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Ragnhild sits on the floor and ties on her shoes.

This is what I get for hiring them. And it's more than
just arguing; they've grown bolder, pushing their wants over mine. When I first hired them, they tried to please. Now they act like sisters—belligerent ones! Thyra has taken her shoes off the suspended shelf and sits on my suspended bed. She rocks as she, also, ties on her shoes. I grab the shelf and stop its swinging. I stand behind the bed and stop its swinging too. Thyra doesn't even look at me. I shuffle in a circle. Then I give up. After all, it's better to be with people who choose to be with you rather than those who are forced to. “Don't call me princess outside.”

“We never do.” Ragnhild jumps to her feet. “Are you sure you don't want shoes?” She twists her mouth and looks me up and down.

“Ragnhild's right.” Thyra assumes that knowing way she's adopted of late; it irks me. “If we both wear shoes and you don't, given how short you are, people will think you're our slave, despite the fact that you wear a shift and not just a blanket with a waist cord.” She crosses her arms, mimicking me. “You know how men can be with slave women.”

I blink. It's true. Most slaves stand a head or two shorter than free people, because they come from other lands. I sit on the bed beside Thyra and tie on my shoes. “Later we can go down to the beach and take our shoes off. You don't need tough skin for sand.”

“I like digging my toes in the sand,” says Thyra. “Good idea.”

Out we troop, into the road, in our simple shifts, looking like poor girls despite our shoes, though Ragnhild and Thyra wear arm rings and I have four bracelets that tinkle against one another. Even poor people have jewelry, after all. Anyone who didn't know me already would assume all of us were servants in the king's big home.

We go to the market at the port. Traders have set up tents and arranged their goods for easy perusal. When they leave, others will come, all summer long and deep into autumn. The town stores sell flax combs and wool combs, spinning whorls and looms and weaving battens, wooden bowls and bronze basins, shears and knives, bronze brooches and strings and strings of glass beads—all made by locals. And they sell town specialties, like the wonderful beds that hang from the ceiling. But in this market, they sell everything from everywhere all over the world.

We wander through the soapstone cooking vessels from Nóreg and the colorful ceramics from who knows where. We tug at hides, pet wool cloaks, run our fingers over antler and gold buckles. We knock on wood planks and watch people weigh out salt.

My ears are always alert for the sounds of Gaelic, and
I'm always disappointed. If Irish traders come here, I have never been lucky enough to cross their path.

My eyes and ears are always alert for traces of an Irish monk, and I'm always disappointed again. If Beorn turned Papi out, I can't believe he managed to make it to Heiðabý, for I would have learned of his arrival. It would have been the talk of the town.

There has been no opportunity for me to send a message to Downpatrick, much less persuade someone to take me back there.

But that's not the only reason I frequent the marketplace. Nor even the most pressing reason. No, no, we three girls, Ragnhild and Thyra and I, we look at the slaves. We walk in and out of the lines of children standing for inspection. We linger at the women. We have to elbow through the Arabs to do it. Only the richest locals can afford to feed a slave. But the Arab merchants seem delighted to hand over their abundant jewelry and perfumes and coins to the Norse and Russian slave dealers, sometimes buying an entire harem.

Ragnhild and Thyra don't really know why we wander among the slaves. They never asked me, which is good, since I'd never tell.

Today I stop in front of one girl and look into her eyes closely and suddenly realize how stupid this is. I remind
myself of the time that has passed—every passing season scores like a burn on my soul. I turned fifteen last autumn—the age Mel was when we were stolen. Mel is a woman by now. She turned twenty-two this spring. What must she look like now? Would I even recognize her?

I listen to the slave dealers talking, especially the Russian ones. They're the most numerous. I can't be sure if anything they say resembles the words of the wretched men who stole Mel and me; it was too long ago. But there's something in the sounds the Russian slave dealers make that grates and haunts. Every time I listen, I grow more convinced it was Russians who stole us.

