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Chapter III
Syzygy – "An alignment of celestial bodies"
Origin: English, Latin
"I'm hungry." Sigurd complained as the sons of Ragnar trudged through Kattegat towards their cottage.
"Well brother, if you had better aim, we would be eating elk and not rabbit." Ubbe slapped him over the head lightly. A string of dead rabbits was slung over his shoulder. Sigurd's aim with a bow may be a little faulty but the brothers could always rely on their snares. Rising food prices in Kattegat were affecting everyone, even the former princes, and it was far better to catch what you could in the forests than to buy scraps down at the docks. As they neared their residence, they saw groups of needy citizens lining up for aid rations. Many people in Kattegat were simply too old or infirm to hunt for themselves, and increasing numbers were forced to rely on charity to get through the week. Since guests of the Great Army had removed many of them from their homes, Lagertha was expected to provide care. Ivar's keen eyes did not miss the House Dagny mark seared into the side of the wooden food crates. Lagertha is losing her grip.
Ivar pulled himself to a stop as the boys turned the corner. He watched, a little jealously, as his brothers bounded up a set of stairs, like new puppies, and rapped politely on the door. Knock too hard or too loud and Old Galena would surely have a heart attack. After a few moments the door cracked open and a pair of milky, squinting eyes stared out at them.
"Hello, Galena."
"Good afternoon."
Hvitserk juggled his basket of fish, trying to get a better grip, as they entered the tiny home. Old Galena had been their mother's favourite slave, she had essentially raised the boys, and when Aslaug was murdered Lagertha decided she had no use for her. Ubbe had bought Old Galena's freedom and installed her in a small villa near their own home. She was too frail to keep working and certainly too poor to feed herself with the current food-price inflation. "We have your delivery."
Old Galena let out a little chuckle, ushering them in. She had a hunched back and hobbled around with a walking stick, but that did not prevent her from trying to serve the boys as she used to. "Tea?"
"No, thank you."
Hvitserk filled a bowl with fresh fish and laid two rabbits down beside it. "The forest was good to us today, this should keep you fed for a while."
Old Galena wrung her bony hands together. Her current situation was so alien to her, so inappropriate, but regardless she was grateful. She scraped together a few copper coins from the purse hanging at her belt and offered it to them earnestly. Ubbe wrapped his grip around her outstretched hand and gently closed her fingers. "You do not need to do that, Galena." Her wrinkled mouth trembled, unsure of what to say, so she just nodded tentatively and scuttled away.
"Do not be afraid to come to us if you need anything." Hvitserk told her from the doorway. They all knew that Old Galena would not ask them for anything, whether she was too proud or too embarrassed they weren't sure, but their offer was sincere. The boys gave her one last wave and closed the door carefully.
"Do you think she will last another winter?" Sigurd asked as they trouped down the stairs heavily.
"Galena is a tough old bird. She may well outlive us all."
Ivar didn't say a word as he crawled after them. Since finding the Ullac camp late the night before, his mind had been utterly consumed by them, by that mysterious voice that reminded him of heavy rain. He had lain in the undergrowth watching them celebrate for hours. He had hoped to catch another glimpse of the mysterious leader but neither she nor her brothers emerged from the tent. Eventually, as the pinkish glow of early morning sunrise crested through the trees, Ivar had given up and dragged himself home through the forests. As he crawled away he had been struck again by that strange feeling of homesickness, as if he belonged with the Ullacs. Then as he passed through the tree archway, as suddenly as it had appeared, that imaginary rope tethered to his chest had been severed. By the time he had reached Kattegat, Ivar's entire body was aching intensely and all he longed for was a steaming bath. He had shaken off the feeling of belonging more than a little bitterly and spent the morning lost in a foul mood.
As they reached the porch of their cottage, the sons of Ragnar halted in surprise. The door was open and the foreign, twisting scent of herbal smoke drifted from it.
"What the…"
Ivar recognised the smell immediately. It curled up into his nostrils, spread down his throat like a gulp of spiced wine, and wriggled out through his bloodstream. Ullacs. He crawled towards it instinctively. The other sons of Ragnar exchanged glances, unsheathed their blades and walked cautiously into their cottage.
