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“Should we not put him in the bedroom?” she asked Huginn. “There’ll be a lot of commotion out here.”

“He needs commotion, Hekla. He’s gone soft in the head. If I didn’t know better I’d say he got carried off by the hidden folk. He wasn’t too far from the Moss-Stone. More likely somebody left him to die, part of a feud. I’ll get a story out of it, you watch.”

“Just so long as it doesn’t keep you from meeting the chieftains. Winter’s harsh this year. You’ll have trouble traveling.”

“Ah, fuss and fuss! Give me a few minutes with each and I’ll win them over.”

“It’s not a small matter, Huginn Sharpspear, asking them to support your patrons. You need to be on your way, to have support for the Spring Assembly. Otherwise your position will be weak come summer and the Althing—”

“Plans and plans! Man is the sword, but woman is the hand that swings it. All will be well, Hekla. My benefactors will see to it. But let’s speak no more of that. The boy’s reviving.”

It was true. Innocence felt stronger; indeed he felt aquiver from all the food. He tried to rise, but Hekla scolded him back down.

“I feel fine,” he protested.

“Sometimes people get wobbly after a spell like this,” Hekla said. “You stay put.” She asked Huginn’s favorite questions, and so he had to repeat many things about his origins. It was too late to take back “Innocence,” and he thought it best not to be too detailed about his experiences with the uldra. Nevertheless, he couldn’t think of a better explanation for how he’d gotten there. So in the end he said, “I don’t know what happened. I went to bed in Fiskegard and woke up here, near a huge boulder.”

“That settles it. The hidden folk got you. Stories say, sometimes they just grab a person and let him go, like cats toying with mice.”

“So I’m still in the Bladed Isles?”

“That’s an outlander name for Kantenjord, but yes. You’re in Oxiland.”

Innocence tried to remember what Freidar and Nan had said of that island. “Volcanoes. Plains. Wind. Farmers and ranchers. You came from the other islands so that no king or chieftain could rule over you. You have a council, the Althing, that makes decisions.”

“My,” Hekla said, “someone is book-learned. You might use this one when arguing the law, Huginn.”

“Book-learned maybe, but not clever. Not if he was out on the plains like that.”

“The uldra got him.”

“Indeed?” Huginn sounded skeptical, but he added, “You’ll have much to tell me, lad.”

“I don’t remember anything,” Innocence said.

“That sometimes happens too,” Hekla said.

“And sometimes,” Huginn said, “inconvenient people are left to die by unscrupulous people. If you remember anything, you should tell us. I am trained in the law and have won many cases. If you have enemies, they too must submit to the law.”

“Huginn Sharpspear!” Hekla said. “Can’t you see he needs rest, not your antics?” Huginn made a dismissive gesture and walked back toward the entrance. Innocence made to follow him, though he still felt weak.

“Rest, boy.” Hekla pushed him back down. Even though there were young people about (Innocence could sense them sneaking peeks at him when their chores brought them near) she did not seem particularly motherly. It was strange that Nan, with no children in her life, had been so gentle, while Hekla, with a whole band of them, seemed brusque and matter-of-fact. And yet. He owed Hekla, and especially Huginn, his life.

“Thank you,” he said, resigning himself to the prison of blankets. “I know I could have died.”

“Ah,” Hekla said, “then you are becoming less of an innocent, Innocence. We pride ourselves on strength in Oxiland, but only a fool goes out there underdressed.”

“Wait . . .” He hesitated, fearing a foolish question. “I know the name Huginn Sharpspear. Is he named after the author of the
Elder
and
Younger Sagas
?”

“Ha! That would amuse him. He is the author of the
Elder
and
Younger Sagas
.”

“What? What is the year and day?”

She frowned. “It is the hundred and tenth year since the first Althing. The eleventh year since Princess Corinna of Soderland became queen in all but name. The year 1096 in the Eldshore calendar. The third day of Yulemonth. Why do you ask?”

“I’m relieved it’s 1096. But last I knew it was the thirteenth day of Frostmonth. Over half a month ago.”

“It’s said that time is twisted in the realms of the hidden folk. I think that’s what became of you, lad, though Huginn dislikes the idea.”

“There’s another thing. I thought I might have traveled back into history. I just assumed Huginn Sharpspear must be long dead.”

She smiled. “No, though he’d enjoy the notion. He is a born talker, that one. Talked me into many things as well. He can lead a farm, or a foamreaving band, but his great gift is arguing the law. And yet I think he’s his truest self when he makes tales. His greatest fame is based on the sagas he tells from these parts, stories from these, our family’s lands . . . Moss-Stone included. Yet he rejects anything with a hint of the otherworldly, always prefers the cold, human explanation.”

“I heard that!” Huginn bellowed from where he stood directing farmhands near the door. “I disagree, Hekla. Human explanations are hot and bloody, and rarely will supernatural beings improve on the drama to be found there.”

“Yet, you put your share of omens, magic swords, and monsters in your tales.”

“One must give the people what they want.” Huginn took his farm business outside.

Hekla shook her head. “A changeable, distractible man. He has always needed a woman to keep him from wandering off a cliff. Even at the brink of his great triumph.”

It made Innocence uncomfortable to be this stranger’s confidant. He tried to change the subject. “I thank you for your hospitality. I’ll travel as soon as I can.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps. You bear watching.” She sighed. “Men and boys and your foolishness. Never admitting weakness. Where will you go?”

“I need to return to Fiskegard.” But he doubted it as he said it. Originally he’d only planned to stay with Freidar and Nan until he’d mastered enough Kantentongue and earned enough coin to venture out on his own. He’d supposed he would seek out Deadfall and try to puzzle out his power.

