“What was it?”
He looked up. “Birds. Two of them.”
They were perched on the sill above him; the two ravens from the wood. Their eyes followed every movement.
Steinar gripped the thorshammer at his neck. “This is a place of sorcery, or worse. Let’s get out, man. While we can!”
But Helgi snatched the torch from his hand and turned, holding it up. Then he stopped, stock-still.
Jessa’s fingers clenched on the frozen reins.
Before them, the door was opening.
It was tugged open, jerking and grating against the stones as if the wood was swollen.
Firelight streamed out, as if a slot had opened in a dark lantern. It fell on their faces, glinted in the horses’ eyes. A scatter of snow falling through it turned red as blood.
A man stood there. He was a giant; his head reached the lintel of the door, and though he was wrapped in furs and patched cloaks, they saw his strength. His face was flushed with the fire’s heat; his beard and hair dark red, cut close.
Helgi gripped his knife, looking suddenly small and pale on the cold steps. The big man gave him a glance, then pushed him aside and shouldered his way down among the horses. He went straight to Jessa. She could feel the warmth of the fire glowing from him as he gripped her horse’s mane.
“You’re late, Jessa,” he said. “A good soup is almost spoiled.”
Nine
Greetings to the host. The guest has arrived.
In which seat shall he sit?
The chair was too big for her, and had once been covered with some embroidery; the firelight glimmered on a patch of trees and a threadbare reindeer. She snuggled back and sipped the soup. It was so hot it scorched her tongue.
They were in a small room, very dark. There was another ragged chair, a table, and in a corner some empty shelves, their shadows jerking in the firelight. By the hearth a stack of cut logs oozed dampness. The window was boarded up, and some torn shreds of green cloth were nailed across it to keep out drafts.
Jessa’s knees were hot; she edged back. Her coat was dripping into a puddle on the floor.
On the table lay two fishing spears and a knife, thrust deep into the timber. Thorkil was trying to pull it out, but couldn’t.
“That’s another thing,” he said, tapping the empty platter. “Enough food for six. Everything prepared. How did he know?”
She shook her head.
Outside, voices approached; the door shuddered open. The big man, Brochael, came in, and Helgi trailed behind him, glancing quickly into the shadows. They had all done that. No one forgot that the creature was here, somewhere.
“We’re going, Jessa,” Helgi said quickly.
She stared at him. “Tonight?”
He shrugged unhappily. “You’ve seen. They won’t stay here. To be frank, neither will I. There’s too much strangeness in this place.” She nodded, wordless.
“I’m just sorry to have to leave you both here.”
“Don’t be.” Brochael planted himself in front of the blaze. “They’ll be safer here than in any hold of Gudrun’s.”
Helgi gave her a wan smile and went to the door. Suddenly Jessa wanted to go with him; she leaped up, spilling the soup, but he caught her eye and she stopped.
“Good luck,” he said. Then he went and closed the door.
In the sudden silence they heard the clink of harness, the muffled scrape of a hoof in snow. After that there was only the wind, howling over the sills and under the doors into all the empty rooms and spaces of the hall.
Brochael sat down. He cleared the table with one sweep of his arm, tugged out the knife and thrust it in his belt, and leaned both elbows on the bare wood. “Now. I already know your names and I’m sure you can guess mine. I am Brochael Gunnarsson, of Hartfell. I knew your fathers, a long time ago. I also know that Ragnar has sent you here into exile.”
“How do you know?” Jessa demanded. “How could you?”
Brochael took down a candle and lit it. “I was told,” he said. There was something in his voice that puzzled her, but she was too tired to think about it now.
She took the letter out of her inner pocket and held it out.
“Were you told about this?”
He took it, looked at her a moment, then put the candle down and tugged open the knots that held the sealskin. A square of parchment fell out; he unfolded it on the table, spreading it flat with his big hands.
They all leaned over it. Spindly brown letters were marked on the rough vellum. Brochael fingered them. “It’s brief enough.”
He read it aloud. “‘From Ragnar, Jarl, to Brochael Gunnarsson, this warning. When I die she will come for the creature. It may be to kill, or it may be for some reason of her own. Take him south, out of these lands. I would not have him suffer as I have suffered.’”
There was silence. Then Brochael folded the parchment. “Does he think I don’t know?” he said roughly. He picked up the candle.
“Come with me,” he said. “All this gossip can wait until morning.”
He led them to a thick curtain in one corner and pulled it back. Beyond it was the usual sleeping booth—it was well paneled in wood, the blankets patched and coarse. “The other is next to it.” Brochael put the candle down. “Not the silks of the Jarlshold, but just as warm. Sleep well, for as long as you like. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Where do you sleep?” Thorkil asked, looking at the damp blanket with obvious distaste.
“Elsewhere.” Suddenly the big man turned, his shadow huge in the flame light. “The door will be locked—don’t let that alarm you. If you hear anything—voices, movements—far off in the building, ignore it. You are safe here. No one can get in.”
There was a cold silence.
“Good night,” Brochael said calmly.
The curtain rustled. A moment later the key grated in the lock. “Well,” Thorkil muttered after a moment. “It’s almost as bad as I thought. Dust, fleas, rats.” He rubbed at the soiled red cloth of his jerkin and went off to find his own sleeping place.
Wearily Jessa lay down in her clothes and wrapped herself in the rough, damp-smelling blankets. “But I didn’t expect Brochael,” she muttered quietly.
“What?”
There was no answer. When Thorkil came back and opened the curtain she was already asleep. He watched her for a moment, then reached out and snuffed the candle, and the flames in the eyes of the serpent on his wrist went out.
Jessa threw two crumbling squares of peat on the fire and chewed the stale bannock that seemed to be breakfast. She watched Thorkil stagger in with the empty bucket and drop it with a clang.
“That water froze as I threw it out.” He sat down and looked at her. “We didn’t get many answers last night. No one could have got here before us, could they?”
She was thinking of the peddler. “I don’t know. Who would?”
“And have you seen this?” He tapped the slab of goat’s cheese they had found.
“Cheese,” Jessa said drily.
“Yes, but where did it come from? Where are the goats?”
That surprised her. She shook her head, thinking of the empty outbuildings and the untrodden snow. “Perhaps in some building at the back—”
“They’d freeze. And Kari. Where’s he?”
Jessa swallowed some crumbs. “I don’t want to know that.” She wiped her hand in her skirt. “Locked in some room, I suppose.”
A scrape interrupted them; the key turned and Brochael ducked in under the low doorway. He had snow in his hair. He grinned at them cheerfully. “Awake! Sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
They watched him stand in front of the fire, his clothes steaming.
Thorkil glanced at Jessa. “Look,” he said. “Are we prisoners here? Can we go anywhere we want to?”
Brochael gave a gruff laugh. “We’re all prisoners, lad, but I’m not your keeper, if that’s what you mean. But there’s not much to see here. Empty rooms and snow.”