It was empty.
Ubbe hooked his axe onto his belt and approached the supper table. At its centre was a stack of herbs twined together with a piece of string, smoking gently. The oldest son of Ragnar plucked it up and inhaled deeply. Something deep in the pit of his stomach fluttered.
"It smells like…"
Sigurd pulled it from his brothers' hand, turning it over and over in his fingers. He handled it carefully, as if it was a baby bird with a broken wing. His words were halting. "Roasting meat…and Ragnar…and music, if music had a smell."
"Home." Hvitserk half-whispered. "It smells like home."
Ivar wasn't listening to his brothers. He had already experienced that twisting, transforming scent. It seemed to smell differently to each person. Sigurd smelled their father, Ragnar Lothrbok. But when Ivar had smelled those herbs at the Ullac camp, he thought only of Aslaug, of the subtle flowery perfume she used to wear. The one made of mountain daises and wild lavender. In his mind, he had suddenly been a toddler again watching his mother grind together dried petals with a pestle and mortar. She glanced up at him, her beautiful hair swept over one shoulder and smiled. The smile that she reserved solely for him and no one else. She held up the bowl for little Ivar to smell and he had giggled, wrinkling up his nose. Perhaps that was why he had found himself unable to move, unable to leave the camp, he was bathing in the smell of his mother. It had wrapped him in a cloak of bitter-sweet longing and Ivar's heart felt consumed with the loss. Loss of the only woman he had ever loved.
But at that moment in the cottage, Ivar the Boneless couldn't think of anything. His eyes were staring up at the wall behind their table, staring at the large rune marked there in crumbling grey-white paint.
"Look."
Ubbe's eyes flicked up. "What is that?"
"I have never seen that rune before."
Ivar reached up a hand to trace the paint. Still slightly wet, it streaked his fingers the colour of old snow. A faint vibration ran through his fingertips as they connected with the rune and a strange, echoing voice trickled through his mind. This is the mark of the Ullacs. Of course, Ivar didn't say that aloud. He wouldn't say a word about the camp, or the girl with the voice like rich earth. Not yet. For the time being, he would keep that information just for himself. It felt like a dirty little secret and he didn't much like sharing his secrets. Especially not with his brothers.
Hvitserk strode over to the wall and swept his hand across the painted rune. A shower of drying paint crumbs came away with his touch. "Who would mark our home this crude way?"
Ivar knew. It is an invitation.
Finally, as Ivar was deciding whether to divulge even a fraction of his knowledge, Ubbe spoke. "I believe this is an invitation." Ivar almost raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"That rune," He gestured at the wall. "I think it is the mark of the Ullacs. King Brodir's daughter has come to Kattegat, perhaps she wants to meet us."
"The Ullacs?"
"I think I have heard that name." Hvitserk responded. He rubbed his fingertips together releasing a flurry of crumbling paint particles. "The Swedish religious faction."
"Witches," Sigurd snarled. "I heard. People say they practice the Old Ways."
"What do you know about the Old Ways?" Ivar hissed.
Sigurd's thin lips curled up about to retort when Ubbe cut in, rubbed his forehead wearily. "Enough. I have heard enough of your constant arguing." The youngest brothers simply glared venomously at each other. "We should speak with Floki about this, perhaps he can uncover the truth."
While the sons of Ragnar pondered the meaning of a painted rune, Lagertha was once again seated in her throne. The room was cold and silent. For the first time in a long time, she was completely alone. Her fingernails rapped against the wood of her chair arm, as they had when King Brodir had come to present House Dagny, but this time the rhythm was uneven, anxious. She savoured each inhale of breath, forcing the nervousness down into the pit of her stomach. She was queen. Queen, she told herself again and again. Queens are not intimidated by children.
She gazed down at the carved wooden box resting in her lap. A finger traced the lid, drifted over the symbol marked there in greyish white paint. It had been waiting for her when she returned to the royal residence late that afternoon. Just sitting there on her bed patiently. Even before her eyes had settled on the rune, Lagertha had known that it was from them. They had been here in her home and not a soul had seen them, heard them, noticed them in any way.
