Icefall (5 page)

“And as soon as the nanny goat leapt to her feet, she
pranced right up to one of Odin’s enormous hall doors and butted it with her head, asking to be let in.”

At that image of my Hilda, I laugh, this time with tears.

“And behold,” Alric says. “The great doors opened, the goat was welcomed, and in she walked to find a place to sleep among our fallen heroes who wait in Odin’s hall.”

Now Alric smiles and bows his head, his tale finished. The berserkers around me are silent, perhaps guilt-stricken, for they are Odin’s men, and in placing Hilda in their god’s hall, Alric has inspired a new respect and admiration for my goat. And I am comforted by the thought of Hilda honored and nestled among friends.

After the last voice-echo has died, Alric walks over to me.

“Thank you,” I say to him.

“You are most welcome,” he says.

I look around the room and see that the expressions on the berserkers’ faces have changed. When they look at me, they nod and smile, and I can see they have softened toward me. I turn back to Alric, grateful and awed.

“You weave a spell, sir.”

He shakes his head. “Memory and sight.” Then he walks away.

After he has left, Raudi comes over and sits down near me, though not near enough that I think he’s come to talk to me.

But then he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

His words surprise me. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I mean earlier. By the woodpile.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, and I turn to him. He is gazing at me with more kindness than I have seen from him since coming here.

He looks down at his boots. “I should have stood up for you when Per said she was just a goat.”

“She
was
just a goat.” I shake my head. “I know I am being foolish, but I cared for her.” Now I drop my gaze to my lap. “I am embarrassed.”

He frowns. “I don’t think you’re being foolish. Anyone with eyes could see she liked you, and she looked to you to take care of her. And I could tell you liked taking care of her. Like you both sort of took care of each other.”

And I realize he’s right. Hilda and I did take care of each other, needed each other, and I have never felt that before. Asa and Harald have obvious purposes, roles to play in my father’s plans, but not I. Father has never spoken of my virtues, and I don’t even know what they might be. Alric said I have memory and sight, but of what use are they? No, I would gladly trade either for beauty or strength. Or to have Hilda back. To be needed again.

Raudi stands up, his cheeks red, and sticks out his chest just a little. “I would have stopped them. If I’d known.”

“Thank you, Raudi.” I want to hug him. But he nods awkwardly and walks away before I can figure out if I should.

Later that night, I lie with Asa in the darkness of our bedcloset. Her breathing is deep and slow, and I think she is asleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. What Alric does is as necessary to us as eating or drinking, but he feeds something else. We need and value what he is. I want to feel that way, to give something important to others. Perhaps with practice, I
could
be a skald. That is, if Father would allow it.

The glacier is moaning. I feel that I understand it better, having stood at its feet and slept in the cave nearby, underneath the troll mountains. We are on familiar terms, the ice and I.

Even with Asa next to me, I feel alone. My sister has shut herself off from me, from everyone, and has become a stranger. For a single moment, I imagine that Hilda is sleeping right outside the door, if I only peek my head out to look. But the moment is short-lived.

“Solveig?” Asa says, and I startle.

“I thought you were asleep,” I say.

“No.” Her slow breathing has not changed. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

I pause. “You are?”

“Yes. I need you.”

Her voice is so weak in the darkness, so insubstantial, I would swear there is nothing in the bedcloset with me but a ghost. I begin to shake a little in fear and reach out to touch her, to find an anchor. Her skin is cool, and I leave my hand on her arm to keep hold of her.

“I’m here for you,” I say. “But I don’t think you need me. You bring honor to Father. You’re beautiful, Asa. You will join powerful allies to his kingdom in marriage.”

She does not answer for several long moments. “That is why I need you….” Her voice trails off.

I wait, listen, and it seems that now she has fallen asleep. I snuggle up to her, breathing her lavender-scented hair, still holding her arm. It is as though the trolls have already come down from the mountains for a bride, broken into the hall, and stolen my sister away. My beautiful, vibrant, light-filled sister. But they left an empty changeling here to remind me of what they took.

T
he next day I wander down to the icy shore, then off into the woods to be alone and to think. I miss Hilda terribly, her prancing presence about the steading, but something in what my sister said to me last night has lessened the ache I feel inside. Asa needs me. And the way Harald hugged me when I returned tells me that he needs me, too. I’m not sure what either of them needs me for, but it feels good to be needed for something.

And after the way Raudi spoke with me, I wonder if perhaps we can be friends again. It would make me so happy to have him back, especially here and now, when every thing is so uncertain.

The woods around me are completely still. I enjoy the silence as I walk deeper into them.

And then I come upon a runestone.

It rises tall and narrow from the snow, like one of the black tree trunks that surround it. I did not know it was here. No one has ever spoken of it before. The inscription has long since weathered to a whisper. I run my hands over the faint tracks and dimples that remain, wondering what king or chieftain the stone once might have honored.

