The following morning, as the caws of ravens echoed through the dewy-damp hills and the Northerner’s wooden chimes clunked ominously in the wind, Dania visited Mira once again. This time, she brought with her two young boys: Hald and Layf. They were three and two—Dania’s sons by her captor.

“When I had given him Hald, he released me from my role as soten.”

“Why did you not leave this place?” Mira said, horrified.

“I had a son. His life here would be much better than back home. Here, people can do whatever they like, no matter if they’re the child of a miller or the child of a king.”

The boy was handsome, to be sure; both were. It was hard not to adore them toddling about, wrapped in furs.

“I would never want to have a child in this place,” Mira said, feeling badly for Dania as soon as the words left her mouth.

The girl only laughed. “I thought this too when I was first brought here.”

In Dania’s defence, she did appear happy. The girl laughed a lot, just like all the Northerners, and moved around as if no one was watching, and she was completely comfortable no matter where she was, feeling no shame to stretch or lounge or relax her posture in Mira’s presence.

As Dania spoke to the boys (repeating the same words many times until they listened), Mira mulled the sounds over. Though she urged herself not to learn the words as a form of righteous rebellion against her circumstances, by late morning, Mira could count to three in the Northern language; she could say please and thank you, yes and no, come and stay. It was particularly bewildering to her that Dania would ask the boys to do things politely with please included rather than ordering them about and threatening violence should they not obey in a shrill and frustrated voice, which was the only form of motherhood Mira was accustomed to.

At midday, Mira played the harp for the boys, and they fell asleep without Dania changing them into sleep clothes or placing them in beds—they were left to dream where they’d collapsed. The clouds must have been rushing quickly overhead, for the gap at the top of the tent—where the smoke escaped—poured in a thin, playful light. Blue shadows and gold warmth pranced across their sleeping faces as Mira told Dania of the night she was taken from Arcliff, of hiding in the gallery with her harp, and Fell asking her to play music for him. To speak of her terrors, to someone who could, in part, understand them, was a great comfort.

Dania told her of Hyrold, the Northern god of sea and storms, and how, when she was to give birth, her captor took her and Myret out onto the sea so that his son would be born more comfortable on water than land.

Back home, no man was allowed anywhere near a birthing woman, let alone allowed to decide things about the birth. Though, when Mira thought of how the Northmen responded to the storm at sea, she realized that perhaps Dania’s captor had been right. There was no fear.

Though Mira enjoyed Dania’s company, any relief that came from Fell’s promise to return her to the Isle was short-lived. One year in the uncultivated North would not be as bad as a lifetime, but still, it was not ideal. Mira set herself on being as miserable as she could for the year. She vowed that she would not smile or make nice, that she would hold herself poised and frowning, as her mother would have her do until her captivity was ended.

Mira and Dania migrated again to the communal hearth when they grew hungry, and Fell was there. He and Cat’s eye were talking and drinking, and it seemed that neither of them was enjoying the conversation—there was a lot of staring at hands or wine or boots and long periods where both kept quiet—but then Fell laughed, and Mira decided it was only Cat’s eye who was unhappy.

A woman Mira had not yet met approached. She had strands of blue in her blond hair and a sharp, pointy chin. She stood directly in front of Mira, blocking her view of Fell and Cat’s eye and everyone else. The woman’s hands were moving all over the place as she spoke—making it clear she was cross about something; no one would need to comprehend her language to understand that.

Fell tilted his head to the side, peering around the blue-haired woman so he could see Mira. Or maybe it was so Mira could see him? Either way, his eyes were clear and focused, and Mira felt certain he was making his attention known to her on purpose. I am watching, he assured her with his expression. If you need help, I will come.

Dania translated for the blue-haired woman. “She says Myret has refused to read for her as your stones are still cast, and she does not wish to move them until your reading is finished. She asks that you go to Myret and listen to her so that she and others can use the bones.”

Mira shook her head, her heart racing. “It is fine if the witch moves my stones. Please. I don’t want to go back.”

“Calm down,” Dania said. “You do not have to listen to her; I will tell her you will not go.”

The woman huffed when she was given the translation and made her way to where Fell sat, on the opposite side of the hearth. She spoke loud enough that Dania could hear.

“She asks him to force you to finish your reading. He says he knows better than to get involved in disagreements among women.”

