Page 9 - My FlipBook

T h e We i g ht o f a So ul

nervous at the chief’s arrival, and what he might make
of the orphaned girl who had wandered into the village

in his absence. And stayed. “I should go be with Gunnar
and Olaf.”
Lena nodded as Bejla turned on her heels and jogged
to the water, to the men who had taken her in all those
months ago.
She heard Amal exhale beside her. “Your father will
hear all sorts of news this afternoon,” he muttered. She
cut her gaze to him, and watched his shoulders slump
with the weight of an unexpected burden. “Let us pray

he is in the spirits to receive it.”

Fredrik was the head of Clan Freding and chief of

their village, but he never assumed the title of king, even
though he could. Lena thought that was one of her fa-
ther’s less frustrating qualities. Still, as he strode closer
to her and Amal, the villagers fanning out behind him,
she felt that everything about him was . . . excessive.
She marveled that he could walk so steadily, even
buried under draping robes of velvet and silk. He wore
no crown, but his reddish-brown hair was cut short
and close to his head—a jarring difference from the

long-hanging strands the rest of the clansmen grew. A
heavy circle of gold-encrusted sapphires hung around

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