Runestones usually mark a grave or barrow. I shift my feet and look around for a swell under the snow, a mound of earth or piled stones. Something tingles at the nape of my neck, a cold breath, and I turn to look behind me. I am still alone. But I do not feel alone.

I know that death is not the end of the body. The person can live on … no, not live. The body can
persist
in the grave, a
haugbui
, the undead. I’ve heard stories of corpse-black figures, warriors of dark magic and infernal strength. They guard their resting places jealously against any who would defile them. By simply standing here, I could wake something. My heart beats faster.

I imagine a dead king shifting in the earth below my feet, flesh corrupted, and the tall runestone takes on a sinister cast, a darker hue and sharper edges. The gaze of an unseen observer crawls over my skin, leaving a trail of ice. I tell myself I am imagining it. It is just this moment and this place. But then a twig snaps off in the trees. I hold my breath and listen.

Nothing.

Nothing but the trees overhead and the unquiet ground beneath my feet. I back away slowly from the runestone. Only when I am several yards away do I turn and run from the woods, to the shore near where the berserkers have secured their ship, chased by a blinding fear back up the path to the steading.

It takes several hours to feel at ease again, and then around midday I look for Alric. Of anyone here, he may know who is buried down in the woods. I find him in the hall, dozing on one of the benches, an arm draped over his eyes. I sit down near him and he rouses.

“Hello, Solveig.”

I greet him, tell him about the runestone, and then ask, “Do you know whose it might be?”

“Possibly.” He rubs his eyes. “I’d like to see it. Will you show me?”

The sensation I felt around the grave returns, a chill, and I hesitate in answering him.

He nods and chuckles. “I think we’re safe from a
haugbui
during the day,” he says, and I wonder what kind of sight he has that he can know my thoughts.

He rises and extends his hand. “Come.”

I allow him to help me up, and we leave the hall together.

Out in the yard, Hake walks up alongside us. “Where are you off to?”

“Solveig has found a forgotten runestone, and she’s going to show it to me. Care to join us?”

No.
I do not want him to come. Hake hasn’t said a word to me since my outburst in the yard yesterday, since I found my poor Hilda. I am still heartsick, and I suspect it was Hake who killed her. I want to stay as far away from the man as I can.

“Yes, I’d like to join you,” Hake says without looking at me.

“Wonderful,” Alric says. “Solveig? Shall we?”

I can’t see any way out of it, so I nod without looking at Hake, and lead them through the gate. We walk down to the frozen waterside, and I take them into the woods. Before long, I catch glimpses of the runestone, like a slice of shadow, waiting off in the trees. I point to it, Alric and Hake peer ahead, and soon we’re standing under it. Alric walks right up and traces with his finger the few lines still visible. Hake stands back, rubbing his beard.

“Well?” the berserker asks.

Alric doesn’t answer.

Hake chuckles. “It seems the monument has outlived the legend, eh, skald? Your weapon of choice in preserving your king seems to have failed this one.”

“Not quite.” Alric frowns. He steps back, looking askance at the runestone. “This is very, very old. Older than almost every story I know.”

“But do you know whose it is?” I ask.

He turns to me and nods. “But I shall need time to remember the details of his life.”

“Then you can recite it for us,” Hake says. He turns and stares off into the trees. “I’m going to have a look around.”

He stalks away, a giant among the branches, and he doesn’t make a sound. When he is at a safe distance, I let out a relieved breath, and Alric raises an eyebrow at me. He looks in Hake’s direction, then back at me, but doesn’t say a word.

He circles the runestone several times, looking it up and down. His boots tear a seam in the snow, an opening in the white above the grave.

“Do you really think there might be a
haugbui
dwelling here?” I ask him.

He stops and looks at the ground beneath his feet. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before. I doubt they truly exist.”

“But you tell stories about them.”

“I do.” He lays a flat hand on the runestone. “But if stories were told for their facts, I’d be hard-pressed to find an audience willing to listen to them.”

“So you don’t believe your own stories? They aren’t true?”

“Forgive my boldness, but you’re asking the wrong question. A story is not a thing. A story is an act. It only exists in the brief moment of its telling. The question you must ask is what a story has the power to do. The truth of something you do is very different from the truth of something you know.” He leaves the runestone and comes to stand over me, looking down. “My tale last night. Did it comfort you?”

“Yes.”

“And was the comfort real? Was it true?”

“I thought it was.”

“Then the story was true. And that is what is most important in the telling, whether Thor’s chariot is really pulled by two bucks, or not.”

I look up into his eyes. At first I see mischief in them, but I realize it is something else. Alric sees the world differently than we do, and I think he simply takes plea sure and pride in carrying a secret that no one else knows.

Hake emerges from the trees.

“Did you see anyone down here before?” he asks me.

“No. But I thought I heard someone. Thought I felt someone watching me.”

