When Magnus led Lotta out of the barn, he wanted to cover her eyes, but he knew it would be pointless, remembering what a wriggler she was.

She screamed when she saw the bodies littered around the square, forcing him to shove a hand over her mouth, dragging her behind the tanner’s hut. The stink made his eyes water, and then Lotta bit his hand, and he cursed. ‘Fuck!’

‘Mama says you’re not allowed to say that,’ Lotta scolded, turning to her brother. Her eyes were bigger, just as blue, just as terrified.

‘Well, Mama isn’t here,’ Magnus reminded her, wringing his hand. ‘And you need to be quiet if we’re going to escape.’

‘Escape from who?’

‘Anyone who wants to hurt us. Anyone who wants to find us.’ Lotta remembered the bodies. The heads.

She’d recognised Sketil, the fisherman. He hadn’t been a bad man. Not like their father.

‘But why can’t we stay here, Magnus? In Ullaberg? It’s our home.’

Magnus wasn’t sure of that himself. The raiders were gone, and it appeared that they’d left some villagers behind. Men, at least. Though the ones they had seen looked wounded. In shock. Walking around, aimless. ‘Mother said we had to go. That I had to take you and run, just like we’d been planning to. That we needed to get to safety. To where we could be taken care of. There’s no one to care for us now. Not here.’

Lotta’s eyes filled with tears, and she closed them, wanting to see her mother, but all she saw was darkness. And opening them, she blinked, sniffing. ‘But where will we go, Magnus? Who will care for us now?’

‘We’re going to find Jonas, remember? He’ll look after us, that’s what Mother promised. He’ll look after us. If only we can find our way to him.’ And swallowing at the sudden weight Magnus felt on his narrow shoulders, he gripped his sister’s hand, pulling her down the path that led to the paddocks.

The day had dawned with a fresh breeze, though that had quickly dispersed, leaving the sea calm, which frustrated everyone. So the men were at the oars, many injured, grimacing and scowling as they rowed the ships along the coast towards Ottby.

Alys knew of Ottby. Everyone in Alekka had heard of the great fortress guarding the bridge to Stornas, though she had never been herself. Once they had arrived in Ullaberg, Arnon had never let her go on a ship again. He had barely let her out of his sight in the eleven years they were together.

Reinar stood next to her, eyes on the women in the bow, who were mostly quiet now. They looked defeated. Scared and confused. He quickly felt uncomfortable, annoyed that it had come to this; knowing how his father would feel about what they were doing. But what choice did they have? Hakon Vettel and his ever-growing army were breathing down their necks, and their fort was quickly emptying of every useful hand. ‘You’ve helped my brother,’ he said quietly, bending to Alys’ ear, ‘so I shall reward you, Alys de Sant. I will make you my dreamer. Let you stay in Ottby.’

Reinar’s breath smelled like ale. It was sour, and Alys wanted to turn away. But Ottby was not Goslund, so she forced herself to look at him. ‘And my friends? The women? What will you do with them?’

Reinar inhaled. He felt tired, impatient for his chair and his hall. ‘The women? I wasn’t looking for more mouths to feed, so I’ll have no use for them in Ottby.’ He scratched his bearded chin, listening to his belly rumble. ‘I’ll think on it. You may go and be with them if you wish, for now, you are free.’ Reinar opened his hands, smiling at her.

Alys eyed him suspiciously. ‘I don’t think I’m free.’

‘Perhaps not as free as I am, or Bolli over there, but freer than those women whose destiny will be woven by these two hands.’ And he held his big, dirty hands out to Alys, grabbing hers, eyes sharp now. ‘You will be

useful, so I’ll keep you until you no longer are.’ And squeezing her hands, Reinar stared into Alys’ eyes until she shivered.

He let her go, watching her stagger backwards before turning around, one hand out to balance herself as she walked unsteadily down the deck, in between the sea chests the oarsmen were sitting on.

Alys, barely able to breathe, kept her attention on the women. A few she felt warmly towards, others she barely knew, some she disliked. But every one of them reminded her of home, and of her children, and she wanted to fall down to the deck and sob.

Stina reached out her bound hands as Alys approached. ‘What have they told you? What is happening?’ she croaked desperately, eyes on her friend. The taste of seawater in her mouth made her want to spit.

‘We are not going to Goslund,’ Alys said, sensing all eyes focus on her, mouths slightly open in desperation. ‘It’s not safe after the ambush. We’re going to Ottby. They’re from Ottby.’

‘And what will they do to us there?’ Jorunn asked. She was a skilled weaver with many children; grandchildren too.

‘Rape us!’ said another.

Nodding heads; anxious eyes focused on the crew. ‘Ssshhh,’ Stina hissed. ‘Don’t give them any ideas, Isla.’

‘You don’t think they have ideas? Look at what happened to poor Magda!’

Alys glanced over her shoulder as the women became more restless. She saw Reinar staring at her, his men too. Spinning around, she lowered her voice. ‘I don’t know what will happen, but if you want them to keep you, make yourselves useful. The lord will not want to keep problems. He will look to get rid of you.’

‘And what about you?’ Ilene asked. ‘What will he do with you, Alys the dreamer?’

Alys didn’t like Ilene. Not many did. Ilene Gislar had a reputation in Ullaberg as a husband-thief, though, unfortunately for Alys, she had not been successful in her attempts to steal Arnon away.

Eyes sharpened with curiosity, bodies banging into each other as the wind picked up again, the ship dipping into the waves.

‘I… I’m not sure. I think he wants to keep me as his dreamer.’ Alys didn’t like saying that out loud. She tried not to think of Magnus and Lotta.

‘But when were you ever a dreamer, Alys?’ Jorunn wondered. ‘We never knew this about you.’

Alys swallowed, more uncomfortable as she wobbled about on the deck, looking for something to hold on to. Her secrets were her own. Private. She didn’t want to reveal them to anyone, especially not someone like Ilene, who was looking on with eager eyes.

Reinar stopped all conversation, though, as he appeared behind Alys, a hand on her shoulder. ‘My brother needs you. His wounds are bleeding again.’

Alys felt relieved, briefly meeting Stina’s eyes before turning around.

Hakon’s fingers twitched as he walked the pier, inspecting his remaining ships. His army was growing by the day. He was a wealthy man, thanks to his father’s savvy managing of his gold, his stores, and his men. And now, just as he needed to procure more hands, more ships, and more weapons, he had enough gold and silver to meet all his needs. And more.

Hakon smiled, though he felt tense, because what he did not have was time.

