by Edith Pattou
I remembered what Sib had said about it being a wind sword. What did that mean? I wondered again.
I continued to move around the grove, thrusting and swinging the sword, imagining dueling with an imaginary foe. I quick-stepped forward and then back, and indeed I discovered Nils Erlend was right. It was like dancing.
I thought back to the dances I had shared with Charles. The first, that horrible awkward troll dance at the ice palace. But a few times after we were married, we’d gone to fairs at a nearby village, and there was usually dancing. Those had been happy moments. I felt a piercing stab of missing my white bear. But I pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on the sword, on my feet, and on my imaginary foe.
The feeling that the sword moved of its own accord did not last, and I thought I must have imagined it. If anything, the sword felt heavier and heavier as time went on, and practicing with it was hard work. All the muscles in my body began to ache, and sweat was dripping off me.
Finally I sank, exhausted, into a sitting position, dropping the sword beside me, and reached for my skin bag of water. Then I remembered Nils Erlend telling me that a good soldier always took care of his weapon before himself. As I’d watched him pantomime wiping the blood of his slain enemies off the blade of his sword, I had felt a thrill of horror.
I set down the skin bag and sheathed my sword. I sat there breathing hard, wondering if I really did want to learn how to use a sword after all. Then I thought of my encounter with Jaaloki and all that stood between my white bear and me. I was going to find him. I had to. And I had to learn to use the sword because of the danger I almost certainly would face along the way. It was well to be prepared.
Neddy
IT WAS A STRANGE, IN-BETWEEN TIME, the sea journey from Stavanger to Kristiansund.
There was much talk of the Sweating Sickness; many on board worried about loved ones in northern Njord. The captain told us that if there was sickness in Kristiansund, he would not land there. A system of flags would be in place to warn approaching ships of unsafe conditions.
Sib shared with me her own experience of the Sweating Sickness. At that time, it had been called the Anglian Sweate, and she gave me advice on how best to keep from contracting it. She even spent some of the voyage sewing muslin cloth masks that she said we must wear over our noses and mouths while tending to the sick.
As before, I was puzzled by her account of the Anglian Sweate. I had read much of Anglia’s history and thought I remembered that the last such epidemic had occurred in the 1400s, well before Sib could have been born. Perhaps there had been a small later outbreak in her village that had gone unrecorded in the history books.
At any rate, I fervently hoped that this current outbreak in Njord would end up being equally insignificant, not one that would be recorded in the historical records of this time.
* * *
As we approached the harbor of Kristiansund, all the passengers were on deck. The captain had told us that if there was a solid black flag flying, he would turn the ship around and make for the nearest southern port.
Sib and I were standing side by side, and I found myself thinking of Rose’s words to me about life being short. We did not know what we were going to find when we got to Trondheim. Maybe Rose was right. I should make my feelings known.
“Sib,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind.
She turned to look at me. Her eyes held mine, intent, full of feeling, but when I opened my mouth to speak, she raised a finger and placed it across my lips.
“No, Neddy,” she said softly. “Not now.”
I stared at her, mutely.
“Not now,” she repeated.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. Why not now? I wondered. But a voice inside told me I should trust Sib.
Just then, I heard a shout go up. There was no black flag. It was safe to disembark at Kristiansund.
When we disembarked, the captain told us that local officials were strongly advising against traveling to Trondheim, as it had been hard hit by the Sweating Sickness. And as I had feared, we were unable to find any kind of transport, and so we set out on foot.
The weather was unusually hot for this time of year, the air damp and oppressive.
Rose
IT TOOK ME THREE DAYS to get to the outskirts of the hanté forest, the impenetrable, expansive woodland the trolls had caused to grow up around the castle in the mountain. At every meal break during those three days of travel, I practiced swordplay, and I seemed to be getting stronger and more adept at swinging the blade.
I didn’t like the idea of entering the hanté forest at night, so I made camp nearby. Before I went to sleep, I had one more practice session and decided that my sword arm was definitely getting stronger.
The next morning, I entered the forest, leading my horse, Ciuin, behind me. I found it just as dense and impenetrable as it had been the times before when I had journeyed through it. Perhaps even worse now. The going was so slow that I finally took the sword out of my pack and began using it to hack my way through the tangle of trees and undergrowth. At first it was awkward, but as I grew used to wielding it, I found the wind sword to be surprisingly effective. In fact, a few times when I swung it, I thought I heard a sort of whooshing sound, and I once again had the feeling that it could move on its own.
When I stopped in a small clearing for a rest and a draft of water, I tested the sword, swinging it in a large arc above my head. And I definitely heard and felt the whoosh then. It was like a sudden rush of wind.
Ciuin nickered, looking a little apprehensive. I went to comfort her, and as I fed her a ration of oats, I wondered about the sword. What made it a wind sword, and why had Sib been so sure it was not Huldre made?
It took an entire day to get through the forest, but finally we emerged. There was still a day’s journey to go, past the deserted farm that had once grown the food for the inhabitants of the castle in the mountain.
But at last Ciuin and I arrived at the base of the mountain.
