Daughter of the Wind by Michael Cadnum

arm as they led her into the hall, toward a blazing fire in the center of the room. There, a woman in an ashwood pale dress was gazing into the flames, iron rod in hand, heating the end to scarlet in the coals.
    â€œIs this she?” asked the woman.
    Syrpa made a murmur of assent.
    â€œStep closer,” said the woman by the fire, “so I can see you.”

Twenty-one
    A sound startled Gauk, something breaking the surface of the ocean.
    He worked the sail so the boat slowed. The day was bright, but he had heard of sea thieves who used one-man vessels to steal up on unsuspecting sailors. Gauk had drowsed, just for a moment, and now his heart raced.
    With a snort, and a flurry of white water, something was nearby, salt spray bright in the air.
    A seal’s head broke the surface of the sea.
    He was a creature so dark, the whiskers on his snout were silver, his teeth white and perfect, the ridged interior of his mouth bright pink.
    â€œAre you lost?” Gauk asked, his query a dry rasp.
    It was a question of some weight. Gauk himself would have been lost, if it were not for the traditional way-poems that every child in Spjothof knew by heart. These songs were a method of remembering navigational clues—landmarks and sea features. They contained information about rocky outcroppings and towns all the way from the farthest north, south along the Danish kingdom, to the land of the Franks.
    Keep the seabirds ,
    the guillemots and their kin
    within your mast’s shadow
    sailing north, sailing south .
    The seal parted its bristly snout. Was this animal, too, another Odin presence?
    Gauk tossed the butt end of the remaining blood sausage into the water. Some hunters would have thrust a harpoon into the beast as it nosed the morsel—seal skin was valuable, making excellent covering against wet weather. But Gauk made no move to reach for Whale-Biter. Some sailing folk believed that seals were men or women who took to the sea in the form of these long, sleek creatures for the joy of it.
    Gauk did not quite believe this, but he welcomed the companionship. The seal plunged deep, pirouetting beneath the boat, trailing a long string of bright bubbles, and vanishing beneath the swells.
    Gauk envied the seal its athletic innocence. Gauk had felt innocent, too—before Odin had made him a killer of men.
    He did not allow the images from the previous day to enter his mind, an act of denial that took great effort. The men in the water had tried to swim, but the cold stiffened their limbs, until the dark sea swallowed them. Gauk felt soiled, and badly shaken.
    But at the same time he felt a deep wonder, too, and an ugly joy. Now that Gauk was bear-clad, no man would ever insult Gauk or his village to his face. Even seasoned fighters would step aside when Gauk entered an ale hall, an ursine pelt over his shoulder or around his waist. Gauk would not feel the boyish awe most youths feel toward veteran fighters and their war tales.
    Strider sailed itself, with very little prompting from him. Blood spatters dried on his shaggy coat, and on his mittened hands. The blood flaked off and turned to red dust, but it left stains. He wore a sword at his hip now, taken from a pirate’s dead body.
    Life as an Odin initiate held a certain grim thrill. But the reality of such a life tasted bitter now. Stories were told of berserkers who were overcome by bear-spirit during feasts and weddings, butchering innocent celebrants. Such men quickly became friendless. There were stories of brave voyagers who killed berserkers on sight. Gauk himself had seen a berserker on the wharf of a southern port, half-killing a man with his naked fists while his neighbors tried to haul him away. Gauk was afraid of what he had become.
    The thought was foreign to the strong young hunter, but he could not put it out of his mind: Perhaps he should fall upon his spear, here, on the open sea. It would be better than returning to his beloved village and