“Yes.” She had already noticed that he never called Gudrun his mother.
“You told Brochael she knew you were coming.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her intently, a sudden swift glance. Then he said, “We’re carrying something with us, Jessa, something extra. Some burden. You know that, don’t you?”
She wanted to tell him about Thorkil, but she couldn’t.
In silence he stood up, holding the bowl steady, so as not to spill a drop. They walked back without speaking.
That night they risked a fire and sat around it. The heat was a glorious comfort; Jessa felt it warming her chapped hands and sore face. But she was tired of smoked meat and dry, hard oatcake, and longed for something fresh and sweet. Apples from Horolfstead, or one of Marrika’s sweet honey cakes.
As she rolled in her blanket she noticed Thorkil moving up next to Kari. There was something anxious pushing at the back of her mind, something important that she could not quite grasp, and as she reached for it, it slid away, into a deep dark hole under the earth. Her mind slid after it, into sleep.
A bird screech woke her.
She sat up in the darkness. Something moved beside her; she saw the flash of a knife and she yelled. Quick as an eel, Kari rolled over, but the knife slashed him across shoulder and chest. Then Thorkil was on him, struggling, holding him down. Jessa was already on her feet, but before she or Brochael could move, Thorkil was flung backward with a force that astonished them. He screamed, dropping the knife and shuddering in apparent agony on the charred ground. “Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop him! Stop him!”
Kari scrambled up and looked down at him, his eyes cold and amused, like Gudrun’s.
Fifteen
A coiled adder, the ice of a night…
A witch’s welcome, the wit of a slave,
Are never safe: let no man trust them…
“Let him be,” Brochael said.
Kari glanced at him and seemed to do nothing else, but with a gasp Thorkil was released. He lay sprawling in the brambles, sobbing. Jessa moved toward him, but Brochael caught her by the arm.
“Not yet,” he said gruffly.
Carefully Kari went forward, blood seeping through his shirt. He crouched down and touched Thorkil’s hair very softly. Thorkil did not move. Gently Kari’s fingers moved over the heaving shoulder, down the arm to Thorkil’s wrist; then he tugged the sleeve back and touched the ring. “This is it.”
Brochael edged forward. “An arm ring?”
“It looks like one.”
He fingered it curiously; in the darkness Jessa saw the silver glitter. Then she clutched Brochael’s sleeve.
Under Kari’s touch the metal had begun to move. It softened into a long, lithe form, writhing around Thorkil’s wrist, unwinding and gliding with a tiny hissing sound that chilled them. Thorkil squirmed, but Kari held him down. “Keep still!”
Slowly the long white worm slithered out, leaving a bloodless ring on the skin. It lay on the charred soil, twisting and kinking itself, hissing and spitting, its tiny eyes like pale beads. As they watched it, it faded to dull smoke, then to a stinking smear on the soil, then to nothing.
Silently Jessa touched all her amulets in turn. Brochael scuffed at the ground with his boot, but nothing was there. Whatever it had been, it was gone. After a moment he let her go, and she went over to Thorkil and helped him to sit up. He seemed half-dazed, scratching at the white scar on his wrist as if it itched or ached unbearably. When she spoke to him, he did not answer.
After a while Brochael had to come over and carry him back to the blankets, where he sank instantly into sleep.
“It wasn’t him…,” Jessa said.
“I know.” Brochael looked down at him. “It was her.”
He crossed to Kari and began to examine the knife slash—it was long and shallow, in places barely breaking the skin.
“We knew she had her hand on him,” Kari said.
Jessa was silent. She sat down, and handed Brochael the bowl of clean water. “You didn’t trust us. That’s why we didn’t see you at Thrasirshall.”
“Not until you had to.” Kari watched as Brochael wiped the thin line of blood away.
“It’s not deep,” Jessa said.
“No,” Brochael snapped, “but it could have been. It could have been deep enough to end all her worries.”
She was silent. She knew he was right.
“And you!” the big man growled fiercely. “You knew about this ring, but you said nothing!”
