Existence was a circle, though it was one looped and woven by fates and the twists of a great serpent, deep in the roots of the World Tree. Siv believed in these stories as a skeptic might; she considered them possible, of course, but without proof she could not trust them. He had given her proof, and she worried (rightly so) that perhaps her doubt was wrong. As such things were beyond her, she trusted the gods to sort it out in the end—everything cycled, in life and death, and she saw further proof of this in the golden man who (by his own prowess or some chance of fate) had escaped slavery only to be captured once more. Destiny was a fickle thing.

The horse slowed to a stop as Gale approached them. Siv dismounted heavily, large feet hitting the earth with a dull noise, and hoisted the girl into her arms. “It was,” she admitted, and lowered Yvette to the earth. She scampered over to her father quickly and Siv stood upright, purple eyes searching Gale’s face.

“She was well behaved. I expect you were as well,” the witch said, and smiled thinly at the words. Her polite tone was hardly echoed in her hard, dark form. “We didn’t have much time to get acquainted before I left, so for now, I relieve you of this duty. Walk with me to my home; you will tend to my horse when we arrive.” Without waiting for a response, she swung herself back atop Hildr. The spotted mare snorted loudly and tossed her long-haired head, clearly eager to be done with the whole ordeal.

(354)

For as observant and calculating as Siv was, she mistook the affection in Gale for his fatherly duty. She, with her own offspring, had been equally protective. Once he had the girl coddled up like an infant she forgot about the thing entirely—Yvette’s use was null when she was in his arms. Her trust in her own skill was high enough that the idea of this giant of a man attempting escape (or rebellion) was laughable. Within these borders, he was powerless. As long as the girl was here, he was powerless.

Though Hildr walked, she fidgeted under the tall woman. Siv eased her with quiet words and a firm hand; she treated her slaves much like the horses, though (as she had learned from her superiors) one had more value than the other. “Obedience,” she began, and looked down at him. “That is what I expect. Above all else answer to me; you may be commanded by others, but you are mine. I am not cruel, as some here are cruel. I keep my words, bondsman,” Siv reminded him pointedly, and looked ahead once more.

“I keep this horse next to my home. She will need care.” There was no pause, no question to his skill. If he did not know, she would teach him. Somehow, though, she doubted he was half as stupid as the mute or the other foreigners that had met their misfortune at the Thistle Kingdom’s doing. “If you are worried about what the others might do to the girl,” she went on, casually noting this as if it had not been a fear of her own. “You may build yourself a place to live near my own home. I will need you for labor; fetching water, aiding me as I see fit. If you please me, you will see rewards granted.” Not freedom, but the illusion of it—this was something she had used on the others, manipulating their fear and hatred into a peculiar sense of generosity and worth. Stockholm as it was, the behavior served her (and Salsola’s) needs easier than ripping tongues from mouths.

“Dead trees. One of the other slaves, Gjalda, he knows what you can and cannot take. Speak with him on your time, not my own.” A flip of the hair suggested that she would not expect any less. As his tasks were ended, his time for other things—like the vitals of hunting, sleeping, and such—could be dealt with. A black shoulder rolled under the raven winged cloak, ruffling the feathers. She looked often like a great bird of prey, with the glossy black so close to her own hair and, if not for the unnatural shade of the leather, dark. Unlike the white woman Wisteria, Siv’s allegiance to the night was clear.

At the question Siv’s head turned sharply, eyes narrowed. Her muzzle crinkled but she did not show her teeth. “If you mean,” she warned him quietly. “, in the ways of men, you should pray to whatever gods you serve that it was I and not another that found her. As long as she belongs to me, no man will touch her.” Siv had no sons and never would; her magic would not allow it even if her daughter implored her constantly. “She will learn how to clean and how to serve. If I see reason to use her beyond that,” the witch dangled this with a soft smile, but there was steel under the black velvet mouth. “, and if you give me reason, then perhaps.”

(340)

Whoring was, to Siv’s knowledge, a profession as old as hunting. She had never, until visiting Freetown, experienced the exchange of a body for coin and found the practice somehow less satisfying that way. It took talent and skill to use one’s body—she saw it in every gesture and motion that Isabella made and admired her for it. There was power in sex and some, like her gypsy (dared she say it) friend, were among those who could court such powers. Concubines could become queens, if her lore served her right. Had she not, and did she not, use her sex for such archaic magics? Had she not lain with their King to show him the truth, even if it came with blinders?

