Page 29 of Alliance Bride
More of the riders dismounted behind them, and the area filled with the rise and fall of voices greeting each other in Nordric. Though Eadlyn understood little of the language yet, she didn’t need to. The energy in the air—the laughter, the clasped arms, the slaps on the back—spoke of long-separated friends reunited. She met each curious gaze with a welcoming smile. Though her nerves stirred beneath the surface, she kept them hidden. Poise under pressure had been trained into her long ago.
Within an hour, Halbjorn, Gorum, and their entourages pitched a cluster of tents in the wide field Runar’s men had cleared at the edge of Fjellheim. Bright pennants fluttered from tall stakes, each bearing the colors and symbols of the visiting jarls. Laughter and the hammering of tent stakes filled the air, creating a festive bustle.
Though the language barrier made it difficult for Eadlyn to offer direct help, she stuck close to the other women, mimicking their movements, hauling supplies, and doing whatever she could. It was easy to be swept along by the busy energy of preparation.
By the time they finished, word came that more of the jarls were approaching. This time, the gathering moved toward the edge of the fjord. Eadlyn stood behind Ranvi and Inga and scanned the water’s northern horizon as dark shapes glided into view.
Several longships slipped over the glittering fjord, sails billowing in the breeze. Some were plain cream colored, while others bore bold stripes of crimson, black, or deep blue. The sight was magnificent. And chilling. She could too easily imagine how such ships had terrorized the shores of Essix over the years. The stories of raids she’d grown up hearing came vividly to life in her mind.
Throughout the afternoon, more jarls came ashore or arrived on horseback. The once-quiet village swelled with the clamor of warriors and shouting children. By the time the sun dipped toward the snow-capped peaks to the west, Eadlyn had met eight jarls, which meant someone was still missing.
A sharp blast of a horn cut through the noise, and a strange hush fell. Every head turned toward the fjord.
Runar’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “Staegar.”
“The last to arrive, as usual,” Erik muttered.
A current of unease rippled through the family.
Runar exhaled heavily. “Let’s go greet him, shall we?”
Halbjorn and Gorum flanked him at once. Eadlyn wasn’t sure whether it was in unity or a silent show of force.
As they moved, Aevar fell into step beside her, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “Stay close until we know where Staegar stands.”
“Is there danger?”
“Maybe.”
When they reached the shore, a dark ship cut across the water, its sail a harsh slashing of red and black against the deepening sky. Shields lined its sides, the warriors behind them silent and grim. When the longship scraped against the dock, the men disembarked in rigid lines. No one said a word, the group quiet save for the hollow clatter of boots and armor.
The man at the head drew Eadlyn’s attention. He was tall and sinewy, not broad like Halbjorn or even Runar. He wore his brown hair pulled back tightly, and his plaited beard formed a point that made his long face sharp and angular. Black ink marked his skin in a row of dots beneath each eye and a winding knot of a tattoo across his brow. Though his eyes were blue, the kohl lining his lids gave them a darker appearance.
Runar called out a greeting as they neared. No one responded, and when they halted on shore, Staegar’s dark gaze swept over the group before landing on Eadlyn.
“This is the Essian princess?” His Aerlish was smooth but bitten off with disdain.
Runar spared her a quick glance before replying. “Princess Eadlyn. Aevar’s wife.”
Halbjorn stepped forward, raising his voice in a hearty tone. “Doesn’t look much like an Essian lady to me. More like one of ours, eh?”
Staegar didn’t laugh or soften. His stare sliced through her, disgust written on the hard edges of his face. Eadlyn forced herself to meet it, spine straight, chin high. If she’d learned one thing about Nords in the last couple of weeks, it was that they valued strength and courage.
Beside her, Aevar shifted, his hands inching toward his weapons. Staegar caught the motion and sneered, the contempt in him dark and palpable. Without a word, he snapped a command in Nordric, and a group of slaves rushed forward, burdened with chests and supplies.
As Staegar’s men passed, a younger warrior with Staegar’s same lean build and cruel mouth locked eyes with Eadlyn. A long scar cut across his nose, twisting his expression into something savage. His slow, leering smirk made her skin crawl.
She turned her face away, though her heart thudded.
When Staegar and his men disappeared into the growing sprawl of tents, the group seemed to breathe again.
Halbjorn gave a low chuckle, though it carried no real amusement. “Well, that could have gone worse.”
Runar remained focused on the distant camp. “We’ll see. I doubt we’ve heard the last from him.”
Laughter rolled through the longhouse, echoing off the timber beams overhead. The fire crackled in the hearth, orange light dancing across flushed faces and casting long, restless shadows against the walls. The air was thick with roasting meat and the warm bite of ale that wrapped the night in a heady haze. Aevar dunked his drinking horn into a brimming barrel, the cool ale sloshing over the sides as he pulled it free. Around him, voices clashed and tangled with boasts, bawdy songs, and drunken stories, the hall already alive with the spirit of the Gathering though the official meetings did not start until tomorrow.
As he turned back toward the heart of the hall, he found Eadlyn. She sat near the fire, her face aglow with the flickering light. Gorum’s wife had taken to her, even with the language barrier, and Halbjorn’s daughters seemed fascinated by her. Eadlyn smiled with that quiet, composed grace he was coming to admire. Even in a foreign hall, surrounded by strangers speaking a tongue she did not understand, she held her own.