He needed to move through Ottby quickly, while Ake Bluefinn was away fighting enemies in the West. That old stone fortress blocked his path to Stornas. And so did Reinar and Sigurd Vilander. He twitched, irritated that they had defeated his men, halved his tiny fleet, embarrassed him. The shame was one thing – hard to bear – but the setback of losing two ships was like a fire under his skin, burning hot, searching for an outlet.

‘Cousin!’ He turned away from his men with a forced grin. ‘Awake at last!’

Ivan peered at Hakon with one open eye, hearing the tension in his voice. ‘I’d rather be asleep, though it was a good night, Hakon. A very good night!’ His head hurt as he smiled, but he felt happy. The gods were guiding them towards glory. And though his cousin was not the best lord he could wish for, Ivan was hungry for success, determined to go along for the ride, though not quite as impatient as Hakon.

‘It was, I agree, but today is not such a good day, I’m afraid. Not for our hopes, at least.’

Ivan opened his other eye, both of them brown and usually full of mischief, but he took in the sight of the men clearing out the battered ship with a growing sense of horror. ‘They returned with one ship? One?’ He looked around at the men, not surprised when Hakon’s helmsman dropped his eyes. ‘Where’s Dagfinn?’

‘On the midden heap, I expect,’ Hakon growled. ‘Though I’ve no idea. I imagine the dogs would have enjoyed a good meal if not.’

Ivan stared at his cousin, who was the same age as him, the same height. Their bodies resembled each other, both of them with strong, wiry frames, corded with muscle. Even their hair was similar: shoulder-length, brown, and braided, though Hakon took great care over his appearance, whereas Ivan looked like he slept in a barn.

Which, he often did.

‘And what will you do now? The Vilanders appear to have no intention of rolling over and dying. Must we wait on them? We can go around Ottby, surely? If we build more ships. Wait winter out.’

‘Wait? Of course they want us to wait! Why do you think they burned our fleet? Because they knew we were coming. Because they thought they could stop us!’ Hakon spun around with a snarl. ‘No, Cousin, I want Ottby now!’

Ivan blinked, unhappy to be showered in his cousin’s spittle. ‘You do. We all know you do, Hakon. But don’t you want Ake’s throne more? You must choose which hill to die on, and if you’re not careful, Ottby will defeat you before you even sniff Stornas.’

Hakon’s lips curled venomously, but Ivan barely blinked. He was frustratingly laid-back. Casual. About everything. There was little fire in his cousin unless there was a sword in his hand and a battle song in his heart. Which made him the perfect commander of his army, Hakon realised. Ivan knew how to fight, though he had no appetite for power.

Or so it had always seemed.

‘We need more ships,’ Ivan said with a yawn, looking bored. ‘You need to think about ships, not Reinar Vilander. As soon as we have a fleet big enough to carry our men, we can plan our attack.’

Hakon turned to him with a dismissive smile. He had no intention of waiting at all. ‘Why don’t we walk back up to the fort, and get you some ale before you twitch yourself off the pier, Cousin, and I’ll tell you exactly what I have in mind.’

Alys watched Stina from Dagger’s stern, where Reinar had made her remain, wanting to ensure that she was near his brother.

Ludo kept bending over, offering her slivers of salt fish, something that looked like a hard biscuit, and crumbles of dried pork too. The smell made her want to vomit, and eventually, she hurried to her feet, leaning over the stern, but having barely eaten in days, she did little more than retch uncomfortably.

‘Are you alright?’ Ludo wondered with an awkward smile when Alys returned, taking a seat beside her.

He had kind eyes, Alys thought, tucking damp strands of hair behind her ears, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. They were moving at pace now, under sail, and she was glad for it, eager to get off the ship, but her heart sank heavily every time she realised how much further she was getting away from her children. Though, at least they were not going to Goslund, which meant that she still had an opportunity to find her way back to them. ‘I am. The ship… it is… I feel unwell.’

Ludo wondered if he might vomit himself. He nodded, eyes on Sigurd, who appeared asleep, and Reinar, who had his head together with Torvig as they walked down the ship towards the women. ‘It’s not been an easy time for you.’

Alys blinked. ‘For me?’

Ludo pointed to her face, covered in bruises. ‘Perhaps they happened before we came and stole you away?’ His voice was barely a breath, his words quickly torn away by the wind.

Alys didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to reveal anything about herself at all. Though, she realised with a frown, she had to find an ally. If she was going to make it back to Magnus and Lotta, she had to find an ally quickly. And this man, with those sympathetic eyes, who seemed very close to both the lord and his brother, might just be the ally she needed. ‘I… did not have a very gentle husband.’

‘No?’ Ludo edged towards her, overwhelmed with curiosity. Reinar had ordered him to watch over the dreamer and Sigurd, and he was eager to hear a story to pass the time.

‘He would beat me,’ Alys admitted, cheeks warm in the biting wind. She felt embarrassed to admit it. Weak. Pathetic. She saw the sympathy in

Ludo’s rich brown eyes, and she wanted to insist that she was strong. That she had stood up for herself, but she knew it wasn’t true. She had taken Arnon’s punishment, his torture, like a beaten dog who kept coming back for more. But she’d never stopped planning when she might leave, hoping she would have the courage to do so.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ludo said, eyes shifting back to Sigurd, who was mumbling in his sleep now, writhing around on the deck. ‘There are men like that, I know. Some of them are in Ottby.’ He couldn’t help but stare at Torvig, then, who barely anyone apart from Reinar liked. ‘There is little to be done, though.’

‘Well, I think I would rather have been beaten by my husband than stolen away to be sold as a slave.’

Ludo looked mortified, his own cheeks reddening.

‘Though, I don’t blame you,’ Alys insisted, trying to smile. ‘I can tell you hate it.’

‘You can?’ Ludo sat up straighter. ‘Because you’re a dreamer?’ He was intrigued. Reinar’s last dreamer, Salma, had barely had a word to say to him, and certainly not a vision of anything he wanted to know about.

Alys nodded. ‘Dreamers sense things.’ It was either a lie, or it was the truth, she didn’t know. She didn’t remember her mother or her grandmother, both of them dreamers. And she didn’t know what dreamers really did or what they really felt, but she could see Ludo’s interest, and she was eager to foster it. ‘I can tell you have a hard time with it.’

Ludo swallowed. They were not alone, but Bolli appeared half asleep as he leaned over the tiller, beard blowing in the wind. Sigurd was snuffling at their feet, and no one else was within hearing distance. ‘It’s not who we were,’ he admitted. ‘Not who we want to be. But Reinar is desperate. If he can’t find the silver to pay for more men, we’ll have no hope of defending Ottby. They’re leaving, you see, his warriors. In droves.’