Lagertha cradled the box. Why was she so afraid to look inside? Queens are not intimidated by children, not by children, not by children. She curled her grip around it, the pads of her fingertips vibrating softly as they connected with the dark wood. Slowly, ever so slowly, the queen of Kattegat lifted the lid and the concept of time seemed to evaporate around her. Inside the deep box were two items, both wrapped in thick crimson wool. As red as spilled blood. Carefully Lagertha opened the first package. She lifted a necklace from its shroud, heart thudding against her chest, and the silver symbol dangling from the cord swivelled slowly in the air. It was the Web of Wyrd. Lagertha swallowed thickly. She knew its meaning well. The Web of Wyrd or the matrix of fate, as it was sometimes called, had been woven by the Norns; goddesses who ruled the fates, determined the destiny and more importantly the lifespans of the Viking people. She laid it down on the ledge of her chair arm and began to unbind the second gift.
The box clattered to the floor of the throne room as Lagertha heaved in a desperate, anxiety-riddled breath. The noise of its fall echoed off the ceiling beams. The queen didn't even hear it, all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears. In her hands was something she had hoped never to receive. An hourglass. She turned it over and over in her hands, but the grains of sand refused to change direction. The top section was almost half full and every few seconds a tiny, almost indistinguishable shard of sand tumbled down into the pile at the bottom. Somehow Lagertha just knew, knew that those grains of sands represented minutes of her life. When the last grain fell, she knew she would die. By a son of Ragnar's blade.
"Unconventional gifts, I know."
Lagertha's head jerked up. She had been so consumed by the fear and adrenaline racing through her body that she had not noticed the appearance of another figure in the throne room. The only daughter of House Dagny was leaning nonchalantly against the wall several feet from the dais, arms crossed. Her lips turned up crookedly. Perhaps it was meant as a smile, but it seemed to Lagertha as something more sinister, like an animal baring its teeth. Lagertha found herself wondering how sharp the girl's teeth were, wondering if they were sharp enough to rip out her throat.
Lagertha had seen glimpses of this girl in her dreams more times than she could count, the Seer had whispered of her coming, but in the flesh, she looked quite different. The queen hadn't expected her to be quite so young, nor so attractive. Perhaps she had expected someone more intimidating, larger, more muscular. But the girl moved in a way that wasn't quite human and there was a steady, inconceivable darkness to her that frightened Lagertha to her core. Lagertha suddenly had the feeling that the Gods were watching her, that this girl walked with the Gods one step behind. Her eyes were their eyes. The queen's skin prickled all over.
"Hello, Queen Lagertha."
"Welcome." Lagertha found herself saying, but her voice sounded far away, as if she was speaking under water.
All Lagertha could focus on was the girl's eyes; those enormous, hypnotic, kohl-ringed eyes. If it was at all possible, her eyes were even bigger than the rest of her family. All Dagny eyes seemed to have an odd luminous tinge, but this girl's were different; clearer, more astute, with the glint of higher knowledge behind them. The ordinary, shadowy Dagny green was ringed with a circle of yellow.
The girl pushed away from the wall and slouched forward a few steps. As she came closer to the light of the roaring fire, Lagertha finally got a better look at her. She was angular like her brothers, all sharp edges and high cheekbones. There is nothing soft about this one. The girl didn't look like a princess that much was true; there was no gown, no extravagant jewellery. Her hair was the strangest thing. It was partially pulled up into the severe twisted braids customary in Sweden, but her temples were caked in the same flaking white paint that marked the lid of the gift box. It was smeared into the plaits of her hair and down her slender throat. In the jumping fire light, Lagertha realised that her loose, waist-length curls were not dark like the rest of House Dagny. They were blue. The colour of ink, of an oil slick, of the ocean's depths.
"King Brodir expressed that I may have offended you." She tilted her head, gazing up at the queen. "Is this true?"
"It is expected that visiting nobility present themselves to the queen when they arrive. It is a mark of respect. You did not do this."
