Snow-Walker (11 page)

“How did you do it?” she asked.

“I don't know.” His eyes met hers calmly. “It wasn't easy—for a moment he saw you. I had to make him believe that he was wrong. That there was nothing there.”

“Like the door in the hall?”

“Yes.”

She turned and looked out at the coming sun lighting the clouds and the white mountains. “Is it the runes, the magic the old woman has? Is that the same?”

He shrugged. “I don't know any runes. This is in me, I haven't learned it.” He looked over at the lake. “I've never seen so much frozen water like that. It has a strange beauty....”

“Has it?” Jessa asked. “It tastes foul.”

They ate some meat and smoked fish and drank the brackish water. Then Brochael outlined his plans.

“We'll head directly south, keeping near the line of the road, but staying in the forests as far as possible. We'll be harder to follow there; we might even risk a fire at night.”

“What if they have dogs?” Jessa asked.

“They don't. We would have seen them by now. It will be rough country, but if we move quickly we could be at Morthrafell in two days, where the river called Skolka cuts through the mountains down to Skolkafjord and the sea.” He glanced at Kari. “We can wait at the hall of the Wulfings, as arranged.”

“Wait for who?” Thorkil asked.

Ignoring him, Brochael pulled the pack onto his back and stood up. “Now, take care. They may still be about.”

It took them all morning to cross the open moor, going cautiously over the boggy, treacherous ground. Finally the land rose a little, and they came into the forest, scattering a herd of elk.

Here the snow was thin; ice glistened and hung from the dark branches. They moved easily through the scattered trees, and as the sun climbed, it became warmer. A few birds sang, far down in the aisles of the wood.

Jessa tried to speak to Thorkil but he was never near her. He kept near Kari, always talking and asking questions that Kari rarely answered. But when they stopped to eat at midday, Jessa saw her chance. Pulling Thorkil away, she shoved him hard against a tree trunk.

“What were you thinking of?” she snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“You know! You called out!”

“To you.”

“But you didn't see me until after!”

He looked at her. His eyes were blue and clear; there was a hard look in them that was new. “You're wrong, Jessa. I called you. Who else would I have called?”

She was silenced. She wanted to say “the horseman” but it would be wrong; it would be foolish. But that was what was in her mind.

He pushed past her and went back to the others. She stared after him. It was unthinkable that he should betray them. Why should he? He hated Gudrun.

All afternoon the forest went on endlessly, full of the piping of invisible birds. They traveled along tracks and winding paths, always keeping the sun on their right as it sank among clouds and vapor. Once Kari cried out; Brochael raced back. “What is it?”

The boy stood stock-still, his face white. “She spoke to me. She knows where we are. She has a hand on us, gripping us tight.” He looked up at Brochael; Jesssa saw a strange glance pass between them.

After that they moved more carefully. Twice the ravens karked a warning, and they plunged off the path, hiding in scrub and spiny bushes, but no one passed. Once, far off in the forest, Jessa thought she heard voices and the jingle of harness, but it was so distant she could not be sure.

At sunset they were still traveling over the high, bare passes of the hills. Jessa was desperately tired; she stumbled and her ears ached with the cold. She longed for shelter and hot food.

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.

“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.”

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.