Ravensthorpe, 882

Sigrún dreamed she was flying.

It was not the first time she'd had such a dream. She doubted it would ever be the last. Here, the air was sweet, the wind caressing her glossy black wings like the touch of a loving parent. Beneath her keen eyes spread a world of colours—the green of the grass and trees, the blue of the river Nene, the brown of the wooden roofs of Ravensthorpe. People came and went through the town, greeting their neighbours with cheerful smiles. Sigrún did not yet know all of their names by heart, but she had learned a few. Gunnar the smith was nice, and he was devoted to his young son and wife, who'd just had a baby. The soft-spoken Hytham put her at ease too; he walked with a limp, just like Sigrún did, and his smile was ever so kind.

Some names she had learned because she was frightened of their bearers, like Birna the warrior, who was loud, loud enough to be scary. And Valka the seer—well, she was quiet, but her gaze was piercing in an unsettling way. Sigrún knew that the völva was keen-eyed enough to be aware of every mistake she'd made even if no one else did. And Sigrún was clumsy; how many times had her mother scolded her for -

"Ah," said a voice, disturbing the dream, "there you are, little one…"

The sound of it abruptly brought Sigrún back to earth. She groaned, wiggling her fingers—no feathers there!—feeling grass tickling her hand. She was lying on her back, arms outstretched to bask in the warmth of the sun. As the last dregs of drowsiness left her mind, Sigrún felt a warmth in her cheeks. She became acutely aware of her body—a girl's body, weak and fallible, not a bird's sleek, unfettered figure. Sigrún had simply fallen asleep in the grass, not far from the seer's hut. She could hear the hustle and bustle of daily life at Ravensthorpe. Everyone was hard at work—except for her.

A tall, grinning figure hovered above her. Her aunt. Eivor. "Have I interrupted a pleasant dream, dear one?"

Her tone was light, teasing—but Sigrún did not hear it. Immediately, the familiar shame flooded her. Her aunt's wife—Randvi—had given her a task, a simple one. "Will you go and bring this letter to Rowan at the stables, please?" she had asked. With a smile and a pat on the head, she'd added, "Now there's a good girl."

The letter was still in the pouch at Sigrún's waist, unopened. She had taken a short break on the way from the longhouse; she had not expected the path there to be so steep. Any child in the village would have ran up to the stables without breaking a sweat. But Sigrún, it seemed, could not be trusted to accomplish what little was expected of her. What would Randvi say if she knew?

A frown marred Eivor's beaming face. Before Sigrún could make a sound, her aunt dropped to the ground, stretching and yawning like a cat.

"Now there's an idea," Eivor said, with great delight. "It's been years since I had a good nap in the sun. The grass here makes for a comfortable pillow, doesn't it?" She grinned at Sigrún. The latter managed a slight nod. "And this sky, oh, this sky…" Eivor motioned at the great blue expense stretching above their heads. "Not a cloud to announce the promise of rain! A rare sight indeed in those grey isles we call our home!"

Sigrún felt her lips nearly twitching in a smile. She'd always loved the sky. She wondered how it felt like, to watch the world from above, to be free to go anywhere she pleased. Eivor surely knew; in those last moons she had been living in the village, Sigrún had watched her aunt climbing trees and buildings with the ease and agility of a squirrel. Even now, recalling those moments filled her with awe. I want to be like her, Sigrún would think, only to remember that she could not even run, let alone climb anything.

"What were you dreaming about, sweet child?"

Sigrún startled, meeting her aunt's earnest blue eyes. Eivor was looking at her expectantly, as if she waited for an answer. Sigrún hesitated. She'd been taught to speak only when given permission. And sometimes, she'd instead been told tearfully, oh, please, tell me you love me, tell me, tell me, to which Sigrún would always dutifully answer, I love you, Mama.

Sigrún didn't know her aunt as well as she'd known her mother. If Sigrún spoke out of turn, would Eivor fly into a rage? If Sigrún kept quiet, would she instead be angered by her niece's impertinence? It had not been long since her mother had—since Sigrún had been taken to live in Ravensthorpe. Perhaps it was better to act carefully and remain silent. Sigrún would rather be considered witless by the rest of the village rather than risk losing the hospitality of her new family.