"Ahhh," She nodded. Her tongue flickered out and wetted the corner of her lips like a snake. Lagertha fought the urge to flinch. It was repulsive. "I understand."
"But you are here now, so I will forgive it." Lagertha said with more resolve than she expected.
"Well," The only daughter of House Dagny revealed a slice of white teeth. The smile didn't reach her eyes however, they were as calm and cold as still water. Predatory. There was a rune tattooed beneath her right eye, something dark and curling that Lagertha couldn't quite identify. The tightly fitted tunic she wore was cut off at the elbows and more tattoos spread up her forearms like twisting smoke. Lagertha's eyes slipped over her body, landing on the axe hanging from her belt, the curved dagger strapped to her mid-thigh.
"Perhaps I should make myself clear, queen Lagertha." The queen's heartbeat seemed to slow. It rattled unevenly against her chest cavity. "The Ullacs have not come to Kattegat to honour Ragnar Lothbrok, nor to take orders from you. We are here only because the Gods willed it."
"While you are in my kingdom, you will respect my authority." Lagertha hissed. Internally she cursed herself for her lack of composure, but anger was surging through her body, swelling in her bloodstream like molten metal. Her fists curled into tight balls, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. The queen wouldn't notice until much later that there were four crescent-shaped cuts where her nails had pieced the skin.
The girl held up her hands in insincere appeasement, the shadow of a smile still playing at the corner of her mouth. "We are not here to ruffle any feathers. The Ullacs have pledged our support to your cause and we will fight by your side, but we have our own reasons for doing so and I believe it is best that you understand that from the beginning."
"I do not appreciate your tone."
She actually chuckled; a throaty kind of laugh which was loaded with derision. "Appreciate it or don't, Queen Lagertha, it makes no difference. You know who I am. I am Eydis, the only daughter of House Dagny and High Priestess of the Ullacs. Your authority here means nothing to me." The girl bent down lithely, scooped up the fallen box, closed its lid and placed it down gently on the table beside Lagertha's throne. "Thank you for your hospitality."
Then with one last strange, tilting smile, the High Priestess swept from the throne room. Lagertha watched her go with a mixture of fury and fear. In her mind she repeated the words over and over again.
Queens are not intimidated by children.
"I am so happy to have all my children beneath one roof once more." The king leaned back in his seat, rubbing his beard. A young female slave bent over to refill his wine cup and Brodir did not try to disguise the way he stared at her cleavage. "House Dagny is complete once more, the stars have aligned and we may begin to make plans of the future of our clan."
The rest of the table remained silent. For the first time in many months all five Dagny children were gathered around one table and the tension was palpable. The only noise was the sipping of wine and the chewing of meat and bread. Sibbe was the most on edge; she had barely touched her food, simply pushed it around the plate with her fork. Since meeting the son of Ragnar, her mind had been consumed with his easy smile, the warmth of his brown eyes, the charming lull of his voice. When Brodir had brutally ravaged her that night, Sibbe had closed her eyes and imagined Hvitserk's face. When she had awoken with finger-shaped bruises on her thighs and misery on her lips, Sibbe had felt great shame. She had worked hard to be a dutiful wife but Brodir was cruel and unfair, so she decided she shouldn't feel guilty for finding some pleasure during their sex. Sibbe refused to call in love-making. She nudged a piece of meat with her fork, the veal bled where the prongs of her fork pierced it, and Sibbe sighed silently. Perhaps she should have been born a deer. Deers run free in the forests. If they are targeted with an arrow at least their death is swift, no torture. Being the queen to an unworthy king is an unending pain.
"I am most pleased to see the Ullac forces join us."
Brodir sipped from his cup and then set it down, faux-thoughtfully. His daughter did not react; she had not touched her plate, simply reclined in her seat, sipping her wine. She had, at least, cleaned herself up (not to Brodir's standards of course, as her temples were stained with crumbling white paint). Her long blue hair was coiled up into a crown of braids and a thin silver chain looped across her forehead, a small amber jewel dangling from it. She wore a deep crimson tunic, dark brown trousers and knee-high leather boots. A heavily engraved silver belt cinched in her small waist and a curved dagger hung from it. Brodir's eyes strayed to it every now and then, pushing the memory of its original owner from his mind. That was were this had all begun. All this madness.
