The hall went very quiet.
"Nine sheep," someone said.
"Nine sheep is a third of what's left," Steinunn said. Her voice was not cruel. It was tired. "My children have had bone broth for a week. I'm sorry, Eydis. I am. I watched your mother go. But I can't feed my children's winter to that thing to keep your memories in your head."
"Nobody's asking you to," said Eydis.
Every face turned toward the door.
"I said it last night and I'll say it at the Thing so it's law," she said. "Not one sheep. Not one strip of mutton or one fish from the common store goes to the wyrm. It's bound to me. It takes from me. That's the end of it."
Kari was on his feet. "You can't — Eydis, it took Father's voice. You told me. You can't just let it — "
"I can. It's mine to let."
"Then it'll take everything! You'll be like her!"
"Not in nine nights." She made herself say it calmly. "Mother gave twenty-six winters. Nine nights is nine things. I have more than nine things." She looked at Steinunn. "Feed your children."
Sverrir had not spoken. She turned to the high seat, waiting for him to overrule her, waiting for the hand on her arm. He looked back at her for a long moment, his face unreadable.
"The bonded has spoken," he said finally. "It's her right. Let the Lawspeaker mark it."
Arngrim marked it.
---
They argued for another hour after that, about what to tell Thorgils and how, about whether Steinunn and her kin should take their sledges over the pass now, before the worst of the winter, and throw themselves on Grimsfjord's charity. Nothing was settled. Nothing could be. By afternoon Sverrir had sent young Bolli on skis toward the pass with a message for his uncle, carried in Bolli's head because it was not the kind of message you cut into wood: *The oath was answered. The wyrm wakes and is bound. Come at Midwinter and we will speak of the debt face to face.*