"When I was your age," Eivor continued, "I often dreamed of flying." As Sigrún turned to look at her in surprise, her aunt added, "Is there anything so sweet as the kiss of the sun upon your skin? As the freedom to cross great expenses in search of your next adventure? My brother—your father—often laughed when I lay in the grass as you did, closing my eyes to pretend I was a bird in the sky. What good would ever come out of such useless daydreams, he always asked me. Then, one day, I got the answer."

In a flutter of wings, a raven came to perch itself in the branches of a nearby tree. It fixed Sigrún with a keen stare, greeting her with a croak. She yelped when it swooped closer, landing on Eivor's arm.

"This is Sýnin," Eivor said. "My most loyal friend. She sees what I cannot see. Would you like to hold her?"

Sigrún opened her mouth, searching her aunt's face. The woman was smiling. Her features should have been harsh—a square and powerful jaw, high and sharp cheekbones, brows naturally inclined to form a frown—but instead Eivor Wolf-Kissed looked soft and kind, a mischievous twinkle ever present in those clear blue eyes. Sigrún swallowed her unease, nodding slowly. She let out a nervous—but genuinely delighted—giggle when Sýnin sauntered on her arm. The bird was not as heavy as she would have believed.

"See?" said Eivor. "She likes you already! She's only this sweet with Randvi." Her voice always sounded a bit different whenever she said her wife's name; there was a hint of a purr in there, as if she delected in saying those simple syllables. "And yet with me, she is a winged terror, pecking at my head every occasion she gets!"

"Randvi is nice," Sigrún said. As if to agree, Sýnin croaked again. Some heat came to Sigrún's cheeks; she hadn't meant to speak, but the words had just left her mouth. Perhaps it was because they rang of truth. Randvi was indeed very nice, and she had the prettiest smile that Sigrún had ever seen.

Eivor's eyes softened. She put a hand over Sigrún's head, stroking her niece's pale hair. The girl allowed it, too charmed by the company of Sýnin to flinch at the touch. "She is, isn't it? I am lucky to have her. And Sýnin too. Without them, I would have lost my way a thousand times. If you wish it so, they will be glad to watch over you as well."

Why? Sigrún wanted to ask. It was the question she'd been taught to ask, ever since she'd been old enough to realize her mother did not look upon her the same way other mothers looked at their children. But she was tired. So tired. She leaned toward Eivor, as if naturally drawn to her aunt's shoulder. Sýnin flew back to her branch, ever the loyal watcher. Sigrún closed her eyes. Her aunt was humming some half-forgotten lullaby. She was warm, and she smelled nice—of the earth after the rain, of wood crackling in the hearth, of freshly cut grass. Eivor whispered in her ear, "Sleep, little one. I will be there when you wake."

Soon, Sigrún was dreaming of flying again.

902, Sudfulc, East Anglia

Snow blanketed the lands south of Beodoricsworth Monastery, with a few flakes fluttering about like feathers caught in the wind. Sigrún wanted to catch them with her tongue, just as she had done when she'd been a girl. But the time for childhood pleasures was long gone. The woods here had been cut down, no doubt to build the palisade they saw in the distance, rising over one of the rare hills that could be found in the flat lands of Sudfulc. Columns of smoke rose over the horizon—from the western half of Mercia, Sigrún realized with horror. Had the West Saxon army begun its invasion of the territories of the Danelaw? In her heart of hearts, she addressed a prayer to the Lord, asking Him to extend His grace and protection to Ravensthorpe. Surely the village was too far north to be in the path of the combined forces of Wessex and Cent. Sigrún hoped so, at least.

The few villages they passed were quiet, unnaturally so. People kept their distance, watching the three travellers with suspicious gazes. Once, Aelfswith had asked an older man if he had some hay with which they could feed Gjöf and Cisten. "We'd pay good money for it," she had told him. The elderly farmer had spat on the ground, saying, "The king's army already took all of it. Go back to wherever you came from. This soon won't be the place for a lady of yer stature."

Sigrún's chest felt tight with apprehension when they finally reached the entrance to King's Eohric's camp. Even from outside the palisade, the air stank—of rancid sweat and horse manure. Two armed guards glared at them as they approached. Eivor jumped from where she'd sat behind Sigrún. She guided Gjöf forward, and Aelfswith prompted Cisten to follow. The two soldiers blocked the way with their spears.

"And who are you supposed to be?" one of them drawled.

"I'm here to see the king," Eivor said. "Let us through."

The other guard snorted out a laugh. "Are you, now? And what business do you have with King Eohric, pray tell?"

