But now Brochael would not stop. He hurried them on over one ridge and another, perilously outlined against the black horizon. They spent part of the night in a cave high up on a cliffside—a chilly crack in the rocks so cold that they had to risk a fire of wet wood. It smoked so much they could hardly breathe. Brochael was anxious, Thorkil silent and morose. Each of them had a weapon to hand except Kari, who slept silently and completely on the hard floor, with the two birds sitting hunched by his side.
They left the cave long before it was light and climbed up over the highest crags and passes, until at last they stood looking down on a distant green country cracked open by a great fjord of blue water.
“Skolkafjord,” Brochael said, easing the weight on his back. “We’ve done well.”
The wind roared in their ears, whipping Jessa’s hair out of her hood. She watched Kari as he stared with delight at the snowless country, at the expanse of water and the distant glimmering sea. Brochael watched him too, grinning, but Thorkil stood slightly apart, looking back.
Coming down was easier. Soon they came to country Brochael recognized: thin woodlands where the snow was softer, and where small, swift streams bubbled and leaped downhill. By midafternoon they reached the place he had called the hall of the Wulfings.
It rose among the trees ahead of them as they came down the valley of a swift stream—a ruin without a roof and with the walls broken and blackened. Charred timbers rose from tangles of briar and bramble, and openings that had once been doors and windows were choked with black, tangled stems. Thorkil touched a window shutter that hung from one hinge; it slithered and fell with a crash that sent echoes through the wood.
Forcing his way through, Brochael led them in.
Even now they could see where the great hall had been; the large square hearth in the center was still black with ashes, its stones fire-marked under the pine sapling that grew out of it. Jessa threw down her pack and sat on a stone; from the charred ash she pulled a half-burned wooden spoon, its handle carved with a zigzag line.
“What happened here?”
“This was Wulfings’ land,” Brochael said. “The Jarl’s men would have cleared it, and then burned it.”
With a squawk and a flap a raven landed on the high crumbling wall. Thorkil looked up at it. “Is it safe?”
Brochael handed out broken bannocks. “Safe as anywhere—it’s probably been long forgotten.” Jessa noticed his glance at Kari; the boy nodded slightly.
“That witch can probably see us anyway,” he went on cheerfully, stretching out his legs.
They found a sheltered place under the wall and made it as comfortable as they could, tugging out the brambles and flattening the ground. But there could be no fire until after dark, and even then it might not be wise. Jessa and Kari scrambled down to the stream for water. As he bent over it, she saw him pause, and then squat slowly. He watched the moving water with a strange fixity, always one spot, though Jessa could see nothing but the brown stream over its stones.
After a moment she asked, “What do you see?”
Slowly he put his hand out and spread it flat on the surface, letting the icy stream well around his fingers. Then he pulled them out and let them drip. “Nothing.”
Absently he filled the bowl, and she knew he was going to ask her something. She was right.
“You met her, didn’t you, in the Jarlshold?”
“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.”