wondered if you might be.”
“Me?” Her voice squeaked and she followed her mother’s gaze to the door. Nothing happened. Her voice lower than a whisper, she spoke again. “Me? Far-minded?”
Her mother nodded. “Even when you were a little thing, you showed signs of it. Do you remember how you used to stroke your aunt Frea’s stomach? Before even she knew she was with child?”
Hild shook her head. She could barely remember her mother’s youngest sister, who had died when a fever had swept through the kingdom.
“No, you were too young. But when your father was killed …”
Hild closed her eyes. That, she did remember. She’d been nine winters old when her father had ridden out on a border patrol. He was to be gone for weeks, but the third day after he’d left, Hild had thrown herself onto her parents’ bed, crying inconsolably. She hadn’t known why, but shestill remembered the terror and emptiness that had overtaken her. Her mother, her sisters, Aunt Var—all had tried without success to comfort her. Two days later, his men had brought her father’s body home.
But why shouldn’t the gods have told her about her father? As a late baby whose siblings were almost grown when she was born, Hild had been his favorite, his constant companion, his gift from Freyja to care for him in his old age. Young fathers had no time for their children, but Hild’s father, old enough to be her grandfather, hadn’t needed to prove himself anymore. He’d had time to make her laugh, to teach her to wield a sword, to show her squirrel and field mouse tracks in the snow. She hardly needed to be far-minded to know that he had died.
But how else could she explain what had happened today? She looked at her mother.
“It can be a blessing and a burden,” her mother said. “Your grandmother didn’t always understand the gods’ messages. She said that sometimes they were clear as a winter day.” She ran her fingers lightly over Hild’s forehead, pushing a few stray hairs into place. “But sometimes, she said, it was like staring into muddy water.”
“Today,” Hild whispered, “it was clear. I knew the moment I saw them.”
Her mother nodded. “Your uncle will understand. After all, it was Mother’s far-mindedness that told us he would be king.”
Hild knew the story—the skalds sang it often enough. The youngest of four brothers, Ragnar could hardly have expected to become king. But his mother—Hild’s grandmother—had known from the moment he was born, and she’d raised him to expect it, too. Hild had always thought of it as a good story, but she’d seen it from her uncle’s point of view. Now, with a flash of realization, she saw what it had meant for her grandmother: if she’d known her youngest son would be king, she’d also known her three older sons would die before him. She raised her eyes and her mother met her gaze with a look of sympathy, as if she knew where Hild’s thoughts tended.
“It can bring you great honor,” she whispered. “But it can be a heavy load.” She reached for Hild’s hand and took it between her own. A log shifted on the fire and popped, sending up a little shower of sparks. “We’d best tell your uncle.”
After Hild had emerged from the cabinet bed and smoothed her skirts, her mother worked the comb through her tangled hair, the touch of her fingers calming Hild. Her mother retied the knot at the nape of her neck and smoothed the hair that fell down her back. Then, giving Hild a reassuring nod, she led her to the door.
Two fully armed warriors were standing outside, masked helmets hiding the top halves of their faces, spears in their hands. As Hild’s mother opened the door, the spears came down to form a barrier. Hild’s lips almost quirked into asmile at the way she and her mother both squared their shoulders at the same time—but her smile fled as soon as she saw the grim set of the warriors’ mouths and remembered why she was here.
“My daughter will
“Me?” Her voice squeaked and she followed her mother’s gaze to the door. Nothing happened. Her voice lower than a whisper, she spoke again. “Me? Far-minded?”
Her mother nodded. “Even when you were a little thing, you showed signs of it. Do you remember how you used to stroke your aunt Frea’s stomach? Before even she knew she was with child?”
Hild shook her head. She could barely remember her mother’s youngest sister, who had died when a fever had swept through the kingdom.
“No, you were too young. But when your father was killed …”
Hild closed her eyes. That, she did remember. She’d been nine winters old when her father had ridden out on a border patrol. He was to be gone for weeks, but the third day after he’d left, Hild had thrown herself onto her parents’ bed, crying inconsolably. She hadn’t known why, but shestill remembered the terror and emptiness that had overtaken her. Her mother, her sisters, Aunt Var—all had tried without success to comfort her. Two days later, his men had brought her father’s body home.
But why shouldn’t the gods have told her about her father? As a late baby whose siblings were almost grown when she was born, Hild had been his favorite, his constant companion, his gift from Freyja to care for him in his old age. Young fathers had no time for their children, but Hild’s father, old enough to be her grandfather, hadn’t needed to prove himself anymore. He’d had time to make her laugh, to teach her to wield a sword, to show her squirrel and field mouse tracks in the snow. She hardly needed to be far-minded to know that he had died.
But how else could she explain what had happened today? She looked at her mother.
“It can be a blessing and a burden,” her mother said. “Your grandmother didn’t always understand the gods’ messages. She said that sometimes they were clear as a winter day.” She ran her fingers lightly over Hild’s forehead, pushing a few stray hairs into place. “But sometimes, she said, it was like staring into muddy water.”
“Today,” Hild whispered, “it was clear. I knew the moment I saw them.”
Her mother nodded. “Your uncle will understand. After all, it was Mother’s far-mindedness that told us he would be king.”
Hild knew the story—the skalds sang it often enough. The youngest of four brothers, Ragnar could hardly have expected to become king. But his mother—Hild’s grandmother—had known from the moment he was born, and she’d raised him to expect it, too. Hild had always thought of it as a good story, but she’d seen it from her uncle’s point of view. Now, with a flash of realization, she saw what it had meant for her grandmother: if she’d known her youngest son would be king, she’d also known her three older sons would die before him. She raised her eyes and her mother met her gaze with a look of sympathy, as if she knew where Hild’s thoughts tended.
“It can bring you great honor,” she whispered. “But it can be a heavy load.” She reached for Hild’s hand and took it between her own. A log shifted on the fire and popped, sending up a little shower of sparks. “We’d best tell your uncle.”
After Hild had emerged from the cabinet bed and smoothed her skirts, her mother worked the comb through her tangled hair, the touch of her fingers calming Hild. Her mother retied the knot at the nape of her neck and smoothed the hair that fell down her back. Then, giving Hild a reassuring nod, she led her to the door.
Two fully armed warriors were standing outside, masked helmets hiding the top halves of their faces, spears in their hands. As Hild’s mother opened the door, the spears came down to form a barrier. Hild’s lips almost quirked into asmile at the way she and her mother both squared their shoulders at the same time—but her smile fled as soon as she saw the grim set of the warriors’ mouths and remembered why she was here.
“My daughter will
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