“What’s your business?” he asked, after a long stare.
“Messengers,” Helgi said curtly. “From the Jarl Ragnar.”
“To us?”
Helgi hesitated. Then he said, “To Thrasirshall.”
It must have been a great shock, but the man barely showed it. “Can you prove that?”
Helgi took the Jarl’s token from his pocket—a ring, in silver, marked with one rune—and flung it up. The man caught it and looked at it carefully. Then his eyes moved over the ship. Jessa heard the whisper of a sword slowly unsheathing behind her.
“Keep that still!” Helgi hissed without turning.
Quickly the man scrambled down the rocks, soil and pebbles slithering away under his feet. He was a tall, gray man, with a weathered face. “I’m not alone. There are many of us, as you’ll guess, so I advise you, friend with the sword, to hold your hand. Your token, master.”
The silver ring was dropped into Helgi’s hand. Steinar slammed his sword back in its sheath.
“Now,” the man said, “what do you want from us?” There was a change in his voice; Helgi heard it too, and gave a wry smile. “Your hospitality, chieftain, for a few nights. Also safe haven for the ship and the men left with her. Most important, sleds, dogs, and if you have them, horses for those of us going on to the hall. This will all be paid for on our return.”
“Your return!” The man raised an eyebrow. “Master, you’ll pay for it before you go. No one takes that road and returns.”
Suddenly he turned and shouted. Men seemed to spring up, a silent crop from the rocks. There were some young lads, but most were older like their leader; hard, coarse-looking men, but strong, and probably handy, Jessa thought, with those axs and spears. They came down and stared at the strangers, especially Jessa and Thorkil. A few women leaned in the doors of the houses.
“Come with me.” The tall man led Jessa, Thorkil, and Helgi to a small hall, warm and dark inside, with a good fire blazing in the hearth.
“Now,” he said, sitting down. “Dogs and sleds we have aplenty, but the way you wish to take is far too treacherous for sleds. You’ll need horses. And those are precious, this far north.”
“But you have them?”
“For the right price.” As he spoke, a few other men came in. Warmed wine was served out by a thin woman with untidy hair. Jessa sipped hers thankfully.
“My name is Sigmund—they call me Graycloak,” the man added.
“You are the chieftain?”
The man looked at him over his cup. “Indeed no. We have no chieftains here, master; no one man better than the others. I am elected to speak. We still do that here.”
Helgi frowned. “The Jarl—”
“Did I mention the Jarl?” Sigmund said at once, looking around with pretended surprise. The other men laughed.
Helgi looked uneasy. “What price, then, for these horses?”
“First, my duty as a host. This young lady must be looked after.”
He called one of the girls over and spoke to her quietly. Then she came up to Jessa. “Come with me,” she said with a shy smile.
As she followed, Jessa saw Helgi’s anxious look and grinned at him. Then the door closed between them.
Warm water was wonderful after so long without it, and clean clothes made her feel ten times better. The girl looked on curiously, fingering a brooch.
“This is nice. Did you get it at the Jarlshold?”
“No.”
“Is the Jarlshold splendid? And the Snow-walker, Gudrun, is she as evil as they say?”
“Yes, she is,” Jessa said absently as she laced her boots. “She’s also very powerful. I’d be careful what you say, even here.”
“Oh, we are protected from her here.”
Jessa looked up. “Protected?”
“Yes.” The girl came and sat on a bright tapestry stool next to her. Her fingers picked absently at the stitches. “We knew you were coming.”
Jessa was astonished. Then she thought of the peddler.
“How did you know?”
“Through the runes. And my father has given me a message for you. If you are really prisoners of those men, you and the boy, then you must tell me. We will release you.”
Jessa’s mind was working quickly. “Has the peddler arranged this?”
The girl looked puzzled. “What peddler?”
“Never mind.... How could you release us?”
“The crew would be killed. No one would be surprised if they never went back. Longships are often lost in storms. And no news ever comes out of Thrasirshall. The Jarl would never know if you’d got there or not.”
It was all so sudden. Jessa thought for a while. The peddler could never have gotten here before them. And if these people knew “by the runes,” that meant sorcery.
“How do we know it’s not a trap?” she said at last. “Why help us?”
The girl shrugged. “Because of your father.”
Jessa got up and wandered over to the fire. So that was it. They were Wulfings’ men. She thought about the promise she had made the peddler—that stupid promise!—and then about the black, monstrous building somewhere far out there in the snow. Not to have to go there, all that long journey. But he had seemed so sure. And Gudrun—would she really be fooled?
“What do you mean, that you’re protected here?” She turned quickly. “What protects you? Is it sorcery?”
The girl’s black eyes looked up at her. “The shamanka does it. When Gudrun looks at us here, she sees only mist. The shamanka knew you were coming.”
“Can I speak to her?”
The girl thought, then nodded. “Very well. Tonight. I’ll arrange it.”
“Good. And tell your father”—she paused—“that I thank him, but he must do nothing. Not yet.”
Again the girl nodded.
“And you can keep the brooch, too,” Jessa said, “if you like.”
Seven
Now is answered what you ask of the runes.
Jessa woke suddenly, her eyes wide. In the darkness someone was crouching next to her; a hand was gripping her shoulder tight.
“Come with me,” the girl’s voice whispered in her ear.
With a sigh Jessa heaved off the warm covers, slipped on her coat and soft leather boots. Then she followed, silently, through the swinging curtain of the booth.
It was dark in the hall, and smelled of ale and meat. The fire had smoldered low, and some of the oarsmen lying in the corners snored. Carefully the girls slipped between them. One dog raised its head and watched. As they passed Thorkil’s booth, Jessa paused, but the girl shook her head. “Only you. No one else.”
At the door Helgi’s guard was breathing heavily, slumped against the wall. All at once Jessa realized that the men had been drugged—no trained warrior would sleep as heavily as this. She stepped over him thoughtfully.
Outside, the world was black. Water lapped against the shingle far off, and up on a hill a breeze rustled stiff branches. The girl led Jessa between the houses to one by itself at the edge of the settlement, and as they walked, their feet splintered the puddles on the open ground. Above them the sky suddenly rippled and broke into light. Looking up, Jessa saw the eerie flicker of the aurora above the trees; a green and gold and blue haze over the stars, its gauzy shape flowing and rippling like a curtain.
“Surt’s blaze,” the girl remarked. “The poets would say they were feasting in Gianthome.”
Jessa nodded, caught in the strange light that made the snow glimmer. Then she ducked her head and followed the girl into the low doorway.
Inside, it was dim and smoky; at the far end she could see someone sitting over the fire. She fumbled forward slowly, and sat on an empty stool. The room was stiflingly warm; around her the walls were hung with thick tapestries, dim woven webs of gods and giants, trolls and strange creatures.
Opposite her sat an aged woman, her face wizened and yellow. Her thin hair was braided into intricate knots and plaits; amulets and luckstones were hung and threaded among her clothes. She wore a stiff cloak sewn with birds’ feathers, glossy in the dimness. As Jessa watched, the old woman’s hand, its skin dried tight over the knuckles, drifted among the stones on the table in front of her, moving one, turning another over—small, flat pebbles, each marked with its own black rune.