Even as she said it, the whistling stopped.
Turning back, they saw the man on his feet; he faced the prison door doubtfully. “What’s going on in there?”
“Get ready,” Jessa breathed.
He rattled the lock and chain. There was no window to see through and no answer from inside.
The keeper glanced down the long passage nervously. Then he drew out the key and unlocked the door, pulling the chain clear, but even as he pushed the door wide, someone came and shoved him hard from behind, pitching him into the dirty straw of the cell on his face. A rusty sword jabbed the back of his neck.
“Stay there! Don’t move!”
Jessa pulled off her hood and grinned at the prisoners.
“Girl,” Brochael said, already up on his knees, “you’re a beautiful sight for someone dead three days. Around his neck, look, there in the pouch.”
She had the keys out quickly and unlocked the big man’s chains first, and he stood up and stamped and flung his arms about. “Thorsteeth. Another night in here would have finished me.”
Unlocking Kari’s wrists, she muttered, “How is Wulfgar?”
“We don’t know,” he said. “Everything about Wulfgar is dark to me. Jessa, what happened out there?”
She helped him up; the chain had left red welts on his white skin. As she gripped his wrists, her fingers touched the snakeskin knot; for a moment a jolt, a crackle like lightning jerked her fingers wide. She stared at him, astonished. Then she said, “Vidar tried to murder him. Vidar! There was no creature.”
“What!”
Appalled, Brochael caught her arm.
“It’s true. I saw it.”
“Gods!” For a moment he was silent, taking it in; then he grabbed Kari’s shoulder. “Can you walk?”
“Yes…”
“Right, now listen to me. If we stay here we’re finished. There’s no safety if Vidar thinks we know. Have you got horses, Jessa?”
“Two.”
“We’ll steal more.” He glanced over at the thrall chaining the keeper firmly to the wall. “Is he yours?”
“No, he’s a friend. Hakon.”
Hakon came over; Brochael nodded at him. “All the better. Come on, now. Be silent.”
“No. Wait.”
They all looked at Kari; he looked at Jessa. Then he said, “If we leave Wulfgar here, Vidar will kill him secretly. Then Vidar will be Jarl and no one will be able to stop him. You have to tell them, Jessa, all the men of the hold. You have to tell them what you saw.”
“What if they don’t believe me?”
His pale eyes widened. “Jessa, you’re alive! That shows he’s been lying. We have to do it; we’ve no choice.”
Reluctantly she nodded.
Brochael swore, but Kari silenced him with a look.
“Trust me. They’ll be in the hall.”
Twenty-Seven
He was my closest counselor,
he was keeper of my thoughts.
Not many of them had been sleeping; there was too much anxiety for that, too much fear of what might be prowling outside. But when they saw Kari, all the men in the hall sat still and stared with astonishment. Some of them, already wrapped in blankets for the night, rolled over to see why the silence had fallen.
Behind him, the others waited, Brochael with the prison keeper’s sword, Jessa under her dark hood.
For a moment Vidar seemed lost for words. Then he yelled, “Take him back!”
No one seemed ready to obey. Kari looked tense, dangerous. He said, “This time no one touches me, Vidar, or the pain will be real, I promise you.”
He walked forward into the firelight, a slight figure in dark clothes, his hair glinting. At his back Brochael seemed huge.
One of the ravens churred quietly in the roof; men glanced up, uneasy.
“What do you want?” Vidar fumed. “How did you get out?”
Kari ignored him. Turning to the men, he said, “Some of you know me—those that are Wulfgar’s men. Here’s someone else you know.”
Jessa tugged off her hood. “So I’m dead, am I, Vidar?” she murmured.
She enjoyed that moment immensely. The flicker of astonishment that opened his face to her told her all she wanted to know. The thief had lied, even to him.
The men were standing now, silent. Some of them picked up weapons.
She raised her voice. “Listen to me, holders. There was no creature on that hunt—we never even saw it. This man,” and she pointed to him with a sudden fury that made her finger shake, “this man stabbed Wulfgar Osricsson in the back. I saw him.”
The hall rang with noise. Among it Vidar stood still, his face set.
“Liar!” he said.
“It’s true. He would have killed me too if he could—or rather that sniveling little wretch over there would have.”
Heads turned toward the thief. Jessa had spotted him at once, hunched up over a bowl of soup by the fire. Now he was gawping at her, then at Vidar. The priest flashed him a look of pure hatred, then whirled back. Facing the men, he raised his hands, palms out.
“You know I would never move against Wulfgar!”
“Not even to be Jarl!” Brochael sneered. “You men!” he roared. “You, Mord Signi, and Guthlac, and the rest of you. You know Jessa. Who would you rather believe? She even saw the knife go in!”
“They’re trying to snare you in rune magic, in some sort of spell!” Vidar hadn’t given up, but the scar stood out against his flushed skin. “Don’t you see, the Snow-walker is moving your minds! He can do that. How do you know that’s Jessa! I saw her dead in the moss—I brought you her coat, slashed to pieces! This is some fetch, some tangle of evil he’s conjured....”
It was then he realized they were not even looking at him. They were staring, all of them, over his shoulder. Slowly he too turned his head.
Wulfgar was standing on the steps behind him.
The Jarl was white-faced, his dark hair tousled. Skapti hung anxiously at his side, as if to steady him should he stagger, but Wulfgar just stood there, letting the blustering echoes drift away into silence.
Jessa felt a great wave of delight and relief surge inside her. The men shouted, whooped, murmured into stillness, but Wulfgar only waited, his eyes on Vidar, unsmiling.
Then, painfully, he came down the steps and faced the priest. Their faces were masks of flame and shadow.
“It seems I made a mistake,” the Jarl said quietly. “I thought there was only one evil thing among us. But all the time there were two. As well as the witch’s sending there was yours, and yours is worse. Lies. Treachery. Making me doubt my own friends. A net of slander spun over my own hold. Ambition. And murder, almost.”
Vidar stumbled back one step. The men closed on him quickly, but Wulfgar stood still.
“And the worst thing is that I thought you were my friend, my adviser. We laughed together, hunted, ate together. I liked you, Vidar. And all the time that was a mask, was it? All that time you were plotting my death, plotting against all of us. Was any of it real? Any of it?”
For a moment the priest went to speak; then his lips closed. Wulfgar gave him a hard, bitter look.
“Not a good answer.”
He turned away deliberately.
Vidar took one step forward quickly; then he screamed in pain, flung down the knife, and crumpled over his blackened hand, moaning and cursing.
On the floor the hilt smoked. The stench of burning rose from it.
Three men grabbed the priest and hauled him up.
Wulfgar, startled, glanced at Kari. “Thank you. From what Skapti tells me, you owed him that.”
Kari nodded. He went over to the priest. “But you’re wrong about one thing, Wulfgar. This man has no power of his own. I think this was Gudrun’s doing too, in a way. Remember what she said to me. No one will trust you, she said. She sent this, just as she sent the other thing.”
He came forward. Vidar clutched his burned hand warily and tried to back away, but the men gripped him.
“Have you ever looked at reflections?” Kari asked him quietly. “I don’t have one—mine is in a far-off place, far to the north, beyond the bears and the icebergs, where the world plunges into nothing. That’s where she is, my reflection. Identical, yes, but opposite. Reflections are opposites. One lifts the right hand, the other the left. Haven’t you noticed that?”