Snow-Walker

Twenty-One

Silence becomes the son of a prince.

By morning the whole of the Jarlshold had been searched, but there was no sign of Gudrun or Grettir. How she had vanished from among them no one knew, but it was said later that a man who farmed up on the fells to the east had seen a woman, dressed all in white, walking swiftly and tirelessly over the snow, with a dark figure like a shadow behind her. Terrified, he had hurried indoors to the firelight.

First thing in the morning the men of the Jarlshold and all the surrounding settlements had gathered in the great hall, staring at the travelers curiously. Many of them could not tear their eyes from Kari as he sat quietly talking to Brochael and Wulfgar. Jessa knew that the presence of so many people was making him uneasy; she caught his eye and smiled and he did the same. Wulfgar was voted Jarl with a great roar of approval, no one disagreeing, but afterward, in the crush and excitement, Kari was missing. She searched for him, pushing her way to Thorkil.

“Have you seen Kari?”

He shook his head. “Elsewhere, I suppose. Not used to all these people.”

But when she asked Brochael, he paused for a moment and shrugged a little unhappily. “I have an idea where he might be. Come on.”

As she followed him out of the hall, she heard silence fall behind her, and into it came the skald’s voice, clear and sharp, chanting an old song in praise of the Wulfings, a chain of words, lilting and proud. Looking back, she saw Wulfgar sitting in the Jarl’s chair, relaxing in it lazily, his fingers moving over the worn arms as Ragnar’s had done. Behind him, Thorkil leaned.

She followed Brochael. They went down into a part of the Jarlshold she had never seen: a long dark corridor at the foot of a flight of damp steps. On each side were small rooms, their windows barred, and the stench from them stale and fetid.

“Her prisons,” Brochael growled. “Full, till this morning.”

His voice echoed in the stone tunnel.

She followed him to the very end, deep in the rock under the hold. The door of the last room was ajar, and he pushed it open. They saw a very small cell, long neglected. The walls were dark with grime and soot. Old straw rustled under their feet; one tiny window let in the light.

Kari stood at the far end of the room, looking at something on the wall. Jessa saw it was some faint scrawl of circles and spirals, almost worn away with age. His hair shone pale and clean, and he wore the new clothes that Wulfgar had given them all from the Jarl’s store. He turned around when he heard them.

“Why come here?” Brochael asked gruffly.

“Just to look. To see if I remembered it right.” After a moment he took the snakeskin bracelet from his pocket and fingered it, dropping it silently into the cold ashes in the fireplace. Then he came out and closed the door.

Brochael put an arm around him. “Come on. The lord Jarl will be having his first feast tonight. Everyone will want to stare at you as he loads you with gold and gives us all rings and horses. Asgrim will be here within days, when he hears.”

“I don’t want his gold,” Kari said. “But I would like Thrasirshall—whatever is left of it.”

Brochael nodded. “You’ll get it! Who else would want it?” He grinned at Jessa. “And the new lady of Horolfstead will be wearing her best, I expect?”

“All borrowed.” Jessa laughed.

Kari laughed too. Then he turned and raised his hands, and made a small movement.

As they watched it, the door faded out of sight.