Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Read online

  “Impressive,” Torin answered. “I wonder what Ásta Calderdóttir would say to that.”

  Bárthur shared a glance with his cousin and laughed. “I think mention of a wolf would send her under her covers.”

  The raider thundered off with his followers casting threatening looks over their shoulders. While he moved away, Torin felt a strange sensation deep in his abdomen. If it weren’t for the assembly, he might have followed after to discover its source. Hákon’s advisor leaned into Torin and whispered, “I would be careful. I would not want to see you brought to the Thing over a feud with Bárthur. He would likely bar your entry, or much worse.”

  “I am not afraid of his kind.”

  “Maybe you should be,” was the advisor’s response.

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent hearing more disputes from the southern quarter. Torin found all of it unpleasant. He would have preferred to have stayed home so he could have focused on training his fledgling gyrfalcon, but his place was beside his uncle during this important yearly event. He had no trouble saying what he thought, and maybe that was why Fólki used him as one of his advisors.

  Once the sun reached the mid-evening mark, all of the gothar and their council were ready for their meals. Torin, his cousin Ingvar and Fólki reached their large booth where all of his uncle’s freemen were socializing, drinking ale and eating freshly caught fish from the lake. They all cheered and welcomed their gothi as they ducked under the flaps to enter.

  Ale was offered to Torin, which he drank thirstily. A wooden plate was passed to him, and he found a place beside his uncle and cousin, whom had also been provided with food and drink. While they ate, Fólki spoke of the disputes they’d settled, finding it entertaining to gossip about the events of the day.

  “Do not think that with the distraction of the assembly I have forgotten it is time for you to settle down with a good woman and have a family. It is time for you to stop mourning your sister—it has been ten years. I miss her smile too, but she is safe with your kin in Valhalla. You must live your life.” Fólki stretched out in his seat, careful not to spill his ale. He glanced at Torin and asked, “Are there any ladies who have caught your eye?”

  Mention of his sister brought a dark cloud over his conscience. “No, Uncle. I have not been looking.”

  “It is true, a man who marries hastily will regret it, but I worry you have taken that advice to heart. A little haste would not hurt your prospects. Let us see who knows of a maiden for you.” Fólki adjusted himself in his seat to look around and seemed prepared to holler to the crowd.

  Torin reached out to his uncle to urge him to fall silent. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss marriage, although he never was. “There are still thirteen days while we are at the Althing. Do not tire yourself.”

  Ingvar leaned forward and slapped Torin’s shoulder. “I have it! Erlend’s sister is unmarried—you know, from the glen to the east of the cold spring? She is not bad to look at.”

  “Is she a woman or still a girl?” Torin had heard every lady mentioned that lived near his uncle’s land. After years of practice he was good at finding excuses.

  Ingvar frowned, then muttered, “Já, you might be right. In another year though—”

  “He must not wait a year.” Thundered Fólki. “He might lose his courage. I have got him weakened—now is the time. What of the maiden we saw today in court? She was not from my following, but Hákon’s. I would not mind having a tie to Gothi Hákon after all the trouble I have had of late with some of the brutes to the north. What was her name, Ástrídur?”

  “Ásta,” Torin said under his breath before taking another drink.

  “Oh, he remembered her name. That is a good sign,” Ingvar chuckled. “No ready denial of interest?”

  Torin swallowed the mouthful of ale and cradled the wooden cup in his lap. “I know nothing of her or her family, or even where her farm resides.”

  Ingvar sighed. “I spoke too soon. But I am surprised he does not mention Fenrir. He fears the king of wolves and does not wish to admit it.”

  “That is a child’s story.” Torin shook off his cousin’s words dismissively. “I do not fear this ‘beast’ Bárthur’s kin spoke of, for it is not real. I believe what I know to be true.”

  “Everyone else seems to think it true,” Fólki said. “That would mean she would not have any other offers to consider. Did not Hákon speak of her land? Sounded quite valuable, within distance of the sea, including nesting birds. Hear that, nephew? If you cannot pass up a fine woman, maybe you would not turn down the prospect of more falcons?”

