"We aren't to meddle, Herja," the black-haired woman warned, voice hushed but still cutting, her glance carrying the weight of old laws along with even older warnings.
Herja did not care for this. She only smiled. "If you ever gain your freedom, child. . . if you find a way to slip the Jarl's hand, then come find us." Her tone softened, gentler now, a promise rather than a command. She glanced at her comrades, then returned her gaze to Svea. "Until then, guide us to supper. It seems we've lost our way."
Swallowing the rush of emotion swelling in her chest, Svea nodded.
She was old enough to walk on her own. . . she had been for years. Yet the hand that hung so effortlessly at Herja's side, strong and sure, waiting as though it had always been there, called to her. Before she could stop herself, her smaller fingers slid into the warrior's grasp. Herja did not squeeze or comment; she simply allowed it. The grip was light, but steady. Kind.
In her other arm, Svea still cradled the flowers. The warriors reached toward her, plucking blooms from the bundle with a playful reverence, tucking them into their sisters' braids, threading petals into sword hilts and leather cords. Although Svea knew she could be punished for letting them take what was not theirs. She said nothing. She only watched, wide-eyed, as beauty moved beside her. A beauty she had thought belonged only in the old tales.
Herja laughed then, a sound so free and unguarded that Svea scarcely believed it could come from an adult. A laugh that was not drunk, not cruel, it was just joy.
The women resumed their song:
"Beneath the stars, beneath the moon,
We take this path, maidens' hearts in tune.
For those who wait, for those who yearn,
Our leads where inner fires burn."
They were carrying on from before - at least Svea thought so. It was not a song she had ever heard before.
"In our steps, a tale is told,
Of whispered names and dreams that soar,
Maidens bound by Gungnir oath of yore,
When our work is done. . ."
(*Gungnir: Odin's legendary spear)
The voices faltered, breaking into chuckles, as if they could not in good faith finish the verse. Not yet.
Reality struck when Svea saw the Overseer waiting by the door, arms crossed, fury carved into her features. She scowled, "Svea -"
Svea hated the way her name sounded.
"Thank you for sending her. We would never have found our way without a guide," said the woman with the least paint upon her face. Her voice was soft, almost powdery. Three delicate marks crossed her lower lip, evenly drawn as if with her own nails. Across her brow ran a single painted band, curving like a circlet, from which intricate lines cascaded down the bridge of her nose.
Svea thought she smelled like apple blossoms and as light as the snow itself.
"Go now, Svea," she added, brushing a gentle hand against the girl's back. Herja's grasp slipped away.
Svea stumbled forward, glancing over her shoulder. Herja looked between her and the painted woman, her mouth parting as though a word had nearly escaped.
"Skögul. . ." Herja murmured, and then, catching sight of another who shared her likeness, added a warning: "Róta."
The Overseer's eyes narrowed as she studied the strangers. Her gaze lingered on Herja's hair, for no woman of the region wore it so. Bold and deliberate, thick rolls braided straight down the center, flanked by finer braids at the temples, bound in knotwork before trailing loose down her back. The style demanded time, care, as well as purpose.
In a group of warriors, five was a small number. . . no matter how lethal. Five women, however? Unheard of.
"Herja? Róta?" the Overseer asked slowly, a smile creeping across her thinning lips. "You share names with Valkyries."
Herja gave no reply. Three of the others smiled faintly. Herja did not.
"You must be strong indeed to bear such names," the Overseer went on. "A strange blessing. Come inside. The Jarl awaits. There is still time to bathe -"
"There is no need," interrupted the smallest of the band.
Though shorter, she still stood taller than most in the hall. Ghostlike in presence, she might have been overlooked entirely - until she spoke. Her voice was breathy, indistinct, like fog over still water. She drifted past the Overseer without pause, her hair trailing like it was moved by its own wind. The others followed, silent, with the same grace.
Inside, the dining room waited, having been laid out in full ceremony. Platters of steaming meat, autumn fruit, cured fish, dark loaves, cheeses, carved roots. Yet the five did not touch the food. They spoke in hushed tones, their heads bent together, as if wary of the very walls surrounding them.
Gelda entered with the mead pitcher, hand trembling faintly as she poured golden liquid, the nectar of the gods though some may call it mead, into their cups. She retreated quickly, slipping into the alcove where Svea lingered beside another kitchen girl.
This one was small, mouse-boned, freckles scattered across her cheeks like spilled flour. Her eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Do you think they're Valkyries?" she whispered. "That's what the Jarl says."
"Don't be foolish," Gelda snapped. "What would Valkyries be doing here, in this hall, with this Jarl? If they came at all, it would not be for Geir." Her arms crossed, bitterness tightening her frame. "Besides - they are supposed to be terrifying."
Svea stifled her snort. "They're warriors," she countered, much more sure of herself when she spoke of them. "They were maidens first. Some say princesses of Midgard, others say priestesses of Odin. The fiercest were chosen after death, given wings and blades, to carry the worthy to Valhalla - after Freyja claimed her share. Their beauty is said to stop men in their tracks. Some say they were never women at all, but spirits given shape. Each has a role. Each carriers a warrior to their next life. Beauty is part of it - divinity wears beauty as its mask. If something must take you from this life, wouldn't you want it to be beautiful?"
"Who says?" Gelda pressed, nails digging into her arms. "If Valkyries appear to the dying, who lives to tell the tale?"
Svea frowned. "They still answer prayers. They come when balance is off. I heard once Brynhildr slew the wrong man -"
"Blasphemy," Gelda hissed. "The Norns weave, the Valkyries obey. There are no mistakes. They are not human. Not anymore. The idea that one could disobey? Lies to shame them. They serve Odin, and fate. Only priests are worthy to speak their names. They would never here in a hall, waiting for a meal."
Biting her tongue, Svea quieted. There was no sense in the quarrel; every family, every land had its own telling. She would not deny what she had seen, nor what she had heard.
Half-hidden in the shadow, they watched as Jarl Geir at least entered the hall.
"Lord Geir, we are pleased you could - join us," said the one Herja had named as Róta.
Her mouth had moved in near-silence, keeping pace with the words, though she had not spoken them aloud. Svea caught it. The ghost of another word that clung to her lips. She had wanted to say, "Finally." It was unspoken, but Svea was certain of it. Certain, too, that Herja had forbidden her from saying it. She saw it now: Herja was the invisible hand restraining them, the leash that kept sharp tongues from cutting their host. Róta might have dared a slight, but not under Herja's gaze. Herja, Svea realized, was the force keeping the unspoken word between the group of women like a secret. Róta wouldn't be permitted to slight their host, not to his knowledge. Not while Herja sat. She kept the sharpness from the others, holding the leash on whatever small rebellion threatened to break the formality between them.
The words left unsaid were the ones Svea carried away.