“I’ve got it,” Wulfgar said, “and I’ll pay it.”
“My lord—”
“Hakon Empty-hand,” Wulfgar said lazily, “Don’t call me ‘my lord.’ You and Jessa saved us all. Sixty pieces is a very small reward....”
“Not to me.”
“So I’ll want something from you in return. Your service. Not as a thrall,” he added hastily, seeing Hakon’s face, “but as one of my men.”
Hakon stared. Then he rubbed his nose. He knew he was grinning like a fool; Brochael was openly laughing at him. He just couldn’t believe this.
“With one empty hand?”
Wulfgar gave his lazy shrug. “The hands of other men are empty, though they may not seem so.” His eyes darkened for a moment at the memory.
“But it was Kari who saved us,” Hakon said uneasily. “He destroyed the beast.”
“Not destroyed,” Kari said, looking up. “And there were two beasts. The second one we destroyed between us. That one was invisible, and the more dangerous.”
Wulfgar nodded. “I was to blame. I let Vidar persuade me. I’m sorry. I won’t doubt you again.”
Kari almost smiled. “Don’t be so sure. Perhaps you should. A little.” Suddenly he held out his hand to Hakon. “And will you forgive me for what Gudrun did to you?”
For a moment Hakon couldn’t move. The memory of the long years of anguish, the strange terror of that vision of the ice field almost engulfed him. Then he lifted his hand and clasped Kari’s.
The Snow-walker’s grip was narrow and cool; it tingled his flesh. Hakon saw the others grinning at him, Jessa was laughing with her fingers over her lips, and he couldn’t see why until he looked down at his hand and saw that it was the right one that he had offered Kari. His right hand!
He pulled it away, flexed the weak fingers, stared at the runemaster in fear and dismay and a growing, unbearable delight.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
Kari shook his head. “The opposite,” he said.
And as they laughed, the wind called outside, like a cold voice, and Jessa noticed how Kari listened to it quietly.
BOOK THREE
The Soul Thieves
Dedication
For Tess
One
Outside I sat by myself
when you came.
The sword was of heavy beaten iron, with a narrow groove down the center of the blade. On the pommel tiny gilt birds with red eyes watched one another, and two dragons wound their bodies around the hilt, notched and scratched.
“It’s not new,” Brochael observed.
“It’s perfect.” Hakon’s voice was so stunned that almost no one heard him. He looked up at the house thrall who had brought it. “Tell Wulfgar … tell the Jarl that I’m grateful. Very grateful.”
The man went and whispered his message in the Jarl’s ear, and they saw Wulfgar grin and wave lazily down the long crowded table.
Hakon held the sword tight, turned it over, scratched with his thumbnail at a tiny mark in the metal. His right hand, still slightly smaller and weaker than the left, clasped the hilt; he slashed with it sideways at imaginary enemies.
Jessa jerked back. “Be careful!”
“Sorry.” Reluctantly he laid the sword on the table, among the greasy dishes. Jessa smiled to herself. She knew he barely believed it was his.
“Better than that rust heap you had before,” Brochael said, emptying the last drop of wine thoughtfully onto the floor. “Now it needs a name.” He reached over for the jug and refilled his cup. “And here’s the very man. What are some good names for a sword, Skapti?”
The tall poet lounged on the end of the bench.
“Whose is it?”
“Hakon’s.”
Skapti touched the blade with his long fingers. “Well,” he said, considering, “you could call it Growler, Angry One, Screamer, Rune-scored, Scythe of Honor, Worm Borer, Dragonsdeath—”
“I like that one.”
“Don’t interrupt.” Skapti glared at him. “Leg Biter, Host Striker, Life Quencher, Corpse Pain, Wound Bright, Skull Crusher, Deceiver, Night Bringer… Oh, I could go on and on. There are hundreds of sword names. The skald lists are full of them.”
“You can’t name it until it’s done something,” Jessa said firmly. She poured Skapti some wine.
“You mean killed someone?” Hakon sounded uneasy.
