Sibba was speechless. A rough cough shook his shoulders and the nursemaid at his side, wearing a rag tied around her nose and mouth to keep from breathing in the blood, patted his shoulder amicably, saying nothing. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth, but Sibba didn't feel sorry for him in the least. This was the man who had shamed their mother. He had forced her to keep her past a secret, and then he'd run her away with his anger and his indiscretions. Then he had used Sibba. Used her and now expected her to just go away so he wouldn’t have to face the things that he had made her do.
Her fingers twitched by her ax handle. What would he do if she pressed it to his throat? She imagined the sound the sharpened blade would make against the whiskers on his chin. It was a challenge every day to keep the anger tucked away inside. It was easier with Tola around. The girl had become a fast favorite in the village, treating wounds and illness and doing tricks for the children when the adults weren't looking. Then there was Estrid, who was acting like a roosting hen, and Ari, who watched her with such awe that Sibba couldn't help but smile.
But her father kept testing her. He put her off, sent her away, ignored her. They had been back for days and she wanted answers now. And she knew how to get them, though perhaps threatening her father and clan chief wasn't the wisest choice.
“Give her what she wants.” The voice came from behind her, sounding husky and raw. She turned and found Jary in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame. Tola had forbidden him from leaving his bed, but Jary was never one to follow orders, much like his sister. The arrow wound to his leg was largely healed, thanks to Tola's ministrations, but he was weak.
“There are some wounds you cannot see,” Tola had said when Jary slept without waking for days while they'd holed up in the farmhouse outside of Ydurgat. Sibba had been on edge the entire time, waiting for Isgerd the Younger to find them. Finally, she had forced Jary awake and slung him over a horse, and they had ridden hard and fast for Ottar. The weather had held but it had been slow going. When they'd arrived a few weeks later, Jary had slept again. This was the first time she'd seen him since then, and he was a fearful sight. His eye was the worst of it, an angry red gash tracing a line down half of his face.
Now he kept his one good eye on their father, though he didn't move any farther into the room. News of the chief's sickness must have spread. “If you made her some promise for my life, you cannot renege, not with me standing here before you.”
Thorvald's face visibly relaxed at the sight of his son, and Sibba saw the fight go out of the old man. “A chief cannot be soft,” their father said anyway, still trying to exert some semblance of power.
“A chief also cannot be a liar.” Sibba stepped back to Jary, slipping beneath his arm to let him rest his weight on her. He smiled at her gratefully and then turned back to Thorvald. “If she wants to leave, you must give her what she needs to go. Perhaps Interis has woven a different fate for her, and you should not stand in her way.”
Sibba tried to imagine the goddess of fate sitting beneath her sutvithr tree, plucking strands and winding them expertly together on her loom, but all she could see was her mother at her loom in their cabin on Ey Island. Her mother, who didn’t believe in Interis or fate but who had inexorably set Sibba on the path she followed today. Would Darcey be with Interis now, twisting and unwinding the strings of fate? Would she be proud of what had become of her children and the strings of their lives?
There was Sibba's strand, golden-brown, and Estrid's, a deep onyx, and Tola's, a fiery red. It was impossible to know what Interis had in store for them, but for a time, the three had been intertwined, one color barely distinguishable from the next. In the end, it hadn't mattered what Sibba had wanted. Interis had known what she needed. And now she needed Jary, and there was his thread, a vibrant yellow. It had been on a different path for so long, but that didn't mean he couldn't come back to her.
And that didn't mean that she couldn't leave again.
? ? ?
The chief had conceded the argument shortly after that, waving a hand at them through a coughing fit. The nursemaid had shooed them from the house and Jary returned to his bed, fearing Tola's retribution though he would never admit it. He had promised to recruit men for her, assuring her that they would be volunteers, not people forced into the task. There were many adventurers in Ottar; it wouldn't be hard to find a few willing men.
Sibba was staying with Estrid and Ari but didn't feel like going back there just yet, so instead, she walked, thinking about fate and invisible wounds. She would never forget the weight of Jary's sword against her ax, or the way that Isgerd the Younger had screamed in anguish over her mother's body, or how it had felt for Sibba to be in that same position, though she had kept her grief tucked close inside, where no one could see it.
Then there was Darcey and her secrets. She didn't know what she was supposed to do with the knowledge that Evenon had given her. He was surely back in Casuin by now, delivering the news of Darcey's death. He had promised not to betray her, and she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that she wouldn't spend the rest of her life fearing an arrow in the neck.
Without realizing it, her walk had taken her to the outskirts of town and to the lake hidden beneath a grove of trees. Snow coated the ground, and would for at least another month, so the lake was frozen solid. The trees were eerily quiet, all the forest’s sounds buffered by the bright white snow, and that was why she heard the footstep behind her. Sibba whipped around, still jumpy from her travels and hiding from the Grimssons, but found no threat. Instead, it was an old man shrouded in a dark cloak. She recognized him instantly.
The sadj reached up and pushed back his hood, revealing a bald pate and dark, empty eye sockets. He smiled at her even though he couldn't see her, and took a step toward her.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She blinked at him. “For what?”
“To ask.”
She remembered then, that he had told her she would need to ask a question before she could leave the Fields. Her mind whirled with the possibilities but then quieted as one question pushed itself to the forefront of her mind. It wasn't about what she would get or if she would succeed. Instead, it was three simple words, and the answer would drive her for the rest of her life: Who am I?
“I don't need to ask,” Sibba said. She would find the answer on her own.
The sadj smiled again and reached a bony hand out. “Then you are ready.”
Before she could think to react, his hand wrapped around her arm and she was sucked into another world. Gone was the white forest, and in its place was a rocky beach. Out of the ocean rose a castle of white stone. Three girls rushed toward her, blond hair flowing behind them as they ran, the ends of their dresses wet and dirty. Without knowing why she did it, she put her arms out to receive them, but they faded into darkness before she could touch them, their laughter still ringing in her head.