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when one of them has had a bad dream.”
      She started to argue that they were not friends, but then she remembered that as her master, he could be demanding so much more of her at that moment. A story seemed a harmless enough request.
      “What kind of story?” She reached for the horn and took another small drink. “What’s the best cure for an evil dream? An epic battle? An adventure?”
      “ No, nothing so grand. Something soothing, I think.” He moved over and leaned up against the wall beside her, stretching out his legs across the bed. “ How about a maidensong, a love story? Surely you know one.”
      She knew several, in fact, but none that she wanted to tell to a man in his bed.
      “They are forbidden in some realms, you know,” she said. Magnus had warned her when he taught them to her that skalds had even been put to death for daring to compose love stories. A maidensong was powerful, as love was the most powerful force in the world. And sometimes, the most destructive. “Love stories hold as many dangers as pleasures.”
      “I’m inclined to risk it.”
      In the flickering lamplight, his smile was as intoxi cating as the dark ale. She forced herself to look away.
      “ Come, Rika. Give me a maidensong.”
      She ran through the stories in her head and finally hit upon the least erotic tale in her repertoire.
      “ Very well, then,” she said. “You shall have the tale of Ragnar and Swanhilde, a pair of doomed lovers.”
      “ Doomed lovers,” he repeated, pulling a long face. “ Why does that not surprise me?” When she scowled at him, he waved his hand at her. “Please, go on.”
      “ Ragnar fell in love with Swanhilde, a comely girl from the Hebrides, and she loved him in return. He asked for her and her father thought well of Ragnar, so the match was made. In due time, they married and he took her away to his home on a windswept crag over looking the sea.”
      “He had land, then?” Bjorn tipped back the horn.
      “ Ja, it was a bridal gift from Swanhilde’s father.” Rika yawned, fighting the urge to lean against his warm shoulder. “And Ragnar built a keep for her with a high tower, so she could watch the ships coming and going.”
      “What was the land like?” His voice was soft and thoughtful.
      “That’s not an important part of the story.”
      “ Pretend it is, and describe it for me.” He closed his eyes and Rika suspected he was imagining his own land, had fate not made him a second son. She decided to send him a welcome image.
      “ It was a goodly land, fair and rich. The sun and rain fell upon it in equal portions, as sorrow and joy should fall upon each life.”
      “Mmmm.” He sounded pleased. Then his eyes popped open and he turned to look at her. “No stones?”
      “No stones,” she assured him. “And every seed that fell to the earth returned a hundredfold.”
      He closed his eyes again, clearly satisfied. “It sounds a delightful place. They were happy, then?”
      “ Oh, ja, all that first winter they drank deep from the horn of love and found delight in each other.” Since he’d closed his eyes, she felt safe to study his profile. Dark lashes rested against his high cheekbones. She was drawn to his full-lipped mouth and forced her gaze to move on. Straight nose, firm jaw, ja, all his features were pleasing. She had to give him that.
      His was a strong face, an honest face. He was fine to look upon, she decided. Her heart did a strange little flop in her chest and she wondered suddenly what might have become of them if she hadn’t met Bjorn over the body of her father.
      He opened his eyes.
      “ Then came the spring.” Rika quickly picked up the thread of her story and resolved not to look at Bjorn by lamplight again if she could help it. “And it was time for Ragnar to join his brothers and go viking.”
      “ After the spring planting, of course,” Bjorn said, a smile tugging at the comers of that