‘Why?’

Ludo sighed. ‘Everything has gone wrong for Reinar lately. His father, Stellan, was the Lord of Ottby for years. A good man. A kind lord. My father fostered me to him when I was ten, and Stellan cared for me as though I was his own. But then, a year ago, the crops began to fail, and things started going wrong. Something happened to Stellan’s mind. His body too. He had a seizure. Now he sits in a chair, dribbling all day.’

‘Oh.’ It was Alys’ turn to be intrigued.

‘Reinar became the lord, but the bad luck only worsened.’

‘How?’ The ship dipped low, and Alys almost slid off the chest. Ludo grabbed her, waiting until they’d crested the wave, before pushing her back. ‘Too many things, for sure.’ He lowered his voice, leaning down. ‘His sons were stillborn. He started to lose battles he would have won only a year ago. Just… everything Reinar touched, every decision he made, everything went against him, as though he was cursed. People started whispering that the gods had stolen away his luck, which is odd, I think, as

he is the one fated to become the true King of Alekka.’

Reinar and Torvig had turned back after checking on the women, and Alys realised that she didn’t have much time before they were within earshot. ‘What does that mean, the true king?’

‘Ragnahild One Eye visited Ottby when Reinar was a baby. She told his mother that she’d had a vision of Reinar wearing the Sun Torc.’ Ludo could see Reinar and Torvig approaching too, and he pushed himself away from Alys, standing up, peering down at her. ‘And the legend of the Sun Torc says that the man who finds it will unite the two halves of Alekka again. Rule them both for the first time in two thousand years.’ Ludo smiled briefly, turning away, leaving her on the sea chest.

Alys started to slide again, and she gripped the rim of the chest, eyes on Reinar. Her grandfather had told her the legend of the Sun Torc many times over the years. She frowned, watching as he clapped Ludo on the shoulder.

From memory, that wasn’t a prize anyone should be seeking.

Magnus had left Lotta in the paddock with the ponies while he snuck around the village, seeing what else he could take. He had crept down to the beach, wanting to see his father’s body, but it was gone. They were all gone, having been moved into the village where pyres were being constructed.

Magnus couldn’t find him.

He didn’t really want to either. He was glad Arnon de Sant was dead. He never wanted to see him again.

No one was paying any attention to Magnus as he collected a few apples that had rolled out of a basket one of the women had likely dropped as she was captured. Sobs rose up into Magnus’ chest, and he became cross,

knowing that he couldn’t be a child. Not now. If he wanted to save Lotta and get them both to safety, he couldn’t be a child anymore.

‘Magnus!’

Magnus froze, slowly turning around. ‘What are you doing?’

It was Olaf, one of Arald Hussak’s servants, a kindly old man. He had a gaping cut on his sagging cheek, and he appeared to be shaking. But then again, Olaf was often shaking.

Magnus didn’t want to be stopped. ‘I’m taking Lotta for a ride, to get away for a while. She’s upset.’ His saddlebags were with Lotta and the ponies in the paddock, and Magnus hoped that Olaf would leave him to it.

Olaf nodded. ‘Well, don’t be too long.’ He appeared distracted, his rheumy eyes barely focusing on Magnus. His daughters were gone, and he was still in a daze, slightly removed from the grief flooding his heart. ‘There’s a meeting in the hall tonight, for those who are left, about what we might do. There will be food. You can bring Lotta. I’ll find you something to eat.’ And with a nod, he was gone, shuffling and shaking towards Ullaberg’s tiny square, where the bodies were piling up.

Magnus thought about it for a moment. The idea of staying in Ullaberg was tempting; not having to go off on their own, wondering how they would survive; worrying how he would keep his sister safe. But he heard his mother’s voice in his ears, and it was insistent.

They had to leave.

And turning back around, he hurried away, not listening to what Olaf was trying to tell him.

‌7‌

Sigurd peered at the dreamer as she returned to the women.

He was sitting, leaning against Ludo, who wasn’t needed to row as the sail ballooned above their heads now, the wind pushing them home at speed.

Sigurd didn’t trust dreamers. He didn’t believe that they wove anything more than lies and tricks intended to trap and deceive those foolish enough to believe them.

Like Reinar, whose eyes were on Alys. Sigurd sighed, knowing what that was about.

‘Do you think Tulia is alright? Without us?’ Ludo wondered.

Sigurd laughed, quickly grimacing. He tried not to move, gritting his teeth. ‘Tulia will be enjoying the peace and quiet without us there getting in her way. Though, she’ll be stuck with Gerda and Agnette. That will be driving her mad for sure.’ He smiled. Tulia was a hard woman to love, and things had not been good between them for a while now, but he was looking forward to seeing her again.

‘Sometimes I think you picked Tulia just to stir Gerda up.’

Sigurd tried not to laugh again, but his eyes were brighter than they had been all day. ‘You really think anyone could pick Tulia Saari?’ He shook his head.

Ludo laughed, watching the dreamer as she tended to the wounds of the women who crowded around her. ‘What do you think of Alys, then? Reinar seems happy to have found her.’

‘Alys? The dreamer?’ Sigurd could see the mess she’d made of her green dress. She had torn off so many strips to make bandages for him that

he could see her legs. ‘Reinar does like to have a dreamer around, that’s true. Though if he spent less time listening to what dreamers said, maybe he wouldn’t be in such a mess.’

The ship smacked into a wave, and Sigurd bounced off the chest with a yelp. Ludo put an arm on his leg to try and hold him down. ‘You can’t blame him for that, not after what Ragnahild foretold. Not after living his life hearing where his destiny lies. It would be hard not to listen to dreamers after that.’

Sigurd looked ready to spit. ‘No one knows the truth about what Ragnahild told Gerda. Gerda was the only one in that cottage with her. Who knows what she really foretold? Not Reinar, that’s for sure.’

‘But she was the most famous dreamer of all,’ Ludo insisted with round eyes. He knew Sigurd hated dreamers with a passion – something he had in common with Tulia – though he was fascinated by them himself. ‘Why would she make up stories?’

Sigurd shrugged. That hurt too. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t Ragnahild making anything up?’

Ludo narrowed his eyes. Sigurd hated Gerda too, and he didn’t blame him for that. She had never been kind to him. Her favouritism towards Reinar was something she wore proudly, like a colourful cloak. And despite Stellan’s best efforts to get her to treat Sigurd fairly, she never had. ‘Well, I wonder what she’ll think of Alys?’

