“Why're we hearing about this only now?”

asked the seiðmaðr, the scar on his face widening at his dissatisfied grimace. And his reproachful gaze drifted to Bragi – the young man let his eyes down, flustered.

Eyolf's interlocutor, Gorm, caught sight of their exchange:

“My brother-in-law isn't in charge, is he? He only does as he's told. Don't you, Bragi? I hear your interactions were quite... intriguing... nonetheless.”

Ynvgar's lips thinned, while Hakon and their men were fidgeting.

“Care to explain the sudden change, Gorm?”

The man sipped from his cup, weighing his words:

“A bold move from a seiðmaðr, Eyolf, to openly involve yourself in political matters. All the more bolder to choose the side of the King's rival -” he gestured towards Yngvar, “Come, you knew this move would lose you friends – and with your many assets in the south, this means losing money.”

“What do you want?”

“I'll be plain: doing business with you no longer profits me. Unless...” he smirked. “Unless my efforts were valued anew.”

“You have a new buyer,” uttered Yngvar, laying his palms flat on the table. “The only one in a position to promise you more.”

Gorm gave a complicit grimace, but said nothing.

“Your old friend,” Eyolf addressed Yngvar over the shoulder, not losing his competitor from sight, “returned from England with renewed enthusiasm for wine and business, it seems. And he's now Gorm's would-be friend. How much?”

“Thirty a piece.”

The seiðmaðr pouted his lips, a metallic tint in his tone:

“Gorm. If I'm wearing a skirt, it doesn't mean you can fuck me over.” He clasped his hands together. “You won't see more than twenty-five, and you know it. What's to stop us from taking the business into our own hands? You'll be completely cut off from the north and none of our partners will buy from you. Then you can keep your new friend.”

“Thirty-five.”

“This conversation is over. Yngvar...” he scowled and gestured towards his partner.

Yngvar and the seiðmaðr stood up halfway, about to leave, and so did their men.

“Eyolf... come!” Gorm fidgeted. “I know you are a man of business first, and only then a seiðmaðr. And... reputation... means more to you than a clear heart, doesn't it? We both know you spiked your wealth embezzling funds from Jarl Sigurdsson... but does our present government know?”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Eyolf laughed sharply, his long earrings dangling. “Jarl Sigurdsson was King Olaf's rival. And besides, does he know you – his future would-be business partner – were caught in embezzlement all the same? If that's your blackmail, you can shove it up your arsehole.”

The man smirked.

“It's not. What I have for you is a story,” and gestured for the men to sit. “There's a family from Sandvika who owned a servant woman by the name of Bestla. Old, thin and toothless, she'd get drunk all the time – stealing shamelessly from her masters' stashes, mind-wasted by a life of drinking. They had to kick her out, see, couldn't afford to keep a useless parasite like that one. She's now a beggar, the mockery of the village. But, one year ago...” he stood up and paced towards Eyolf, who tensed almost unnoticeably, “the beggar said something quite compelling - you were holding a rite at Sandvika for harvest, Eyolf, if you remember, and as soon as old Bestla laid eyes on you, she said: That seiðmaðr, I'd recognize him in a hundred – he's my baby boy! He's my... Kjartan.”

There was silence. The men present stirred. Yngvar's eyes were fixing Eyolf Sólhrafn. The seiðmaðr pursed his lips, hands still clasped together, and made no move - only his fingers were tense, his long nails pressing into his skin. He finally answered:

“So a drunk beggar claims she's my mother. What of it? And besides, I never made any claims about my mother – it's my father that raised me until I took the seiðmaðr's path. Well -” he smiled and stood up, knocking in the table to signal his partners to leave, “you may share this information with whomever you please. You still won't see one more coin above our initial agreement, so you're free to go to your new buyer.”

“I see... a pity,” hummed Gorm. “But before you go, Eyolf, there's another interesting story that passed my ears.” Eyolf remained standing, and so did Yngvar. Gorm started pacing towards them, circling the table as he spoke: “See, there was once a boy in Víkin. He was poor, a vagrant, but resolute to survive. And for this, he did whatever was necessary for whomever would pay. And so he did when he received an offer to wait upon a well-to-do man and his friends...” he stopped behind Eyolf and heightened his tone as he emphasized the final words, “...as a housemaid would...”

As they clasped the brim of the table, the seiðmaðr's fingernails scratched against the wood. His cheeks were livid.

“And how... would you know this story?”

“From a reliable source: my father. He lived around Víkin at that time and knew those men. He'd vouch for the truth of it, if necessary. I think our friend would appreciate this piece of information very much, especially now, with the upcoming Thing*...”

Against the table, Eyolf's hands that supported him showed swollen veins; one of his fingernails had broken, bloody. He tilted his head towards his partner, not taking his eyes off Gorm and avoiding Yngvar's gaze, and uttered through teeth:

“Pay what he asked.” Yngvar grunted and made no move. “Do it.”

Eyolf's eyes fell on the coins, grudgingly cast on the table by Yngvar and stared at them glassily until they ceased their spin and jangle, and then at the empty table after the coins found their way in Gorm's purse, while the men around him took up the barrels to load them into carts. Then they stared into the dusky distance as he stepped up on the cushioned bench of his carriage, ignoring the low talk of Yngvar and Hakon with one another, the searching glances of the other men, dismissing Hildigunn's questions and offers of comfort. Only his feet shook and tapped.

___________

Thing - General assembly in the Viking Age where elected officials and free men met to discuss laws and matters of general interest.