She made a sound of irritation. "Go tell him Eivor Oswaldsdóttir wishes to see him. If he says no, tell him I'll go through the camp shouting about that time he vomited all over himself when he stole a cask of ale at our uncle's wedding." She paused to think. "Might have pissed over himself as well. Can't rightly remember."

The first guard gaped at her. The other sputtered, "L-Lady Eivor! I hadn't—well, it's been so long since—"

"Go," she growled. "Or I'll remember a story about you as well, Gamli Thorsteinsson."

It was a threat credible enough to send him scampering into the camp. Meanwhile, Sigrún turned to Eivor, sputtering, "You're… you're kin with King Eohric?"

Eivor shrugged. "He's my brother, aye. What of it?"

Sigrún exchanged a look of shock and horror with Aelfswith. "And you never saw fit to tell us?" she squeaked.

"What would have been the point? Does it change anything?"

"N-No, of course not." Sigrún coughed awkwardly. "Er, shall we go in, then?"

As they dismounted, Aelfswith took the reins of both horses, saying, "I will find someone to tend to our mounts.

"Eh?" said Sigrún, blinking owlishly. The woman had said this rather suddenly, and Sigrún hadn't paid much attention, too concerned with the revelation that she'd been travelling with the king's sister this whole time.

"Go meet King Eohric. I'll join you afterwards."

"Oh," said Sigrún. "O-Of course…"

Meanwhile, Eivor frowned, squinting suspiciously at Aelfswith as she led the horses away, accompanied by one of the guards who had greeted them at the entrance.

His companion led them through the camp, which was bustling with activity. Soldiers stood in line to get bowls of stew, muttering among themselves. Others ran about, carrying tools or supplies or weapons. There was the loud clang of a smith working to sharpen a sword's edge. All looked upon Sigrún and Eivor with puzzled gazes. She supposed they must have curious sights, she limping ahead with her cane, Eivor striding forward with an easy confidence to her steps.

Eventually, they reached a bigger tent overlooking the rest of the camp. Eivor did not even wait for their escort to announce them; she entered and said, "Eohric, we need to talk."

There were two people inside the tent, a man and a woman speaking softly as they scrutinized a map on a table. Then, the man looked up. King Eohric was—colour rose to Sigrún's cheeks as she met a pair of stunning blue eyes—Eivor's brother was handsome, his blond curls shaved at the sides, the barest of stubble running alongside his jaw. When the tall, broad-shouldered woman beside him—Queen Thorunn—turned to smile at Sigrún, the red of her blush turned to crimson. Sigrún resisted the urge to bury her face into her hands. If Hungerda had been present, she would have dissolved into giggles. Sigrún could imagine her smirk all too easily.

King Eohric chuckled, reaching to embrace his sister. Eivor gingerly returned the gesture. "Eivor! Ah, I should have expected that you of all people would have the gall to force your way into my camp. Did you bully the guards until they let you in?" She muttered something unintelligible in response. King Eohric then turned to smile at Sigrún. "Who is your friend, sister?"

"I am Sigrún, of the Raven clan," she answered. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, lord."

Eohric and Thorunn exchanged the same look of baffled amusement. "How have you managed to befriend someone this nice, Eivor?" the king said with a laugh. "God, I'd almost forgotten what proper courtesy sounded like!"

"Go on, keep baiting me," Eivor said dryly. "See where this gets you."

He grabbed her in a headlock, earning himself a growl and a glare. Still, there was something light in Eivor's expression. Some weight seemed to have been lifted from her shoulders, and a corner of her mouth kept tugging upward in a half-smile. She felt different than the cold, confident huntress that Sigrún had come to know over that past month. Watching the two of them together reminded her of wolf pups play-fighting; teeth were bared in a bid for dominance, but it was more bark than bite.

"Darling husband," Thorunn chided, "do you truly want to eat the dust at Eivor's feet again? In a fair fight, my silver is on her, you know."

"Harsh!" Eohric exclaimed. "My staunchest supporter, betraying me for my own sister!"

"Stop whinging, and just listen for a second," Eivor huffed. She looked at Sigrún, who gave a nod. "Sigrún here will tell you what's going on."

And thus Sigrún told the king and queen of the events that had transpired ever since she had departed from Ravensthorpe in Aelfswith's company. She spoke of the Order of the Ancients, explaining their vile designs on East Anglia. She recounted the attack in Theotford Forest, the scuffle at Caestre, and Brother Ceadda's abduction of Eivor and Aelfswith. King Eohric's grin dissipated as Sigrún spun her story. By the end of her tale, his handsome face was marred by a frown.