Neddy
I KNEW THE ROAD BETWEEN KRISTIANSUND and Trondheim well. I had helped Father remap it some years back when someone found a faster route around one of the higher ridges through a previously undiscovered valley.
In spite of that improvement, it remained a difficult journey to tackle by foot; there was a series of small mountains, as well as a number of rivers and streams that needed to be crossed. I knew it would take us a solid four days of walking to get there.
The steamy heat, so unnatural for September, continued. We met no travelers on the road, either coming or going, but in the late afternoon of our first day, we came across an abandoned cart. It was filled with household belongings, but there was no sign of a horse or any other living beings.
Suddenly Sib gave a little gasp and hurried across the road and down an incline to a small stream. I followed her and found her crouched over the bodies of a young woman and a bairn. Both were clearly dead. Sib gestured for me to come no closer, and I watched in horror as she gently pulled the mother’s cloak up so it covered both their faces.
“Should we not bury them?” I asked as she came back up the incline, her cheeks pale.
She shook her head. “I know it feels wrong, but I fear this is just the beginning,” she said grimly. “We should limit our contact with those infected. Also, if we stopped to bury them all, we would be much delayed in our journey to Trondheim. And we must get there as quickly as we can, Neddy. Rose trusted us to keep Winn safe.”
I nodded, and silently we resumed our walking.
Sib was right. We must have come across three more carts, each bearing one or more victims of the Sweating Sickness. The bodies were usually either in or beside the carts, though like the first ones, we did find them close to a nearby stream. We did not see any horses with the carts and thought they must either have run off or been stolen. Each time, Sib made me stay back, and she donned one of her muslin masks and checked to make sure no one was still alive.
It was a horrific, bone-chilling journey, and my fear of what we would find when we got to Trondheim heightened with each step we took.
Back in Kristiansund we had found a ferryman who was willing to carry us across the Kvernesfjord—one of the widest fjords in this part of Njord. He had charged us an exorbitant price and practically shoved us off the boat when we got to the other side. But when we came to the ferry at Kanestraum, to cross the Halsfjord, we were not so lucky.
The ferry was shut down, with no sign of anyone attending it. We were surprised by this because we were still leagues away from Trondheim. Clearly people weren’t taking any chances.
“We’ll have to go by Sunndalsora, and climb Trollheimen,” I said bleakly, knowing it would add at least two days to our journey.
Sib was looking out at the fjord, her eyes scanning the shoreline nearest us.
“I see a boat,” she said. “The wind is good. Come,” she added, taking my hand.
We made our way down to a small currach pulled up on the rocky shore. It didn’t look particularly seaworthy, with weathered wood and a stained, waterlogged sail lying in the bottom, but there were no obvious holes in the hull. Sib was determined, so I helped her climb aboard and pushed us off into the fjord. We raised the sodden sail with difficulty, then, holding the rope to the boom, Sib sat on a rickety bench, gesturing for me to take the tiller.
She was very still, and I noticed that her eyes had that unfocused faraway look I had seen before. As we gently bobbed on the water, I told Sib I couldn’t feel the wind she had mentioned, but she ignored me. I began to look for oars, since it seemed likely we’d have to row across Halsfjord, which would be no easy task. But perhaps no worse than climbing Trollheimen.
Unexpectedly I felt a gust of wind across my face. Sib was sitting as before, eyes still unfocused, the rope to the sail lying limp in her hand. The soggy fabric began to flap, at first just a little and then more energetically. I took the rope from Sib, pulling it taut.
The wind caught the sail, and the currach lurched forward.
“You were right,” I called to Sib.
“I am always right when it comes to wind,” Sib called back, smiling.
And the breeze propelled us swiftly across the fjord.
We made landfall on a small patch of rocky beach, and as we got out of the boat, Sib staggered slightly. I noticed, too, that her cheeks were paler than usual.
“Just tired,” she murmured in response to my concerned query.
As we climbed a hill to rejoin the road to Trondheim, we spied another abandoned cart, not far from the ferry dock on this side of the fjord. Sprawled next to it was the lifeless body of a middle-aged man, who looked as if he had died only recently. And there was a horse harnessed to the cart. The horse looked edgy and also seemed hot and thirsty in the sultry weather.
I unhitched the animal while Sib found some oats and fresh water in the cart.
“I think we should take the horse,” I said to Sib.
“I was thinking the same,” she replied. And she looked exhausted, like she could barely put one foot ahead of the other.
Taking the horse didn’t feel like stealing, not in these dire times.
We didn’t ride the horse at first, not until it had regained its strength, after a goodly share of oats and water. But the animal, a big, sturdy chestnut with graying hair around the eyes, turned out to have a docile temperament and a good deal of stamina. Our journey went much more quickly.
We passed through several small villages, each seeming almost deserted, though I occasionally caught a flicker of movement at cottage windows.
People in Njord were terrified, and rightly so.
Rose
WHEN CHARLES AND I LEFT the castle in the mountain three years ago for what we thought was the last time, we had decided to drag several large rocks in front of the doorway. Because it was located in such a remote spot surrounded by a virtually impenetrable forest, we thought it unlikely anyone would come across it, but it seemed best to ensure that no unsuspecting person should be exposed to the world of the Huldre and their arts.
