Catherine Fisher: Snow-Walker

“Will he really escape?” Thorkil was asking.

“If he gets out of the hold, there’s every chance. Not many who search will want to find him. He should head south, overseas.”

“And will he?”

Mord gave her a half smile. “I doubt it. He wants to be Jarl.” He sighed. “There are plenty of others who want it.”

Suddenly it seemed the hall was almost empty. Then Mord stood up. “Ah. This is it.”

One of Gudrun’s men was beckoning them across. As they walked over, talk hushed. Jessa saw Thorkil’s back stiffen.

They followed the man through a wooden archway crawling with twisted snakes. Beyond was a room lit by lamplight. Mord had to stoop under the lintel as he went in; Jessa came last, her fingers clenched tight to stop them shaking.

They were all there: Ragnar, Grettir, a few white-haired men with eyes like chips of ice—and Gudrun. Close to, she was almost beautiful. Her eyes were like water in a shallow pool, totally without color. Cold came out of her; Jessa felt it against her face.

Outside in the hold the search was going on; they heard running footsteps, shouts, the barking of hounds. Everywhere would be searched. Here the silence seemed intense, as if after some furious argument. Gudrun stood, watching them come; Ragnar barely turned his head. She knows, Jessa thought in a sudden panic; she knows everything. Gudrun smiled at her, a sweet, cold smile.

“The preparations for the journey are made,” Ragnar snapped. “The ship leaves early, with the tide.” His hands tapped impatiently on the chair arm, a smooth wolfshead, worn by many fingers.

As Gudrun moved to the table, Jessa glimpsed a peculiar glistening wisp of stuff around her wrist; she realized it was snakeskin, knotted and braided. The woman took up a jug and poured a trickle of thin red liquid into four brightly enameled cups. Jessa picked at her glove; Thorkil’s strained look caught her eye. But they would have to drink it—it was the faring cup, always drunk before a journey. One after another, silent, they picked up the cups. Gudrun lifted hers with slim white fingers and sipped, looking at them over the rim all the while. Playing with us, Jessa thought, and drank immediately, feeling the hot sour taste flame in her throat. Thorkil tossed his off and banged the cup down empty. Mord’s lips barely touched the rim.

“And we have these for you both.” She nodded to a thrall; he brought two arm rings, thin delicate silver snakes, and gave them to Jessa and Thorkil. The silver was icy to touch; it had come from her mines where men died in the ice to find it. Jessa wanted to fling hers in the woman’s face, but Mord caught her eye and she was silent, cold and stiff with anger.

Gudrun turned away. “Take them out.”

“Wait!”

Every eye turned to Thorkil; men who had been talking fell silent. “Don’t you mind?” he asked, his fingers clenched on the ring. “That we’ll see? That we’re going there…?” Despite himself he could not finish.

Jessa saw a movement in the corner; it was the old man Grettir. He had turned his head and was watching.

Gudrun stared straight at Thorkil. All she said was “Thrasirshall is the pit where I fling my rubbish.” She stepped close to him; he shivered in the coldness that came out from her.

“I want you to see him. I’ll enjoy thinking of it. I’ll enjoy watching your face, because I will see it, however far away you think me. Even in the snows and the wilderness nothing hides from me.”

She glanced down, and his eyes followed hers. He had gripped the ring so tight the serpent’s mouth had cut him. One drop of blood ran down his fingers.

Five

Better gear than good sense

A traveler cannot carry.

The ship lay low in the water, rocking slightly. In the darkness it was a black shadowy mass, its dragon prow stark against the stars. Men, muffled into shapelessness by heavy cloaks, tossed the last few bundles aboard.

Jessa turned. From here the Jarlshold was a low huddle of buildings under the hill, the hall rising taller than the rest, its serpent-head gables spitting out at her.

“Did you sleep?” Thorkil asked, yawning.

“Yes.” She did not tell him about the dreams, though; the dream of walking down those endless corridors full of closed doors, the dream of Gudrun. Or that she had woken and opened a corner of the shutter at midnight, gazing out into the slow, silent snowfall, while Mord’s youngest daughter had sighed and snuggled beside her.

Now Mord was coming over, with the young man called Helgi, who was to be captain of the ship.

“Well…” Mord kissed her clumsily and thumped Thorkil on the back. “At least Wulfgar got away. They won’t find him now. The weather looks good for you....” For a moment he stared out over the water. Then he said, “Words are no use, so I won’t waste them. I will try and get Ragnar to revoke the exile, but he may not live long, and Gudrun will certainly not change things. You must face it. We all must.”

“We know that,” Jessa said quietly. “Don’t worry. We’ll manage.”

He gazed down at her. “I almost think you will.”

Releasing his gloved hand, she turned to the ship. As an oarsman lifted her over she saw the frosted scum of the water splinter and remake itself on the beach, and felt the splashes on her face harden and crack. The ship swayed as Thorkil sat down beside her, clumsy in his furred coat. The helmsman raised the call, and on each side sixteen oars swiveled up, white with their fur of frost. Then they dipped. At the first slap of wood in water, the ship shuddered and grated slowly off the shingle. The wharvesmen stepped back as she rocked and settled. Mord shouted, “Good luck!”

“He’s relieved to see us go,” Thorkil muttered.

“That’s unfair. He’s very bitter about it. Good-bye!” she yelled, leaping up, and Thorkil scrambled up into the stern and clung to the dragon’s neck. “Don’t forget us, Mord! We’ll be back!”

He seemed almost too far off to hear. But he nodded bleakly. Then he turned away.

All the cold morning the ship coasted slowly down the Tarvafjord toward the open sea, carried by the icy, ebbing tide. There was little wind and the oarsmen had to row, their backs bending and knees rising in the long, silent rhythms. Fog rose from the water and froze, leaving delicate crystals of ice on spars and planks. The ship was heavy; cluttered with sea chests and baggage, casks of beer, and cargoes for the distant settlements. All around them the fog drifted, blanking out land and sky, and the only sound it did not swallow was the soft dip and splash of the oars.

Jessa and Thorkil sat huddled up in coats and blankets, slowly getting colder and stiffer. Now there seemed to be nothing to say, and nothing to do but stare out at the drifting gray air and dream and remember. Their fingers ached with cold; Jessa thought Thorkil would have been glad even to row, but no one offered him the chance. She had already noticed how the crew watched them curiously, but rarely spoke.

Gradually the fog rose. By midmorning they could see the shore, a low rocky line, and behind it hillsides dark with trees, the snow lying among them. Once they passed a little village swathed in the smoke of its fires, but no one ran out from the houses. Only a few goats watched them glide by.

“Where are they all?” Thorkil muttered.

“Hiding.”

“From us?”

“From the Jarl. It’s his ship, remember.”

At midday the sun was still low, barely above the hills. Helgi told the helmsman to put in at the next flat stretch of shore.

Slowly the ship turned and grazed smoothly into the shallows. As Jessa climbed out, she groaned with the stiffness of her legs; the very bones of her face ached. She and Thorkil raced each other up the beach.