Sigurd frowned. ‘He’s going to keep her, isn’t he?’ ‘Reinar?’ Ludo nodded. ‘He is, which is good news for her.’

Sigurd wriggled, trying to get comfortable as the ship creaked, moving him around. He pushed his wet boots onto the planks, water sloshing over them, trying to keep himself still. ‘Or not. Ottby’s not the place anyone would want to live, not anymore.’ He stared at his brother, wishing he could get through to him. But Reinar Vilander was not about to let go of that which he believed to be the foothold of his destiny.

Faced with clinging to the precipice of certain doom, Sigurd knew that his brother was determined to keep on clinging.

Agnette had no appetite as she sat between Gerda and Tulia at the high table, listening to the fires crackling brightly before them. With Bjarni away, Gerda had invited her niece to sit beside her every night. She needed someone to talk to Tulia. To sit near Tulia.

She certainly didn’t want to.

Agnette was surprised that she had no appetite. She’d thought of nothing but food since falling pregnant, but now, with Bjarni gone and the threat of Hakon Vettel growing by the day, she felt worried and vulnerable.

Gerda peered at her. ‘You do not like the fish? I thought it was rather good myself. Rilda tried a new recipe. My suggestion.’ Gerda Vilander prided herself on being a lady. A hostess. Someone whose job it was to please those around her. Over her nearly twenty years as the Lady of Ottby, she had worked hard to turn the hall from a smoky shed packed with filthy, fighting men, into a comfortable, tastefully decorated space, where all of their people could come to eat, drink, and socialise with one another. Stellan had barely noticed her improvements, nor Reinar, she knew, but it gave her both pleasure and pride to see how far it had come.

But for how long, she wondered gloomily, picking up her cup of small

ale.

How long would they be able to remain?

‘I’m just worried about Bjarni,’ Agnette sighed. Her belly was growing

so big that she had to sit far back from the table, leaning forward quite a way to grab her own cup. ‘I don’t like it when he’s gone.’

Tulia tried not to snort. Her plate was scraped clean, and she had almost finished her second cup of ale. ‘Would you rather he was here, fussing over you?’

‘I would, yes!’ Agnette insisted. ‘As I’m sure you would if you were pregnant. It makes you feel… different. More vulnerable.’ She eyed Tulia. ‘Although, perhaps not you. I’m sure you’d still be able to kill someone if you needed to, even if you were about to drop.’

Tulia laughed. ‘I would, of course. And don’t worry, Agnette, we are all here together. If anyone tries to attack, I’ll protect us, which is, perhaps, even luckier for you. Bjarni is not so good with a sword, is he?’

Agnette sat up straighter, insulted on Bjarni’s behalf.

Gerda held up a hand, signalling for a servant to clear the table. ‘She’s right, Agnette. Bjarni is good at many things, but I doubt he could strike down an attacking sheep. He’s better with a bow. With a spear, perhaps?’

Agnette clamped her lips together, not enjoying her husband being the rare reason her aunt had decided to side with Sigurd’s woman.

‘What we do need is a new dreamer,’ Gerda went on. ‘Someone who could tell us what’s happening. What we should do. When Salma died, it plunged us into darkness, and now, here we sit, waiting. At that Vettel boy’s mercy!’

Tulia laughed, banging her cup down onto the table. ‘We’re at no one’s mercy, Gerda,’ she insisted, eager to leave. ‘We have solid walls. We have weapons, and men to wield them. We’re not at anyone’s mercy.’ She felt the need to say things that weren’t entirely true, for the truth did not always inspire confidence. And fear running rampant in the fort would not help any of them survive. ‘You need to see things clearly. Reinar would want you to.’ She saw Gerda stiffen, realisation clearing her eyes, knowing that Gerda would do anything for Reinar. Tulia lowered her voice, though the hall was mostly empty. No one wanted to come and drink in the hall without Reinar and Sigurd. ‘You are the Lady of Ottby. He needs you to keep everyone calm.’

Gerda nodded, biting her tongue.

Agnette was surprised, though she felt some responsibility to stay calm herself. Putting down her cup, she placed her hands on her belly, feeling her child swimming around inside her like a fish. It was comforting, and she sat back, trying to relax. ‘Perhaps they will be home tomorrow?’ She glanced up at Tulia, who stood, ready to leave.

‘Perhaps,’ Tulia mused, wanting to check the fort. She ignored her own fears that trouble might have befallen Reinar and Sigurd, knowing that trouble seemed to be following Reinar around like a hungry dog these days. And flicking her long braid behind her back, she shrugged, picking up her cloak. ‘But if not, we’ll enjoy the peace and quiet a little longer!’ And winking at Agnette, she headed around the tables, aiming for the doors. It was getting darker and colder much earlier now, making her wistful for Kalmera, where the sun warmed her skin, and the days were bright and clear; not a hint of the leaden clouds that hung over Ottby like a curse from the weather gods.

Dragging open a door, Tulia headed outside, wrapping her blue cloak around her shoulders, thinking about Sigurd, annoyed that she missed him so much. She smiled, hurrying down the steps, already keen to head back into the hall and warm her frozen toes by the fire.

Falla Gundersen was the most desirable woman Ivan had ever seen. She had a body so replete with curves that he wanted to bury himself in her tits, wrapping his arms around that perfect waist, squeezing her tight. She wore clothes that accentuated those curves; tight-fitting dresses that called his attention to every nook and cranny. Each one of them as tempting as the other.

And yet, Falla was married to Hakon’s champion, a man Hakon had no intention of killing, for Lief Gundersen was a warrior of great reputation and skill. Though he was not handsome, nor young, nor charismatic, and Ivan often stared at Falla, wondering what she saw in her dull old man of a husband. It hardly mattered what Falla saw, of course, for what Hakon saw was a mountain, rarely bettered in battle, hard and unsmiling, unwavering in the face of threat, no matter the enemy.

Hakon would be a fool to end him, yet at that moment, Ivan wanted him dead more than anything.

Falla flicked her hair over her shoulder as she glided past him, child on her hip; a boy, as raven-haired as she was. Not Lief’s. He had married her as a widow a year ago and taken on the boy, eager to get her pregnant with his own sons.

Hakon hit Ivan.

They were sitting at the high table: Karolina on Hakon’s right, Ivan on his left.

Hakon smiled. ‘Though Lief’s eyes are ruined, he can still see, Cousin.’ He inclined his head to where Lief Gundersen was standing near one of the hall’s enormous fire pits, chatting to his men, his dark, scarred eyes occasionally wandering to the high table.

