There was another gasp of shock, palpable as a gust of chill wind around the hall. Faces paled; hands moved to make signs of protection. And under cover of the general consternation, Somerled moved. Knife in hand, he lunged toward Nessa with a suddenness that spoke of a Wolfskin’s tuition.
The voice came, true, strong, a war trumpet sounding in the heart. Burn bright! Strike true! Eyvind scarcely remembered, afterward, how he had done what he did. The leap came almost before the thought, quick as the final spring of the wolf to seize and snap the quarry’s neck. He jumped two-footed, bridging the gap before Somerled could lay a hand on her, and with a jerk and a twist brought the king to his knees. A flick of the hands, a sudden sharp tug, and Somerled was drawn back hard against Eyvind’s chest with the short chain that joined the Wolfskin’s wrists pulled taut around his neck. Eyvind’s hands were crossed, his arms holding the iron links tight enough to threaten choking, but not to stop the breath entirely.
“Any of you lays a hand on her, and Somerled dies!” His voice rang out across the hall. “Any of you moves, and I show you how much damage a Wolfskin can do when he sets his mind to it. Now hold your tongues and listen, you blind fools!” He dared to look at Nessa then, where she stood grave and calm not three paces away from him. So close, so close, and it was he who had taught Somerled the trick with the knife and the sudden dash.
“Take what time you need,” Eyvind told her quietly, and now he could not stop his voice from shaking. “I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”
Nessa nodded, and a tiny, tentative smile curved her mouth, accompanied by the faintest rose-pink blush in the cheeks. It was a smile completely at odds with the solemnity of the strange gathering, where men now stood staring in mingled awe and terror as she drew back the covering fully to reveal the delicate, pale form of the small harp. It was a smile that belonged to someone quite different from the ethereal figure who stood in their midst like a goddess of ancient story. Eyvind’s heart stood still. He could not speak, could not summon the slightest response, for love and fear, delight and terror held him frozen in place. Nessa did not seem dissatisfied. Perhaps his eyes spoke for him, for she nodded gravely, the smile gone now, but her gaze warm and true as he had seen it before, when she reached out to him by lamplight. It was only a day ago, a single day, yet it seemed like something from a distant past, as if a whole lifetime had gone by in the span of sunrise to sunrise. Now, locked in this strange embrace, feeling in his own chest each labored breath that Somerled drew, Eyvind could scarcely encompass in his mind the changes that had occurred.
One of Margaret’s men stepped forward and unrolled the shining breadth of the wolfskin on the bare earthen floor. Nessa knelt, setting the small harp before her on the skin, and with delicate fingers she touched the little pegs of bone, one, two, three…five…and the last, which might not be tuned to its true note save in the place where it was called to bear witness. Somerled’s body jerked violently as he struggled for freedom. With two hands needed to hold the chain tight, it was not possible for Eyvind to restrain his captive’s limbs, and Somerled was a wiry, cunning fighter, well able to extricate himself from awkward situations. Desperation gives a man unnatural strength. Somerled’s fingers clawed at the chain. Eyvind pulled his own hands farther across one another; Somerled spluttered, his face turning purple. He writhed anew, straining his body, bracing his legs against the ground in one final effort to topple Eyvind before the harp could be made to speak. Just how long he could maintain this, using the chain alone, Eyvind was unsure. His head was throbbing, his arms ached, and Somerled was struggling in a way that should, he supposed, make him proud of his own teaching all those years ago. He could kill him, of course; that would be easy. It would be too easy.
There was the smallest of sounds across the hall, a low whistle, brief, unobtrusive, a sign well known to any Wolfskin skilled in forest ambush. Eyvind gave a tiny nod, and an instant later a knife flew through the air to land neatly in the hand he had opened in readiness. In the moment of shocked realization, as Somerled took in Grim’s self-satisfied grin and the shift in Eyvind’s grip, the chain was unhooked, and Somerled was shoved forward until he knelt with his left arm twisted painfully up behind him, and Eyvind’s right hand holding the knife at his throat. It had been done in an instant. Nessa looked up, eyes wide in shock.