She felt the heat rise in her neck and face. “I thought it was just his greed. I didn’t think it was harmful....”
But it wasn’t true. She was furious with herself because she had doubted Thorkil and she had been right.
Kari was watching her closely. “There were two. You threw yours into the sea,” he said suddenly.
She shrugged, not bothering to ask how he knew. She felt ashamed and bitter.
“The ring explains a lot,” Kari said after a while. “That pain he had—it was real enough, but she made him feel it. She’s done that to me … long ago. It was to slow us down. And then it explains the red cloth.”
“What cloth?”
Kari put his hand into the pack at his side and pulled out a few frayed strips of cloth; a rich, red fabric with skeins of gold woven through it.
“Recognize it?”
“It’s Thorkil’s tunic.”
“He’s been dropping bits of it,” Brochael muttered, flinging the bloody water from the bowl into the bushes. “Stabbing pieces onto thorns, snapping branches. He was leaving a clear trail for them.”
She was aghast. “But he hates her!”
“Even so. She moved his will; she can do that. He’ll hate her even more after this.”
“Brochael found these at first by accident. Then I told the birds to pick them up.” Kari eased his arm back into his shirt. “They like bright things. They brought them to me.”
Jessa looked out into the black forest. So this was why he had stood up that morning by the lake—so that the horseman would see him and know. She frowned, thinking of it. All this time the witch had held him by the wrist, moved him like a piece in a game.
“Do you think he knows,” she said. “Does he understand what he’s been doing?”
But Kari was staring across the ruined hall. “Brochael…”
“I know. I heard it.” The big man already had the ax in his hands; it glinted in the dark.
Jessa strained her ears to catch any sound, but the forest outside the wall seemed utterly still, the breeze barely moving the branches.
Then a twig cracked.
Brochael’s fingers closed slowly on the wooden shaft.
Someone was coming, rustling through the leaves. She could hear it now even after the thudding of her heart, the pliant branches of alder and blackthorn whipping back into place.
Brochael crouched lower. “Keep still,” he breathed, “and do nothing.” She saw movement in the broken doorway of the hall; a deeper shadow in the shadows. It paused in the tangle of branch and stone. Then, to her astonishment, it spoke.
“You can put that ax away, Brochael.”
The voice was familiar, a sly, amused tone. Brochael gave a great guffaw of laughter, and even Kari smiled.
“You rogue,” the big man roared, standing up. “Come in here and let us see you.”
A thin shape detached itself from the shadows and pushed through the bushes. Brochael tossed down the ax and gripped him by both shoulders.
“Not so hard,” the man laughed.
“You won’t snap. You’re early—we hadn’t expected you yet.”
Jessa looked at Kari in astonishment. “It’s the peddler!”
“What peddler?”
The peddler grinned at her. “That’s how she saw me last, spellmaster. I was flinging a few herbs in the Jarl’s fire. A certain outlaw escaped at the time.”
“And then at Wormshold,” Jessa muttered.
&
nbsp; “Indeed. Where you were so unwilling to take the sea path, the whales’ way, the house of the skerries. Frightened of what was waiting in the grim hall.” He winked at Kari. “She was so urgent I almost told her.”
“You’re a poet,” Jessa said with sudden understanding. She knew now why they had not wanted her to escape.
Brochael laughed. “Of course he is. You’ve heard of Skapti Arnsson? He was the Wulfings’ skald. Talks in riddles and cryptic lines.” He pounded the man on the shoulder. “A peddler of words!”
The skald glanced down at Thorkil, who was lying still against the wall. “What happened to that one?”
“She had hold of him,” Brochael said tersely. “A sorcery, in the shape of a silver ring.”
The skald whistled. Then he said, “We heard Ragnar was dead two days ago. We’ve traveled west since then, mostly by night. The forests are full of the troll wife’s men.”
“Is Wulfgar with you?” Kari asked.
“Not far off.”
“Then why doesn’t he come?”
The skald grinned. “He’s waiting for the signal. And he’s wary of you, ravenmaster. I told him you were no monster, but the story sticks. Shall I call him?”