  Torin remained silent and clenched his jaw tight. He remembered the older gothi remarking that her land was desirable. Torin couldn’t deny that when he’d heard mention of the cliff nests, it had piqued his interest. But he was still resistant to the idea of marriage. A woman would likely pull him away from his only interest—searching the hills for alabaster gyrfalcons.

  “I would not like my woman marked like she is,” Ingvar said.

  His father picked up a leather shoe lying on the ground and threw it at him. “If you will not help, then go dream of your lovely wife, Frida, elsewhere.”

  “I meant no disrespect, cousin,” Ingvar answered and quieted down, avoiding eye contact with his father.

  “I do not care about her markings.” Torin thought of her face and couldn’t clearly remember the scars on her cheek. He could, however, remember the shade of her eyes. Those thoughts were cast away as he thought of her troubles and knew she would come with more than just the benefits of desirable land. “I am still unmoved at the thought of having a wife.”

  His uncle leveled a hardened stare at him. “Yet you will honor me and your forefathers?”

  Torin had nothing but respect for his uncle. He was the man who had raised him from the age of ten. The man who’d taught him of the laws of the land and what honor truly meant. He was his gothi and chieftain. Torin would never stand against his kin. “I will not dishonor you.”

  “Good.” Fólki scratched his belly, appearing relaxed. “It will do you good to have a wife and to bring children into this world.”

  There was no way out of it. If he’d wanted to avoid marriage earlier, he should have sailed off to seek his fortune, but he preferred dry land to the sea. He preferred keeping to the hills in search of falcons and deluding himself that he could live that way forever. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore his stomach twisting when he said, “I did not but walk onto the assembly grounds before both my birds were sold. I am not as wealthy as you, Uncle, but I could pay the bride price and help rebuild her walls.”

  Fólki grinned at his nephew. “Do I hear you right—are we talking of your future? Then again, I do not know if I like the thought of you with a maiden who has such ill luck. She has debts and a farm in disrepair.”

  There were certainly negatives to a marriage with Ásta Calderdóttir, like the hardships she was currently facing. He had pushed as long as he could against getting married—he was still not ready. It had been his duty to protect his young sister from harm, but he had failed, and she had died. Torin did not want to be obligated to protect another for fear he wouldn’t succeed. He couldn’t bear that failure ever again.

  Fólki must have sensed his nephew’s resistance and said, “It could be good to start in a new place where you are not reminded of Erika wherever you go.”

  Torin took a long drink from his cup, wishing the ale were stronger. He disliked the conversation, but wondered if his uncle was right. Maybe it would be helpful to be in a place where those painful memories didn’t haunt him at every turn. He might enjoy the freedom it provided, being master of his own land. It was something he often fantasized about—if he’d been older and allowed to farm the fields his father had left behind when he hadn’t returned from sea.

  Torin said slowly, “Ásta seemed kindly, but strong. Someone I could tolerate on a daily basis—”

  “The spirit of Odin is with you! Oh, I wish i
t were your wedding this week, for I have not had a drop of honey mead in many months,” Fólki placed his hand on his stomach and gazed at the fire. “Very well, tomorrow morning before the assembly gathers, we will bring witnesses and seek out her kin.”

  It was not an easy thing, falling asleep with the light of the sun peering through the seams of the tent, but Torin tried his best. He’d held off from getting married as long as he could, but knew his uncle wouldn’t take no for an answer any longer. Before he knew it he was asleep, dreaming of flying along the sea cliffs in search of a snow-white gyrfalcon, but instead he found nesting puffins.

  His uncle woke him in the morning by shaking his shoulder. “Do you feel that? It is Freyja looking down on you, wishing you luck. Go bathe and brush your hair—you look a sight. I will gather your cousin and a few other men, and we will seek out your maiden.”