Ivan shrugged. ‘Everyone looks at Falla,’ he whispered. ‘How can they not? She makes sure of it, dressing the way she does. Walking like that? It’s as though she’s in heat all the time!’ He edged closer to Hakon. ‘Must be that Lief doesn’t satisfy her, don’t you think?’

Hakon burst out laughing, causing more than a few heads to turn their way. Lief sharpened his eyes, and Hakon lifted his goblet in his champion’s direction. ‘A man like that? Most famous warrior on the Eastern Shore? More like wishful thinking on your part, Cousin.’

‘You think every man skilled with a sword knows how to use his cock?’ Ivan laughed back, listening as the musicians started plucking their lyres, raising a smile from the usually morbid-looking Karolina.

‘Well, I wouldn’t presume to know, but if I were a betting man, I’d bet upon it. Falla looks like a satisfied woman to me.’ Hakon’s eyes followed her as she walked up to the old crone who had entered the hall, seeking her out. He blinked, happy to see her. ‘I think it’s more that she likes to cause trouble. And getting you in trouble would be very easy. Imagine how that would work out for her?’

Ivan didn’t follow.

‘You’re the leader of our army, Ivan. You’re my most trusted advisor, my most loyal friend. And when we sit in Stornas’ hall, we will sit together, and I will make you a great lord, wealthy for life. Why wouldn’t I? We are family, and you will help me, so I will reward you. And Falla… I think she wants power. Wealth and power. With Lief, she has a famous husband, but she seeks more than reputation. She is definitely after more.’

‘So she wants to marry me?’

Hakon grinned. Ivan was quick at many things, but not when it came to women. ‘I don’t imagine so. She will likely keep her husband and hope to make him rich and powerful by removing you. And if she gets you in trouble with Lief, well… he will take care of that for her.’

Ivan sat back with a frown. ‘You really believe that?’

Hakon laughed. ‘I have a dreamer, and she sees many paths ahead. Some paved with death and darkness, some with gold and silver. But I see things too. I’m always watching. My people. The ravens. I look for omens. I see more than most. Those things they think are hidden… I see them all.’

Ivan swallowed, wondering what Hakon saw in his heart, which had often been bitter and resentful where his cousin was concerned. He snorted to cover his discomfort, helping himself to more ale. ‘Seems to me you can just burn Mother, then. What use do you have for that old bitch when you can do your own dreaming!’

‘I tell her that all the time! Just so she knows not to play games with me.’ Hakon watched the hunched figure waddling around the fires, elbowing his men out of the way.

Mother Arnesson was a small old woman, but wide, still thickly padded; grey hair curling in a furious mess; big eyes, slightly mad looking; lips always pouting with displeasure. She was intimidating and threatening, and

most of all, mysterious, so the hardened warriors standing near her quickly jumped out of her path, much to Hakon’s amusement. She ignored both him and them as she aimed for Hakon’s private chamber, not even bothering to incline her head in her lord’s direction.

Hakon nudged his cousin. ‘Looks as though there’s some news.’ And standing, he left his goblet on the table, bending down to Ivan’s ear. ‘Keep your eyes on your meal, Cousin. I would hate to return to find you missing your head!’ He grinned, watching the famously unsmiling Lief Gundersen’s frown intensify as he headed away from the table, not even bothering to look at Karolina.

Sigurd’s eyes followed Torvig as he inspected the women’s ropes. Again.

Bjarni sat down on a log of driftwood with a groan, sticking his hands near the flames, thinking about Agnette. He looked up, following Sigurd’s eyes. It was long since dark, and they had made camp in a sheltered cove, its stones just as uncomfortable as the last one. No one was looking forward to trying to sleep.

Especially not Sigurd.

‘You think Torvig would have made sure their ropes were tight the last time he went over there,’ Bjarni whispered, eyes on the flames.

Sigurd turned to him, hearing the resentment in Bjarni’s voice. Bjarni Sansgard had been a loyal friend to both him and Reinar since they were boys. He was a calm man, his thoughts taking time to form. Never rash. Not judgemental either. But his impression of Torvig had taken shape quickly, and that shape had not altered in eighteen years. ‘You’d think so, a man as careful as that.’

‘As long as Torvig understands how important those slaves are to Reinar. Especially the dreamer. I’m sure Reinar wouldn’t be happy to lose another one.’ Bjarni turned his attention to Sigurd. ‘Though, I was happy to lose Rutger. He was a worthless shit in the end.’

‘As we knew he would be, old friend,’ Sigurd mused. ‘If only my brother would listen to either of us. These days no words get into that thick head of his, though. None but Torvig’s.’

‘Mmmm, Torvig’s the one who suggested we start slaving. Perhaps that was only for himself? I see no value in it, except to make us all nothing in the eyes of the gods. In the eyes of our women too.’ They both thought on that, knowing how Tulia and Agnette felt about slaving. Tulia had refused to come along. And Agnette talked about it incessantly, layering on heavy cloaks of guilt every time Bjarni returned from raiding.

‘We have little choice for now,’ Sigurd tried to convince them both. ‘Men need to be paid. Bought and paid for. They’ll not come willingly. Reinar is no lord anyone wants to follow anymore.’

Bjarni pushed himself up. ‘What do you mean?’ he hissed.

Sigurd brushed off his friend’s prickles. ‘Men who don’t know a lord are drawn to that man by two things. His reputation. Or his ring-giving. And Reinar’s reputation has been torn to shreds, you know that. What’s left of it? The only men willing to suffer and follow him now are those who know him. Who know his character and the truth. The rest? They need paying. And unless we travel further for longer, there’s no one around Ottby with enough treasure for our needs.’

‘Unless we were to raid Hakon Vettel at Slussfall?’ Bjarni poked the fire with a blackened stick, listening to it spit, lulled into a sleepy state by the gentle rush of waves up the foreshore.

Sigurd laughed, rubbing his beard, reminded of Tulia, who liked to braid it while sitting on top of him. Naked. He smiled, trying to ignore the sting of his wounds, though his leg was throbbing like a heartbeat, and he could barely see straight. ‘At Slussfall we’d stand no chance. It’s nearly as impenetrable as Ottby.’

Bjarni was only half listening. He was already trying to find the best place to lie his fur. But realising there was no best place at all, he unfurled it anyway.

‘But Orbo…’

Bjarni looked around. ‘Orbo?’ His body tingled.

‘When Hakon captured Slussfall, he left Orbo behind, garrisoned, so he’s not there. Nor is his idiot cousin, or any of his best warriors. Hakon has them all at Slussfall, from what I hear.’

‘Well, I say we go now,’ Bjarni mocked. ‘You can lead us!’

