He rode on in the chill night. Winter was over, but it still had its hard fingers in the earth. Their lives were defined by it here in the north. Bern was cold, even with the vest.
At least he knew where he was going now; that much seemed to have come to him. The land his father had bought with looted gold (mostly from the celebrated raid in Ferrieres twenty-five years ago) was on the other side of the village, south and west. He was aiming for the northern fringes of the trees.
He saw the shape of the marker boulder and guided the horse past it. They’d killed and buried a girl there to bless the fields, so long ago the inscription on the marker had faded away. It hadn’t done much good. The land near the forest was too stony to be properly tilled. Ploughs broke up behind oxen or horses, metal bending, snapping off. Hard, ungiving soil. Sometimes the harvests were adequate, but most of the food that fed Rabady came from the mainland.
The boulder cast a shadow. He looked up, saw the blue moon had risen from beyond the woods. Spirits’ moon. It occurred to him, rather too late, that the ghost of Halldr Thinshank could not be unaware of what was happening to his horse. Halldr’s lingering soul would be set free only with the ship-burial and burning tomorrow. Tonight it could be abroad in the dark—which was where Bern was.
He made the hammer sign, invoking both Ingavin and Thünir. He shivered again. A stubborn man he was. Too clever for his own good? His father’s son in that? He’d deny it, at a blade’s end. This had nothing to do with Thorkell. He was pursuing his own feud with Halldr and the town, not his father’s. You exiled a murderer (twice a murderer) if need be. You didn’t condemn his freeborn son to years of servitude and a landless fate for the father’s crime—and expect him to forgive. A man without land had nothing, could not marry, speak in the thringmoot, claim honour or pride. His life and name were marred, broken as a plough by stones.
He ought to have killed Halldr. Or Arni Kjellson. Or someone. He wondered, sometimes, where his own rage lay. He didn’t seem to have that fury, like a berserkir in battle. Or like his father in drink.
His father had killed people, raiding with Siggur Volganson, and here at home.
Bern hadn’t done anything so … direct. Instead, he’d stolen a horse secretly in the dark and was now heading, for want of anything close to a better idea, to see if woman’s magic—the volur ’s—could offer him aid in the depths of a night. Not a brilliant plan, but the only one that had come to him. The women would probably scream, raise an alarm, turn him in.
That did make him think of something. A small measure of prudence. He turned east towards the risen moon and the edge of the wood, dismounted, and led the horse a short way in. He looped the rope to a tree trunk. He was not about to walk up to the women’s compound leading an obviously stolen horse. This called for some trickery.
It was hard to be devious when you had no idea what you were doing.
He despised the bleak infliction of this life upon him. Was unable, it seemed, to even consider two more years of servitude, with no assurance of a return to any proper status afterwards. So, no, he wasn’t going back, leaving the stallion to be found, slipping into his straw in the freezing shed behind Kjellson’s house. That was over. The sagas told of moments when the hero’s fate changed, when he came to the axle-tree. He wasn’t a hero, but he wasn’t going back. Not by choice.
He was likely to die tonight or tomorrow. No rites for him when that happened. There would be an excited quarrel over how to kill a defiling horse thief, how slowly, and who most deserved the pleasure of it. They would be drunk and happy. Bern thought of the blood-eagle then; pushed the image from his mind.
Even the heroes died. Usually young. The brave went to Ingavin’s halls. He wasn’t sure if he was brave.
It was dense and black in the trees. He felt the pine needles underfoot. Wood smells: moss, pine, scent of a fox. Bern listened; heard nothing but his own breathing, and the horse’s. Gyllir seemed calm enough. He left him there, turned north again, still in the woods, towards where he thought the volur’s compound was. He’d seen it a few times, a clearing carved out a little way into the forest. If someone had magic, Bern thought, they could deal with wolves. Or even make use of them. It was said that the women who lived here had tamed some of the beasts, could speak their language. Bern didn’t believe that. He made the hammer sign again, however, with the thought.
He’d have missed the branching path in the blackness if it hadn’t been for the distant spill of lantern light. It was late for that, the bottom of a night, but he had no idea what laws or rules women such as these would observe. Perhaps the seer—the volur—stayed awake all night, sleeping by day like the owls. The sense of being in a dream returned. He wasn’t going to go back, and he didn’t want to die.
Those two things together could bring you out alone in night approaching a seer’s cabin through black trees. The lights—there were two of them—grew brighter as he came nearer. He could see the path, and then the clearing, and the structures beyond a fence: one large cabin, smaller ones flanking it, evergreens in a circle around, as if held at bay.
An owl cried behind him. A moment later Bern realized that it wasn’t an owl. No going back now, even if his feet would carry him. He’d been seen, or heard.
The compound gate was closed and locked. He climbed over the fence. Saw a brewhouse and a locked storeroom with a heavy door. Walked past them into the glow cast by the lamplight in the windows of the largest cabin. The other buildings were dark. He stopped and cleared his throat. It was very quiet.
“Ingavin’s peace upon all dwelling here.”
He hadn’t said a word since rising from his bed. His voice sounded jarring and abrupt. No response from within, no one to be seen.
“I come without weapons, seeking guidance.”
The lanterns flickered as before in the windows on either side of the cabin door. He saw smoke rising from the chimney. There was a small garden on the far side of the building, mostly bare this early in the year, with the snow just gone.
He heard a noise behind him, wheeled.
“It is deep in the bowl of night,” said the woman, who unlocked and closed the outer gate behind her, entering the yard. She was hooded; in the darkness it was impossible to see her face. Her voice was low. “Our visitors come by daylight … bearing gifts.”
Bern looked down at his empty hands. Of course. Seithr had a price. Everything in the world did, it seemed. He shrugged, tried to appear indifferent. After a moment, he took off his vest. Held it out. The woman stood motionless, then came forward and took it, wordlessly. He saw that she limped, favouring her right leg. When she came near, he realized that she was young, no older than he was.
She walked to the door of the cabin, knocked. It opened, just a little. Bern couldn’t see who stood within. The young woman entered; the door closed. He was alone again, in a clearing under stars and the one moon. It was colder now without the vest.
His older sister had made it for him. Siv was in Vinmark, on the mainland, married, two children, maybe another by now … they’d had no reply after sending word of Thorkell’s exile a year ago. He hoped her husband was kind, had not changed with the news of her father’s banishment. He might have: shame could come from a wife’s kin, bad blood for his own sons, a check to his ambitions. That could alter a man.
There would be more shame when tidings of his own deeds crossed the water. Both his sisters might pay for what he’d done tonight. He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought very much at all. He’d only