“Drawn blood.” Brochael winked over the boy’s head. “The blade must drink, that’s what they say. Then you name it.”
Skapti tapped the hilt. “Where did you get it?”
A burst of laughter along the table rang in the noisy hall. Then Hakon said, “Wulfgar gave it to me. To mark his wedding.” He reached out and touched it lightly, and the firelight glittered in the metal, like a splash of blood.
Jessa shivered then, though the mead hall was warm and smoky, and her scarlet dress was heavy and spun of good wool. For a moment even the clatter of dishes and conversation seemed to fade; then the foreboding passed, and the talk rose about her again.
She looked along the table.
Wulfgar sat in the middle, leaning forward in his carved chair, his dark coat edged with fur at the collar. He was listening as Signi whispered something close to his ear; then he smiled and closed his hand over hers.
“Look at him.” Jessa laughed. “Oblivious.”
“Ah well, I don’t blame him,” Brochael said drily. “She’s a fine girl.”
Fine was the word, Jessa thought. Signi’s hair was long and fine, delicate as spun silk, pale and golden. Her dress moved as she turned on the seat, gold glinting at her wrist and shoulders. A fine girl, refined, the daughter of a wealthy house. They had been betrothed to each other for years, since they were both children, Jessa knew. And now that Wulfgar had come into his land and power, now that he was Jarl, they were to be married. Tomorrow at noon. Midsummer’s Day.
The table was thronged with Signi’s family and kin; they had been traveling in all week from outlying farms. Wulfgar’s friends had made room for them; the Jarl’s guests always had pride of place.
Jessa looked around at Brochael. “Is Kari still asleep? Perhaps we should wake him.”
He frowned down at her, then looked across the room toward the door. “If you like. There won’t be anything left to eat if he doesn’t come soon. But you know how he is, Jessa; he may not want to come.”
She nodded, standing. “I’ll go up and see.”
Crossing the hall between the tables, she dodged the serving men and thought that Kari could hardly be asleep. The noise of the Jarl’s feast was loud, and all the doors were open to the light midsummer night, the sun barely setting even now, the pale sky lit with eerie streaks of cloud. At this time of year it never really got dark at all. She slipped through the archway, up the stone stairs, and along to a room at the end where she tapped on the door.
“Kari?”
After a moment he answered her. “Come in, Jessa.”
He was sitting in front of the dying fire, his back against the bench and his knees drawn up. Firelight lit his pale face with red, leaping glimmers; his hands were red, and his hair, and for a moment she thought again that it looked like blood, and went cold.
He glanced up quickly. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She came inside. “It was just the light on you. It’s dark in here.”
He looked back at the fire. “You were scared for a minute. I felt it.”
The two black ravens that followed him everywhere stood on the windowsill, looking out. One of them stared strangely at her.
She perched on the bench, rubbing her foot. “I’m never scared. Now, are you coming down? Brochael’s eating and drinking for ten, but there’s still plenty left.”
“Has Wulfgar asked for me?”
“No. He knows you.” If it had been anyone else, she knew, Wulfgar would have taken their absence as a deliberate insult, but not Kari. Kari was different. Kari avoided crowds, a
nd Jessa understood why.
Now he made no attempt to move, his best blue shirt picking up soot smuts from the dirty floor.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” she asked anxiously.
He pushed the long silvery hair back from his eyes. “No.” But he sounded puzzled, not quite sure.
“Tell me,” she said after a moment.
Turning to her, his face was drawn, uneasy. “Oh, I don’t know, Jessa. It’s just that tonight, since the twilight began, I’ve felt something. A tingling in my fingers. A shiver. Coldness. It worries me that I can’t think what it is.”
“Do you think it’s this wedding?”
“No. I think it’s just me.” Suddenly he stood, pulling her up. “I’m hungry. Let’s go down. I’d like to see Hakon’s new sword.”
Jessa stopped dead. “He’s only just been given it. How did you…?”
His pleading look silenced her.
