Slowly summer’s force began to wane. The grass dried out, and the leaves took on a wilted, yellow tinge. Mira probably should have been more focused on what Rowan had told her about Dayne and Loric and the eastern lords, but her mind did not have the space for it. She could not keep her thoughts away from her father for long.

Fell offered to make a little boat and fill it with gifts for the man and send it off to burn at sea, but Mira refused. She did not believe that things from this world could be passed on to the next. She also did not want to perform a heathen ceremony for her father in case the gesture would offend the man. She tried to pray over him, but neither the gods of the Isle nor the gods of the North seemed right for the task. Sometimes she found solace in playing her harp for him, but this was rare.

When Mira managed to find a little space from her mourning, Rowan required her focus. It seemed the boy was determined to make his own life as difficult as possible. He refused to cooperate with the Northmen, and whenever Mira spoke with him, he tried to encourage her to untie him and flee.

“They will catch us,” Mira said. “Even if they do not, it grows colder each day. We will not survive on our own.”

“I will provide for you, my lady. I have hunted before—”

“Still, we could not cross the sea alone. It would be better to live here in town than alone in the woods.”

These were not Mira’s reasons for staying in Gittenurg, but she knew the sense of them would tunnel into Rowan’s mind and wrestle with his ideas of running.

Her heart plunged further into the depths of her being when they spoke like this as she did not like anyone of the Northmen as vile captors that must be escaped from. Rowan would sense her sorrow and say, “Fear not. I will not leave without you, my lady.”

Daily, Mira would attempt to reason Rowan into compliance. When this didn’t work, she asked Bjinn to untie Rowan, hoping that this would lessen the boy’s hatred of the Northmen. The blacksmith always told her the same story. Each morning he would let Rowan loose and direct him to the forge. Rowan would not do as he was asked, and there would be a great wrestling match as Bjinn called for his brother Tellir and the two tied him back up—Tellir was the one who brought Rowan to the North as a gift for his brother.

Bjinn was the more patient of the two brothers, likely because he had not been fighting with Rowan for a full moon aboard a ship. The hardest punches came from Tellir, and a great animosity developed between him and Rowan.

Some evenings, when Bjinn had energy leftover from his day’s work, he would bring Rowan to the hearth and tie him to one of the posts there so he could hear the music and drink and eat with everyone. Though, sometimes there would be bad looks, and once there was a brawl. Tellir started it; he crouched before Rowan and taunted him.

“What does he say?” Rowan was speaking to Mira, but his eyes—full of hatred—did not leave his captor.

Mira did not want to translate, but when Rowan asked a second time, Dania answered him.

“He says you are a coward. He says you refuse to accept what the gods have given you because your mind is weak. He also uses an insult, it does not translate so well, but it is crude.”

Mira shot Dania a stern glance, but the girl only laughed. “You would rather me be the coward? Speaking lies?”

Rowan’s hands were tied, but the wineskin he held was promptly thrown into Tellir’s face. Rather than be angry, Bjinn burst into laughter. He let Rowan loose and watched as his soter dove for his brother. The two rolled around in the dry grass, hitting each other incessantly amidst the cheers and shouts of the other Northerners.

In the end, Rowan lost, but not by as much as Mira would have expected. Years of hammering steel had made his arms strong, and Tellir stood awkwardly for some time afterwards, his neck and stomach sore from the fight.

Rather than tie Rowan up again, Bjinn laughed and slapped a big hand onto Rowan’s back.

Mira did not worry about translating the words that were spoken next. “He says you have made him like you this night. He has always enjoyed watching his brother get what is deserved.”

Many people in the village warned Mira to leave Rowan be.

Dania said, “He will come around in his own time.”

Ødger said, “You are slowing the process. He was raised to believe that he must put on a strong face when women are watching. If you continue to visit him, he will have to continue his rebellion, or his pride will suffer.”

Even Fell had words for her, though his were of a different nature. He laughed and said, “Do I need to worry about this new soter?”

Mira could not listen to them. She was desperate to have Rowan warm up to the Northern ways before he realized she was carrying a child. She was afraid that if his hatred was not soothed before then, the knowledge would push him to do something brave and stupid and resulting in death.

In the end, everyone else was correct. It was not Mira’s words that softened Rowan. It was Ama.

Besides Mira and Dania, there was a third woman with child in Gittenurg. Her name was Ama, and she had dark red curls and freckles. She was further along than either Mira or Dania, swollen and slow and struggling greatly. Her man had not returned from raiding, and she was to have his child alone.