  Torin was lifted to his feet by a smiling Fólki. He slapped Torin’s shoulder and chuckled. When he walked away from him, he heard his uncle mutter, “I never thought I’d see this day.”

  The change of sleeping arrangements from home didn’t agree with him, and he stretched his arms above his head to work the pinches out of his back. He let out a soft groan before slipping on his leather shoes. Torin ducked out from the booth and squinted at the sun. In the distance he heard splashing and shouts, likely from early risers gone to bathe.

  He made his way down to the lake’s edge and slipped off his clothing. Grass tickled between his toes as he stepped onto the narrow shore. Torin was used to cleaning himself in the brisk spring near his home when he wasn’t forced to take a hot bath at the farm. He hurried into the water, prepared for its cool temperature. Anxious energy filled his body, so he dunked his head under, feeling the welcome relief of dipping into the lake. He kicked his feet and swam toward the center.

  From there he could see all along this side of the lake. People were bathing and cleaning clothes, and a few others were trying to catch fish amongst the flurry of movement. Torin knew he needed to hurry. He didn’t want to make his uncle late for the assembly, so he swam back to his clothing to get dressed.

  With his hair dripping wet, he reentered the tent in search of his things. He had a comb somewhere. He just needed to find it.

  “Will today be the day you trim your mustache?” Ingvar asked from nearby.

  “You are lucky to see me brush away my tangles,” Torin answered over his shoulder. “If I can find my comb.”

  His cousin held his out to him, which he accepted reluctantly. He traced the carved bone over his facial hair, feeling it drag against his skin beneath. Satisfied the hairs were lying flat, he combed out his golden locks, then tossed the comb back to Ingvar.

  “Are you ready?” Fólki asked from between the booth flaps. “My men are waiting outside.”

  Ingvar stepped behind him and pushed him forward. “He has bathed and brushed—there is no way out now.”

  The group of six men walked along the trampled path in the field, making their way toward the vendors’ stalls. Brightly colored flags waved in the wind, and shouts and music filled the air. His heartbeat began to pick up pace the closer they got. He began to question if this was really what was best. She had already turned down another marriage offer, so there was hope that his would be turned down too. He might feel a little disappointed to never search the cliffs for gyrfalcons, but at least he would have made an effort to settle down like his uncle wanted, and he would be left alone for good.

  “There it is,” he said to Fólki, pointing ahead. “There is Ásta Calderdóttir’s booth.”

  His uncle squinted into the light and adjusted his tunic. “Beside her I recognize her kin from the assembly. I am ready to have dealings.”

  He walked ahead of Torin with his followers at his flanks. Fólki stepped up to the man and said, “Happy and healthy, good man. I am Fólki Egilson, gothi in the southern quarter and uncle to Torin Gustavsson. Are you Ásta Calderdóttir’s closest kin? Do you speak for her?”

  The brown-haired man’s eyes widened as he cast a sidelong glance in her direction. “I am her closest kin. I am Dagný Thórison, her father’s brother’s son. Would you like some ale or barley cereal to start your day?”

  Dagný motioned them inside his tent and offered Fólki the highest seat. The other men in the tent made room for the guests around the smoky hearth fire, and a pregnant woman hurried to provide them with fresh cups of ale.

  “Quite good,” Fólki said after a sip. “I do prefer ale over water. It is the best way to start the morning.”

  “It is good meeting new friends—is there anything I might do for you?” Ásta’s cousin asked.

  Torin’s uncle grinned at the question. “Já, we have come seeking an alliance between our families.”

  “I see,” Dagný responded earnestly. “I am always seeking new alliances with honorable and influential men.”

  Fólki grinned, flashing his teeth. He looked down at his wooden cup, which was half filled with ale, and asked, “Your cousin is unmarried and unattached?”

  “That is true.”

  Torin’s uncle rested his free hand on his knee. “My nephew is also unmarried. His home is with my family on my farm. He is a very skilled falconer who makes good silver for his dealings, and as you can see, he is built for hard work, which he does not shy away from. His father, my brother, died when he was young. If I must say so, I have raised him well.”

