Catherine Fisher - Snow-Walker

“Wait outside, Hana.”

The curtain flickered as the girl moved through it.

Jessa waited, watching the hands turn the worn pebbles. Then, without lifting her eyes, the woman said, “It is not that I have her powers. You must know that. I do not know what sort of a creature she is, this Gudrun No-onesdaughter, or what gods she worships, but she is strong. Still”—and a pebble clicked in the dimness—“I have something, some slight skill, gathered over the years. I have spread my mind like a bird’s wing over this kin. Here, we are safe. She cannot see us.”

“Then if we were to stay here—Thorkil and I…”

“She would not know of it. But you would not be able to leave. Her mind is the surface of a lake—all the world’s reflections move across it.”

Jessa edged away from the fire, which was scorching her knees.

“Yes, but escape … it would mean the men would be killed?”

“Men!” The old woman looked up, her mouth twisted in a grim smile. “What are men? There are plenty more.”

Chilled, Jessa was silent a moment. Then she said quietly, “I won’t have them killed. I won’t have that.”

The pebbles turned. “There is no other way. They cannot go back—she would make them speak.”

“That’s it, then. We must go on.” She said it as firmly as she could. Only her word was keeping a dagger out of Helgi’s ribs, yes, and the others too. And this wasn’t the way.

The old woman turned a last pebble and gazed down at it. “So the runes tell me.”

Jessa edged forward. The room seemed darker; something rustled behind her. The old woman’s amulets clicked as she moved.

“Do you know,” Jessa whispered, “what lives in Thrasirshall? Is there anything there still alive?”

“There is fear there. Yours. Your cousin’s. Gudrun’s.”

“Hers?”

The woman chuckled. “Oh, hers above all. Her eyes are always this way. Nine years ago Brochael Gunnarsson landed here. There was one with him, so muffled in coats and furs against the ice that no one could see him. So it has always been. But I have felt her thought stretching out like a hand, touching, jerking back. Oh yes, there is something in the hall, something alive, and she fears it, as she fears her mirror.”

Jessa touched one of the stones. It was cool and smooth. “What do you mean, her mirror?”

“Gudrun never looks in a glass.” The shamanka turned and spat into the fire. “The runes have said her own reflection will destroy her. There are no mirrors in the Jarlshold.”

And then with a rustle of feathers the old woman reached out and caught Jessa’s wrist—a tight, cold grip. “One thing: she will have not let you go without some link, some tie to bind you to her. Find it. Break it. Whatever it costs you.

“As for Kari Ragnarsson … sometimes, in the darkest part of the night, I have thought that I felt … something. A cold, strange touch on my mind.” She shrugged and sat back, gazing at Jessa. “But I do not know what he is. When you find out, you might come and tell me.”

The road was an ancient one, built by giants. No one used it now—after only a few miles it dwindled into a frozen track wandering through the boulders and scree of the fjordshore. The six horses and the pack mule picked their way along it, sometimes sinking fetlock-deep in the icy bog. Jessa was stiff from jerking forward to keep her balance.

They were already four hours out from Trond, the wind howling at them down ravines in the steep rock face. They had started before dawn, but even now it was barely light enough to make out the track as it began to turn inland, toward the hills. Muffled in cloaks and coats, only their eyes visible, the riders had spread out in a straggling line, urging on their slithering, nervous horses. Helgi went first, with Thorkil and Jessa close behind him. Then came the three men who had drawn the marked stones out of Helgi’s glove at Trond, when the oarsmen had argued about who was to go farther. Thorgard Blund and his cousin, the thin man called Thrand, and the big, loudmouthed Steinar, called Hairyhand. Jessa wondered how they felt now; there had been some bitter words back there. Now the three kept together, watchful and resentful.

The track climbed up, moving slowly above the snowline. Now the horses strode in one another’s hoof holes across a great snowfield, dazzlingly white, broken only by streams that gurgled under their seamed, frozen lids. These were invisible, and treacherous; once Thorkil’s horse lurched forward into one, almost throwing him. After that they kept direction only by the sun, but the sky slowly clouded over. By late afternoon they had lost the track altogether.

Finally Helgi stopped and swore. The narrow valley down which they had come was closed by a sheer rock face, glistening with icicles and glassy twists of frozen water. He turned. “We’ll have to go back. This isn’t it.”

Jessa saw Steinar glance at his colleagues. “What about a rest?” he growled. “The horses need it.”

Helgi looked at Jessa. She tugged the frosted scarf from her mouth. “I’m in no hurry.”

They found an overhang of cliff and sat under it; Helgi fed the horses, then he joined Jessa and Thorkil. They ate slowly, listening to the bleak wind in the hollow rocks. The other three sat apart, talking in gruff, quiet voices. Helgi watched them. Finally they called him over, and when he came they stood up. Steinar was bigger and heavier than the younger man. He put his hand on Helgi’s shoulder. Talk became hurried, noisy, almost an argument.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Thorkil muttered.

Jessa raised her eyes from a daydream. Helgi was shaking his head angrily. He snapped something sharp and final.

“They’re scared,” Thorkil said. “They don’t want to go on.”

“I don’t blame them.”

They watched the bitter, hissed argument. These were soldiers, Jessa thought, trained how to fight, to deal with things, but how could they deal with this? The horror of whatever was in Thrasirshall had caught hold of them; it was wearing at their nerves.

“Do you think he’ll make them go on?”

“He’ll try. But it’s three to one.”

“Three to three.”

Thorkil flashed her a brief grin. “You’re right. But remember, if we were … out of the way, they wouldn’t have to go on at all. They’ve probably been thinking about that.”

Helgi flung Steinar’s hand from him and turned away. He marched past Jessa and caught the horse’s bridle.

“Ride close to me,” he muttered. “And pray we find the place soon.”

Eight

A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,

But have his weapons to hand:

He knows not when he may need a spear,

Or what menace meet on the road.

It was a hard thing to pray for. Jessa swung onto her weary horse and gathered up the reins, moving out hurriedly after Thorkil. Looking back, she saw that Steinar and Thorgard Blund were still listening to the thin man, Thrand. His voice was a quiet echo under the cliff. Steinar laughed and turned, catching her eye. He put his huge hands up to his horse and hauled himself up.

Jessa and Thorkil rode close together. Neither spoke. The path ran along the edge of a vast pine wood, its branches still and heavy with snow. In there it was dim and gloomy, the trees receding into endless aisles, only a few birds piping in the hush. Once a pine marten streaked across the track.

Helgi was guessing the way now, and they all knew it. The sun became a cold globe, sliding down into mists and vapors; twilight turned the world black and gray. The snow lost its glare and shimmered blue; crystals of ice hardened on the tree trunks.

Without turning his head, Helgi muttered, “Thorkil. Can you use that knife of yours?”