Many in town were sweet to her and offered to help with what they could, but the woman was always miserable. No matter what was said or not said, done or not done, the pain inside Ama’s heart appeared relentless; it always knew exactly what to say to most hurt a person who was trying to be kind to her. A sticky darkness followed her around, and everything she passed grew sad.

Ama was at the hearth one evening. Rowan was tied once again, as still, he refused his work. When Ama moved to take a second helping of stew, the belt she wore snapped. She cursed and threw her bowl to the grass, struggling to bend down and retrieve the belt. Ødger came to aid her, but she shouted at him, and he backed away as onlookers snickered. When she managed to stand again, Ama stared at the torn belt in her fingers and sobbed.

For some reason, that evening, Ama despised Mira far less than any of the other townsfolk and came to sit near her. Mira ran her hands along the woman’s back as Fell did to her when she was sad. She could not allow herself, even for a moment, to try understanding the woman’s pain. It was too terrible to conceive of; she could not imagine what she would do in Ama’s place.

When the woman calmed and Mira fetched her a second bowl of stew, they sat together, talking. Ama told Mira of all the things she missed most about her man who’s name was Bjorn; Mira listened and held the woman’s hand. When Ama cried, Mira cried with her, though she was not sure if it was because of the woman’s words or because lately, Mira could not help but cry. Myret said this came from the child and was normal and not to be seen as a dark omen.

Ama laughed. “And, on top of all these things, I am too large now for my own belt.”

Mira laughed with her, taking the leather piece in her own hands, looking at the little clasp that had lost its teeth. An idea struck her.

“I cannot help most of these things, but there may be one small improvement I can make.”

Mira took Ama’s belt to Rowan and asked him if he could repair the metal part which had broken. Rowan looked between her and the belt as a debate took place in his mind. He’d seen Ama around town. He knew her circumstances as everyone in Gittenurg did. They spoke of it often when Ama was not near.

“I will need a blade to pry the old metal away from the leather; it has been hammered in.”

Mira asked Fell for a blade, and he laughed and warned her, “If I have to kill the soter, I will owe Bjinn more coin than I have.” Still, he gave Mira the blade.

“You will not run?” Mira asked, kneeling to untie Rowan’s hands.

“And have you blamed for it? Of course not, my lady.”

Bjinn stood. “Soten, I do not think—”

“Close your mouth.” Ama’s voice was sharp and clear, and Bjinn sat back down and closed his mouth to the sound of snickering.

“Not soten,” Fell said.

Even by that point, many people had not gotten into the habit of calling Mira by her name. This bothered Fell far more than it bothered her. Sometimes he’d comment on it when they were home and in bed. “Do not let them call you soten,” he’d say. “Names are important.”

Mira untied Rowan and gave him Ama’s belt and the knife. He set to work. When the clasp was free, he turned it over in his hand, studying how it was made.

It was not until the following night that he was finished.

Having something to do with his hands soothed Rowan’s aggression, and when he handed the finished work to Ama, she cried and kissed him on the cheek.

Mira realized she had been somewhat mistaken in her approach. She’d figured that all men, Rowan included, were ruled by the mind, and so in all their discussions, she had tried to reason Rowan into compliance. This was faulty. She should have been speaking to his heart, for this was the fastest way to move anyone, man, woman, or child.

Many were impressed with Rowan’s work. There was a delicate oak leaf wreath carved into the metal in the Islish carving style that the Northern women found interesting. Bjinn spoke to Mira when he saw it.

“Tell him his eyes and hands are good. Tell him I will give him all he requires to make great works.”

Rowan tried to hide his pride, but he could not. Mira saw it beneath his stern gaze. It was only a few days afterwards that he was let loose proper. He wished for things Bjinn did not have in his shop, and painstakingly, Mira explained the tools and methods Rowan wanted to use to the man. Once provided with what he asked for, Rowan began working in the morning and drinking in the evening.

On the Isle, all steel was made to look the same, as the unity of an army was something very highly valued. In the North, weapons needed to be strong and sharp, but the detailing could be however was pleasing. Never before had Rowan been given such freedom in his work, and often, he would stay much later in the shop than required, experimenting and crafting weapons and tools with the utmost care.

There was one day when Rowan made a helmet. The Northmen did not want such a thing. They thought it weak and cowardly to hide their heads in battle.

“Death is always certain.”

“There is no avoiding it, whatever is worn.”

“This teases the gods.”

Mira tried to explain to Rowan what they were saying, that the Northmen would not wear the helmet as they believed the exact moment of their death was already planned for them by the gods, and so it would make no difference. She told the men gathered around the helmet Rowan’s response.

“He says you carry shields. Is this not the same thing?”

“No, Soten—I mean, Mira—shields are just as much a weapon as an axe.”