In the faces of these people about to be sold, I see terror, anger, hatred. It's all I can do to keep from turning away in shame. But I have to look, to examine carefully. I have to plumb this faltering memory of mine for clues that can revitalize an image. Mel.

Mel was an extraordinary beauty. And the way we kept silent, that was unusual. If she kept that up, if she stayed hushed, then someone might well remember her for that trait alone.

And if I can't find her or news of her, then maybe I can find the Russian slave dealer who stole her. At night I search through my memories. I sometimes sit by the shore and let the salty air carry me backward in time.
It is essential to remember. These are the things I have managed to dredge up so far. They fed us boiled parsnips, salty, as though stored in salt. The main man ate cold roasted goat; the stink lingered on him. And his hands reeked of clay. He had a shout that was more bark than voice. There were nine crew members; I remember counting nine. One had a scar across his forehead that slashed through an eyebrow. One had a mustache. Or at least one had a mustache—maybe another did too. The ship had two sails. They used oil lamps that smelled rancid. It's not much. But given time, I'll remember more. The strangest things can make a memory flicker.

I walk through the market and try to appear interested in silk ribbons and richly inlaid bridle mounts, as though they are of equal import to me as slave girls are. I ask questions—random, disconnected questions—and I seal away information about where these traders have come from, the stops along the way, whether or not anyone remembers a mute slave girl. My motives must stay secret. Caution is now my firmest habit. Queen Tove loves me; I don't believe she would throw me out. But these people of Jutland never fully trust outsiders, so she must never guess I am Irish born. Besides, the queen lives with the king, a man who still regularly asks me for proof that I'm a sea princess, though we both know I'm not. A single silver
coin is proof enough to last at least a moon, sometimes several. Yes, caution is the best guide.

My sister is not among the slaves today. Nor does any single slave dealer seem more familiar than any other. I am bereft. And grateful. Ignorance can foster hope.

A silver brooch on a patch of black cloth in front of a Norse jeweler catches my eye. The jewelry beside it is also silver, with gold wire in filigree patterns and amber studs and red glass—all of it from Eire. And usually stolen, since that's the Viking way when it comes to Eire. Irish goods are unmistakable. But this one brooch is Norse. It's a disc with ropy things entwined all over. I put my finger on a granule near the center and realize it serves as an eye, then trace down through the windings and writhings to find the whole animal, a snaky dragon. There are three of them, mouths agape, fearful yet beautiful. That seems appropriate, given that I hate snakes, for one threatened my little brother Hakon, and love snakes, for that same one tied me to the royal family. Plus, Beorn passed around the flask of dragon blood the first night I met him. Snaky dragons would be an emblem of the two families I have lived with and loved here in Jutland.

I turn to send Thyra home for money when a bell sounds. The bong of the huge iron bell is echoed by other bells all across our big, bustling city. People run in every
direction, unsure whether to flee or gather. The cry goes up.
Hval
—whale! And now the splinters of people come together and flow down the bank of the fjord. Amazed cries mingle with laughter. Thyra and Ragnhild and I are caught in the current, but that's all right because I want to go. Visitors talk much about whales, but I've never seen one.

A ship appears in the distance. Oars dip together, then rise together, throwing shining spray. The men's shouts are ferocious, even from here. The crowd runs faster.

Ahead of the ship a long white streak appears in the clear waters. And, oh, there's another one. A third. How many more? The front one lifts its head, arcing backward gracefully. I didn't know whales were that flexible. This is not the dark-gray beast with the big dorsal fin, nor the long-snouted light-gray beast that is said to jump high. This is a small white beast with no fin and a bald rounded head. It's fully submerged again, but now I hear an underwater sound. They're squealing. Frightened. Good Lord, they sense their doom!

I stop, and people bash against me in their hurry. Once they're past, I go to the water's edge. I shouldn't look, but I want to know. I see everything from here. Men on the ship throw spears. Red stains the blue. Spears stand up in ragged rows as the whales drag them through the water, in crazy patterns of pain. The harbor reddens. A bloodbath.

