Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 Read Online Free PDF Page A

to see her at all.
    Damian's apartments in the Imperial Palace faced the rising sun. Valdis shielded her eyes against the glare of mid-morning and gazed upon a forest of stone men and women mounted on tall spires. Yesterday when Damian caught her looking at them with interest, he tried to tell her about them, but she could attach little meaning to his words. “Acropolis” was a word he repeated several times, so she assumed that was what the congregation of granite was called.
    The statues were so beautiful at first she surmised that they must be the gods of this southern city. Only the trio of giants at the Great Temple in Uppsala could compare with these stone renderings. Then she remembered that the citizenry of Miklagard were followers of
Kristr.
If at one time the statues of the Acropolis were venerated as Odin and Thor and the stiff-phallused Frey were in the North, that time was long past. Stately robed courtiers wandered among the stone gods without leaving a single offering.
    There were, however, a few broad pedestals where a living man resided, hunkered against the wind. “Stylites,” Damian had called them.
    Valdis thought them mad.
    But the common folk of Miklagard revered the stylites, bringing them food and drink, which was lifted to the filth-encrusted hermits in wicker baskets.
    How strange the people of this city are.
    Her gaze swept further north, beyond the gates that marked the Imperial Palace as a city within a city. Domes and
stele
and minarets stabbed the sky as Miklagard flowed over its seven hills. There seemed no end to the packed tenements and opulent palaces, and everywhere were the ornate houses of the Christians' three-headed god.
    But she knew the city eventually found its boundary in a series of walls so tall and thick she hadn't believed the tales when she first heard them as a girl.
    She believed them now.
    Valdis turned back into the Greek's apartments, discouragement sagging her shoulders. Even if she could escape the Imperial grounds, and that was no mean feat, where would she go?
    Perhaps it was time to begin limited cooperation with her captor. If she could speak the language, she might be able to find her way back to the wharves. Then she could barter passage on one of the many ships she watched slipping from the Golden Horn into the deep water sparkling beyond.
    The eagle-embossed door to the apartment swung open and the Greek entered with a courteous-sounding greeting, as if he hadn't stalked out in a furious boil not long ago. An amused smile played about his full lips. Behind him, another man paused at the threshold before following Damian in.
    It was the Varangian from the slave market.
    Odin was crossing their paths once more. This must be why she'd dreamed of him. Surely her countryman would come to her aid.
    She could have wept at the sight of him, rough-edged and big, despite the polished leather chest piece and kilt that marked him as a Varangian. His face spoke to her of home. His brows were so pale as to be almost invisible above his North Sea eyes. A small scar lifted one of them in a perpetual question. His flaxen hair brushed his broad shoulders. Some warriors followed the fashion of fussily braiding their long beards, but this man's facial hair was neatly trimmed and brushed free of snarls. His upper lip was hidden by a mustache, but what she could see of his mouth made her run her tongue over her own lips. High, flat cheekbones and a sharp nose made his face too raw-boned for Grecian ideals of masculine beauty, but Valdis's breath quickened as she drank in the sight of him.
    He was out of his element in the Greek's elegant chambers, yet he took possession of the space as if by right. Here was a man who could meet any challenge, if only she could bend him to her will.
    “Thanks be to Odin,” she murmured.
    Damian spoke a few words to the Northman, who continued to look around the lavish space. Like Valdis, he was clearly in awe of the magnificence of their