The rocks were still there, and no one would suspect that a castle was hidden inside that small mountain.
I tethered Ciuin at a nearby copse of trees, leaving her a supply of oats and water, and approached the door. It took a little time and sweat to remove the rocks, but by late afternoon, I had succeeded.
I straightened and, taking a deep breath, entered the castle.
There was no light coming from inside, but I quickly found the sconces holding the oil lamps that lined the halls. I fashioned a makeshift torch and lit the lamps as I traveled down the front hallway.
The castle was just as it had been before. The layout of the rooms, which I had come to know by heart when I lived there for a year, was exactly the same.
The memories began to wash over me with each flickering glimpse of a remembered chair or fireplace. The deeper into the castle I went, the more I saw—the room with the musical instruments, the library, the chamber I had slept in. I couldn’t bear the sight of the bed, the bed where I had leaned over the white bear with my candle and destroyed everything. A happier sight was my weaving room, and I closed my eyes, thinking of the white bear lying on the rug as I wove and told him stories.
I felt surrounded by ghosts, the whispered footsteps of a white bear’s paws, Tuki’s rough, eager voice, his mother Urda’s severe expression when she discovered our language game. And more recently, Charles’s reassuring hand on my back as we walked through these halls that last time.
There was a pretty room I had called the “game room” in my head, though it was a room I had spent little time in. I called it that because there were various games set up, most especially a handsome echecs set. I had had little interest in echecs back when I lived here. In fact, the first time I had ever played was with Estelle, when I was recovering from the sickness brought about after my calamitous lighting of the candle and being tossed out of the castle into the snow and cold. The Queen Maraboo piece she had given me back then was now safely in my pocket, my good luck charm.
I made my way to the music room. It was empty, and I felt an irrational sense of disappointment. Somehow I had pictured that this was where I would find Charles, playing his flauto. For a moment I even thought I heard a faint strain of a melody, but knew I must be imagining it.
I went through the entire castle twice and found nothing, no sign of Charles. And I could see nothing that wasn’t as I remembered it, with one exception. The red couch in the room where I had eaten most of my meals was missing.
What did it mean? What did any of the troll Jaaloki’s words mean? Had I been so completely wrong?
You may not know that place as well as you thought you did.
I had to be missing something. Or was it that the Troll Queen was playing with me, as Jaaloki had said?
I would go through the whole castle again. And again. Until I figured it out.
Doggedly, I returned to the front hall and began again, room by room, holding my torch up, searching each corner and closet and crevice.
And suddenly a thought struck me. Jaaloki was an Under Huldre. What if there were caverns underneath the castle? I was almost positive there hadn’t been before. I had never found any trapdoor or stairway down to a cellar or underground caves during the year I lived here. But maybe now there was something down below.
I lifted rugs, looked behind paintings and tapestries, opened closets, until finally in the kitchen at the back of a cupboard, I found a small door.
I hadn’t seen it there before, but the kitchen was one place I had not been allowed to go very often, so it was possible I had overlooked this door.
I opened it and peered through. Dimly I could make out a crude set of stone stairs, leading down. Again there was no light, but there were a few of the oil lamps in sconces, and I lit them with my torch. I began to descend.
At first it felt like an ordinary kitchen cellar with a few rooms holding barrels
and shelves for storage. But I came to a tunnel that led beyond those rooms. I followed it and arrived at a place where I could turn left or right. I chose the right turning, and a short while later came to a similar crossroad. I paused, then arbitrarily chose to go left.
It was a rough tunnel but wide and tall enough for me to walk comfortably. There were rooms off the tunnel, and when I illuminated them with my torch, I saw only tumbled rocks and cobwebs in most of them. But occasionally I came to a room with things inside, like piles of old iron bars and broken furniture. At one point I came to one with bleached white bones scattered over its floor. I shuddered, but decided they looked so old and covered with dust that they could not be Charles’s bones.
When I came to a fourth turning point, which offered options to go left or right or straight ahead, I stopped.
It was confusing, so many twists and turns. A maze of tunnels. And it struck me.
“It’s a labyrinth,” I whispered to myself.
I remembered a story Neddy had once told me, an old tale from Gresk. There had been a monster imprisoned at the center of an underground maze of tunnels. The maze had been called a labyrinth, and a hero had come, finding his way through with the help of the king’s daughter and a ball of yarn. He had slain the monster and won the kingdom and the princess’s hand in marriage.
I was terrified that I might get lost in this labyrinth of troll tunnels. Did I remember the turnings I had taken? I thought there had been four, but maybe it was more. I turned and began to make my way back. Yes, there was the room with the bleached bones. And the broken furniture. But had I passed this room with piles of decaying tapestries? My heart started beating fast. Slow down, I told myself. The air was so dead and still. Four turnings, I breathed. I should have been back to the beginning by now.
I retreated to the last turning and took a different direction. This time the room on the left with wooden barrels looked familiar. And even better, I thought I saw light ahead.
