“Shuffle, and then cut the deck.”
I did as he asked, and then he swept the cards up with one long-fingered hand. He held the cards in his cupped palm for a moment, tapped the sheathed Butcher Bard knife that hung from his neck, then placed the top five cards on the table. “Your past, your present, your future, and two more for good measure.” He flipped them over.
A man in a black cloak, staring down, five goblets at his feet.
A black wheel floating among clouds, guarded by a lion.
A black stone tower, ribbons of fire spurting from three high windows.
A hand holding an upright sword, a great white tree in the background.
A woman hanging upside down from a tree, a rope tied to one foot, arms tied behind her back, the tips of her hair touching the ground.
The illustrations were haunting, etched in black and red on a white background.
“The Five of Cups.” He paused. “You lost someone close to you.”
I nodded. “My father.”
“The Wheel of Fortune.” His eyes met mine. “You are happy and secure … but it will not last. It never does. The wheel is turning. Enjoy it while you can.”
He pointed to the next card.
“The Tower. You need to prepare yourself for a great change. It might be tomorrow or three years from now. But it is coming.”
He pushed the next card toward me. “The Ace of Swords. In the future, you will come to a crossroads, and you will need to choose a path. Which path you decide will cast a shadow over the rest of your life and influence it in ways large and small. Choose wisely. Trust in yourself.”
He picked up the last card and then let it drop to the ground. “The Hanged Woman.”
“What does it mean?” I asked when he stayed silent.
He merely shook his head, red hair dancing in the candles’ light. “Be careful, Torvi,” he said as I rose from the table, though I hadn’t told him my name.
I had dark dreams that night and for many afterward. Sometimes I believed that the Butcher Bard was a trickster and a liar and that his prophecy would all come to nothing. Sometimes I believed in his cards, his reading, every word of it.
Lately I’d been wondering if the great, dark change from the Tower card was the snow sickness.
Have I weathered the worst, or are there more changes to come?
Morgunn rose from the grass and began to dress. She pulled her tunic over her head and glanced at me. “You would really be willing to join the Butcher Bards, Torvi?”
“Yes. But we’d have to find them first, which won’t prove easy, isolated out here on this steading.”
“We can tie a red cloth to one of the trees on those green hills.” Gyda squinted her eyes against the noonday sun. “My grandmother was Elsh and taught me many things. A blue cloth tied to the uppermost branches of a tree will let passing Bards know that a steading is friendly and that they can shelter there for the night. A green cloth means that the region’s jarl is suspicious of wanderers and that they should keep moving. A red cloth means there is danger nearby and help is needed.” She bent to tighten the lacing of her boots—they were an old pair of mine and fit her well enough. “It might work, if they come this way.”
I nodded, thinking on this.
Morgunn leaned down and grabbed the basket by her feet. “Chickens,” she said. “Join me, Pig Witch? Do pigs know how to gather eggs?”
Gyda laughed, head tilted back, cheeks pink in the sun. “Call me that again and I’ll cast a spell on you, girl. A pig spell, full of prophecy and blood and entrails.”
“Looking forward to it, Pig Witch. I enjoy prophecies and entrails.”
They moved off toward the barn, laughing.
I watched my sister as she walked away. She had braided her wet hair into two fat plaits down her back, her too-short blue tunic swinging just above her dimpled knees. She seemed younger than fourteen, especially next to Gyda’s mature, muscular frame.
The chickens clucked, and a soft wind brushed the back of my neck. I looked around our steading, taking in all the open space, all the emptiness. It seemed as if Gyda, Morgunn, and I were utterly alone. The last three people in all of Vorseland.
The thought had a sort of peaceful carelessness to it, like falling asleep outside on a warm day, body on the green grass, gentle breeze, bare toes.
But peace is just a season. Like the Wheel of Fortune card from the Butcher Bard’s deck, life spins on, and nothing lasts forever.
FIVE
I woke at midnight, when the crows began to caw.
I crawled out from under my furs and went to the window. Something felt wrong—the air smelled odd. Thick. I drew a sheepskin across my shoulders and walked down the corridor and through the main hall. I opened the front doors and looked out across our steading to the north.
Fire.
Trow was burning.
* * *
“We go up into the hills,” I said. “Today.”
The three of us stood outside, blinking in the dawn light, hands on our hips, watching the smoke rise on the far horizon.
“We are moving into Viggo’s hut. Pack as if you aren’t planning to return.”
“Yes, Torvi,” Morgunn said, eyes on the sky.
Gyda rubbed her bare skull. “Who’s Viggo?”
“A shepherd I used to know.”
“And where is he now that we can move into his hut?”
“You tripped over his grave on your first night here. By the rowan trees.”
Gyda gave me a long look and then nodded.
We gathered together furs, sheepskins, flasks of Vite, bread, and the last of the smoked lamb sausages. We stuffed the food into leather packs and flung them over our shoulders. We didn’t need much, only what we could carry.
I turned and traced my steps back down the east corridor. I went to my mother’s room and put my right hand on the door. I pressed my left hand to my heart and said a prayer to Stray, the Elsh god of luck and fortune.
Watch over this Hall while we are gone. Watch over my mother’s grave. Watch over Viggo’s grave. Do this and I swear that I will not live meekly, and die meekly, in these Ranger Hills. I will not hide from the world. If adventure comes my way, I will run to greet it. I will grab the world by its leash and make it heel.
Aslaug would have told me not to bargain with the gods, and she would have been right. Yet I couldn’t leave our steading without calling down a blessing. It was the only home I’d ever known.
I opened the fenced-in pasture near the barn and freed the chickens before we left. We kept no pigs, instead buying our pork from the market in Trow. We ate mutton mostly, butchered for us by Viggo. I supposed that gruesome task would fall to Morgunn now. Unlike me, she didn’t mind slaughtering the poor creatures.
Our steading’s large garden would have to be abandoned, but Viggo kept his own small patch of cabbages, leeks, carrots, peas, and herbs. It would be enough.
I took a deep breath. The air smelled of ash.
We followed the nearby stream as it wound north into the hills, past the rowan trees and across the endless blanket of soft spring grass. Morgunn released her hair from its braids as we walked, and the black shone almost blue in the sunlight. I supposed mine did as well. Indigo hair, indigo eyes.
We spoke little, pausing only to count sheep. The woolly beasts seemed to be flourishing, even without Viggo to watch over them. It was comforting to know that something survived and did well after all the death.