Sigurd frowned. ‘I’m not talking about now. But it’s something to think about, isn’t it?’

‘We couldn’t take it and hold it.’

‘No, we don’t have the men. But we could rob it.’

Bjarni lay down, testing the stones, longing for the warm body of his pregnant wife; forgetting what a wriggler she was, always waking him up as she flopped over like a whale, trying to get comfortable. ‘Imagine the look on Hakon’s face when he heard that news! I’d love to see it, but it would only enrage him further. Make him come after us even more. He’d stop at nothing then. Nothing at all.’

Sigurd slumped over on the log, not thinking about sleeping. The idea of lying down on the stones was not appealing. ‘I imagine so.’ His voice was quiet, sensing how tired Bjarni was. Bjarni tended to become sleepy almost immediately after eating. And though there had only been a hasty meal of trout, a few strips of salted bacon, and some cheese, Bjarni appeared quite ready for his sleep.

‘But there must be a way to stop him before he takes Ottby from us,’ Bjarni mumbled, eyes closed, thinking about Rilda’s apple cake. Whenever trading ships docked from the Fire Lands, Rilda would buy cinnamon and cardamom and dates, making the sweetest, moistest apple cake he’d ever tasted.

He sighed, thinking of the cake, and Agnette, Sigurd’s voice fading into the night.

Magnus wanted to eat more.

He’d tried to go to sleep, but he had given Lotta most of the meal. He’d killed a rabbit; skinned it and cooked it over the fire. Lotta had insisted she wouldn’t eat it, and that he should not have killed the poor creature. But when it was cooking on the spit of twigs Magnus had hastily constructed, her eyes had widened with hunger, the pains in her empty stomach quickly overpowering her indignation.

Now, it was Magnus’ turn to suffer the torturous hunger pains, trying to resist the temptation of digging into their stores, not wanting to deplete them so early in their journey.

He edged closer to the saddlebags, listening to the half-frozen leaves crunching beneath him, ears open to the unfamiliar sounds of the forest. They had fur bedrolls, and Lotta was sleeping on one, though it was not

warm. Magnus hadn’t wanted to erect the tent because the night was clear, and they would leave not long after dawn, but he longed for the walls of a tent or a cave. Out here, in the forest, he felt exposed.

He spun around, hearing a crunch, all thoughts of food gone, eating knife in his shaking hand, eyes jumping between the trees. But nothing revealed itself, and Magnus settled back against the moss-covered trunk, glancing at his sister. They had been close once, though recently she had begun to irritate him. Everything she said and did sounded so childish now. It was hard to be around someone so silly when he was learning how to be a warrior.

He swallowed, heart racing with fear, not feeling much like a warrior at

all.

Yawns came regularly, and Magnus knew that he had to get some sleep

before morning or he would not make very good decisions. He could almost see his mother’s smile in that. And eventually, lying down, Magnus de Sant closed his eyes, hoping to find his mother in a dream.

‌8‌

Though Mother Arnesson was a gift, she was an unpleasant woman to be around, Hakon thought with a grimace. She would not sit still, and he felt awkward remaining in his seat, not enjoying her poking finger as she regularly spun around, sticking it near his face. She was not interested in talking about herself or her daughter-in-law, Falla, at all. She turned every query he made around on its head, pointing it directly back at him.

A thoroughly frustrating gift, he thought, though a gift none-the-less. ‘My sight is not what it once was,’ she grumbled, spitting as she spoke.

‘But I see a problem on the horizon.’

Hakon didn’t like the sound of that. But still, if it was only the one problem…

‘But what if that one problem is great enough to drown every other?’ Mother wondered, eyeing him sharply, enjoying his surprise. ‘Water is barely a problem if you step in a puddle. Your boot is wet, but it is no great hardship. But what if that water turns into a flood? A waterfall? Would you so happily wade into it then? See it as no more than a wet boot to contend with?’ All of a sudden Mother flopped down onto a stool, exhausted and cold, pock-marked cheeks bright red, eyes popping open. ‘It is up to you, my lord, and what you do next!’

‘But what problem are you talking about?’ Hakon leaned forward, grateful that Mother had stopped moving. ‘Something to do with Reinar Vilander?’

‘Of course, who else? That fool has fished himself a dreamer! Caught her on a line. And now she is his prisoner, though more of a gift from the

gods, I would say!’ She spat irritably, annoyed by the unexpected development.

Surprised that it had surprised her.

‘What?’ Hakon’s breathing quickened. ‘From where?’

‘What does that matter?’ Mother snapped. ‘What matters is what you do about her. Between us, we managed to get rid of the last one, but now, Reinar Vilander will have insight once again, and that will be dangerous. If he were to discover our plans…’

Hakon scratched his chin, fingering his beard into a point once more. ‘If we removed one dreamer, we can remove another,’ he decided, eyes seeking some reassurance in Mother’s.

She shrugged, providing no reassurance at all. ‘I have seen her, this dreamer of Reinar’s. She is no old crone. She will not go quietly, not that one. And it will be hard to mask her death as old age. She’s not even thirty!’ Hakon was a man of action. Sharp-minded, decisive, prone to violence.

Everything she sought in a king. For a king was who Mother needed to defeat her enemy, Jael Furyck. And helping Hakon Vettel was the first step to avenging her sons. To seeking vengeance for both her and Falla.

Her grandson too.

She would not let him fail.

‘We need to discuss what to do. I have some thoughts, but we must act quickly, before she causes too much trouble. And once she learns more, I promise you that woman will be nothing but trouble!’

Alys lay on the stones in the dark next to Stina, holding her hand.

Stina had started to panic, struggling to breathe, petrified about what would happen next. The man called Torvig kept staring at her, and, when his lord wasn’t looking, he touched her too, running a hand across her breasts, keeping his body between hers and Reinar’s so he wouldn’t see.

‘He won’t hurt you,’ Alys promised.

‘You don’t believe that. It may be dark, Alys, but I can hear it in your voice.’

They were whispering. Reinar had sent men to guard them all night, and those men often stood up from their posts, walking around to inspect the

sleeping women. It kept them all on edge, fighting the sleep they so desperately needed.

‘All I know is that he wants to sell you, not hurt you. I believe that.’

‘Is that something you’ve seen? In your dreams?’ Stina was curious. She hadn’t been surprised to learn that Alys was a dreamer – she had always suspected as much – but now Alys had confirmed it, there was so much she wanted to know.

‘It’s more of a feeling,’ Alys admitted. ‘I don’t believe they are bad men. Not the leaders, at least. And if they stay in charge, we’ll be safe.’

‘Until we’re sold.’