Yet she could only do so much, and saving the girl from such a fate was something that came only as long as power remained in Siv’s hands. Power and manipulation kept her high above others, and her work with Salvia was now bound to pay off fruitfully as well…

Both ears turned and her head followed suit. The shift was obvious and apparent; Gale had found something to capture her attention. “You can weave?” She demanded, and then smiled so savagely that her eyes burnt like dark thunder clouds. “What a peculiar thing you are, my Lion,” Siv teased, and laughed lightly. “You may not need to fashion one. Another girl once wove here; I will see if her supplies remain.” Rowan had been stupid and pretty, but she was a master of the craft. Siv sorely missed her talent and was doubly thrilled to think that she might not only have one, but two hands capable of producing such goods. It would double her profit when paired with the leather, and now with those pretty goats Salvia had picked up...

Siv laughed again, almost to herself, and looked to the sky. “Þakka fyrir,” she called to the gods, and decided then to take what was left of her summer mead to the stone ship.

Oblivious to his discomfort, Siv was already thinking and planning ahead as to what she could do with woven goods. She flicked one black velvet ear towards him, though her face remained turned forward. Even if he was not naturally talented, he had at least observed someone who was, and the girl was young enough yet that she could, upon shifting, be trained from early on. Yes; this was something she would see through. As long as they both kept coffers in her purse and didn’t try anything foolish, she would ensure a healthy (if enslaved) life for both of them…right under her thumb.

“There are sheep and long-haired goats,” Siv explained, and turned Hildr slightly. They were close to her home, and the pale leather loomed ahead from between the trees. Her round, yurt-styled home was unique here and it pleased her greatly. The white cover had been a long-term project, hanging over the base of uncolored brown-tan. It was meant to not only show off her skill, but make apparent the witch’s home. It added to her mysterious flair.

“I will see if any is left from the spring—if Salvia allows it, I may take one so you might work on training the girl over winter.” Under the watchful eye of their master, of course. The forest path parted ahead and gave way to the small clearing where Siv made her home. Here she dismounted, and led her horse towards the small fenced-in area that served as a private paddock. “Leave the girl outside of the fence,” she ordered, though whether or not it was because she was worried about the feisty animal harming the child or not was left unsaid.

There was, beyond learning her place, little the girl could actually hope to do in her role. A sense of freedom would be hers until that time—though it was one carefully constructed, like Gale’s gilded cage. Siv went to great lengths to enforce herself in more than simply harsh words or blows. She used rewards and punishments as if training a beast. It worked well. Except for the crippled simpleton, the other slaves had come to accept her ways and bow to them. Even Esmeralda, who often assisted her, had picked up on the technique and thus reinforced it. She was quicker to strike, but Siv supposed this was all right as well. One of them had to be seen in a bad light.

Siv turned to Gale and motioned for him to watch. “You will take her and tend to her. It will be easier if you leave her head bound,” she explained, and looped the leather reins over the fencepost in a loose slipknot. “You will remove her saddle; it is to be brought inside. The blanket will dry over the fence; if it is dirty, you will wash it.” Both hands moved as she worked; the strap around the mare’s belly was loosened and undone so the saddle could slip free, and Siv hoisted this over the fence precariously in order to tend to the blanket. She turned it over so Gale could see the damp area under it.

“I keep her brushes in the bag within her stall,” the witch went on, and motioned to the lean-to that Miqui had helped her construct. “Fetch them.”

While she doubted Hildr would find the urge to bite at him, Siv couldn’t help but imagine such a thing happening. He was large and unsure around the animal, and dominate as she was, the mare would sense it. She would give him trouble until he asserted himself around her, though Siv would never allow any of that to bleed further into his life. She owned his body, even if she could not own his soul or mind. Yet she would try—oh she would plant dark seeds and let weeds and vines grow until they choked the very essence of his being dry.

From the bag she produced a section of supple leather and a comb fashioned from a prickly bush. The end of it had been smoothed and peeled clean, giving her ample room to grasp the contraption. “Yes,” she said quickly, hardly recognizing that such a thing would not only increase the horses’ value but get him better acquainted with the animal. “And especially after I ride. You will begin with this,” the witch-woman explained, holding up the comb. “Their fur is short in summer but it will grow. Things may get stuck in it.”

She displayed the proper way to curry, using the comb, and brushed loose hair and dirt free in the process. It fell through the air visibly. “Do this only along her top half. Her belly and legs are more sensitive. Once you finish with this, use the hide and go over her entirely.” To demonstrate this, she rubbed the leather along the mare’s back in a semi-circular motion. It was obvious that Hildr enjoyed it, given how she remained still. Her head had dropped to pick at the grass lining the area. Siv suspected that by next year the holding pen would be dirt.

“Here,” she handed both items back to him. “You show me.” It was not a request.