“It’s all right,” Eyvind said softly. “Do what must be done.” He could see them all now, Grim, Holgar, Erlend, even those who had doubted him, taking up strategic positions around the hall, weapons openly in hand, as if to defy any man who might seek to turn back the tide of events here, now that it had begun to follow the path of truth. Grim could not keep the fierce smile off his bearded countenance; Holgar was nodding approval. Even Erlend had respect in his eyes now, a respect Eyvind had not expected to earn again.
“Sorcery!” hissed Somerled. “Witchcraft! Don’t listen to this evil thing!” His words ceased as the knife moved, and a bright drop of blood was seen to trickle down his neck, staining his cream linen scarlet.
“It seems to me,” said Olaf Sveinsson, in a voice that blended amazement and respect, fear and wonder, a voice that perhaps reflected what all present had begun to sense in their hearts, “we scarcely need to hear the sound of this instrument, for all of us know our lore, and all of us recognize what it is. One note, one word gave us the voice of our lost chieftain, and we see on the face of our king something that tells a more bitter truth than we could have imagined. Friends, I think we have been blinded by fear and prejudice. I think we have forgotten what kind of men we really are. Let us listen, then, and try to remember what we once knew of justice. Let us listen and weep for our folly.”
Somerled writhed in Eyvind’s grip. “Fools!” His voice was a strangled whisper. “She binds you all with her dark arts, even as she bound Eyvind and turned him from me! Don’t listen, I command you!” The knife scored a fine red line across his neck; he fell silent.
Now it was Harald who spoke, his bluff features flushed with confusion. “If the harp is not what she claims it is, my lord king, then it will not sing, and there’s no harm done. But we all know the ancient wisdom of such charms: the tale of Snorri Half-Shoe, who gathered up his son’s bones to seek vengeance; the story of the girl who went up Eagle Crag and came back as a voice all gold and white, telling of secret murder and conspiracy. You can only benefit from giving the young lady a hearing, for if this indeed was made from your brother’s bones, we all know it can tell only truth. And truth, surely, is what we most sorely need tonight.”
Eyvind might have smiled at that, if he could have done. But his hands, one on the knife and one forcing Somerled’s arm cruelly up behind him, so that there would not be the slightest risk of harm to her, to Nessa kneeling there so pale, so quiet, so distant and lovely, the hands required all his strength of will; to listen, and breathe, and disregard the pain in one or another part of himself, took all his concentration.
“You won’t kill me,” Somerled croaked as Nessa turned the last peg. “You don’t have it in you. You’d never—”
“He would.” It was Margaret who spoke from where she sat, outwardly calm, watching Nessa’s fingers on the little bone peg, Nessa’s thumb testing the last slender, dark string. “If you laid a hand on her, he’d snuff you out like a candle. I see it in his eyes. And after all, it’s not every day one tries to tell the truth, and ends up condemned to death for it.” She stood and turned toward the folk assembled there. At the back of the hall, the women of Nessa’s people had gathered in a small group, their garments of red and blue and green a note of vibrant color in the lamplight. They held their heads high. Their bruised faces, their shadowed eyes now blazed with pride as their priestess touched her work one last time, then sat back on her heels, waiting. “Let this harp be heard,” Margaret said. “It speaks with the voice of Ulf, who was your chieftain. His very bones, his very hair have given it substance. Hear it and weep.”