“Besides, if a man’s face is lost in the fight, the shield will tell the others who has fallen.”

Rowan proved very clever that afternoon, and Mira found herself impressed. He did not argue against the idea that one’s death was planned by the Northern gods. He did not believe this himself, but he accepted it to make his point.

“He wonders which other things are planned by your gods.”

Laughter.

“All things, Soten.”

“He wonders then if your gods have brought him here to give you this tool. If they want for you to have it.”

A great debate broke out among the men that carried on for days and resulted in four brawls, two broken bones, and one chipped tooth. Myret was called into the conversation, and soon those who did not raid were also debating. In the end, some men did ask for a helmet, and Bjinn was pleased with how much coin his new soter made for him.

Despite this ease on the surface, Mira felt a storm brewing beneath everything. Sometimes when she and Rowan spoke in their own language, and Dania and Ødger were not around to hear, he leaned towards darkness. Once, he pointed out that all the Northerners in town ate from the same pot each night.

“If someone were to know something about poisons….”

Mira’s heart raced. “You couldn’t! The children eat the same fare.”

“Of course not, my lady. The women here are innocent as well, I believe. I would not want to harm them.”

“Do you not like Bjinn? And your work here?”

“Sometimes.” Rowan shrugged. “But then I remember… Surely even you have trouble forgiving them, my lady?”

Mira didn’t answer.

“Fear not. When I decide what I am to do, I will speak to you first, my lady. You will have time to ready yourself.”

“What are you thinking of doing?”

“Nothing yet, my lady. Only now I have access to steel, and they do not watch me so carefully anymore. I will think of something.”

Mira took his shoulders in her hands and turned him to face her. “I do not want anyone to be hurt.”

“Do you not wish to go home, my lady?”

Mira still remembered something of being a lady, even though that time felt far from her. Diplomacy was never talked about as she grew up but strictly enforced and so understood. “Not at the cost of another’s life.”

He smiled. “My lady, your heart is a beautiful thing.”

Rowan had not yet figured out that Mira was with child. She was beginning to see the changes herself, and she wondered if he would become disgusted with her when she was no longer able to hide it, if he would no longer think of her as a pure maiden in need of his aid.

Dania was overjoyed when Mira told her, and everything she did for herself, she also did for Mira. She made crisp fresh tea with leaves from Myret and toasted apples. She shared rose-scented oils that had been gathered on raids for the stomach skin and breasts and cloth patterns for baby furs.

In return, Mira helped with Hald and Layf and played the harp and listened to Dania complain about how Eggun’s skin was too hot, seeing as she was kept so much warmer from the child within.

Rowan would come and listen sometimes. He was learning the Northern language much faster than Mira had. Sometimes he would correct her, and Dania would laugh at how frustrated this made her.

Fell, however, was not himself. Mostly he behaved the same, smiling and laughing and singing and drinking, but Mira sensed the difference beneath the surface. He watched her more closely and wanted her to eat more than she often felt like. He was not forceful with this, but each time she finished a meal, he would ask if she wanted more. She would say no, and he would ask if she was certain. He asked if she was hungry incessantly, and sometimes this annoyed her. She’d snap. “I know when I am needing to eat!”

He would laugh and raise his hands in defeat. “I only ask; I do not tell.” But the next meal, it was the same.

When Mira complained to Dania, the girl said, “He cares for you. He wants to know you have all you need. It is sweet.”

Mira knew Dania was right, but she found herself getting frustrated more easily by everything and wondered if this came from the child. Fell was not bothered by her impatience. Whenever she grew angry with him, he would laugh and ask her if he should go for a walk. Sometimes she was so cross she said yes, but the moment he was out of sight, she would feel badly. “No! Come back. I am sorry!”

Fell kept nearer to her at the hearth and always seemed to have one hand on her. Just a few fingers on her back or laced into her own fingers. This part she loved.

He visited with Myret nearly every day, the two of them huddling around a smaller hearth breathing from her flute and laughing, sometimes speaking for hours. Each morning he would ask Mira of the dreams she had the night before, and often, this made the early part of the day precious to her.

At first, she was suspicious that Myret had told Fell some of what Mira told her about her childhood dream and the leeches. “Why? You have never asked about my dreams before.”

“I heard that when a woman is vaneurigk, her dreams and the child’s dreams are the same. I think it is unfair you know what our child is dreaming, and I do not.”

Mira was convinced, and she recollected her dreams every morning. A few times, she described an unhappy dream, and though he smiled, she knew Fell did not like this. Mira planned not to tell him of any more sad dreams, but when he asked again, she could not bring herself to lie.