The woman with blue hair sighed and made a show of marching away. Fell seemed to forget her anger as soon as she was gone, and his attention was given to Sigyn Speartooth, who was telling what appeared to be a very amusing story.

Mira found herself paying more attention to the people around her despite her previous determination to remain miserable and unattached. She recognized some of them from the ship; the one-armed man was present and laughing as three small children, made to appear all the smaller by contrast with his giant frame, scrambled up his limbs and kissed his cheeks and hung off of his neck. The joy and tenderness on his face and in his voice would have led Mira to believe he was an entirely different man than the one she’d crossed the sea with.

There also were people Mira recalled from the two times she had been at the communal hearth before. In addition to the glare of Cat’s eye, many of these people seemed unhappy with her—likely because of the witch’s bones… but perhaps the lightning as well.

That night, Mira learned that Northerners did not file their fingernails like the people from the Isle. Instead, they used their teeth to nibble away the excess, spitting their own flesh out onto the ground when they were done. This is why their hands are so ugly, Mira mused, trying to ignore the nausea splashing around in her stomach as she watched. She was further disgusted when the broad-faced folk took thin threads and wedged them between their teeth, weaving back and forth.

The Northmen were not spoken of often in Arcliff, but when they were, they were described as vile creatures, filthy barbarians—more animal than man. Mira understood where the sentiment came from as she watched Northerners hang their mouths wide open, fingers wrapped in thread shoved deep within.

Dania laughed. “You will judge them until you try it, my lady. Never will your mouth feel more clean than just after you’ve threaded it.”

Mira swore to herself that in addition to remaining as sour as possible for the year, she would never stuff thread in between her teeth.

For a fortnight, things went on like this, Mira discovering appalling things about the Northerners and acting sour, and Dania attempting to explain them so as to lessen Mira’s disgust. Mira learned that during the day, Fell would go fishing and sometimes hunting.

“He must not be very good at it,” Mira said. “He never returns with anything.”

Dania laughed. “He would not bring his catches to where you stay, he brings them to the hearth, so Gorn can prepare meals with them.”

Mira learned that every Northerner was expected to give something if they wanted to eat and drink in the evenings. They also could choose not to do this and eat and drink only what they could make with their own hands. Mira had not been giving anything and worried she was indebted, but Dania corrected this thinking.

“Fell pays for your meals with his work, but even if he did not, you play music; this is something.”

Now that Mira was eating and drinking and coming outside of her own accord, Fell was rarely seen. Sometimes Dania would invite him into their conversations in the evenings, translating something Mira had said, or he would occasionally ask Mira to play her harp after it was dark and he was on his second or third or fourth wine. He made his living in the day, but even at night, he did not come back to the tent. Mira would see him at the hearth from time to time. Once or twice he was with Cat’s eye, a few times with Speartooth and Wolf-head, but mostly he was with the witch. They’d sit with their heads close together and talk for hours, sometimes breathing from her odd flute, often drinking, always laughing.

Mira was frustrated by it. She wanted him to see her discontent as it was his doing. But no matter how disinterested she acted with everything, no matter how rigid or grudging she was, he did not seem to notice.

Sigyn was at the hearth often, and it turned out that his mind was far worse than everyone first realized. Each morning he woke up expecting to still be on the ship, not knowing that any time had passed since he was struck by lightning, unable to remember anything that had happened in the days before. He asked similar questions every day and was particularly confused by the weather. He couldn’t do the most basic tasks, and even when he was taught something, there was a good chance he’d need to be taught again the following day. The man’s bruises did begin to heal, revealing thick scarring that ran down the side of his face and neck—the pinkish marks looked like lightning or a river or tree branches—not at all how regular scars looked. Since Mira had decided to hate the Northmen, she refused to notice how gentle and caring the rest of the townsfolk were with Sigyn. She didn’t let herself feel bad for him whenever he thought something was one way and was told repeatedly it was not, and his confusion frustrated him to the point that he looked like he was going to cry. She didn’t intervene the one day when she was passing the hearth alone to relieve herself in the trees, and two children, maybe twelve years old, were clearly being cruel to him—throwing pebbles and taunting. Rather than say something, Mira watched, thinking, it is what he deserves.

Another day, Mira learned that in addition to fishing and hunting, Fell trained with the other warriors in a nearby field. It was common for Northern women to train with the shield and sword as well but not often with the axe since it was so heavy. Against her best efforts, she learned more Northern words and found that the town was called Gittenurg.

