Nancy Farmer - The Sea of Trolls

“Yet you followed me over the sea.” Jack was deeply moved.

“It was foolish. If you hadn’t called me down, I would have drowned.”

The wind at the top of the valley had been cool, but something about this place held on to the warmth of summer. Dandelions and clover still dotted the grass, and frogs peeped in the marsh grass around the pond.

“Why didn’t you come back here?” said Jack.

“Too dangerous. Frith could find me as long as I was in this body. And she would have made sure that everyone in the village was killed. Besides, I rather liked being a crow. Sometimes I liked it too much.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“There’s a danger in taking another form. Sometimes you forget who you are.”

“Like when we first got to Olaf’s house?” Jack guessed.

“I was so glad to get to the end of that beastly voyage—what with storms and fog and the burning of Gizur’s village—I took a vacation. Went off with a flock and clean forgot I was human.” The Bard shivered at the memory. “When I realized what I’d done, I was careful never to leave you again.”

A crow soared overhead, circled, and came down to the cage. “Look,” whispered Jack. The crow warbled deep in its throat, going on and on as though trying to reason with someone. Bold Heart stuck his beak out the door. Warble, coo, warble, said the strange bird. Then it flew off. Bold Heart tumbled out of the cage and took off after it, cawing wildly. He disappeared over the rim of the valley, still calling.

“You see all sorts of things other people miss when you serve the life force,” said the Bard.

“Even when you tell them, they don’t believe you.” Jack had described his adventures to the villagers, and they’d listened politely. But when he was finished, they said, Tell us what really happened. We’re used to Giles Crookleg’s lies. No amount of protesting shifted them.

“Don’t be angry,” the Bard said. “Most people live inside a cage of their own expectations. It makes them feel safe. The world’s a frightening place full of glory and wonder and, as we’ve both discovered, danger. Flying isn’t for everyone.”

Jack had worked up the courage to ask the one question he thought might upset the old man. “Sir… was I right to give Thorgil the rune of protection? She’s still a shield maiden and she’s still our enemy.”

The Bard smiled gently, gazing at the empty cage. “No kindness is ever wasted, nor can we ever tell how much good may come of it. The rune was meant to go to Thorgil. The life force demanded it, and she, like it or not, has been enlisted in its service. I’m sure she’ll be peeved when she finds out.”

“Why didn’t you tell her who you were?”

“Oh, I did. The tiresome child refused to believe me. The Mountain Queen saw through my disguise at once. Very little is hidden from her.”

“I’d love to hear the story of how you melted a hole through her wall,” said Jack.

“Not today,” the Bard said firmly. “I’ve hardly got my voice back after all the screaming my body did while I was gone. Let’s just sit here and watch the last of summer.”

And so they did. The bees hummed over the remaining flowers, the spring bubbled, and the rowan tree rustled in a warm breeze. The magic was deep and harder to reach here than it had been in Jotunheim, but it was more humane. There was no other place on earth, Jack decided, that he’d rather be.