The misery in Stina’s voice was heavy, and Alys felt guilty. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do with me. He wants a dreamer, but I don’t know what that means, or what he’ll make me do.’

‘But maybe it gives you a chance to find Magnus and Lotta?

Somehow?’

‘Ssshhh, I don’t want them to know about the children.’ Alys whispered it in Stina’s ear, certain no one could hear her. ‘Please don’t talk about them.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, I just don’t want to put them in danger. I need Magnus to find his way to Jonas’ cottage, to get Lotta there safely. Then I’ll feel better. They’ll be safe with him.’

‘You think that’s possible? Magnus is only ten.’ Stina yawned, and despite the discomfort in her tense limbs, she felt ready for sleep.

Alys sighed, closing her eyes. Though her body was weary, her mind flitted from one terrifying thought to another. But she needed sleep, because sleep meant dreams, and hopefully, a way to find her children.

She needed to see if they were safe.

Magnus walked through the forest, shivering. He wished he’d thought to grab his cloak, but he’d been impatient to know what the noise was. He had to keep Lotta safe. The moon was glowing, the stars scattered across the sky, but their bright lights only shone in patches as he walked into a small clearing where the tree cover was dense.

Magnus kept turning, wondering how far he’d gone from Lotta now. Hoping he could find his way back.

A snapping sound had his legs trembling, his heart in his mouth as he spun around, fearing that he was not as brave as his mother needed him to be. ‘Hello?’ he wondered into the darkness, hearing more snapping. That was no vole or mouse. Whatever was breaking those branches and twigs sounded even weightier than a fox or a wolf.

And then a hand on his shoulder had Magnus yelping in terror, unable to move.

‘Hello, boy,’ came a familiar voice. ‘Not trying to escape, are you?’

Magnus spun around, staring up at his father’s face; those familiar, cruel eyes glaring back down at him.

‘You know I don’t like it when you try to run away.’ Magnus woke with a start, elbowing his sister in the face.

Lotta jerked awake, crying out, holding her cheek. ‘Magnus? What happened?’

He shook as she edged away from him, shivering, seeing only a shadow before her.

‘A bad dream,’ he mumbled, panting, still feeling his father’s hand, cold on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. Just a bad dream.’

But despite the pain in her face, Lotta was already mostly asleep, and she wriggled back to her brother, nestling her head under his chin, quickly going limp. Magnus tried to calm his breathing, feeling nauseous as he wrapped a shaking arm around her cold body, drawing her close.

As a little girl, Alys had felt safe.

The joy of simply being a child shone in her eyes as she sat on her grandfather’s knee, urging him to bounce her up and down. She was left in the care of her grandfather often. Her grandmother was always busy helping someone, but her grandfather had plenty of time for her. Or so it had appeared to Alys.

Her father was gone – dead before she could remember him – so she lived with her grandparents. Her mother came and went, though Alys had not understood why at first. And eventually, she stopped coming back at all,

and her grandfather was forced to explain that her mother had been killed by those she was trying to help.

Dreamers, he had warned her with stern eyes, dreamers put themselves in peril by revealing their gifts.

Alys remembered staring at her grandmother, who sat by the fire, sewing him a pair of trousers, tears running down her ruddy cheeks. There was something in her eyes she had never understood. Not then, not now.

Her grandmother died not long after, and Alys was left to be raised by her grief-stricken grandfather, Jonas. He had been distant at first. Sad. Though, eventually, he’d returned from that dark place of loss to give Alys a happy home, where she’d felt loved and nurtured, if not slightly trapped by his desire to keep her safe. So, when a young, handsome warrior named Arnon de Sant arrived in Torborg, seventeen-year-old Alys had been intrigued, excited to hear where he’d been, wanting to know what he’d seen. And though Jonas had not approved, Alys had continued to see Arnon behind his back, until, eventually, she’d run away with him, planning to marry.

Arnon had convinced Alys that he had prospects, that he would make a good husband. And if there was one thing Arnon was good at, it was convincing people of just how promising his prospects were. So it came as a great surprise to Alys when she’d arrived in Ullaberg and seen the tiny village, and Arnon’s rundown cottage, and the abject poverty of it all.

Times had been hard, he said then. And every year after.

Arnon had been a good warrior – one of the most skilled in the village – but what he needed to be good at was farming. Crops failed, the winters worsened, and Magnus and Lotta came along, putting a strain on everything that had already been strained.

Arnon had started beating her after Magnus was born.

Up until that moment, he had simply yelled at her, his face a hue of reds and purples, his hands in fists, threatening her. But everything changed when Magnus arrived because now she had a child to care for as well as her husband. And Arnon could not stand sharing her.

Not even with a helpless baby.

He lashed out at Alys so violently that she had to stop paying Magnus so much attention. She had to wait until Arnon left to spend the night drinking in the hall, before she could hold her baby as she wanted to.

Alys blinked, trying to concentrate. She didn’t want to think about Arnon. She wanted to find Magnus in her dreams. Her sweet boy. Her poor boy who had suffered so much neglect as she sought to shield him from his father.

She couldn’t find him.

She couldn’t find Lotta either.

But in the midst of all the painful memories, she did find her grandfather.

Jonas Bergstrom sat on the step of his old cottage, knife in one hand, whetstone in the other. He was a big man, his shoulders still broad and straight, and as he bent over, his shoulder-length grey hair hung over his face.

Alys walked towards him, wet grass beneath her bare feet.

‘It’s been a long time, my Alys,’ Jonas rasped, eyes full of affection as he looked up. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He had the look of a man who’d spent many years outside. Deep wrinkles dug into his forehead, fanning out around a pair of twinkling grey-blue eyes. His cheerful face was covered in a beard he trimmed regularly, preferring not to keep his breadcrumbs in it like most men his age.

‘I’ve missed you too, Grandfather,’ Alys said, hurrying forward now, limbs trembling.

Leaving his knife and whetstone on the step, Jonas stood, pulling her into his arms. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come.’

That surprised her. ‘You have?’

Jonas nodded. ‘I’ve always been waiting.’

‘My children are lost to me,’ Alys whispered, trying not to cry. ‘I don’t know what to do. How to get them back. How to get back to them. Everything has gone wrong. Everything!’ And then she did cry, unable to keep all the years of pain in. There was simply too much of it. For though she had visited her grandfather over the years, she had never revealed how hard things were with Arnon, nor how unhappy she was. She hadn’t wanted to worry him, and she felt so foolish for running away in the first place.