  Torin felt Dagný’s gaze rest on him. He lifted his chest and raised his eyes to meet the stare.

  Fólki continued, “We are here to negotiate a fair bride price for Ásta Calderdóttir if you are agreeable. What say you?”

  The pregnant woman offered a bowl of hot cereal to Fólki, who accepted it with a wink. She held another out to Torin. Although he had lost his appetite, he took it anyway. He looked at the steaming cereal and felt bile rise in his throat. Maybe he’d had too much to drink last night after all.

  Dagný glanced to the opening of his tent and the blue skirt that could be seen just outside. He clapped his hands together and said, “I am very happy with the idea. But as I am sure you would agree, I feel I must make sure all parties are willing. We would not want the dealings of a divorce.”

  Torin wasn’t sure about that. His stomach turned again as he realized the direction things were going. He fingers paled as he gripped his cereal bowl tight.

  Dagný stood up and walked to the front of his booth where Ásta was now standing. Torin couldn’t stop staring, anxious to observe the two discussing things in an undertone. He couldn’t hear a word, although he noticed her glance his way and smile very slightly. Strange pains struck his chest, and he rubbed his muscles until the odd sensation went away.

  When Dagný rejoined them, he sat down and placed his hands on his knees. “I am prepared to discuss the bride price and dowry. Let us plan a wedding!”

  She couldn’t understand why he was interested in marrying her. Ásta watched the group of men talk, wishing she could hear the negotiations. Voices rose in jest, and she was relieved to see them getting on. She paid particularly close attention to Torin, curious to learn more about this stranger’s motivations.

  She was not blind. She knew she was an unappealing match. Beauty and age were not on her side, and after the prior day in court, she was surprised any man would want to share in her fate. What she’d been afraid of happening—the truth about the sort of damage done to her walls and hives—had been announced in the most conspicuous place possible. The whispered voices haunted her sleep. Fenrir has come to claim the maiden and her land.

  The burning eyes of the wolf woke her from her nightmare: memories of its watchful stare before it lunged, knocking her over. Alone at the cliffs, plucking flowers for her mead while she waited for her father and brother who’d climbed down to trap nesting birds, it came for her. It had only clawed her face when she thought it would bite her neck. The salty, metallic taste of blood in her mouth followed agonizing pain like she’d never felt bef
ore. She’d screamed. Not out of fear, but anger.

  Her father had climbed back up with her brother close behind. Before they could get to her, the beast had gone. Disappeared. The only trace of its visit was left on her youthful skin. Red blood stained her blue apron skirt and the serk underneath.

  Ásta’s breath caught in her throat, and she forced the images away. She studied Torin holding his cereal bowl, his cheeks and lips drained of color. He was either very nervous or close to getting sick. If she’d accepted her first marriage offer when she was sixteen, she wouldn’t have been in this predicament. She wasn’t in the position to turn down another, no matter how unhappy her future husband appeared with the match.

  A chill traced down her back, and she turned around. Rolf was standing in their stall discussing fishing techniques with a man who’d been distracted from his mead purchase. Down the avenue, she spotted a group of men walking their way. The leader was watching her as he went. Bárthur’s gaze traced past her to the tent next door. His mood changed noticeably as he observed the party of visitors in the booth talking with Dagný. His familiar sneer pinched into an angry grimace. He turned to say something to Gunnar, whose eyes widened in surprise.

  Ásta wasn’t the only one who observed the scene. The men in the tent stopped, as well as many of the merchants and freemen milling about. Bárthur growled at his followers, and they turned around to leave the way they’d come. She was admittedly pleased to see him go.

  Torin’s kin stayed until midmorning, when they rushed away to the gathering assembly. She watched them leave, eager to learn of their contract. She asked Dagný, “Well?”

  “I did not think that would have happened after yesterday’s events,” he said, his round face filled with curiosity. “But here we are—you a woman promised to the relations of a gothi—and me a wealthier man for it.”