"Of course, you arrived far later than I expected."
Finally, she spoke. "The wind was unfavourable."
"And here I believed the Ullacs were always favoured."
The twins exchanged inconspicuous glances. Their father's tone may have been light, but there was always an undertone to his words that inspired the feeling of impending danger. Varin's eyes darted to his younger sister but her face was composed. Eydis was much more accomplished at playing games than the boys were, it was almost impossible to know what she was thinking at any given time. If any of the Dagny children were going to let slip their plans, it would not be her. Perhaps that was why Gudrik's heartrate increased. He clenched his jaw shut and resolved to remain silent. If he didn't open his mouth, no secrets could slip out.
"We are happy to see you, sister." Hallad nodded, lifting his cup slightly in her direction. "It has been a long time."
"It has," Brodir continued. It was clear that he was only interested in hearing his own voice. "Of course, House Dagny should have been reunited for the festival of Lithasblot, just two moons past. I ordered my daughter back to Krossavik for the celebration, yet neither she nor her Ullac friends heeded my words. Perhaps I should not be surprised, Eydis has a nasty habit of disobeying direct orders from her king."
Sibbe looked at her step-daughter. Please do not make him angry, she begged silently. I will be the one to suffer for it. Eydis just sipped her wine casually. Her face was still and unemotional but there was a twinkling in her eyes that indicated amusement. Calder smirked as he sliced apart his meat; the direction in which the conversation was moving made him very happy indeed. His sister was in desperate need of discipline, and Calder hoped his father would deliver that discipline harshly.
"Do you have anything to say, daughter?"
"No." Eydis replied. Her voice echoed around the dining room like the sound of heavy rain.
"That disappoints me greatly." King Brodir kept his eyes firmly on his daughter, swilling the liquid in his cup methodically. "I hope you have paid Queen Lagertha a visit."
"I have."
"And you offered her the appropriate respect?"
"Yes." Eydis did not mention the gifts that she had bestowed upon the Queen of Kattegat, that was a secret she would keep only for herself. Brodir would not approve, but the Gods were clear. She had been instructed to send a message. The hourglass would certainly do that. From what Eydis had heard, Lagertha was an impressive woman and one which regarded religious piety with great respect. What she had done to offend the Gods was unclear but the only daughter of House Dagny had stopped asking questions long ago.
"Perhaps we should talk about something else, father." Calder suggested, sly as a snake. "I for one am very excited about Eydis' upcoming marriage. Are you looking forward to meeting your future husband, sister?"
"Very much." The girl smiled, and her enormous, yellow-rimmed eyes glittered in a way which made Calder nervous. As always, she seemed to know something that he did not. His fingers curled tighter around his knife in frustration. He had hoped to elicit a rise from her.
"Really?" Calder continued, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "That surprises me."
"Do you not trust our father's judgement?"
"Of course I do." He snarled.
"Then surprise would be a foolish reaction, would it not brother?"
Calder could feel his father's eyes burning into his skin. He had fallen into her trap more easily than he cared to admit. Anger and bitterness swelled in his stomach. If his wife Ingrid had been there, she would have rolled her eyes.
"I am pleased, daughter. I expected some degree of disagreement on this matter." King Brodir placed his empty wine cup down on the table top and surveyed his youngest child with a mixture of emotions. "I am considering several men but am leaning towards King Harald or his brother Halfdan the Black. Either would be a strong alliance for House Dagny."
"I am sure they would."
Eydis lifted her wine cup to her lips to hide the amused smirk forming there. Let Brodir make his plans. Eydis would not be married to either Harald or Halfdan, the Gods had shown her the path of her life and she would follow it without question. There was only one man for her. For now, at least, she would play the obedient daughter and allow Brodir to assert his control. In the end it wouldn't matter.
Your days as King are numbered, Brodir.
