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“Alfhild,” he says with awe. His sword is still aimed.

I shake my head.

“You are a pirate? Alfhild, my Alfhild?”

“I am Brigid.”

“Brigid?”

“I was hidden before. But I'm Brigid inside.”

He nods as if in a dream. “Brigid then.”

My eyes leave his and travel to the tip of that sword, pointed at my chest. “Don't kill us.”

Alf shouts, “Stop! Weapons down. Everyone!”

The screaming stops. The chasing ceases. I feel eyes on us.

He lowers his sword.

“We're not pirates, Alf. Not really.”

“Tell me.”

“We steal only slaves that were stolen from their homes. And we return them to their homes. If they want to go.” I remember the rumors about red-haired devils. “We've never killed anyone. We've wounded, but only in defense of ourselves or the slaves.”

“Strange behavior.” His cool eyes cloud, then clear. His chest heaves. “But not criminal. Slave dealers don't own the people they stole. No, they don't. You are not pirates, real or fake.”

“So we are free to leave?”

I see his Adam's apple rise and fall in a swallow. “Where will you go?”

“Írland. I have to return three girls. And I think . . .” Breathing is so hard. “I think I might just visit my parents and brother.”

“You are Irish?”

Am I? “Born Irish, raised Dan.”

“I hear Írland's beauty is magical.” Those rain eyes hold me. “I'd like to go.”

I'm shivering so hard I can barely talk. “Then I'll travel on to Ísland. My sister is a slave there.”

Alf blinks. “Your sister. A sister is important.”

“I have to go.”

“My ship is better than yours for such a journey.”

“Are you offering to go with me?” Offering what I have never allowed myself to ask for.

“I didn't want to love you, Brigid. Brigid, my Brigid.”

He says my name with such sweet acceptance, I could laugh or cry. But I just stare at him.

“After you turned down my offer of marriage, my life was punctured. Joyless. No, I didn't want to love you. I wanted to forget you. But now I see I have no choice.”

Nor did I want to love him. Nor do I have a choice. “Put out your hands.”

Alf slides his sword into its scabbard and extends his hands, palm up.

I drop my fists into them. “Heart and bones. These are mine. Now yours.”

Alf closes his hands around mine.

Mother and Father. And, oh, my brother.
Máthir, athir, bráthir
. I have not yet seen them. It was my plan to go directly to Írland. Those three slaves . . . no, those three good Irish girls . . . they needed to be brought home immediately. Then we could winter in Eire, and as soon as spring came, we'd head out for Ísland.

Alf agreed. He said, “I'd follow you to Hel and back.” He said, “I'd fight armies for you.” He said, “I'd slay Níðhögg, the worst dragon of them all, for you.” He wore nothing but smiles.

Until he heard the rest of my plan. I told him I feared that if I became with child I would not be able to do whatever it took to rescue Mel, and therefore I could not marry him until after I had found her.

So Alf lost no time in persuading me of a new plan. I smile now as I think about how persuasive this man Alf can be and how much I respond to him, so that his new plan swiftly became mine as well. Next spring was too long for him to wait. So we paid all the women in my
crew enough money to go on to the lives they chose, just as I had promised them. Alf paid another boat's captain to take the three Irish girls back home, and he hired a crew to take us—him and me—to Ísland immediately, before the weather turned.

The next four days were a flurry of gathering provisions and checking rigging. Then we set sail. Ten days later—only two weeks after we'd made the new plan—we arrived in Ísland.

After all my fruitless searching, suddenly everything became easy. Everyone knew of Hoskuld, the Viking chieftain; everyone knew of Melkorka, his mysterious concubine. She lives on land south of Salmon River, in a rolling dale called Melkorka-stead—named for her, despite the fact that she's a slave. Her wonderful son abides with her, while Hoskuld lives separately, with his wife and their children. She is still beautiful. Though the label of “slave” has worn on her, she is still strong. That's what they say.

I am walking across grasses now toward Melkorka's home. Alf walks behind, at a distance, as I've asked him to. Mel's home is made of wood, not stones with a turf roof, like the houses in the village on the coast where we landed. We've been told about that wood; everyone talks about it. It's from logs brought all the way across the ocean from Nóreg,
for the trees here are few and small, and nothing is as strong as Norse trees anyway.

There is no one outside the house. No activity. I see not a single window, so I have no idea whether the house is empty or not. But it's the middle of the day; maybe they are resting inside.
Let that be so. Please, Mel, please be home.

But I can wait. I can circle this house. I can run around it so many times my feet dig a moat even in this rocky land. Seven and a half years I've been yearning for this moment. I can wait a little longer.

I am but five boat lengths from the front door when a woman comes outside. She squints into the sun. I walk faster. I lope. We stare at each other. She drops the basket in her arms.

“Mel,” I call.

She's shaking her head. Her brown hair catches the light, dark and bright and mixed, like the hawk-plumage of Queen Tove's cloak.

“Mel,” I cry.

And we're hugging. “Brigid,” she says hoarsely into my hair. “Oh, Brigid.”

The sight of those river rapids makes my heart pump extra hard; they are fast and ferocious. I remember the night I jumped off the Russian slave ship into icy water. This water can hardly be warmer. The combination of speed and cold terrifies me—my skin grows taut. The boy Óláf, my nephew—my nephew!—is six, two years younger and weaker than I was that night, and he has promised me I'll love his swimming hole. Are they crazy? My fingers close in fear around Melkorka's hand—my Mel—my sister. The three of us, together.

“I'm happy too,” she says, squeezing back in her misunderstanding, and nearly shouting to be heard above the noise of the rushing water we walk alongside of. “My little sister, alive, alive—especially that—but also all grown up. After the wild child you were, to see you now . . . it makes me very happy.”

