“Not to me.”
“So I’ll want something from you in return. Your service. Not as a thrall,” he added hastily, seeing Hakon’s face, “but as one of my men.”
Hakon stared. Then he rubbed his nose. He knew he was grinning like a fool; Brochael was openly laughing at him. He just couldn’t believe this.
“With one empty hand?”
Wulfgar gave his lazy shrug. “The hands of other men are empty, though they may not seem so.” His eyes darkened for a moment at the memory.
“But it was Kari who saved us,” Hakon said uneasily. “He destroyed the beast.”
“Not destroyed,” Kari said, looking up. “And there were two beasts. The second one we destroyed between us. That one was invisible, and the more dangerous.”
Wulfgar nodded. “I was to blame. I let Vidar persuade me. I’m sorry. I won’t doubt you again.”
Kari almost smiled. “Don’t be so sure. Perhaps you should. A little.” Suddenly he held out his hand to Hakon. “And will you forgive me for what Gudrun did to you?”
For a moment Hakon couldn’t move. The memory of the long years of anguish, the strange terror of that vision of the ice field almost engulfed him. Then he lifted his hand and clasped Kari’s.
The Snow-walker’s grip was narrow and cool; it tingled his flesh. Hakon saw the others grinning at him, Jessa was laughing with her fingers over her lips, and he couldn’t see why until he looked down at his hand and saw that it was the right one that he had offered Kari. His right hand!
He pulled it away, flexed the weak fingers, stared at the runemaster in fear and dismay and a growing, unbearable delight.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
Kari shook his head. “The opposite,” he said.
And as they laughed, the wind called outside, like a cold voice, and Jessa noticed how Kari listened to it quietly.
BOOK THREE
The Soul Thieves
Dedication
For Tess
One
Outside I sat by myself
when you came.
The sword was of heavy beaten iron, with a narrow groove down the center of the blade. On the pommel tiny gilt birds with red eyes watched one another, and two dragons wound their bodies around the hilt, notched and scratched.
“It’s not new,” Brochael observed.
“It’s perfect.” Hakon’s voice was so stunned that almost no one heard him. He looked up at the house thrall who had brought it. “Tell Wulfgar … tell the Jarl that I’m grateful. Very grateful.”
The man went and whispered his message in the Jarl’s ear, and they saw Wulfgar grin and wave lazily down the long crowded table.
Hakon held the sword tight, turned it over, scratched with his thumbnail at a tiny mark in the metal. His right hand, still slightly smaller and weaker than the left, clasped the hilt; he slashed with it sideways at imaginary enemies.
Jessa jerked back. “Be careful!”
“Sorry.” Reluctantly he laid the sword on the table, among the greasy dishes. Jessa smiled to herself. She knew he barely believed it was his.
“Better than that rust heap you had before,” Brochael said, emptying the last drop of wine thoughtfully onto the floor. “Now it needs a name.” He reached over for the jug and refilled his cup. “And here’s the very man. What are some good names for a sword, Skapti?”
The tall poet lounged on the end of the bench.
“Whose is it?”
“Hakon’s.”
Skapti touched the blade with his long fingers. “Well,” he said, considering, “you could call it Growler, Angry One, Screamer, Rune-scored, Scythe of Honor, Worm Borer, Dragonsdeath—”
“I like that one.”
“Don’t interrupt.” Skapti glared at him. “Leg Biter, Host Striker, Life Quencher, Corpse Pain, Wound Bright, Skull Crusher, Deceiver, Night Bringer… Oh, I could go on and on. There are hundreds of sword names. The skald lists are full of them.”
“You can’t name it until it’s done something,” Jessa said firmly. She poured Skapti some wine.
“You mean killed someone?” Hakon sounded uneasy.
“Drawn blood.” Brochael winked over the boy’s head. “The blade must drink, that’s what they say. Then you name it.”
Skapti tapped the hilt. “Where did you get it?”
A burst of laughter along the table rang in the noisy hall. Then Hakon said, “Wulfgar gave it to me. To mark his wedding.” He reached out and touched it lightly, and the firelight glittered in the metal, like a splash of blood.
Jessa shivered then, though the mead hall was warm and smoky, and her scarlet dress was heavy and spun of good wool. For a moment even the clatter of dishes and conversation seemed to fade; then the foreboding passed, and the talk rose about her again.
She looked along the table.
Wulfgar sat in the middle, leaning forward in his carved chair, his dark coat edged with fur at the collar. He was listening as Signi whispered something close to his ear; then he smiled and closed his hand over hers.
“Look at him.” Jessa laughed. “Oblivious.”
“Ah well, I don’t blame him,” Brochael said drily. “She’s a fine girl.”
Fine was the word, Jessa thought. Signi’s hair was long and fine, delicate as spun silk, pale and golden. Her dress moved as she turned on the seat, gold glinting at her wrist and shoulders. A fine girl, refined, the daughter of a wealthy house. They had been betrothed to each other for years, since they were both children, Jessa knew. And now that Wulfgar had come into his land and power, now that he was Jarl, they were to be married. Tomorrow at noon. Midsummer’s Day.
The table was thronged with Signi’s family and kin; they had been traveling in all week from outlying farms. Wulfgar’s friends had made room for them; the Jarl’s guests always had pride of place.
Jessa looked around at Brochael. “Is Kari still asleep? Perhaps we should wake him.”
He frowned down at her, then looked across the room toward the door. “If you like. There won’t be anything left to eat if he doesn’t come soon. But you know how he is, Jessa; he may not want to come.”
She nodded, standing. “I’ll go up and see.”
Crossing the hall between the tables, she dodged the serving men and thought that Kari could hardly be asleep. The noise of the Jarl’s feast was loud, and all the doors were open to the light midsummer night, the sun barely setting even now, the pale sky lit with eerie streaks of cloud. At this time of year it never really got dark at all. She slipped through the archway, up the stone stairs, and along to a room at the end where she tapped on the door.
“Kari?”
After a moment he answered her. “Come in, Jessa.”
He was sitting in front of the dying fire, his back against the bench and his knees drawn up. Firelight lit his pale face with red, leaping glimmers; his hands were red, and his hair, and for a moment she thought again that it looked like blood, and went cold.
He glanced up quickly. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She came inside. “It was just the light on you. It’s dark in here.”
He looked back at the fire. “You were scared for a minute. I felt it.”
The two black ravens that followed him everywhere stood on the windowsill, looking out. One of them stared strangely at her.
She perched on the bench, rubbing her foot. “I’m never scared. Now, are you coming down? Brochael’s eating and drinking for ten, but there’s still plenty left.”
“Has Wulfgar asked for me?”
“No. He knows you.” If it had been anyone else, she knew, Wulfgar would have taken their absence as a deliberate insult, but not Kari. Kari was different. Kari avoided crowds, and Jessa understood why.