She was silent. She knew he was right.
“And you!” the big man growled fiercely. “You knew about this ring, but you said nothing!”
She felt the heat rise in her neck and face. “I thought it was just his greed. I didn’t think it was harmful....”
But it wasn’t true. She was furious with herself because she had doubted Thorkil and she had been right.
Kari was watching her closely. “There were two. You threw yours into the sea,” he said suddenly.
She shrugged, not bothering to ask how he knew. She felt ashamed and bitter.
“The ring explains a lot,” Kari said after a while. “That pain he had—it was real enough, but she made him feel it. She’s done that to me … long ago. It was to slow us down. And then it explains the red cloth.”
“What cloth?”
Kari put his hand into the pack at his side and pulled out a few frayed strips of cloth; a rich, red fabric with skeins of gold woven through it.
“Recognize it?”
“It’s Thorkil’s tunic.”
“He’s been dropping bits of it,” Brochael muttered, flinging the bloody water from the bowl into the bushes. “Stabbing pieces onto thorns, snapping branches. He was leaving a clear trail for them.”
She was aghast. “But he hates her!”
“Even so. She moved his will; she can do that. He’ll hate her even more after this.”
“Brochael found these at first by accident. Then I told the birds to pick them up.” Kari eased his arm back into his shirt. “They like bright things. They brought them to me.”
Jessa looked out into the black forest. So this was why he had stood up that morning by the lake—so that the horseman would see him and know. She frowned, thinking of it. All this time the witch had held him by the wrist, moved him like a piece in a game.
“Do you think he knows,” she said. “Does he understand what he’s been doing?”
But Kari was staring across the ruined hall. “Brochael…”
“I know. I heard it.” The big man already had the ax in his hands; it glinted in the dark.
Jessa strained her ears to catch any sound, but the forest outside the wall seemed utterly still, the breeze barely moving the branches.
Then a twig cracked.
Brochael’s fingers closed slowly on the wooden shaft.
Someone was coming, rustling through the leaves. She could hear it now even after the thudding of her heart, the pliant branches of alder and blackthorn whipping back into place.
Brochael crouched lower. “Keep still,” he breathed, “and do nothing.” She saw movement in the broken doorway of the hall; a deeper shadow in the shadows. It paused in the tangle of branch and stone. Then, to her astonishment, it spoke.
“You can put that ax away, Brochael.”
The voice was familiar, a sly, amused tone. Brochael gave a great guffaw of laughter, and even Kari smiled.
“You rogue,” the big man roared, standing up. “Come in here and let us see you.”
A thin shape detached itself from the shadows and pushed through the bushes. Brochael tossed down the ax and gripped him by both shoulders.
“Not so hard,” the man laughed.
“You won’t snap. You’re early—we hadn’t expected you yet.”
Jessa looked at Kari in astonishment. “It’s the peddler!”
“What peddler?”
The peddler grinned at her. “That’s how she saw me last, spellmaster. I was flinging a few herbs in the Jarl’s fire. A certain outlaw escaped at the time.”
“And then at Wormshold,” Jessa muttered.
“Indeed. Where you were so unwilling to take the sea path, the whales’ way, the house of the skerries. Frightened of what was waiting in the grim hall.” He winked at Kari. “She was so urgent I almost told her.”
“You’re a poet,” Jessa said with sudden understanding. She knew now why they had not wanted her to escape.
Brochael laughed. “Of course he is. You’ve heard of Skapti Arnsson? He was the Wulfings’ skald. Talks in riddles and cryptic lines.” He pounded the man on the shoulder. “A peddler of words!”
The skald glanced down at Thorkil, who was lying still against the wall. “What happened to that one?”
“She had hold of him,” Brochael said tersely. “A sorcery, in the shape of a silver ring.”
The skald whistled. Then he said, “We heard Ragnar was dead two days ago. We’ve traveled west since then, mostly by night. The forests are full of the troll wife’s men.”
“Is Wulfgar with you?” Kari asked.
“Not far off.”
“Then why doesn’t he come?”
The skald grinned. “He’s waiting for the signal. And he’s wary of you, ravenmaster. I told him you were no monster, but the story sticks. Shall I call him?”
Kari nodded, pulling his coat about him. He looked paler in the darkness; the thin moon rising over the branches glinted on his hair. The skald went out into the wood. They heard a swish of branches, the low murmur of voices. Then he came back, followed by the man Jessa had seen in the Jarlshold, the lithe, dark-haired man in the leather coat. He came forward quickly, his eyes glancing over Brochael and herself until he came to Kari, and he stopped. They stood staring at each other, one pale and one dark.
Wulfgar spoke first. “She’s an accomplished liar,” he said almost admiringly. “You have all her looks.”
Kari looked down absently and then gazed at Wulfgar. “Not her heart,” he said.
Wulfgar nodded slowly. “And your powers—these things the skald told me about—are they as great as hers? Will you use them against her?”
One of the ravens fell from the trees with a shriek that startled them all, even Brochael. It perched on the branch above Kari, its eyes glinting. He held his hand up to it and let it peck at his finger. “I’ll try. That’s all I can say.”
Wulfgar stared at the bird. “Then I suppose that will have to do.”
Sixteen
Too many eyes are open by day.
Brochael woke Jessa before dawn. As she struggled up she saw Thorkil sitting and talking with Wulfgar. He laughed and waved to her.
“He doesn’t seem to remember anything about last night,” Brochael said quietly. “Best not to speak of it at all.”
“How can he not remember?”
“Who knows. But don’t mention it.”
She nodded. “Is Kari well?”
“Well enough. He’ll carry the scar, that’s all.”
Later, as she rolled her blanket, Thorkil came over. He grinned at her, and she saw that the restraint and silence that had grown on him lately was gone. He was easy, pleased with himself. The old Thorkil.
“Feeling better?” she said, suddenly glad to see him.
He shrugged, surprised. “A bit tired.” He did not mention the missing arm ring, but she saw his fingers restlessly rubbing at the white wrinkled scar that twisted about his wrist. It had not faded in the night; she wondered now if it ever would. They’ll both carry scars, she thought.
All morning they moved swiftly on through the trees, downhill, with Wulfgar scouting ahead and Brochael, like a great shadow at Kari’s shoulder, keeping guard at the back. The forest was quiet, in an end-of-winter hush, brushed at its edges by a dusting of green, the tight furled buds barely splitting, the new growth of pines and firs soft and fresh among the dark needles.
When the forest ended they saw a low green valley before them, with a swift river running through it.
“This is the Skolka,” Brochael said. “Beyond it, up in those rocks, is the Jarl’s Gate, the pass down into the Mjornir district, where the Jarlshold is.”
Jessa looked up at the narrow peaks. “I can’t see any pass.”
“It’s narrow,” Wulfgar said. “Barely a thread between the rocks. A few weeks ago it would still have been blocked with snow.”
“And how do we cross the river?” Thorkil wondered.
Brochael looked at Wulfgar. “There’s a ford—”