"If that came from anyone else," he told his sister, "I would have told them to stop wasting my time. But there's not a lick of imagination in that brain of yours. So it must mean everything your companion told me has to be true."

"Even if it wasn't," said Eivor, "these madmen think it is. And we've seen what lengths they're willing to go to accomplish their goals. Eohric, they might have infiltrated King Edward's inner circle. They might be behind the invasion of the Danelaw by the West Saxon forces. We have to stop them."

"On that we agree," said the king. He paced around the table, folding his arms over his chest. "What is it that you need, sister?"

"We'd need men to rescue Sigrún's friend," said Eivor. Sigrún could not stifle a sigh of relief at those words. "And we need to know where they hope to find that sword, King Wuffa's sword. It would be a place where the ancient kings of East Anglia are buried, like—"

"Sutton Hoo," King Eohric said, without hesitation. "That's the place."

"Really?" Eivor frowned. "How are you so sure?"

King Eohric laughed. "Eivor, Father took us there when we were children! He showed us all the barrows and burial mounds from Gipeswic to Rendlæsham, told us of the men who once dwelled there! Rædwald Bretwalda and his nephews, King Ealdwulf Æthelricsson, who founded the ecclesial see at Elmenham… none of this ring any bell?"

"No," Eivor said with some surliness. "You know how I hated when Father had us learn things by heart…"

"There was a Bretwalda in East Anglia?" Sigrún asked.

"Oh, yes," said Eohric, "one of the early ones."

"What's a Bretwalda?" asked Eivor.

"Only the ruler of all of Britain, King of all Kings." Eohric's blue eyes glittered with amusement. "You really didn't pay any attention to Father's lessons, did you?" He huffed out a laugh as she glared at him. "They say King Rædwald's reign was a golden age for the British isles. He was the first Christian ruler of East Anglia. Kings from across the world sent treasures to pay tribute to the Rex Anglorum. His kingdom was tied in friendship to the Picts and Britons, and even to the Frankish realms overseas and the faraway empire of the Ottomans of Miklagard." Eohric pointed to his helm and mail, fitted over a wooden stand. "Our father's helmet might have belonged to old Rædwald. Or so goes the story. Who knows the truth of the matter?"

"Sutton Hoo…" The great burial site for the ancient rulers of East Anglia. Could this be the place where they would find the mythical sword Eivor had been seeking? The one belonging to Wiglaf Wuffa, first of the Wolf Kings, nephew of the ruler of the fabled Geats?

The king looked at the map stretched over his table. He tapped the places marked by the words 'Gipeswic' and 'Rendlæsham'. "If what you say is true, then the members of that so-called Order might also seek that place. There's a large Roman fort a day's ride away, at Walton. In their place, I would use it for protection." He sighed, deeply. "You'll need swords to rescue that friend of yours…"

"How many soldiers are you willing to give us?" Eivor asked.

Her brother grimaced. "We are riding to meet the West Saxons in battle tomorrow."

"The combined forces of Wessex and Cent are a formidable threat," said Thorunn. "Our scouts say we're about equally matched in numbers. Every man will be needed in the field to assure victory."

Eohric nodded. "And we can't exactly trust our allies with such a sensible mission…"

"How many, Eohric?"

"Would ten of my best men do it?"

"It will do," Eivor said, grimly. "It's better than none, at least."

"Thank you, my lord," Sigrún said, bowing. "I… I cannot properly express just how…"

"Ah, well, think nothing of it!" said King Eohric. "Without the Raven clan, I would not even exist! Deep ties of friendship link our people together. I am only honouring my father's oaths by coming to your aid." Then, he turned to his sister, clapping her shoulder. "I trust you'll get the job done, arseling."

As Sigrún stared at the two siblings in horror and dismay, Eivor snorted and said, "Of course I will, pissbreath."

Darkness soon fell upon the royal camp, and the air grew chill. Æthelflaed shivered as she passed through the rows of tents. Like Eivor and Sigrún, she had been invited to dine at the king's table tonight, but she had declined the invitation, feigning a headache and saying she preferred to retire early for the night. She'd only caught one glimpse of King Eohric's entourage, among which she had recognized her distant kin Beorhtnoth and Brihtsige of Mercia, and a tall, placid-faced man she recalled as a huscarl in the service of her cousin Æthelwold. The latter had turned in the direction of Æthelflaed, as if he'd sensed her presence. She had quickly looked away, heart beating wildly in her chest.