“I wasn't wild.”

“You were. You ran through mud and got your clothes filthy—but mostly it was how you thought. Do you
remember, can you possibly remember, how when Nuada's hand was cut off and Mother explained that he couldn't become king then, how you said, ‘Melkorka can become queen.' Do you remember? A woman alone, unmarried, queen! That's how you were. Wild. Thank heavens, or you wouldn't have survived.”

“We're almost there!” shouts Óláf, who runs ahead with my goat Cadla at his heels.

They call him Óláf pái. Lots of people here have little extras added to their names. One man has
rauði
—red. Another has
djúpauðga
—deep-minded. Another has
magri
—lean. And, oh, another has
tordýfill
—dung beetle—the poor thing. The extra on Óláf's name is because when Mel was at the gigantic trading market in Miklagard with the Russian slave dealer Gilli, she saw a strange bird called a
pái.
He had long tail feathers that dragged on the ground behind him, until he got excited and held them up in a huge arc behind him, all blue-green with eyes painted on in beautiful patterns, the most exquisite animal Mel had ever seen. She'd forgotten that one instance of beauty in the long horror of those days, until Óláf was born, and he seemed more exquisite than any other human being could be.

“I'm jumping in!” Óláf pulls his tunic over his head. He disappears around a hillock.

“No!” I
scream, and run for him.

Mel grabs my arm. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“He could drown, Mel!”

Mel gawks at me. Then she laughs. “We're not swimming in the river. That would be fatal at this time of year. No, no. No one could get hurt where we're going.” She lets loose my arm, and we run together to Óláf.

The boy sits in a small pool of water in the middle of ferns and grasses. Steam rises around him. His face is flushed and content. Mel undresses and joins him.

I dip in a hand. “It's hot! I've heard of warm springs—in Eire there are warm springs—but this is positively hot.” And now I wish Alf had come along. Foolish me, I asked him to give us some time alone.

“The whole of Ísland is speckled with hot springs. Or all of this huge country that I've seen is. Some are large enough to swim in, milky-blue with white mud. Others are just overgrown puddles—like this, which is better, because then no one else comes to use them.” She pats one of the black rocks that edge the spring. “Our private soaking puddle.”

“It's not a puddle,” says Óláf. He leans back, yields himself to the water, and floats.

“What better proof?” I say. And I grin. This boy is quietly clever. He reminds me of Hakon, my dear adopted
brother back in Heiðabý. I have suppressed thoughts of Hakon, but now I miss him strongly. And I miss my queen mother, and Beorn and Ástríd and Búri and Alof. And Alf, though he's only back at Mel's home. But what a fool I am. I am here, soaking with my sister and my nephew—I must think about them, and this place and this time.

We have been speaking Norse, but I switch to Gaelic now. “Please change your mind. Please. Come back with me, Mel.”

“And do what?” she answers in Norse.

“
Immalle
,” I say. “Remember how Mother told us to stay together? Remember?”

“We were children then,” she says steadfastly in Norse. “We spoke Gaelic, like I do with Óláf. My life is here now. And I speak Norse with adults.”

“You're a slave,” I say, surrendering to Norse. She's right. This is the language of our adulthood.

“I am also the mother of a boy who will grow into a powerful man. He will be important, I promise you that.”

I check to see the effect of these words on Óláf. But the boy still floats, his ears underwater. He shows no sign of listening. He looks as though he's comfortable enough to fall asleep and keep floating. “He could be important in Jutland, too.”

“Jutland? Don't be silly, Brigid. He will be a king in
Eire as soon as he's old enough to sail there and claim his birthright.”

“A king in Eire! Will he want to live in Downpatrick? Really?”

“Of course he will. And until then, I'll keep him safe here, so he can grow strong and wise and tough—tough enough for whatever lies ahead.”

“But, Mel, if he lives here until he's adult, he'll be totally Norse. He won't be Irish at all. Even I don't feel Irish anymore, and I lived there till I was eight.”

“He will rule in Eire. He will not be the son of a slave there. He will satisfy his ambitions.”

“Or do you mean yours?”

“Dear Brigid, you are still so very honest and direct.” She hesitates. “I have lived with humiliation a long time. I want vindication. This is true. But I am sure, absolutely sure, Óláf pái will have his own ambitions too. He's bright. He's perfect. He will stay here and grow. You can tell Mother and Father why.” She rests her head on an edge stone and closes her eyes. The goat Cadla comes and nibbles at her hair, but she swats her away.

I sidle over next to her and whisper in her ear, “Let Alf buy your freedom, at least.”

She smiles without opening her eyes. “He can save his money. Hoskuld doesn't deserve any of it. Someday I will
marry, and my husband will buy my freedom. I am waiting only until Óláf pái is old enough to leave me.”

“Leave you? You mean you won't return to Eire with him?”

“I'll never set foot on a boat again.”

“Oh, Mel. You'll be alone here.”

“Stay with me.” She opens her eyes and sits tall. “This is a land of fire and ice—volcanoes and glaciers. In some places you can see volcanic tabletop mountains in the middle of ice all year round.” Her voice grows bright with enthusiasm. “There are vast meadowlands for grazing. There's bog iron in bogs and heaths and marshes. We have high mountains and low river valleys, and on the south coast there are sandy beaches. You can have a farm on any coast, or in a river valley. It's there for the taking. Just burn off the forest and plow the land. If you want forest, birch and willow and rowan all grow here—shorter than normal, it's true, but strong. And driftwood litters the shores, so there's never a lack of firewood even if you live far from forests. Streams and lakes burst with salmon and trout. The sea gives whales, walruses, seals. Imagine what it's like to stand on a high spot in winter, the world white with snow, and look down on a deep canyon. It's majestic. There's no other word.”