Kari nodded, pulling his coat about him. He looked paler in the darkness; the thin moon rising over the branches glinted on his hair. The skald went out into the wood. They heard a swish of branches, the low murmur of voices. Then he came back, followed by the man Jessa had seen in the Jarlshold, the lithe, dark-haired man in the leather coat. He came forward quickly, his eyes glancing over Brochael and herself until he came to Kari, and he stopped. They stood staring at each other, one pale and one dark.
Wulfgar spoke first. “She’s an accomplished liar,” he said almost admiringly. “You have all her looks.”
Kari looked down absently and then gazed at Wulfgar. “Not her heart,” he said.
Wulfgar nodded slowly. “And your powers—these things the skald told me about—are they as great as hers? Will you use them against her?”
One of the ravens fell from the trees with a shriek that startled them all, even Brochael. It perched on the branch above Kari, its eyes glinting. He held his hand up to it and let it peck at his finger. “I’ll try. That’s all I can say.”
Wulfgar stared at the bird. “Then I suppose that will have to do.”
Sixteen
Too many eyes are open by day.
Brochael woke Jessa before dawn. As she struggled up she saw Thorkil sitting and talking with Wulfgar. He laughed and waved to her.
“He doesn’t seem to remember anything about last night,” Brochael said quietly. “Best not to speak of it at all.”
“How can he not remember?”
“Who knows. But don’t mention it.”
She nodded. “Is Kari well?”
“Well enough. He’ll carry the scar, that’s all.”
Later, as she rolled her blanket, Thorkil came over. He grinned at her, and she saw that the restraint and silence that had grown on him lately was gone. He was easy, pleased with himself. The old Thorkil.
“Feeling better?” she said, suddenly glad to see him.
He shrugged, surprised. “A bit tired.” He did not mention the missing arm ring, but she saw his fingers restlessly rubbing at the white wrinkled scar that twisted about his wrist. It had not faded in the night; she wondered now if it ever would. They’ll both carry scars, she thought.
All morning they moved swiftly on through the trees, downhill, with Wulfgar scouting ahead and Brochael, like a great shadow at Kari’s shoulder, keeping guard at the back. The forest was quiet, in an end-of-winter hush, brushed at its edges by a dusting of green, the tight furled buds barely splitting, the new growth of pines and firs soft and fresh among the dark needles.
When the forest ended they saw a low green valley before them, with a swift river running through it.
“This is the Skolka,” Brochael said. “Beyond it, up in those rocks, is the Jarl’s Gate, the pass down into the Mjornir district, where the Jarlshold is.”
Jessa looked up at the narrow peaks. “I can’t see any pass.”
“It’s narrow,” Wulfgar said. “Barely a thread between the rocks. A few weeks ago it would still have been blocked with snow.”
“And how do we cross the river?” Thorkil wondered.
Brochael looked at Wulfgar. “There’s a ford—”
“Guarded. She’s not such a fool as that.”
“She’s not a fool at all,” the skald muttered to Jessa, with a lopsided grin.
“You and I will have to find a place to cross,” Brochael decided. “The rest of you can wait, and rest.”
“I’ll come,” Thorkil said.
Brochael’s eyes flickered doubtfully to Kari, but the boy nodded. There was nothing to worry about now, Jessa thought. They could trust him again.
“All right,” Brochael said. “But stay close.”
When they were gone, Jessa and Kari lay in the edges of the forest, listening to Skapti’s tale of his journey. The sun became almost warm; one or two early flies buzzed in the leaves. Kari fed the ravens scraps of dried meat, one perched on each side as he lay against the tree.
When the skald had finished, Jessa said, “You might have told me—at Wormshold.”
“Not my secret. Besides”—he winked at Kari—“we had to find out if you were safe to trust.”
“How did you know all about it?”
Skapti shrugged. “I knew Brochael years ago. When she sent him to Thrasirshall we all heard of it. No one thought we would see him again. There was much fighting at the time.... But later, one time when I was traveling near Trond, I decided to see him.”
“You went to Thrasirshall on your own?” Jessa was astonished.
