippled, useless to my brothers and sisters. What can I do to honour my creed, to protect my fellow men from those who would seek to harm them?"

A silence followed. Then, Eivor said, "You can teach. You can listen. I value your wise counsel. So does Randvi. Perhaps others are also in need of the light brought by that creed of yours. Perhaps there should be more Hidden Ones to protect England from the shadows."

"I… I will think on it. Thank you, Eivor." Hytham gave another sigh. "I should be going. Your bride is soon going to join you, is she not? I should give you privacy."

"I would hope so, yes," answered Eivor, prompting a laugh from him. "Good night, Hytham."

"Good night, Eivor."

The man walked out of the room. His blue eyes lit up at the sight of Alfrún and Leofe; he gave them a small salute in greetings, then made his way out of the longhouse. The two girls approached the room. It was filled with parchment of all sorts, with a larger one depicting a strange array of lines and forms rolled over the table. Raven figurines carved out of wood were strewn over all of those scribbles. Leofe had no idea what purpose they served.

"Girls!" Eivor said with a smile. "You're going to bed, I hope?"

"We are!" said Alfrún, handing her the kitten. "We took good care of your new mouse chaser. See how tired he is?"

Eivor chuckled. "All tuckered out. Poor little beast."

"Well, I'm going to sleep," Alfrún said with a yawn. "G'night, Eivor!"

"Good night, small walker."

As Alfrún walked away, Leofe turned to Eivor. It was a little daunting, to speak to the woman alone. She had heard all those sweet stories from the other children, those tales depicting her as a warm, friendly protector—but the she-warrior was still formidable-looking. A large number of the stories Leofe's parents had used to scare her into obedience featured brutish Norse raiders as villains. It was hard to ignore such deep-seated fears.

"How are you, Leofe?" Eivor finally asked. "Are you settling in?"

"Yes," Leofe replied. "Everyone has been… they've all been so kind to me. I almost can't, well, I just…"

"Can't believe it?" completed Eivor. "I know. It struck me as well, when I was adopted into the clan. And I was a great deal more of a troublemaker than you are! Yet, I was shown patience. Love. I didn't see it back then, but now I do know."

Leofe managed a smile. "I came here to… I wanted to thank you, Eivor. I don't think I'd even be alive without you. How could I ever rep—"

"You can repay me by growing up. By forging your own path, by finding your true calling. You can replay me by living, Leofe. That's all I ask."

Leofe felt her eyes fill with water. Still, she dared not cry. She only looked at Eivor, chest tight with emotion, and said, "Thank you, Eivor. Thank you."

Then, she turned tail and fled, unwilling to show her face now that the tears were freely streaming down her cheeks.

When Randvi entered the war room, Eivor was kneeling in one corner, putting a bowl in front of Kiúli. Eivor smiled like a child as the kitten drank his goat milk.

"How is the newest denizen of Ravensthorpe?" Randvi asked her. "I hope Nali is not too jealous of the little one."

"Nali barely acknowledge his existence. But Dwolfg is delighted. They'll be fast friends, I believe." She had put a basket beside the bowl. When the bowl was empty, Kiúli stretched and yawned, showing his little fangs. Then, he curled inside the basket, promptly falling asleep. Randvi felt a pang at the sight.

"That was where Ceolbert stood, you know?" she told Eivor. "I can still see him, pouring over all those maps and letters…"

"I think of him when I fish," Eivor said, standing. "And whenever I see any of those Roman ruins he loved so. Our princely scholar… he was like you in that regard. A strategic mind paired with a kind heart."

Randvi reached for Eivor, taking her wife's face in her hands, kissing those scarred lips. The gesture was sweet, almost chaste. When they separated, Eivor was smiling. The sadness had not gone from her eyes—Randvi doubted it would ever truly disappear—but now love shone bright in those blue depths, more potent and powerful than any of her previous sorrows.

Randvi remembered her previous conversation with Valka and the others. An uncertain future awaited them in these divided lands—but at least she would face it with Eivor. Eivor, who had fought warriors and kings and gods—Eivor, who had lived to tell the tale with a grin and a laugh.

No, Randvi did not fear what the Nornir had woven into their grand tapestry, what they intended for her and the people she loved.

Whatever fate awaited Randvi and her beloved—whatever fate awaited the Raven clan and their allies across England—they would face it, together.