to know one another.’
‘I think I already know the sort of man you are,’ she responded, jerking her hand away.
But Styr was already at her side. From the look on his face, he’d overheard every word.
‘Leave her be, Nikolasson.’ His words were quiet, but the edge beneath them was undeniable. ‘I will pay you for the lives of my men.’
‘With what?’ he countered. ‘The only silver coins you have were won from me.’
Styr said nothing, but as he guided her back to her brothers, she felt the tension in the palm of his hand.
‘What will you do?’ she asked.
‘Find a way.’
The voices of the crowd dropped lower, and her brother Ronan interrupted them. ‘I need to speak with you.’
He led her towards the front of the crowd while Styr kept close behind them. ‘Brendan is here somewhere. Two of the merchants confirmed that they saw him among the slaves.’
Relief and fear rose up within her. She wanted her brother to be safe…but how would they ever help him escape slavery?
A middle-aged woman sat at the front, before the crowd. Her hair was so fair, it was nearly white, and ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead. She wore a cloak made of animal skins and in her left hand, she held a staff with a bronze bird-shaped figure upon it.
‘Who is that?’ she whispered to her brother.
‘It is the volva,’ Styr said, his voice resonant within her ear. ‘A prophetess who will answer questions from one she chooses.’
He brought her closer, and a chill crossed over Caragh’s spine. The woman was watching her, and one of the men offered her a platter of food. Her stomach churned, when she saw the platter contained the hearts of sacrificed animals. The prophetess dined upon them, but as she ate, she never took her eyes from Caragh. When she had finished, another young girl began to chant an incantation.
Though Caragh could not understand the words, the aura surrounding the crowd took on an otherworldly quality. Someone began to beat a drum, and the volva pointed to her.
‘She has chosen you,’ Styr said. ‘You must go to her.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered. Everything about the prophetess unnerved her.
‘She will answer your questions,’ he said. ‘It is an honour.’ Without allowing her to refuse, Styr gave her a slight nudge forwards, and the crowd parted.
Caragh’s heartbeat quickened, but she moved towards the woman. She tried to keep from limping, though her feet were still sore from her blisters.
As she neared the prophetess, it was as if the woman could see through her. Caragh waited, and the woman held out her hand.
‘Ask,’ she said, in the Irish tongue.
Several of the men around her began voicing their own wishes, and Styr translated their demands to know if it was an opportune time to attack the Danes.
Caragh ignored them, her eyes fixated upon the prophetess. ‘Is Elena alive?’ she asked quietly.
The seer’s gaze moved over to Styr, and she nodded.
‘Where is she now?’
The woman closed her eyes a moment and spoke. ‘A green stone rises from the sea.’ When Caragh turned a questioning gaze towards Styr, his face was intent upon the prophetess.
‘I know the place,’ he admitted. ‘We passed it on our way north.’
But even more important, he seemed to believe the woman. Caragh was uncertain, but there was impatience on Styr’s face, as if he couldn’t wait to find his ship and return.
Her grip upon her feelings was weakening, but if Styr’s wife was still alive, there was no hope. Once he found Elena, she would never see Styr again.
Perhaps that was best.
The men were closing in impatiently, and Caragh realised the necessity of voicing a question on their behalf. Most were dressed for war, wearing chainmail corselets and steel helms with more chainmail that hung down the backs of their necks. Some carried double-edged swords, sheathed within a sealskin scabbard, while others preferred the battleaxe.
‘Ask her about the Danes,’ an Irishman demanded. ‘Our ships are prepared for a fight.’
‘Are the signs favourable?’ Caragh asked, as the warrior stood beside her.
The prophetess shook her head. ‘They are not.’ She pointed to the sky, where a flock of ravens flew above them. ‘Blood will be shed this day.’
‘Aye,’ the Irishman agreed. ‘There will be sacrifices held this day. Blood, in return for the blood of our enemies.’
At the mention of sacrifice, Caragh’s skin turned cold. Though she knew the ritual of animals dying, it was not something she wanted to witness.
The volva was staring at her, her piercing blue eyes intent. ‘You have one other question, do you not?’
‘My brother Brendan,’ Caragh ventured. ‘Where is he now?’
The seer pointed to a large wooden cage that men were bringing forth upon a wagon. Inside, Caragh saw a group of chained slaves, crowded together. They spoke in a blend of languages, of the Irish, the Picts, and those from Alba.
But she did not see her brother.
‘What is happening?’ she asked Styr, as the wagon stopped before a large pile of branches and peat. Men were pouring oil upon the firewood, while inside the cage, the prisoners continued to cry out.
‘They are part of the sacrifice. They will be burned to the gods, to protect us from the Danes.’
Her hands began to tremble, the fear icing through her veins. God above, no.
For among those about to be sacrificed was her younger brother.
‘Don’t move,’ Styr commanded, seizing Caragh before she could run towards the cage. Already her brothers had seen Brendan and had gone to plead with the council for his life.
But Caragh refused to yield, struggling against Styr’s tight grasp. ‘Let me go.’
‘Your brothers will bring him back,’ he said. ‘Let them handle this.’ He refused to let her anywhere near the sacrifice, and he used his height to block her view.
‘He’s so young,’ she whispered. ‘He can’t die. Not like this.’ Tears flooded her eyes, as if she couldn’t stop the rush of emotion. ‘You have to save him.’
He remained silent, weighing the possibilities