Jonas wrapped a strong arm around her, squeezing gently. ‘My poor girl,’ he soothed. ‘I failed you, didn’t I? I shouldn’t have believed you. I shouldn’t have believed him.’ He touched her face, seeing the bruises. ‘I wanted to come for you, take you back home, but I kept finding reasons not to. I didn’t want to interfere.’

Alys shook her head, rubbing her eyes. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I saw nothing, felt nothing to stop me marrying Arnon. But now he’s dead. He’s finally dead, and I must find my way back to Magnus and Lotta. I need your help. Magnus will come to you, he knows how. I wrote instructions. He will follow them to Torborg.’

Jonas frowned. ‘I’m not at the cottage, Alys. I’m no longer in Torborg at all. It burned down last month. Vik took me in. I’m too old now to build myself a new cottage, and I don’t mind Vik’s company. Two old warriors together in the woods. Not quite how I imagined ending up!’ He laughed, stopping quickly at the look on her face.

Alys felt everything collapse around her.

Jonas squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll leave in the morning, don’t you worry. Head back to Torborg. Stay there until the children arrive. I can camp out. It will be like old times!’

It was only a dream.

Her grandfather wouldn’t remember anything when he woke up. But she would.

‘Alys!’ Jonas tried to get her attention, but as he reached for her he started to disappear, his voice lost in a boom of thunder, the sky dark now, enclosing her like a cloak, though it did not warm her.

And she couldn’t stop shivering.

Hakon rolled over, his hands smoothing down his wife’s tousled chestnut- coloured hair. Despite his desire to see her dress and carry herself more like a lady who would soon be a queen, Karolina always looked most alluring when she had just woken up.

Naked.

It took his breath away.

‘What is it, Hakon?’ She squirmed, uncomfortable, trying to pull the furs over her breasts. ‘Is something wrong?’

He laughed, pushing it back down. ‘Because I choose to stare at you, you think something is wrong? Karolina! I’m simply happy to see you, to wake up next to you, to touch you.’ His other hand moved beneath the furs.

Karolina froze. Marriage had not been what she’d imagined as a girl. She had hoped for love or, at least, affection, but what she felt more than anything was fear. Hakon was unpredictable; at times, violent. She doubted he would hurt their son, but she worried that she would give him reason to hurt her.

She remained perfectly still, resisting the urge to wriggle away from his exploring fingers. She even tried to smile.

‘Tell me what you think of Ivan,’ Hakon murmured. ‘Ivan?’

‘Do you think he’s capable of leading our great army to Stornas?’

Karolina swallowed. She didn’t dislike Ivan. He could be funny and kind at times. He certainly seemed gentler than her own husband. But she never knew what to say, knowing that Hakon didn’t ask questions he didn’t already know the answer to. ‘I think he is young. Perhaps…’

‘Perhaps?’ Hakon narrowed his eyes, knowing that he was the same age as his cousin.

‘It may be that older men could provide some experience. Wisdom.

They could support Ivan.’

Hakon liked hearing Karolina’s opinions. They were less abrasive than Mother’s and more considered than his cousin’s. ‘Experience, yes. Though we have years of battle experience now, Ivan and I. Still, I don’t suppose it would hurt to have him lean on Lief and Jerrik to balance his… enthusiasm.’ He was getting distracted, his mind wandering, but then Karolina arched her back, and his attention was right back on his fingers and her exquisite body. ‘Although, perhaps we will talk of that later, for I think we have other things to attend to right now.’

Closing her eyes, Karolina hoped it would be over quickly. She wanted to go and check on her son.

Jonas Bergstrom woke with a headache, a griping stomach, and the intense smell of smoking fish in his nostrils.

He staggered out of bed, crossing the creaking floorboards that felt cold now that winter was approaching. They’d need to think about getting some new skins, preferably furs. Vik’s cottage had a drafty feel to it.

Blinking in the harsh morning light, his head pounding, he realized, with some regret, that he could no longer handle so much ale. His body seemed to be warning him that he was getting old. Jonas chuckled, not quite ready to accept it. “What are you doing, you useless turd?” he called out to his best friend, Vik Lofgren. “Who smokes fish before the sun’s even up?” He blinked, glancing back at the step to Vik’s cottage, almost picturing Alys sitting there as a girl during one of their many visits, and his heart sank.

“Well, I’m sure you won’t complain when you’re eating it for breakfast, you much older turd!” Vik grumbled with a grin, emerging from his tiny shed in a cloud of smoke. He held a tray of amber-colored trout, steaming hot and ready to eat. “What’s wrong?”

Vik was nearly sixty, and Jonas almost seventy. They had been friends since they were young neighbors in Torborg—so many years ago that it was hard to remember now. They had fought together in the shield wall, hunted in The Murk, and even fished the Valgeir Sea. For a time, they were travelers, adventurers, but over the years, they had both settled down, trying their hands at family life.

It had not worked for Vik, who had married twice and ended up an unlucky, childless widower two times over. Jonas had been only slightly less fortunate. Though he had loved his wife and daughter, he had lost them both too young.

And then there was Alys.

Jonas glanced back at the step again, certain he’d had a dream. His wife had been a dreamer, his daughter, and then, Alys too. A dangerous occupation, he knew. One he had stamped out before Alys could do anything about it.

He’d never wanted her to end up like his daughter.

They were both gone now, but the memories of living with a dreamer still lingered, and Jonas knew that he’d certainly had a dream.

Barefooted and needing to piss urgently, he hurried away from the cottage to the latrine, which Vik had recently moved into the trees, some distance from the front door. Though, considering the winter chill in the air, Jonas realised that might have been a mistake.

When he returned to the cottage, he was pleased to see Vik at the table, a couple of stale flatbreads, half a round of cheese and a few figs waiting beside the tray of smoked trout.

‘What is it?’ Vik wondered. Though not as tall as Jonas, he was a big man, strong and broad-chested. He worked with a sword most days, when

he wasn’t fishing or hunting or repairing his cottage. He wasn’t ready for Vasa to claim him yet; determined that she wouldn’t catch him without a sword in his hand. Though the chance of him fighting anything other than a frisky trout these days was slim. ‘Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Jonas took a seat at the small table, just big enough for two. He’d been grateful when Vik had invited him to stay. And despite his friend’s annoying habit of getting up before dawn to tinkle about outside, he was enjoying the company. ‘Not quite, but I think I had a dream.’

‘About a woman?’ Vik joked. Isolation had its downsides, though surely after two failed attempts at marriage, the gods had made it rather plain that women were not in his future.

‘Perhaps…’ Jonas grabbed his eating knife, attacking a fillet of fish, his mind on Alys, his body taut with worry. ‘Perhaps…’