Maidensong (38 page)

“Oh, it’d be a wise person who knows why anyone
does anything, so it would,” the old woman said, smoothing down a belligerent red lock. “But I’ve
found that lots of times, anger is just a way to release pain. Especially with men folk.”

“Really?”

“Ja.
It makes them say and do things they wouldn’t
if they were in their right mind,” Helge said. “Take
your father, for instance. He was pure wild with pain
when your mother died. It made him do something he’s regretted all his life.”

Helge
was never very subtle about working a conversation
around to her favorite topic. She’d made no bones
about the fact that she wanted peace between her old
master and her new mistress and lost no opportunity
to try to persuade Rika to forgive Torvald.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Rika said stubbornly.

“Of course not, lamb,” Helge crooned. “But you
might bear in mind that pain makes men stupid. All men.”

So Bjorn was in pain, was he? Did he think she
wasn’t? Hadn’t she suffered more pangs than a damned
soul in Niflheim not knowing whether he lived or died?

She walked to her window. Bjorn was in the courtyard below, forking off a load of fodder from the stack
of hay and disappearing into the stalls with it. In his
month of servitude, he’d regained some of the flesh his
time in prison had stripped from him. The muscles in
his bare back rippled as he worked. His powerful stride made her knees give just a bit.

Perhaps pain was making her stupid as well.

“Al-Amin?” she said softly. She hadn’t seen him in her suite, but she knew he was always there, hovering
behind a doorway in the shadows, waiting for her to
need him.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I wish the Northman to serve at supper tonight.”

“But my lady, he has not been trained for gentle in
door service.” Al-Amin’s tone suggested he
thought Bjorn barely housebroken and, like a stray
mongrel, might very well soil
the expensive carpets.

“Then please see to his education—and quickly,”
Rika said. “He told me today that the other servants in
the household still believe you gelded him, so there’s
no impediment to him serving on the upper floors.
He’s reasonably intelligent.
I’m
sure you’re up to the task of instructing him in serving at table.”

Al-Amin frowned and lowered his voice. “My lady, do you think it wise?”

“Probably not,” she admitted. “But it is my wish.”

*
  
*
  
*

 
“Remember,” Al-Amin whispered to Bjorn furiously, “to serve with grace, one must strive to be invisible. Offer the plates from the left, and then stand to the
side to wait for direction. And keep the master’s cup
iced and full without being told.”

 
“Hmph!” was the sullen retort. Bjorn hefted the tray
of braised lamb and vegetables and stepped from be
hind the stone lattice. He slid the fine plates in front of
Rika and the Arab, and then stepped to the side. He
seemed to have done it correctly because he felt invisi
ble, even in the ridiculous baggy trousers the eunuch insisted that he wear. Neither of the diners so much as
glanced his way.

Rika’s silvery laugh grated on his ears, as he refilled
Farouk’s cup with iced juice. For one unworthy mo
ment, he wished for a bubbling kettle of poison to of
fer the man. But then he reminded himself that his
misery wasn’t the Arab’s fault.

It was Rika’s.

“And what Northern delight have you prepared for
me tonight, my pale flower?” Farouk asked.

Bjorn balled his fists at his sides.

“A maidensong,” Rika answered, a slight shake
sending the glittering shards of gold across her fore
head twinkling in the lamplight. “A love story
.”

“Ah! That sounds like what I’d most enjoy.” Farouk
sipped at his juice, his gaze riveted on Rika’s animated face. She was performing for an audience of one, Bjorn noted, with all the skill of the skaldic art, every nuance,
every expression and gesture perfectly controlled.

“Then listen and you shall hear the tale of Ragnar and Swanhilde . . .”

A pair of doomed lovers,
Bjorn finished for her in his
mind. He longed to cover his ears. How could she tell the Arab the same story she’d first used to beguile him
all those months ago? That sweet night when he’d first
stolen a kiss from her rushed back to him unbidden.
He’d been marked by it from that moment forward.
How could she make him stand by and watch her tell
that same maidensong to another man?

For the first
time, Bjorn came close to hating her.

He shut his eyes, but the sound of her voice went on, low and seductive, spinning the web of her tale
with the callousness of a she-spider who intends to eat
her mate once their coupling is finished.

“... a
berserkr
cry escaped his lips and Ragnar raised his knife. But Swanhilde leaped up to grab the blade from him before he could plunge it into his own heart.”

Bjorn’s eyes snapped open. Rika was changing the story. A skald never changed the story. The lore of the Norse people was a sacred trust to be handed inviolate
to the next skald
till
the end of time. He listened, wide-
eyed, as she went on.

“ ‘Forgive me, my love,’ Swanhilde cried. “I didn’t
mean to cause you pain, but you have been a long time
gone and I had to know if your love for me was still
true.’”

Had he imagined it, or had Rika glanced at him, just for a flicker of an eyelash?

“Ragnar gathered her into his arms. ‘Forgive me as
well,’ said he. ‘I will leave you alone no longer. Let us away to our Northern fastness and forsake this sorrow.’ ” Rika’s voice had a little catch in it.

Bjorn swallowed hard.