As they walked up the crowded hall a ripple of hush followed them, as if conversations had faltered and then gone rapidly on. People were only just beginning to get used to Kari; it took them such a long time, Jessa thought irritably. His pale skin and frost gray, colorless eyes disturbed them; when they saw him they remembered Gudrun and were afraid.
But Wulfgar was pleased. “So you came!” he said lazily. “I wondered if we’d have the honor.”
Kari smiled back, glancing at Signi. “I’m sorry. Brochael says I have no manners; he’s right.”
The blond girl looked at him curiously. Then she poured him a cup of wine and held it out. “I’m glad you’ve come, Kari,” she said, in her soft, southland accent. “You and I need to be friends. I want to know all Wulfgar’s friends. I want them to like me.”
He took the cup, his eyes watching her face. “They will, lady.”
She flushed, glancing at Wulfgar. “Is that a prophecy?”
Wulfgar laughed, and Kari said, “It’s already come true.”
He raised the cup to drink and stopped, so still that Jessa looked at him. He was staring into the wine as if something had poisoned it, and when he looked up his face was white with terror.
“She’s here,” he breathed.
Alarmed, Wulfgar leaned forward. “Who is?”
But Kari had spun around, quick as a sword slash. “Close the doors!” he yelled, his voice raw and desperate over the hubbub. “Close them! Now!”
Skapti was on his feet, Wulfgar too.
“Do it!” he thundered, and men around the hall moved, scrambling from tables, grabbing their weapons. Jessa caught Kari’s arms, and the red wine splashed her dress.
“What is it?” She gasped. “What’s happening?”
“She’s here.” He stared over her shoulder. “Gods, Jessa. Look!”
Mist was streaming through the high windows—strange glinting stuff, full of shadows and forms, hands that came groping over the sills, figures that swarmed in the doorways. In seconds the hall was full of it, an icy silver breath that swirled and blinded.
Women screamed; angry yells and barking and swordplay rang in the crowded, panic-stricken spaces. The fires shriveled instantly, hard and cold; candles on the table froze. The mist swirled between faces, and people were lost; Jessa saw Wulfgar tugging at his sword, then he was gone, blanked out by a wraith of fog that caught her and seemed to drag her by the arms. She tore herself away and somewhere nearby Kari called out; then he was shoved against her so hard they both fell, crashing against the table. She grabbed him and screamed, “Kari!” but he didn’t answer, and putting her hand to his face her fingers felt wetness. She held them near to her eyes and saw blood.
“Kari!”
In the uproar no one heard her. Pale, unearthly forms of men and dogs moved around her; a sword slapped down hard nearby as men fought among themselves, against their shadows. She scrambled up and was knocked back by a blow from something cold and hard; crumpling on hands and knees she felt the side of her face go numb and tingle; then the pain grew to a throbbing ache.
Someone grabbed her; she flung him off, but he gasped. “It’s me!”
She recognized the sword. “Hakon! What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“Kari’s hurt. We need to get him somewhere safe!”
They felt for him in the mist and grabbed him under the arms; then Hakon dragged him back under the table, kicking benches out of the way. They crouched over him, shocked.
“It’s Gudrun!” Jessa stormed.
“What?”
“Gudrun! She’s doing this!”
Around them the mist closed in. Shapes moved in it; they thought they saw huge men, tall as trolls, creatures from nightmares. A fog wolf with glinting eyes snarled under the table; the legs of distorted, monstrous beings waded past them through the hall. Frost was spreading quickly across the floor; it crunched under their feet and nails; they breathed it in and the pain of it seared their throats, clogged their voices.
“Getting cold,” Hakon’s voice whispered, close to her.
“Me too.” She struggled to say “Keep awake,” but her lips felt swollen, her tongue would not make the sounds.
Cold stiffened her clenched fingers.
“Hakon…,” she murmured, but he did not answer. She felt for him; his arm lay cold beside her.
Around them the hall was silent.
Now the white grip of the ice was creeping gently over her cheek, spreading on her skin. With a great effort she shifted a little, and the fine film cracked, but it formed again almost instantly, sealing her lips with a mask of glass. She couldn’t breathe.