Even now, Æthelflaed felt as if she was being watched. The soldiers of the camp sat around campfires, paying her no mind. They laughed and sang bawdy songs as they shared one last meal; tomorrow, they would march to war at the break of dawn. The dialect of the East Angles figured prominently in every conversation, but Æthelflaed still heard inflections typical of the lands north of the Humber. And—at this, her chest tightened a little—some soldiers spoke with the accent of the people of her birth, the Saxons of southern England.

Æthelflaed picked up the pace, hoping to find a more remote corner where she could gather her breath and settle her thoughts. If West Saxon soldiers shared space with their East Anglian counterparts, then surely it meant -

"Why, hello there, dear cousin."

Æthelflaed willed her face in an impassive mask, before turning to greet the man standing behind her. "Æthelwold," she said. Unlike the rest of the soldiers surrounding them, he was not clad for war; he wore a simple tunic under his cloak, as if he was a mere merchant or artisan, and not a prince of the Cerdicinga. "You don't seem surprised to see me here."

"Am I? Perhaps I am quite astonished to meet you in a muddy camp in the middle of nowhere." Æthelwold opened his mouth in an exaggerated show of surprise. "See? Pure consternation."

Æthelflaed sighed. Of course he must have had eyes and ears everywhere in the camp. Perhaps even everywhere in East Anglia. She'd been naïve to underestimate his low cunning.

"Why did you not sup with us tonight?" Æthelwold asked her, cocking his head. "You would have enjoyed meeting your friend's brother, I think. He's refreshingly honest, in a boyish, wide-eyed way. The man reminds me of Edward sometimes, but less thick-headed." He chuckled. "Oh, and without the constant preaching about the wages of sin, now there's a plus."

"What do you want from me, Æthelwold?" she said, wearily.

"Why, to share the pleasure of your company, of course! It's been so long since I've talked with someone worth speaking to." At her stern expression, he added, "Ah, my dear, If I wanted to sell your precious secrets to our valiant host, I would have done so already. Then you would have been led away in chains, the prettiest bargaining chip in all of England."

"Then if that's what it takes, bring me to King Eohric," said Æthelflaed. "God, but make it end, Æthelwold. This foolishness has gone long enough."

"Would Edward even agree to retract his troops out of East Anglia in exchange for your safety?" Æthelwold seemed to ponder this for a moment. "You know, I don't think he would. He's a man with a mission, after all. To please his so-called Lord, he needs to cull every pagan still drawing breath in England. A tall order, to be sure, but one he is glad to carry out."

Æthelflaed shivered at these words. Again, the image of her brother's holy army flashed in her mind. Soldiers in gleaming plates marching under God's standard, that red cross on white. How proud they look, how fierce! "You would not make any friend at the court in Wincestre by speaking so lightly of the Christian faith…"

"The Holy Father doesn't exist," Æthelwold said mildly. "Gods and monsters live in the hidden gaps of the world, those for which we still have no explanation. Once the light of knowledge lifts the veil of the divine from our collective gaze, these holy beings cease to exist. All that is left is a world made mediocre by its mundanity, a world full of weak, fallible, mortal men." With a chuckle, he added, "You don't seem to be appalled by my fondness for the profane. I might have misjudged you, cousin. Your brother does love to preach of fire and brimstone. I would have thought the same of you."

"I don't want to debate theology with you," she said, curtly. "I'll ask again: what are you seeking to accomplish, Æthelwold? What is it that you truly want?"

"It's simple," said Æthelwold. "I want what I am owed."

"A throne," Æthelflaed spat the word out like a curse.

"Wrong." He stopped smiling, and his eyes went flat. The change was so sudden Æthelflaed felt cold all over. "I want my fair share of our grandfather's inheritance."

Æthelflaed flinched as if he had struck her. At her shock, the barest hint of a smirk showed on his lips.

"Oh?" Her cousin scrutinized her, delighted by her discomfort. "From your reaction, I take it you know of the matter of which I am speaking. Interesting. Very interesting."

"That wasn't—" she muttered. "My father didn't—"

"Do it deliberately? Do you truly believe that? Your brother might have the subtlety of a hammer battering an anvil, but your father had more cunning than that. He knew exactly what he was doing."