“And so they did.” Rika made a sweeping gesture to
cover the direct gaze she shot Bjorn’s way, one brow arched in question. “And ever afterward, Ragnar and
Swanhilde drank deep from the horn of love to the end of their days.” She slid her gaze back to
Farouk-Azziz before he could mark the exchange.

The Arab clapped his hands together. “Well told,”
he said. “And how delightful that it ended in joy. In truth, you had me on edge, believing that the lovers
would be forever parted. It is so often the case in tales
of love, is it not?”

“Frequently, in the old stories that is so,” she con
ceded. “But once in a while, true love must win out.”

“Surely it must,” Farouk said, and then he frowned
down at his plate. “Where is our fruit?”

Bjorn turned abruptly and strode out of the dining
room. He vaulted down the stairs, taking them two at a time, to the kitchen below.

Al-Amin met him with a scowl.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Bjorn said, his heart light
enough to greet even the eunuch with good cheer. “I
haven’t disgraced you yet. They’re ready for the fruit.”

When Bjorn saw the melon halves an idea burst in
his mind. “In my homeland, sometimes the cook carves
designs in the rind to make the food more appealing.
Let me show you.” He picked up the fruit and went to
work making a series of slashes all around the outside of the half-circles. He was sure that they formed no
discernable pattern that Al-Amin could distinguish.

Al-Amin’s frown told him he didn’t think Bjorn’s carving was an improvement.

 
But when Rika noticed the runes sliced into Farouk’s
melon rind, she sputtered with helpless mirth and had
to feign choking to cover her amusement. Bjorn had carved the symbols for
pea-balled troll
into the fruit’s
thick skin.

As she sipped her juice slowly, she eyed her own
melon. The message was clear, but dangerous.

Bathhouse moonrise.

 
“You summoned me, my master?” Al-Amin had hur
ried back to Farouk-Azziz after escorting Rika to her rooms. This was the first time the master had called
for him since he’d been given to the Northern bride.

“Yes, Al-Amin,” Farouk said as he lounged by the low
table. “You have been with me as long as I’ve
been in this city and know my mind as well as anyone.
Now, I would know yours. How do you find your new
mistress?”

“I would not presume to speak, my master.” Al-Amin inclined his head ever so slightly.

“Then I command it.”

The eunuch breathed a sigh. The master’s request
was highly irregular. “My lady is kindness itself, a plea
sure to serve.” He remembered with fondness the way she indulged his predilection for pistachios, but knew
the master didn’t want to hear about that. “She is
quick to grasp our ways and eager for instruction, be
ing possessed of a fine mind. The imam says she is an
apt student
of the Q’ran for
all
that she seems not in
clined to decision yet. Such deliberation surely indi
cates purity of spirit and determination. She is unlike
any woman I have ever known.”

Farouk nodded. “If you had but one word to describe her, what would it be?”

An image of Rika with her hand protectively over
the barbarian’s manhood flashed in Al-Amin’s brain.
He met his master’s gaze squarely. “Merciful.”

“Then she will balance me well, for I am not known
for that quality. She has been a surprise from the be
ginning, a fountain of unexpected delight. Rika is possessed of many gifts if not great beauty,” Farouk said. “
But beauty is not necessary to breed exceptional
sons.” He pulled a scroll from his billowing sleeve. “I received an accounting today of my oldest son’s latest
exploits in Cordoba. Kareem shames me with his gam
bling and laziness. He squanders my wealth and
wastes the opportunities I’ve given him.”

“Kareem is young yet, my master,” Al-Amin said.

“He’s old enough to be a fool.” Farouk crumpled the scroll in his fist. “I want you to summon an imperial
scribe first thing in the morning. I intend to draft a new will dispossessing Kareem in favor of the son Rika will bear me.”

“This is highly unusual.” The position of the firstborn was nearly sacrosanct.

“I am unusually upset with Kareem,” Farouk said. “
When I listen to Rika speak, I can see the son she will
give me. Intelligent, strong, not given to dissipation. Once your mistress sees my intent, she will convert,
won’t she?”

“Forgive me, but her conversion seems to be a matter of principle, not profit.” When AI-Amin saw his master’s scowl, he hastily amended, “Surely this ex
pression of my master’s favor could not fail to impress
my lady.”

“Good. Then see to it. Make preparations for the marriage to proceed with all speed.”

“A thousand pardons, my master,” Al-Amin said
with a deferential nod. “But we cannot plan the cere
mony until the Northman Ornolf returns to the city.
My sources tell me he and his traveling companion set
sail for Thessalonica last month. Surely, he would con
sider it an insult if he found the marriage was finalized
without his presence.”

Farouk-Azziz’s frown deepened, but he waved Al-
Amin away. “Make inquiries. Discover when we can expect Ornolf’s return.”

 
From the roof garden, Rika watched the moon rise
over the great dome of the Hagia Sophia. Her skin tin
gled, prickling at the slightest breeze.

The whole world felt different. She’d known it from
the moment she changed the story of Ragnar and Swanhilde. Something in the very fiber of Midgard had also changed. Her fate was not immutable any more than the maidensong was immutable. She could
decide
. She could choose her own future, for good or
ill.
It wasn’t in the hands of the gods of Asgard or the
life-weaving Norns. She wouldn’t be a victim of Gun
nar’s schemes any longer. Her life was finally in her
own hands, where it belonged.