Page 76 of Sky in the Deep
She cried like I’d never seen her cry and the sound of it echoed through the trees. She cried for her family. For Hylli. For the Aska. For everything. And I cried with her.
FORTY-TWO
Mýra trailed far behind us asFiske led us up the mountain. She hadn’t spoken a word since dawn and neither had Fiske. I walked between them, keeping an eye on her as the snow deepened under our feet.
My father was cumbersome in the snow-covered forest. His massive frame rocked from side to side in front of me as we climbed the slope. The quiet that had fallen over him was like a burden being dragged behind us. I couldn’t tell where his heart was. I knew he was happy that Iri was alive, but the warrior in my father probably wanted to kill him. More than that, guilt would follow both of us for the rest of our lives. We had left Iri and there was no changing it.
The way back up the mountain was different than the way down. Fiske led us through blue icy caverns as the snow started to fall again. The ice rose up around us like waves frozen in midair, the sound of our footsteps bouncing around us as we walked.
I knew we were close when the trees opened up into a grassy clearing studded with tall, frosted stalks of yarrow. Their leaves had turned yellow against the worst of the cold and the heads of the flowers had grown brittle in the days since I was last there. I ran a hand over the tops as we cut through the thick of them, remembering the way Halvard ducked behind their height, spying on me as I worked on my hands and knees in the dirt. I caught one in my fingers, plucking it up and pulling it into my cloak.
The trail that led into the village came into view ahead as the forest turned dark. Fiske stopped us, raising a hand. “I’ll signal them. They know we’re coming.”
Mýra looked around him down the path.
“We’re keeping our weapons.” My father’s grip tightened on his belt.
Fiske nodded, but the unease in their faces wasn’t hidden. It was the same unease bubbling up inside of me. I was leading my family into the den of the enemy.
“Iri’s in there?” My father stared in the direction of the village.
“He is.” I tried to soothe the voice of doubt inside of me.
“I want to see him. I want to see him first.”
Fiske nodded, stepping forward, and he whistled into the trees. We waited silently, my heart pounding, until a whistle sounded back. “We’ll meet them in the ritual house.”
“No.” My father’s tone turned sharp.
I shook my head at Fiske. My father was a superstitious man. There was nothing that would convince him to step foot into a ritual house for Thora.
“My house then,” Fiske agreed.
My father and Mýra both freed their axes from their sheaths, stepping heavier into their feet as we walked. I did the same, finding my axe with my fingertips at my back. When we finally broke into view, my steps faltered, my eyes going wide. It was dark, but the homes were lit like little fires in a winding trail and more Riki were camped in every open space. They covered every inch of the village.
Armed. Ready for battle.
I slowed, and Mýra and my father’s swords slid free. I instinctively set my hand on the hilt of mine as the defenses woke inside me. I hadn’t seen this many Riki together in one place since I was captured in Aurvanger.
We stayed at the village’s edge and moved against the trees, keeping out of sight. Fiske came to the other side of my father, pulling his axe from his back. The four of us walked in a line, shoulder to shoulder with our weapons ready. Heads turned toward us, like a ripple over water, as we made our way closer. They were quiet. Eyes gleaming.
Cold stares and angry whispers surrounded us, closing us in as we headed up the incline, and the buzz of battle ignited in my bones, ready to turn and swing my axe. I met their eyes as I passed, telling them what I wasn’t saying out loud.
That we weren’t afraid.
That I would kill them.
That everything I had left to lose was right here in this village.
Fiske led us toward the familiar wood-planked house standing on the fringes of the village and whistled again. Smoke trailed up from the roof and the door opened.
Inge stood with her hands pressed, palms together, in front of her chest. Long, unbraided black hair fell over her shoulders like a raven’s wings.
“Fiske!” The high-pitched tone of Halvard’s voice broke the silence.
He appeared in the doorway and barreled into Fiske, wrapping his arms around his waist. Fiske put one hand on him, still watching around us. When Halvard opened his eyes, he let go of Fiske, running until he slammed into me. I held my axe up in the air and squeezed him against me with my other hand, unable to help the smile on my face. I pulled the yarrow bloom from my cloak and handed it to him. His grin widened before he took it, running back into the house toward Inge.
Mýra and my father watched me, shock written across their faces in deep, hard lines. And then my father’s face fell, looking beyond me into the house, where Iri stood in the shadows against the back wall. His shoulders were hunched, his frame bent low to see through the doorway.