Æthelflaed did not know what to say. All of her clever retorts seemed to have dried up in her throat. A familiar worry reared its ugly head, making her stomach churn.

"From your silence, I would venture to say you dislike such underhanded schemes."

"It was not right," Æthelflaed blurted out. It cost her dearly to say those simple words. How she hated to agree with the sneering snake standing before her! "My father should not have treated you this way." She looked upon him, eyes flashing. "But that doesn't excuse your actions. You've dragged the whole of England into war, Æthelwold. Even if you had been legally recognized as one of our grandfather's heirs, that doesn't mean the throne should have gone to you."

"Oh, I agree," he said, sour-sweet. "It should have gone to Æthelhelm."

Another dagger, aimed directly at Æthelflaed's heart. "Æthelwold, what happened to your brother—"

"—could have happened even if we had not been left destitute as children, begging for scraps while your father helped himself to his brother's estate, yes, yes." He waved a hand around in a dismissive gesture. "I've heard the excuses a thousand times already. Your father surely figured I would take it as truth if he repeated it often enough."

She swallowed. "Æthelwold…"

"What are you about to say, hm? Do you think I'd welcome an apology from you? What purpose would it serve?" Æthelwold shrugged. "What's done is done. My gentle, honourable brother sacrificed everything he had—his name, his reputation, his integrity—to pay for the clothes, however threadbare they were, on my poor orphan's back. For that kindness, he died in a ditch while your own brother was acclaimed by a crowd of sycophants."

"It's not too late to stop," she said, reaching out to—touch him? Comfort him? Æthelflaed herself did not know. "I could speak to Edward. I could have him—"

"Too late, dear cousin. You could have helped, long ago—but that occasion has come and passed." She was surprised to see a hint of genuine wistfulness in those empty eyes of his. Then, he shrugged, and that softness was gone. "Edward and I… a-a-ah, let's just say we've had an irreconcilable disagreement about the future of Wessex. He sees himself as our fathers' living legacy while I…" Æthelwold made another dismissive gesture. "Well, I believe there is no going forward if we've not inherited all we are owed from those who came before. Edward would have us go backward and call it progress. You and I, we know better. The accomplishments of our forefathers must be used to guide us toward a new, better tomorrow." He patted her shoulder. Æthelflaed cringed at the touch. He came closer to whisper, "Your travelling companions do not seem to know who you truly are. I cannot help but think it's deliberate."

"It's better that way," she said, precipitately, but her own words rang hollow to her ear.

Again Æthelflaed saw that smile, about as charming as the screech of a rusty door hinge. "My, but you truly are your father's daughter." And with that, Æthelwold left her side, humming as he went.

Voices came from outside the tent where Æthelflaed had been dozing off. She groaned; her head felt heavy, stuffed full with conflicting thoughts after the conversation she'd shared with her cousin. Eivor and Sigrún were finally back, it seemed. From the tent flap, Æthelflaed could see them sitting on a log in front of a campfire, warming their hands and speaking softly together.

"I didn't expect your brother to be Christian," Sigrún was saying. "Since you seem to be pagan, well…"

"Eohric follows what suits him best," Eivor answered. "You'd be surprised at the number of people who believe in the old gods as well as the Christian one."

"Oh. I see. We have Christians in my village as well, though they're mostly Saxons."

Eivor let out a humming sound. "But you're Norse. Why keep the Christian god, then?"

Sigrún stayed silent. Then, she muttered, "What use do the Norse gods have for someone like me? They prize bold warriors and hardened killers. The others they all condemn to a cold hell. Christ welcomes those who are called weak. He cares for the sickly and the poor, those rejected by the mighty and powerful. Why indeed would I not choose to devote myself to the God who loves me as I am?"

Æthelflaed mulled over these words, remembering her cousin's blasphemous declarations. It was sacrilege, but she herself often doubted God's love. She'd seen innocents suffer too many times in her three decades of living; after all, it was the meek and the powerless who found themselves victims of the cruelties of life. Sweet smiling babes dying in their cribs before they truly had the chance to live. Women serving as instruments of vile men's pleasures. Peasants cut down in their fields as they fled the fires of war. What sort of Father would let such horrors be visited upon His children, she always wondered? Not one deserving of any worship, Æthelflaed reasoned in her darkest moments.

