It looked safe, snug behind its defenses.
And very quiet.
Brochael shifted, pulling the stiff, frosted scarf from his mouth. “Well?” he said gruffly.
They had been four days now living off horsemeat and herbage and melted snow. The horses limped with the cold; their riders ached with weariness and hunger. Each of them knew the settlement was a godsend.
Only Moongarm seemed uneasy.
“Are you coming with us?” Brochael glared at him sourly. “You don’t have to.”
The gray man turned his strange amber eyes on him. “You know how much you’d miss me, Brochael. Don’t worry, I’ll come.”
“You would!” Brochael scowled.
As they picked their way down, Jessa wriggled her toes with relief. She was starving, and stiff with cold. Hakon grinned at her. There was no doubt what he thought.
Snow fell silently about them, small hard flakes that rolled from hair and shoulders and melted slowly, soaking through cloth. It fell on the dark lake water and glittered, the northern lights catching the brief scatter of crystal. On the hillside it lay thick, banked in great drifts, and the horses’ hooves drove deep holes into it, compacting it to ice with careful, crunching steps.
Long before they reached the marsh they were challenged. A question rang out; Brochael stopped them at once, very still.
“Travelers!” he roared, his voice ringing in the hard frost. “Looking for a welcome.”
There was silence. An aurora whispered overhead.
Then two figures stepped out of the darkness, well muffled, with flat snowshoes strapped under their feet. One carried a long glinting spear; the other, whose eyes alone were visible in the wrappings about his face, had a peculiar weapon—a wand of wood, studded with quartz and crystals and tiny silver bells that tinkled in the cold.
They looked up warily at the travelers.
The man with the wand had bright, sharp eyes. He raised his hand.
“We give our hospitality to anyone, strangers, but especially at this time. Tomorrow is a great feast day for us, so you’ve come at a good time.”
He came forward and offered his hand to Brochael. Brochael leaned down and gripped it. “Our thanks.”
The man nodded. “You’ll need to lead those beasts of yours. The causeway is slippery with ice. Follow me.”
They dismounted into the soft snow.
“Can’t see much of them,” Hakon muttered.
“Well, they can’t see much of us.” Jessa winked at him. “They might not like your face when they do. Keep your sword handy.”
The causeway began in the snow and stretched out over the bog, a narrow, railed walkway, built of split logs caulked and spread with what smelled like resin or pitch, a sharp smell. The horses thudded over noisily. Below them the marsh spread, its stiff stalks and frozen rushes purple in the aurora light, with strange wisps of blue that rose and drifted in the mist. Somewhere waterfowl quacked. The marsh smelled dank, of decay, of a million rotting stems.
As they walked farther out, black water glinted beneath them. Jessa saw how the snow lay in a thin film across it, already freezing in patches. Tomorrow the lake would be sealed under a frozen lid.
At the end of the causeway was the gate. The wand man knocked and called; the heavy wooden door swung open. Inside, figures came running out from nearby houses, some to stare, others to help, pulling the horses into a low building lit with lanterns, its empty stalls spread with fresh rushes and shavings.
“Unload your goods,” the man said, “and bring them with you, whatever you need. These men will see to your horses.”
He waited for them, after whispering something to a small figure who slipped out at once. A girl, Jessa thought. She slung the bag on her sore shoulders and moved up next to Kari.
“Are we safe here?” she asked quietly.
He pushed his hood off and looked at her gravely. “I don’t know, Jessa! I don’t know everything.”
“Sorry.” She grimaced. “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”
“No one attacks their guests.” Hakon sounded shocked.
Skapti shrugged, behind him. “It’s been known.”
“Only in sagas!”
“Sagas are real, I’ve told you that. As real as your sword, dream wielder.”
The stranger led them out of the byre, across the trampled snow. A low, rectangular building was nearby, the door so sunken that the snow was already banked against it. The man stopped and opened it, trudging down a pathway. He beckoned them in.
The smoke caught Jessa’s throat as she straightened, making her eyes smart; as she coughed, the light of many candles flared and danced around her. Then they steadied. She saw a small, airless room, acrid with smoke. After the clear cold air outside it felt stiflingly warm. The hearth was in the center; a great bronze cauldron hung over it on a triple chain. Above, the thatch was yellow, pale as gold.
Sitting around the cauldron, staring at her, was a small group of men and women, obviously one family. They were all heavily tattooed. Each of them had some thin blue creature crawling down his or her cheek, a boar or a fox or a fish. A small, elderly man, the man who stood up, had a strange coiling beast of curling dots. Their hair was dark and glossy, their clothes brilliantly colored—woven wool and dyed sealskin in reds and greens and blues, all hung with knots and luckstones and feathers.
“Welcome,” the chieftain said warmly, his accent strange. “Come to the fire, all of you.”
For a moment no one moved. Then Brochael dumped his pack against the wall and came forward. The others followed, pulling off coats and wrappings and gloves, scattering snow on the floor and benches.
“Come close, come,” the old man insisted, waving them in. He said something quietly; a woman and a girl got up and poured out a drink for each of them, handing out small horns of yellow-colored liquid.
Skapti tasted it and smiled in surprise. “Mead?”
“We call it honey brew. Sit down now, be comfortable.”
There were low benches near the hearth; the travelers perched themselves in a thankful row. The man who had brought them in pulled off his own faceguard and coat; now he came and sat near them, laying the quartz-headed wand carefully at his feet. The bells gave a strange, silvery chink. Not a weapon, Jessa thought suddenly. Something magical.
She looked at him curiously. He had a lean, sharp face, with a ragged fringe of brown hair. A tattoo uncoiled on his cheek, ran down his neck and under his clothes. Two others crawled on the backs of his hands. The silver bells showed that he was someone special, a shaman, she thought firmly, noticing the strange pierced bones that hung from his belt.
Food was set before them and they ate hungrily. Hot roast spicy meats, possibly duck; fish, fresh from the lake; crumbly oatcakes and honey; cheese and beer. It was a feast, and Jessa enjoyed it to the full, despite the stifling smoke. It had been weeks since they’d eaten properly; she noticed how thin and gaunt they all looked, how travel worn. Filthy, long-haired, wild.
The chieftain watched them. His eyes were light blue, his face beginning to wrinkle. He smiled. “My name is Torvi, father of the people. This is my wife, Yrsa, and my daughter Lenna. The Speaker is our wiseman, our shaman to the dark. His own name may not be known.”
As he said that, the family made a brief sign, a touching of their lips. Jessa nodded to herself. Knowing his name would give them power over him. Or so these people would believe.
Skapti gave their own names courteously and the tattooed people gazed at them all. If they recognized what Kari was, they said nothing. Jessa had the feeling they didn’t, which was surprising. Although, a lake people like this had no reason to travel far. They had all they needed here.