The skald grinned. “Oh, I was scared enough. When I saw the place, I thought my heart would stop. But I knew Brochael would starve unless he had food brought in. I might add, he was glad to see me. Tired of eating rat, I suppose.”
Jessa giggled.
“I didn’t see this creature”—he tapped Kari with his foot—“until later, but a skald knows that many things that seem true are not, and all about lying. I don’t think I really believed her stories, even then. We arranged a supply line for food; some of the Wulfings’ men brought it, when they could get through the snow. All secret. I was there quite often after that.” He grinned. “I remember the time this one first heard music.”
Kari nodded slowly. “So do I....”
When the others came back they were wet and hungry.
“There’s a place,” Brochael said, swallowing a great chunk of oatcake, “a little way upstream. Plenty of rocks, though the current is swift and deep in places.” He spat out a piece of cheese. “Rancid! Food is something else we need.”
“There’s a house over there,” Jessa said. They looked in the direction she pointed at the thin trail of smoke rising into the sky.
“Too dangerous,” the skald muttered.
“Unless we steal, as Odin stole the mead of Wisdom.”
“I don’t steal from my own people,” Wulfgar said sharply.
Skapti laughed, rubbing his long nose. “Then just ask, my lord. When they know it’s the next Jarl at the door, they’ll give.”
Wulfgar laughed at Jessa. “Do you see the impudence I have to put up with?”
The crossing place Brochael had found was sheltered, with a few trees. The bank shelved down, but the bed of the stream was choked with rocks, the swift brown water roaring over and through them. That would be easy. But between the last rock and the farther shore was at least six feet of empty, swirling water.
Brochael took off his pack, coat, and shirt and tied a heavy, hempen rope around his waist. Thorkil wound the end around a rock and braced it. The big man laughed. “It’ll take more than you. If I go in I’ll want you all on there.” With a glance at Kari he began to cross the rocks swiftly, with easy steps. Despite his size he was light-footed. On the last one he paused. Wulf
gar and Thorkil gripped the rope. Slowly Brochael lowered himself into the icy water. It rose high against his chest. He waded forward, and the current caught him; he staggered, fought for balance, arms wide.
Slowly he steadied, the brown water racing past him, his skin tinged with blue, as if bruised with cold. He forced his bulk through the stream, gripped the other bank, and heaved himself up, the water running from him.
“Well stepped!” the skald yelled, flinging over Brochael’s clothes.
Shaking with cold, Brochael dressed, then he whipped the rope up from the water and tightened it, a dripping, taut line over the river. They threw the baggage over, then Kari crossed, gripping the rope tight with both hands, the birds cawing anxiously over his head. He had to drag himself, hand over hand, the current tearing at him, Brochael leaning out so far to help that he almost overbalanced. Jessa saw the raw blue scar on Kari’s chest as he was pulled out. He flung his cloak on and crouched, coughing, on the bank.
Skapti crossed next, then Thorkil. As he was halfway over, the ravens croaked and rose up, circling. Kari looked up. “They’re here!”
At the end of the forest something was moving; as Jessa turned she saw a man step out, the weapon in his hand gleaming in the sun. He turned at once and shouted.
“Hurry up!” Brochael roared, leaning over and hauling Thorkil out. “Jessa! Quick!”
With a slither of steel Wulfgar had his sword out. He turned to face the wood; already a line of men was running toward him. Jessa pulled off her coat and flung it over, scrambling from rock to rock. She tugged her boots off, threw them to Thorkil, and jumped straight into the stream.
The icy water drove the breath right out of her; she grabbed the taut rope and hung there, gasping, feeling the flow of the river against her body, filling her nose and mouth. Hand over hand, she pulled herself through the stream; her feet dragged again and again off the stones, her clothes heavy with the icy water. She heard a splash behind her; a shout. Wulfgar was on the rocks. Her hands were sore on the rope; she slipped, and grabbed tight. Then Brochael’s arm gripped her. She reached up to the bank and hauled herself out, coughing and shivering. Someone flung a coat around her. She pushed the wet hair from her eyes.
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