"My father spoke of the Christian god as you did," Eivor suddenly blurted out. "He was the only person I've met whose faith seemed… genuine. Like he truly wanted to make the world a better place, as the Christ-Lord asked of his followers. And he judged people by their actions, not by their manners of birth." She was silent for a while, before adding, "You remind me of him."

"O-Oh…" said Sigrún. Æthelflaed imagined that she was blushing right now. "That's… he must have been a wonderful man…"

"And besides, the old gods are not all the same," Eivor added. "Frigg protects wives and mothers. Freyja is the sacred guardian of seidr, and she welcomes the courageous and the honest to her golden fields in Fólkvangr." She spoke with more emotion than usual as she added, "My mother was especially fond of Tyr. He was a god of war, but he sought justice and honour above all. Tyr wouldn't reject you, I think. He'd look at you and see the strength of your will. He would value that, I believe."

"That's nice of you to say," murmured Sigrún. "I've heard of Tyr, but I don't know much about him. The people in my village worship Odin. Or Thor, in the days of the harvest. What's so special about Tyr?"

"Tyr reared the Fenrir wolf when he was brought to Asgard as a pup," said Eivor. "The other Aesir wanted the beast dead, but Tyr treated him with kindness. When the Allfather tried to bind Fenrir with a magical chain, the wolf would not let anyone approach except for Tyr. The Lawful One was wary of Odin's intentions—and rightfully so. Tyr told Fenrir he would put his hand in his jaw as a gesture of good faith. When the Aesir tricked Fenrir and wrapped the chain around him, the wolf swallowed Tyr's hand whole. My mother said that only Tyr kept to his oath in this story. That's why she liked him best out of all the gods.

"That's a beautiful story," said Sigrún. "You're right. Tyr acted honourably. And kindly." She chuckled. "You sounded like my aunt Eivor right now. She loved to tell stories."

"Your aunt was named Eivor?" the huntress said, dumbfounded. "Wait, she can't be… was your aunt Eivor Wolf-Kissed?"

"She was. You've… you've heard of her?"

Eivor laughed. Genuinely laughed. "I was named for her. She saved my father's life. Several times, in fact!"

"Really?"

"And my mother often exchanged letters with the Jarlskona's wife. She said the woman almost felt like family, like the sister she never had."

"Oh, that's so sweet! What were their names? Your parents, I mean. Eivor and Randvi might have spoken of them."

The tale that followed seemed directly pulled out of a saga; it was one of courageous deeds and lifelong friendships, ending on the happy note of a royal wedding. Æthelflaed smiled, a bit bemusedly, as Eivor spoke of her namesake's involvement in her parents' courtship. If her father had tried to tell her this tale as a bedtime story, she would have called it saccharine and unrealistic.

It seemed to do Sigrún some good to hear of the role her aunt had played in this family's happiness. "It sounds just like her, meddling in other people's affairs for their own good." Sigrún giggled again. "You say I remind you of your father, but you're just like her. She loved to climb too, you know?"

"My father told me," Eivor replied with some levity. "I believe he must have aged ten years on the spot when he realized I shared her fondness for heights."

"Poor man!" Sigrún laughed. She paused for a moment, before adding, "It's remarkable. How easily you climb, I mean. I have to admit I'm a bit jealous, actually! I wish I could be as skilled as you or my aunt." Eivor mumbled something in response. "What was that?"

"I said I can't read," the huntress repeated, a bit forcefully. "Not as well as you, at least. You can understand things written in all kinds of languages. That's…" Eivor coughed, awkwardly, adding in a mutter, "Well, that's impressive, I think…"

"Oh." Æthelflaed imagined Sigrún's cheeks must have tinged pink at the compliment. "That's kind of you to say…" After a while, she said, in a wistful voice, "I miss my aunt. If she were here, then…"

"She'd know what to do," said Eivor. "I understand. I understand completely."

Æthelflaed was hit by sudden longing. He would have known what to do as well, she thought. But she could not say it out loud. She missed him, oh she missed him so much—but she could not show it.

Then again, perhaps the man she missed was only a fabrication. The king Æthelflaed remembered—the proud, wise ruler—was not the dishonourable schemer that her cousin had described tonight, after all.

Your companions do not seem to know who you truly are. Æthelflaed shivered as Sigrún laughed at something Eivor had said, and she drew the furs tighter around herself. My, but you truly are your father's daughter.

Æthelflaed did not find sleep easily that night.

A/N: This story will go on a short hiatus 'cause I'll be travelling to Japan for a while. See you in a month or so for the next chapter!