“I found tracks,” Hake says.

“That’s not so unusual,” Alric says. “Surely one of your men —”

“My men have not been down here.” Hake’s voice is low.

“How can you be so certain?” Alric asks. “Perhaps one of your men came down without telling you.”

“If that’s true, then one of my men hid his presence from the king’s daughter. And none of my men would do that.” He turns to me. “I assure you.”

But I remember how one of his men treated Asa that night in the hall. I was right. I was not alone before. Perhaps not a
haugbui
, but a man. That thought causes a very different unease.

“Let us return to the steading,” Hake says. He marches several yards before turning back. “Please come, Solveig.”

I do not like it when he says my name. But Alric and I follow after him.

Later that afternoon, when the sun has set and the winter twilight has poured in like an icy river, I go to fetch some firewood from behind the hall. As I approach the corner, I overhear a hushed conversation.

“I have questioned all my men.” That is Hake’s voice. “None were down there.”

“I checked with Egill and Gunnarr as well.” That voice is Per’s. “And the servants.”

I peer around the corner. The two of them are standing near the woodpile, an axe buried in the stump between them. They speak quietly, but their low voices carry to where I stand and listen.

“What about the old man?” Hake asks. “The thrall.”

“Ole?”

Hake folds his arms.

“No,” Per says. “He is loyal.”

“He served another king before his capture.”

“He is loyal,” Per says more firmly.

“Then we are left with only one possibility. A spy has somehow reached us.”

I am holding my breath, hugging the wall. A spy? How? The sea and mountain pass are frozen shut. Are we not safe
here after all? Was I in danger before? The same prickling feeling returns, the sense that I am being watched.

“We need to double the watch at night,” Per says. “Possibly even during the day.”

“Agreed. I will see to it.”

“And the king’s first daughter must not leave the steading without a guard.”

Hake tips his head to one side. “And the king’s heir?”

Per stammers. “Right. Of course. He must be protected as well.”

Hake waits.

And me? Has Per forgotten me? I bow my head against the sting of tears and the pain of not mattering.

“And Solveig,” Hake says. “She must be protected, too.”

“Of course,” Per says without stammering.

Hake grunts a farewell and turns to leave. I scurry back down the side of the hall and reach the end before either Hake or Per round the corner. I pretend as though I have just come from the front of the building and walk toward them. Hake doesn’t say a word as he passes me, but Per stops.

“What brings you out in the cold?” he asks.

“Firewood,” I mumble. He did not think of me. He failed me a second time. But Hake didn’t.

“I’ll fetch the wood for you,” Per says. “You go back inside.”

I nod and return to the warmth of the hall, where Bera sees my empty arms.

“The firewood?” she asks.

“Per is bringing it.”

Bera sighs. “I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

I nod a weak agreement. I used to feel that way, but I don’t know if I do anymore. I thought he was my friend.

I am watching the doors when he enters the hall with an armload of logs. He sets them on the ground near the hearth and bends to stack them. His features are so handsome in the firelight. His hair glints like bronze. He looks up, notices me, and smiles. That same smile he has always given me.

I offer a smile in return, then quickly look away. I thought his smile meant something. I thought it set him apart from everyone else. But now I don’t know what it means, even though it still warms a part of me. I am so confused.

I cannot sleep. My thoughts are like a winter gale trapped in a barrel, tossing and tumbling me in my bedcloset. The steading was supposed to keep us safe, a refuge from the dangers of war. But if what Hake and Per said is true, and an enemy has found us, then the steading has become a prison. The icy fjord may keep enemies out, but it will just as surely keep us in. And something dangerous may have been sealed in with us.

I have lost all privacy.

Everywhere I go, I am accompanied by a guard, either one of Per’s men or one of the berserkers. They hang back and try
not to intrude, but they are there, smelly bears and wolves loping after me. I prefer Per’s men to Hake’s, but I would prefer Per most of all. He spends all his time watching Asa, and sometimes Harald. Usually, it is Hake who follows Harald around, and my brother has become quite fond of the berserker captain. Harald hangs about him like a cub at the heels, eyes up, admiring.

“When I am king,” he says one night, “I will have you as my captain, Hake. Just like my father.”

Hake bows his head. “May I live so long, little prince.”

“I’m not little,” Harald says.

“You will be big and strong soon enough.”

“And I will be a berserker like you.”

“A berserker king?” I ask.

“Why not?” Harald shrugs. “I can be whatever I want.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I close it. Harald
can
be what he wants.

“The life of a berserker would not suit the duties of a king,” Hake says.

“What do you mean?” Harald asks.

“For one thing, a king must have a queen and an heir. A berserker can have no family to divide his loyalties. How could I die for my king if I had a family to live for?”

As Hake speaks, I notice that the lines around his eyes have the slightest pinch, like a wince he almost hides. For the first time, I see the man under that great bear pelt.