Crystals of ice closed over her eyelids, crusting her lashes.
Darkness froze in her mind.
Two
A farseeing witch, wise in talismans,
Caster of spells.
Lost in the frost spell, each of them walked in a dream. Brochael dreamed he was in some sort of room. He was sure of that, but couldn’t remember how he had come there. He was holding open a heavy door; a chain swung from it, rusted with age. In his other hand was a lantern; he raised it now, to see what was there.
In the darkness something made a sound. He swung the light toward it.
It was squatting on the floor, pressed into a corner. A small, crouched shape, twisting away from the light. Heavily, Brochael crossed the dirty straw toward it. The door closed behind him.
The red flame of the lantern quivered; he saw eyes, a scuttle of movement.
It was a boy, about six years old. He was filthy, his hair matted and soiled, his clothes rags. Crusts of dirt smeared his thin face; his eyes were large, staring, without emotion.
Brochael crouched, his huge shadow enveloping the corner of the stinking cell. The boy did not move.
“Can you speak?” He found his voice gruff; anger mounting in him like a flame. When the boy made no answer, he reached out for him. With that trembling touch he knew this was Kari; he remembered, and looked up, and saw Gudrun there. She put out her hand and pulled the boy up; he changed, grew older, cleaner, taller, so that they faced each other among the shadows.
The lantern shook in Brochael’s hand.
He could not tell them apart.
Hakon dreamed himself in a white emptiness. As he reached for his sword it slid away from him; alarmed, he grabbed it and the whole floor rose up beneath him, became a surface of glass, slippery, impossible to grip. Desperately, palms flat, he slipped down, down into Gudrun’s spell, and below him was an endless roaring chasm, deep as his nightmares.
An idea came to him, and he stabbed the sword into the ice to hold himself steady, but out of it wriggled a snake that wound around his hand, the cool scales rippling between his fingers. He lost power and feeling; the fingers were forced wide and the snake gripped his wrist so tight the sword fell from his numb fingers; it toppled over the brink, and fell, and he fell after it, into nowhere.
Skapti’s nightmare was very different. For him it meant standing in a green wood, watching the mist from a distance.
He knew it was a spell. Shapes moved in it; his friends, he thought, each of them lost.
Under his long hand the bark of the tree was rough; leaves were pattering down around him in the wind—at least he thought at first they were leaves, but as he looked at them again he saw they were words. All the words of all his songs were coming undone and falling about him like rain. He caught one and crunched it in his fingers; a small, crisp word.
Lost.
He let it fall angrily, chilled to the heart.
Then he saw her standing in the wood: a tall white-skinned woman laughing at him. “Poets know a great deal, Skapti,” she said, “and make fine things. But even these can be destroyed.”
As he stared at her the words fell between them, a silent, bitter snow.
Signi had no idea she was dreaming. A tall woman bent over and helped her stand.
“Thank you,” she murmured, brushing her dress. “What happened? Where’s Wulfgar?”
The woman smiled coldly, and before Signi could move, she fixed a narrow chain of fine cold links to each of her wrists. Signi stared at her, then snatched her hands away. “What are you doing?”
She gazed around in horror at the frozen hall. “Wulfgar!”
“He won’t hear you.” The woman turned calmly, leading her out; Signi was forced to follow. She tugged and pulled, but it was no use. “Where are we going?” she asked tearfully.
Gudrun laughed.
As they left the hall it rippled into nothing, into mist. Wulfgar knew he had lost her. In his dream he ran through the empty hold looking for her, calling her name. Where was everyone? What had happened? Furious, he stopped and yelled for his men.
But the night was silent; the aurora flickering over the stone hall and its dragon gables. He raced down to the fjord shore, and ran out onto the longest wharf, his boots loud on the wooden boards.
“Signi!” he yelled.
The water was pale, lit by the midnight sun. Only as he turned away did he see her, fast asleep under the surface. Eels slithered through her hair, the fine strands spreading in the rise and fall of the current. When he lay down and reached out to her, thin layers of ice closed tight about his wrist.
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