I turn and run, not anywhere particular, just away from the harbor, away. The
sj
ø
vættir
—sea spirits—failed today. They are supposed to guard these waters. They never should have let this little pod stray into this sea. They failed hideously, totally.

I run until I reach the city ramparts, then I race along inside them to the gates and out. I run all the way down to the beach, to the warming sands. The small waves are white-capped. Wind blows from the sea, making sand dance along the strand like a cloud that reaches to my knees. I go behind a dune and pant. I put my hands in my hair and hold my head. By now they will have pulled the beasts from the water. They will be slicing them up. There will be no more squeals of horror. My head is a giant lump of clay in my hands.

“Was it that bad?”

I turn quickly. The young man sits in a sand hollow, invisible except to someone standing right in front of him. His eyes are strange—the color of rain. The color of Eire's air in autumn. They look amused. “Wretched man,” I say, “how can you act amused at butchery?”

“Butchery?” He holds up a slim white thing in his hand. It's a bone, for sure. “My musical skills have been insulted before, but never with that word.”

My cheeks go hot. “What are we talking about?”

He scratches his cheek with one finger. “You tell first.”

“They're killing whales in the harbor.”

“Whales? In these warm waters?”

“Clearly you have the skin of a seal.”

He laughs. “Ice floats all summer in the waters off Nóreg, the waters that whales love. They'd find this water hot. Even in winter, they wouldn't come this far south.”

“They did.”

“A mistake of nature.”

“So what were you talking about?” I ask.

The man puts one end of the bone to his mouth and blows, running his fingers up and down holes on the top side of the bone. The sound is light and airy and whimsical. He stops and smiles, with teeth that say he's younger than I had assumed at first.

“I've never heard a bone flute before,” I say.

“Really? I bought it here in Heiðabý just this morning. From a local.” He holds it out to me. “It's an eagle wing bone.”

I'd like to look at it, but I won't get that close. From where I stand, I could outrun this youth to the city gates if I had to. “Why do you northerners treat the whales so badly?”

“People kill the whales to eat, not for fun. It's not malicious.”

“They were squealing.”

“Oh. White whales then? The small ones?”

“Yes.”

“Many creatures whimper when they're trapped. This is the way of the world.”

And of course I know that. People kill animals to eat. And animals kill other animals to eat. And almost all creatures are smart enough to experience fear. I'm not an idiot. I hate it that he thinks I am. It's just that there are cruel ways to do things and uncruel ways. This might have been efficient, but it was cruel. The whales sounded pitiful and knowing.

And now I think of the spread of jewelry in the market—all those silver pieces from Eire. “Why do you northerners treat the Christians so badly?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You hate them. You invade their lands and rob their churches and monasteries.”

“Some men do, yes—Viking men. Churches are where the wealth is. Again, this is the way of the world. It's business to them. No one hates the Christians.”

“Some put wandering monks to death.”

“If the monks do them harm, that may be just. If not, that's pointless.” He tilts his head. “My turn to ask a question now. Why do you keep calling me a northerner?”

“You talked about the waters off Nóreg.”

“Have you never heard of voyaging? I've gone far north. And east and west, too. All the same, I'm your countryman. I live in Jelling. It's north of here, yes, but not far. Still in Jutland. A girl like you, of course you've never gone anywhere you couldn't walk.”

A girl like me? Well, I've been to Jelling. “That's not true!”

“So where have you traveled?”

I could bite my tongue. “I don't want to say.”

He laughs. “Don't feel bad you haven't gone anywhere. Between family feuds and warring neighbors, just stepping outside is dangerous. Like the poets say, ‘Let the man who opens a door be on the lookout for an enemy behind it.' ”

“You sound worried. But when you play that flute, you sound carefree.”

“What you heard was joy. But I'm never carefree. Where I live, pirates raid ships and coasts. There's a settlement of good people on the island Samsø, just off the coast from us. We helped them dig a canal across a neck of land so they could quickly send forces out to either sea—east or west—to keep pirates under control. And we patrol the coast.”