In later times, if a man asked those who
were present at Hrossey settlement that night what it was they heard, he would get almost as many different accounts as there were men and women in that hall. There were some who would not tell what the harp had sung to them, and one of these was Margaret, daughter of Thorvald Strong-Arm. Whatever it was she heard, it flooded her face with tears until she put her head in her hands, so others might not witness her grief. Perhaps she heard the words of a young husband driven hard by his vision of a new world, beset by fears of what his brother might do to stop him, a man so desperate to achieve his goal before prophecy overtook him that he had neglected to make time for his wife, planning always to do so one day when there were not so many matters to be attended to, sometime when his settlement was made and his own people and Engus’s folk were living the life he wanted so fiercely to make for them. Perhaps, that night, Ulf spoke the words of his heart; perhaps he told Margaret how his admiration and respect for her had blossomed into love, a love which, being a reticent sort of man, he had never been able to put into words. Maybe he told her how much he had longed for a son. Maybe not. Whatever it was the harp sang to Margaret, she kept it to herself.
Others were more forthcoming. It was a terrible tale, Harald Silvertongue related, a tale of fratricide and heinous lust for power, all couched in the most expertly crafted skaldic verses. Now, if a poet could memorize that, it would be a fine piece for recitation on feast days, around the hearth fire. And how wrong they’d been, all of them. Mind you, he’d always had his doubts about Somerled…
On some aspects of the tale, all were agreed. There had been a plot, men paid by Ulf’s brother to lead others astray, to ambush the chieftain by night on High Island, to bind him with ropes and net, to convey him to his place of cruel execution and above all, to keep their mouths shut afterward. That must have cost Somerled dearly. Still, he had his following, having bought the loyalty of men who were nothing without his favor, and terrified others into silence. He had a persuasive tongue, and a clever way of twisting the facts. They’d all believed the Wolfskin had been ensorcelled and turned against his own. They’d all believed the island folk were treacherous, murderous savages, expert in the dark arts. But that girl…you only had to look at her to see the goodness in her, like a shining light: something more than human, as if a daughter of the goddess Freya walked among them, clad in the very breath of springtime. Besides, this was a bone harp. A bone harp had to tell the truth, everyone knew that.
It was Somerled who had made the knots. It was Somerled who had plugged his brother’s mouth with weed, stopping the last cry of truth, and had left him to perish on the cliffs above the dark waters, harried by knife-beaked gulls. Perhaps that part had taken rather longer than Somerled had intended. Ulf had wanted so very badly to live.
As for Eyvind, what he heard was different again. He did not need the story; he knew enough of it already. He felt the deep shudders that ran through Somerled’s body, pinned hard against his own; he heard…what, exactly? A voice that was neither the speech of a man nor the vibration of strings, a sound that was neither singing nor playing, neither words nor notes but rather something ancient beyond knowing, a presence of ancestral wisdom, like the quiet at the heart of a violent storm, or the turning point where the tide’s inward surge becomes outward ebb, or the moment…the moment at the end of the exhalation, when life and death are in the balance. It is pause, stillness, waiting. In that moment, he felt the recognition of how precious is life, how wondrous: how foolish a man would be to squander the least instant of such a gift, such an immense and fleeting gift. Eyvind held the knife at his friend’s throat; the smallest movement could rob Somerled of a future, as Somerled had robbed his brother. Some would think that no more than justice. But Eyvind heard what he heard, and he looked across at the woman standing before him, her face pure and pale as moonlight, her strange, wide eyes full of wonder as the song she had brought to life rang in the air around her, and he knew he was no arbiter of men’s fates, no godlike player of games, dispensing judgment and penalty with a confident hand. These things were beyond him, they always would be, and he was glad of it. They were surely beyond any man, however wise.
His head was still hurting; the wonder of this song was not quite sufficient to drive that away. Other parts of him seemed to be protesting as well: his jaw, his back, his knees. There was a certain blurring in his vision, as if the lanterns were somehow smudged, and bees were buzzing in his ears again. At some point, he became aware that Grim and Erlend had taken Somerled from his custody, and relieved him of the knife. Later, he remembered sitting down on the ground, still shackled, and resting his head on his knees. Closing his eyes: much better. Then, as the music rose and fell, graceful, terrible, he thought he could smell a faint scent of spring violets; he thought there was a soft rustling as of silken cloth, and the brush of gentle fingers against the swollen and damaged flesh of his cheek. Under the harp song, he heard a whisper: I’m so proud of you, Eyvi. So proud my heart could burst with it. He did not open his eyes, lest this be only in his mind. A moment later the hand withdrew, and it seemed she moved away again. Only the music remained: the voice of truth, weaving its magic in the quiet of the crowded hall. And finally, exhausted, aching, vindicated, Eyvind allowed his tears to flow.
