All the Windwracked Stars (The Edda of Burdens) (43 page)

My sisters scurried to assist me, leaving Menglad stranded on the cross-bench in her trappings of crimson and gold, with a wide divided skirt. She seemed small and alone when I glanced back; I wondered at her courage in the face of the great
unknown—her marriage, her bonding, her future as half of a larger thing than herself.

I shook my head, and turned my attention to the task of carrying the honey wine.

Some time later, when the drinking and the revelry were underway, Arngeir arrived. I was still on my feet, distracting myself from the Wolf’s stare and Menglad’s attempts at merriment before the crude jests of our brothers. I met Arngeir with a horn of mead before he was well into the room.

My sister’s husband-to-be was tall as any of my brothers, and more handsome than most. Clad in red like the bride, he strode in as if claiming the hall, his golden braid bobbing down his back. As I raised the horn, I heard the scrape of a bench. On the far side of the fire trench Strifbjorn stood.

“Will you drink a guest-cup, traveler?” I asked.

“I will, maiden.” Arngeir took the horn, drained it and gave it back.

As warm horn slid into my curled fingers, Strifbjorn called out.

“Who comes to my hall?”

Arngeir winked at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the Grey Wolf rising, coming forward at Strifbjorn’s left flank. On his right was Yrenbend, my favorite brother, lean and ascetic in his shirt and trousers of immaculate white.

“One who seeks a wife,” Arngeir responded.

“There is a waelcyrge here who awaits a husband.” Strifbjorn glanced down the hall at Menglad, who had risen from the cross-bench and stood surrounded by our sisters, a last red berry on a snow-covered bush. She swept the length of the hall, the train of her divided skirts and her veil rustling across the pine
branches. “Sister,” Strifbjorn said, his voice the essence of courtesy. “Will you have this man to husband?”

She drew herself up straight and proud, examining Arngeir with the critical eye of a shrewd farmwife about to purchase a stud horse. She looked along her nose at him, and I could see her fighting both a smile and a shiver. Strifbjorn stepped closer to me. I smelled the clean woodsmoke scent of his skin . . . and then the rank animal musk that seemed to hang around the Wolf like his gray cloak, that self-colored dark charcoal wool no other wore.

I held my gaze away from Strifbjorn, although his sleeve brushed my wrist and the heat of his body warmed my skin. I knew why Menglad shivered.

“How will you prove your worth?” Menglad’s voice dripped hauteur.

“Rich gifts I will give, my sister, my intended,” he said. “To each waelcyrge of your household and to all the Children of Light here gathered.”

“Gifts are well, but they do not prove a man’s wit or might. Which of those do you offer?”

“Might,” he answered.

Strifbjorn stepped forward again, blocking my view. “You will strive with us for the privilege?”

“I will.”

“With words or swords, my brother?”

“With swords.”

Menglad must have smiled; her voice lifted. “Let us feast, and then let this one who thinks to claim me stand and fight.”

Strifbjorn and Arngeir clasped wrists. A delighted laugh broke out throughout the hall, and then each einherjar turned
and walked to his respective place. Strifbjorn let his hand fall on my shoulder in passing and leaned to murmur, “Well done, little sister.” He nodded once, not catching my eye, and walked away, the Wolf following as if at heel.

The shiver became a shudder as I watched him leave, and along his path I caught the look Sigrdrifa shot me—naked as a venomed blade. She stepped forward, but Yrenbend insinuated himself exactly as if he did not notice her. He caught me around both upper arms and spun me into the air. “Tonight, Muire, you must fight at our side.” He set me in my footsteps as if I weighed nothing.

I sent a longing glance to Menglad and the others returning to the cross-bench. “I will, Yrenbend. I’ll stand by your side.”

I pulled him down to me and kissed his cheek. “And I’ll serve your ale tonight. If you expect Brynhilde to be busy.”

Yrenbend cast about the hall, but did not find his wife. “She’ll be attending Menglad during dinner,” he sighed, “and then, of course, she fights with the valraven during the tournament.” Brynhilde, like Herfjotur, was partnered with a war-steed.

And how like Yrenbend to make an offered escape seem like a favor tendered him. “Then I shall be pleased to assist.”