“You and Huginn seem to know many things,” he said. “Have you heard any rumors of strange flying things in the sky?”

Hekla looked at him sharply. “What have you heard about flying things?”

“Uh . . . I’ve heard of carpets that can fly through the sky.”

Hekla relaxed. “No, I’ve heard no such story. Oh, and Huginn isn’t my husband.”

“Oh?” Innocence was shocked. And he was feeling overly confided in, once again.

“He is an old philanderer. He has a wife, far across the island, who will not speak to him—and who could blame her, with all his cheating? She was long gone when I met him. I accept him for all his faults, for I am a fractured soul myself, too wild for any but a wild man. None of the children about here are mine, for I can bear none. But many of them are his.”

Innocence had no idea what to say to all this.

“You have seen very little of the world, have you?”

Hekla’s tone, part compassion, part pity, irritated him. He answered, “I have seen the Dragonstorm at the heart of the Ruby Waste. I have beheld the waterwheels of Loomsberg and the thousand towers of Palmary. I have glimpsed the glittering guts of the Moon Pit and haunted ruin of Annylum, abandoned in the Sandboil. I have circled the spires of Mirabad and the Vault of Heaven in Archaeopolis. I have seen what I have seen.”

Hekla inched back. “I do not know what to make of you. Except this. You must rest.”

She left him then, and his sleep had none of the seductive warmth of his near death, but it was sleep, and he accepted it without battle.

It was decided (not without acrimony) that at first light Huginn would proceed with Innocence to the homestead of one Jokull Loftsson, beside the sea. From there, Innocence could travel by boat to Smokecoast.

“There’s not much of a town at Smokecoast,” Huginn explained in the dark of the morning while Innocence gobbled breakfast. “There’s not much of a town anywhere in Oxiland. But there are many farms in that area, and a good anchorage. You might find a ship. Now, I’m obligated to visit Jokull for the Yule season. But it’s also a political meeting. You’ve said you know your letters?”

“Yes,” Innocence said, between bites of porridge. He also had bacon and the soupy, milky stuff he now knew to be a cheese, called skyr. He gathered this was a prosperous farm.

“Good. You can take notes, a task for which I’ll pay you. You can earn a bit more doing chores after the feasting. That should get you to Smokecoast, where there’ll be plenty of work for a strong back till a ship comes.”

“Thank you.”

The two set off before dawn, fording a river and riding north. Beyond the steading lay snow-dusted brown grass and dark mountains, and it occurred to Innocence this was a realm quite unlike his prior experiences. It did not seem whimsical, like the Peculiar Peaks, nor monumental like the Worldheart Mountains, nor hostile like the Desert of Sanguine Silence. Human habitation had barely scratched it, and where it did the results were not inspiring—like soaring Qushkent or splendid Amberhorn—but homey. Even Fiskegard had presented a soaring grace with its vaulting mountains. Regarding Oxiland was like becoming open to the void, like gazing up into the dark between the stars.

They rode the small shaggy horses of this land, and soon Innocence was envying their coats. For his part he wore a heavy cloak and thick-woven sweater that had made him perspire miserably indoors. Out here he was grateful for them. The wind whistled through the rocks of the plain in a voice that sounded lonely and grieved, and that hit his face like invisible stinging insects. He was glad of the oversized wool mittens Hekla had stuffed on him at the last minute. They made it harder to control the horse whose thick hair he envied, but he’d have trouble with frozen hands too.

Another thing he envied was Huginn’s horsemanship. He’d ridden nothing before but a magic carpet. It was not good practice for horses. The Oxilanders made riding seem easy enough, but his mount sensed a novice and amused herself by tormenting him. Early on, when they traversed a boulder-filled hollow to escape the wind, the horse rambled under an outcropping and knocked Innocence off.

“That was on purpose!” Innocence accused, brushing dust away.

Huginn laughed. “I should have supplied you with stirrups, such as the steppe nomads use.”

Curiosity overcame Innocence’s annoyance as he climbed back on. “You know of them?”

“Do you think us all country bumpkins?” Huginn teased as he led them once again through the tumble. “I was educated at the house of Jokull Loftsson, where we are headed now. There are men more wealthy, and more powerful, than he. But among the high, there is none more learned, and more respected. The uncrowned king of Oxiland we call him, and bear in mind, boy, how we prize our freedom. It takes much to win a title such as that.” He paused, as though seeing something far beyond the plain. “Much indeed.”

“We seem to be taking a very meandering route to this Loftsson.” Innocence was glad to escape the wind, but it did seem peculiar that they’d mostly avoided what passed for roads.

“Ah, for a lowly man this would be a long route, but for a man of station this is a shortcut. Can you untangle my riddle?”

Innocence felt fully occupied keeping warm and staying on a horse, but he forced himself to think. “You don’t want to be seen. Or at least, not identified. Then you’d have to stop and talk.”

“Yes. If we went as the crow flies to every farm between mine and Jokull’s, we’d be an extra day. To reach him by the feast of Saint Kringa, we would have to cut every visit short. All would be offended. This way, no one has anything of me at all, but no inkling that they should have. And no one is offended.”

“But we are exposed to a bitter gale,” Innocence couldn’t help but remark, “with no warm fires in between.”

“You call this a gale? It’s merely a
stinningskaldi
. I’ve seen a
rok
or three that would chill your blood! We won’t have one of those, Swan willing, but we may see an
allhvasst
before we’re done.”

“You are teasing me again, as with the horse.” Innocence adjusted himself, for he and the blanket had begun leaning like a tree scoured by a storm.

“Ha! Come along! We’ll teach you to ride yet, lad, and the fifty words for wind.”