The Temperate Warrior by Renee Vincent Page A

assisted Æsa from the horse before beginning his story. “‘Tis rumored Harold once sought Halldora’s counsel, eager to know his future as king when he was but a lad. Upon a runestone, she foretold of a great man, blessed with long flaxen hair, whose domain would expand further than any king before him, should the boy offer a single lock to cast the spell in his favor. Harold, being arrogant and proud of his golden mane, laughed at Halldora, declaring she was naught more than a senseless old shrew with a talent for conjuring up illusions and false prophecies on the face of a fanciful carved stone. He threw his battle-ax at the boulder and it shattered at her feet. As he turned to leave on his prized stallion, Halldora called upon the powers of the seiðr and cast the fragments of stone in a wide circle, encompassing the entire valley and those few standing within it. A few uttered words later, Harold’s horse lit up in flames and she vowed the same would happen to him should he ever step foot beyond the perimeter again.”
    “And you believe this?” Æsa asked skeptically, as Gustaf heaved his belongings on his back and carried them over to the base of a tree.
    “‘Tis not important if I believe it, or even you. What matters is that Harold believes it. As long as he fears Halldora, my men’s families are safe.”
    “And what about your family?” she inquired, knowing they lived off the west coast of Ireland.
    “My brother, Dægan, never knew of Halldora or this place. He found a better home for our people, far away from Harold’s reach, where they would not need to live in secret.”
    Æsa was surprised he mentioned his deceased brother. In all honesty, she wanted to know more about his family as he hardly ever spoke of them. He was a man who shared more than any other male she’d ever known, except for when it came to his family. She assumed it was because he spent so much of his life without them, never speaking of them in order to safeguard their lives.
    As she watched him unroll two hides on the ground, she dismissed asking him about his loved ones. “We are staying here for the night?”
    “Autumn has come and daylight hours grow short. The further inland we go, the colder it gets, especially at night. We are going to need a fire to survive.” He walked away, exchanging words with his men and sending two in search of nourishment, one to tend the horses, and the last to gather wood for a fire. The only warrior who did not receive a command was Øyven, who remained near his horse, tending to his feathered friend.
    In the short time she’d spent with his men, she noticed Øyven often kept to himself, unless Snorri was around to badger him. He stood out as the youngest of the group, his true age hidden behind a face full of soft scruff. His eyes were kind and his smile, on rare occasions when he chose to display it, lit up his youthful appearance.
    Æsa walked over to him, watching how he regarded the falcon with tenderness and care. “May I stay with you for awhile?”
    Øyven’s eyes searched for Gustaf, probably seeking his chieftain’s approval before answering. Æsa noted the look the two men swapped, as if an unspoken permission was granted, and rolled her eyes. “Does he ever let you think for yourself?”
    Øyven didn’t answer her. Instead, he set the cage down on the ground and untied his belongings from his horse.
    Feeling discomfited in the silence that followed, she decided to change the subject. “Have you given a name to your bird?” It took a few seconds for the young man to answer, giving her time to poke a finger into the cage and stroke the silken feathers along the falcon’s wing. To her surprise, it never snapped its beak at her or avoided her touch. Øyven seemed to notice it as well, for he spread out his rolled hide and sat beside her with the cage between them.
    “Her name is Sæhildr, after my mother.” Taking a thin leather strap from his belt, he opened the cage door