When Gorn, the town cook, tackled Bjinn the blacksmith to the ground and pounded the man’s face in, Mira learned that Dania had been correct about the freedom of the Northerners. There were almost no rules. If a person did something someone else didn’t like, they would fight about it, and the winner would get their way.

Dania translated their shouts. “Gorn wants Bjinn to repair his henhouse because Bjinn put his foot through it while he was drunk. Bjinn cannot remember this as he was too deep in his cups and insists that Gorn is lying.”

Each punch turned Mira’s stomach, but the people around her, even Dania, laughed and cheered and whistled. Another man joined the fray.

“That is Ulfen. He says that Bjinn damaged his front door while also in his cups. Now it does not close rightly, and insects bother him while he sleeps.”

Ulfen and Gorn beat the blacksmith together until Bjinn agreed to fix the hen house and Ulfen’s front door.

The look of knuckles without the proper amount of skin on them and the way the white part of Gorn’s eyeball was full of blood left a foul taste in Mira’s mouth. As she watched Bjinn spit out a nasty mixture of blood and saliva, she was struck by a terrible idea.

“Will someone think to fight me? Because of the witch’s stones?”

Each night at the hearth, Mira felt the glares of those who were waiting for Myret’s readings. Several others had come to Fell and asked him to force her to visit the witch, but always he refused. Mira had begun to enjoy the frustration she was causing. It is no better than you all deserve, she’d think to herself.

Dania laughed and shook her head. “You are soten, my lady. If someone wishes to fight over the stones, it will be Fell who takes the hit, not you.”

An evil thought came to Mira then. “Do people die sometimes? In these fights?”

“Not often, but it does happen—” Dania read Mira’s mind and answered her true question, the one she was dancing around. “Do not think of finding an early freedom that way, my lady. Fell is strong, and people like him. He will not be killed so easily. Besides, if he were to die, someone else would probably take you, and you might find yourself doing a lot more work than playing the harp occasionally. You might find some of this work is done on your back.”

Mira could not believe the thoughts she had only moments before. Had she truly sought to end a man’s life? Even if he was her captor and stupid and gross and completely oblivious to her frowns of suffering, murder was a terrible thing. Do not let yourself become like them, she thought. You are better than they are. You are a lady. You are not a Northern savage.

Besides, Dania made a fair point. Even though Mira was a captive, for the most part, she was left to do as she pleased. Yes, in the evenings, Fell would ask her to play music, but other than that, she had more control over her days than she did back home. People watched her as she moved about, perhaps wary of the foreign girl, but never did they stop or correct her.

The day after the fight between the cook and the blacksmith, Mira learned that the town had enough men to row four ships, two of which had not yet returned from the summer raids. Dania was anxious as she spoke of it, explaining that the father of her children, Eggun, was on one of these ships.

“I pray each night for his safe return, but I am afraid Hyrold will think my prayers cowardly and punish Eggun for my weakness.”

“You wish for your captor’s safe return?”

“With all my heart, my lady.”

“The man who took your prisoner?” Mira gaped at Dania. “You care for him?”

“He is the father of my children. He is good to them. And it was he who freed me. I will never not feel grateful for him.”

Mira could not believe what she was hearing. She knew she should not argue (as it was not becoming of a lady), but she could not help herself. “He is the one who enslaved you.”

Dania matched Mira’s commanding tone with her own. “No, my lady. I was always a slave. It was he who ended that.”

“There are no slaves on the Isle.”

Dania was silent for a long moment, staring at Mira. Her eyes were hard and wider than normal with white-hot rage. Mira worried that she’d spoken too harshly and was to lose her only friend and consolation in the North, but Dania did not storm off in her anger. At length, her breathing slowed, and the words she said next stuck inside Mira’s chest and haunted her for many moons. “Perhaps because you were a lady, you do not know, and so I will forgive you, but there is no difference between being a serf and being a slave.”

Mira did not know what a serf was, nor was she brave enough to ask. She did not want to discover that, in some way, her home country might be as terrible as the North. It is impossible, she thought. The Islish have gods and governance and manners and houses built of stone. We are nothing like these primitive creatures.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, if we are to take into account the wars to come, Mira was soon to find out how very wrong she was.