After that, everything seemed to blur into a sort of dream or nightmare, taking on the unreality the world sometimes does when one has spent a little too long at the drinking hall. There was a great roar of a voice from down by the rear doors, shouting, “Where’s my brother? What have you done with him? In Thor’s name, I’ll skin the lot of you, you godforsaken wretches! Where is he?” There was no doubting this less than dulcet tone was Eirik’s. Behind it there were other voices now, voices that did not seem to belong here in the Light Isles, voices of men farewelled long ago in another spring. The harp was quiet now. He could not hear Nessa or Margaret or Brother Tadhg. He could not hear Somerled. The manner of the pain in his head suggested it might not be a good idea to open his eyes. But he did, just a slit, to see the broad, hirsute figure of his brother striding toward him down the hall, red-faced and bellowing. Eirik’s arm was in a makeshift sling and he had two black eyes.
“Eyvind! Freyr’s bollocks, man, what have they done to you? Get these bonds off my brother, you whelps of an evil cur, or I’ll show you the edge of this axe double quick! And what in Thor’s name is that?” Eirik had seen the harp and now fell momentarily quiet.
“Gudbrand! Thorvald! Where are the keys to these shackles?” Olaf Sveinsson asked crisply. “You can release him. I’m sure we have Eyvind’s undertaking that he won’t leave the settlement until these proceedings are completed. We all need rest before we continue. And we have guests to welcome. Distinguished guests.” He glanced toward the rear of the hall, where a large number of men were now entering, men with the salt-stained and weather-beaten look of sea travelers, men with the tall stature and fair complexions of Rogaland. Eyvind knew all of them. They were of the household of Freyrsfjord, and now, coming through the doorway with an air of quiet assurance, there was the broad-shouldered, upright figure of Jarl Magnus himself. Eyvind squinted against the light; knives dug into his skull. A dream, all of it…or more than a dream, for perhaps they had actually beaten him to death, down there in the darkness, and this was some vision on the journey beyond. He closed his eyes again, bowing his head, and felt hands on his wrists and ankles, unfastening his bonds. Gudbrand and Thorvald, it seemed, had no difficulty with the sudden change of allegiance required of them. Even so quickly may the balance alter.
Eirik was addressing Olaf now, the roar of his voice barely diminished. “Proceedings? Continue? What proceedings? Are you telling me my brother is accused of some crime?”
Olaf cleared his throat. It takes no little courage to stand up to a Wolfskin when he is in such a temper. “Eyvind has certain charges laid against him. We were deliberating when…when events overtook us. We now find ourselves considering charges against the king as well. The one must be weighed—”
“Had you arrived just a little earlier,” Olaf said quietly, “you would have been the bearer of your brother’s release from a sentence of death. As it is, we have already heard the voice of a witness more powerful than any human tongue. Your man’s testimony is hardly required, since Ulf himself has told the truth here. My lord!” He was speaking to Jarl Magnus now, his voice taking on a tinge of nervousness. “Welcome to Hrossey! We had news of your landfall not so long ago. A great surprise. None dreamed your own seagoing vessel might be ready so soon, nor that you and your men would think to journey here but one year after our own voyage. I regret the inadequate welcome, but as you see—”
“I’ve seen my favorite Wolfskin covered in bruises and trussed up like a roasting chicken,” Magnus observed, “and I have to say I’m more than a little displeased. You’ll have a hard time convincing me Eyvind’s done anything amiss. The lad hasn’t a bad bone in his body. Lady Margaret, it is both pleasure and sadness to see you again; they greeted me as I set foot on shore with the news of Ulf’s death. I’m so sorry, my dear. And where is Somerled?”
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