Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
As I worked, I couldn’t help but marvel at the ingredients before me. The stew was rich with chunks of meat and root vegetables, seasoned with herbs I didn’t recognize. The bread was hearty and dense, still warm from the oven. The apples glistened in wooden bowls, their skins perfectly smooth and unblemished.
“Hurry now,” Mor Inge urged, her voice tinged with impatience. “Your masters await. When you have brought their trenchers, you will return for their mead.”
I glanced nervously at the other girls, seeing my own uncertainty reflected in their eyes. Camille’s jaw was set in a determined line, while Sophie’s fingers trembled slightly as she arranged fruit on her trencher. Together, we made our way back into the main hall, each carrying a loaded plate.
As we entered the main hall with our full trenchers, I let out a soft gasp at the sight before me. The Sons of Odin sat at a long wooden table, its surface polished to a high sheen. Each Viking warrior had a high-backed chair, ornately carved with more of the runes and symbols I now recognized from Sven’s lesson.
But what made my heart race was the sight of the low, padded stools placed beside each chair. These, I realized with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, were meant for us.
I approached Sven hesitantly, my eyes fixed on the rough surface of his trencher to avoid spilling its contents. As I set it before him, I caught a glimpse of his face—his blue eyes sparkled with approval, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile. That tiny gesture of praise sent a shiver of pleasure through me.
I turned and hurried back to the hearth-kitchen, where with a long finger and a stern expression Mor Inge indicated a keg. Below it, on a shelf, sat six carved wooden goblets, the meaning of the runes on them obscure to me. I reached out, my lower lip caught between my teeth, only to have Mor Inge’s voice ring out and confirm that I had done it wrong.
“Not that one, little whore,” she said scornfully. “That’s Aksel’s goblet. Do you not even know your master’s name, and he the Overherra?”
“I… I…” I stammered, much too aware that Mor Inge had a strap hanging at her waist just like Mor Astrid’s.
“It’s that one,” she said, pointing. “Sven, Erik, Henrik, Aksel, Lars, Jens.” She went rapidly through the cups, so quickly that I felt lucky to have grasped which one belonged to my own Herra. I did my best to memorize the four runes on the cup as I held it in both shaking hands while Mor Inge opened the tap to let the golden fluid flow.
I turned back toward the table and began to carry the goblet, suddenly conscious of a strange feeling of importance. Cupbearers. They were important, weren’t they? Behind me I heard the other girls whispering about whose drinking vessel belonged to whom, and then Mor Inge, her tone exasperated, repeating the list minus my master’s name. I concentrated on not spilling a drop of mead as I crossed the floor until at last I could set Sven’s goblet before him.
“Kneel, lille en,” my master murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. I sank to my knees on the padded stool beside him, acutely aware of my nakedness in contrast to the Vikings’ rich attire. The soft cushion was a small mercy against the hard stone floor, but the position left me feeling utterly abased.
As I should be, whispered a voice in my head. I belong to the Overherra, and I have pledged to serve him.
No, another said, remembering what Camille had said in the bath. Wait.
Around me, I could hear the soft rustle of movement as the other girls took their places beside their masters. Camille’s face was a mask of forced neutrality as she knelt beside Erik, while Sophie seemed almost eager to assume her position at Aksel’s feet.
Once we were all in place, Sven rose to his feet, his powerful presence commanding immediate attention. He raised his ornate goblet, its surface polished with much use. The hall fell silent, every eye fixed on our leader.
“Brothers,” Sven’s voice rang out, deep and resonant. “And you, our newly claimed thralls. Let us remember the lessons of this morning.”
His gaze swept over us girls, and I felt a flush creep up my neck under his scrutiny.
“Recall the world tree, Yggdrasil,” he continued. “Its roots delve deep into the past, while its branches reach toward the future. We, the Sons of Odin, are the guardians of this cosmic tree. And you, our völur in training, are now part of this sacred duty.”
I shivered at his words, remembering the weight of responsibility he had placed upon us in our lesson.
“As you kneel here,” Sven’s voice grew softer, more intimate, “remember the runes we discussed. Uruz, the primal masculine force. Berkana, the nurturing feminine principle. Here at this table, you embody the union of these forces. The feminine serving the masculine, and the masculine replying with grace and mercy.”