I climbed the narrow stairs to the loft. Viggo’s spare tunic lay draped over the hand-carved wooden bed frame, right where he’d left it. He’d worn his other one to the grave.
I picked up the tunic, and it felt warm, as if he’d just taken it off. It smelled of grass and rain and wool and boy.
That last night before the snow sickness, we’d sat together outside his hut, huddled under furs, watching the stars.
“A storm’s coming,” he whispered. “I can smell it.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It turned to white fog in the cold spring air.
“This late in spring?” I sniffed the air. He was right. I smelled snow.
Viggo held me in the crook of his arm and wove his fingers deep into my curls, his palm cupping my skull. His eyes met mine. “I don’t like the look of the sky. Go home, Torvi. I’ll come to the Hall at dawn and make sure you’re well.”
I never saw him alive again.
I left the loft, went back downstairs, and started cleaning. I opened the front door wide to bring in fresh air. I built a fire in the hearth, and soon the crackling of the wood was harmonizing with the gentle wind outside. It made a sweet, natural song.
We prepared our supper just after the sun started sinking low, slanting off the grassy roof of the hut and glowing orange. We cooked soft-boiled eggs in river water and nibbled on thin slices of dried sausage.
Afterward, Morgunn curled up next to me underneath Viggo’s double-pelt sheepskin. I’d caught her sipping from one of the flasks of Vite earlier, while we were cleaning the hut, but I’d said nothing. The wolf-priests had burned Trow. I’d let her take what comfort she could.
“We live in sod-roofed cottages like this on the Boar Islands.” Gyda held a wooden cup of warm spiced milk in the palm of her hand, sipping from it slowly. “The Pig Witches live on the beaches in huts with long stilts, to keep the ocean from flooding in. They share their homes with their pigs, and their villages are cold, dirty places.” She paused and refilled her mug from the pot near the hearth fire. “But we druids live in the high, lonely hills in neat cottages tucked deep into dark forests. I feel at home here.”
“And yet you will soon leave us,” I replied. “You are on a quest for a sword. Are you ready yet to tell us this story?”
The druid smiled slowly. “No, not yet.” She finished the milk and crawled under the sheepskin next to Morgunn. A few moments later, both she and my sister were sleeping, fluttering eyelids, soft breaths.
Viggo’s short-stemmed pipe sat on a shelf on the nearby wall. I rose and took it in my hand. I ran my fingertips over the round bowl and thought about the time I’d spent watching him carve it.
The Ranger Hills get into your blood, he used to say. Once you’ve seen them and spent time among them, they stay with you forever.
Morgunn turned over and opened her eyes. She began to sleepily twist her hair between her fingers. “You can talk about him sometimes. Viggo, I mean.”
I shook my head. “It’s best that I don’t.”
Morgunn paused for a moment, then glanced over at Gyda. The druid slept deeply, chest moving rhythmically in and out. My sister lowered her voice to a whisper. “We are safe here, yes?”
“We are.”
“Don’t you think we should take to the road and go south, away from the wolf-priests?”
“No. Not yet. I want to see if the Butcher Bards find our signal. It would be much more prudent to join them than strike out on our own. As a druid, Gyda may know a bit of magic. But none of us are warriors. We haven’t trained in the Seventh Degree. We don’t even know archery. I wish Mother had taught us some weaponry.”
Morgunn nodded. “She always meant to, I think, but she never found the time—”
She flinched suddenly, and I froze, listening.
Howling. It echoed through the hills, eerie and melancholy. I couldn’t tell from which direction it originated or from how far away.
I sat down next to Morgunn. “The wolf-priests won’t stay here long. The jarls may not care about a few villages burning in the Middlelands, but the Quicks will track the beasts down soon enough.”
“But I’ve heard that Jarl Meath is near ninety and was on his deathbed last spring. The old bastard might be dead by now.” She paused. “According to Gyda, this wolf leader Uther will not be easy to kill.”
“The wolves come every year, and every year the Quicks drive them out again. Have faith, Morgunn.”
She nodded and closed her eyes again. I walked around her curled-up body, opened the front door, and stepped outside.
The breeze lifted my hair and sent it flying. I scanned the dark silhouette of the hills and breathed in deeply. The air smelled fresh and soft and verdant. It smelled of Viggo.
I turned my back to the strong night wind and watched dark gray clouds move against a black sky.
SIX
Alone Fremish wolf-priest had come to our steading the winter before. She crept into our Hall one winter twilight, sneaking through the doors and hugging the shadows like a rat.
I was in the west corridor, returning from the barn, when I heard our servant Elna scream. I found the wolf holding a rusty dagger to the girl’s throat, the doors of the Hall wide open, snow drifting in on a light evening breeze.
She was short and bone-thin, with bulging blue eyes peering out between thick, tangled hair, a grim mouth in a face streaked with mud. In her right hand she held the dagger, and her left gripped Elna’s braid in a tight fist. She wore a shaggy wolf-pelt cloak, and her pupils were large and glossy—she was flying high on yew berry poison.
She was young, fifteen at most. Her forehead barely reached Elna’s nose. Wolf-priests usually move in packs, and they rarely bother with steadings—we didn’t provide enough sport. I figured this girl must be a rogue—cast out for some wolf crime.
“What do you want, wolf? We’ve no gold. We raise sheep, and the wool harvest isn’t until spring.”
“I didn’t come for gold.” She spat on the floor. “We care nothing for it. We seek only meat and screams and fire and blood.”
We stared at each other, neither moving. With a quick jerk, the wolf-priest released Elna’s braid and reached into her tunic. She pulled out a small vial filled with a thin, orange-hued liquid. “Drink this,” she said, “and I’ll let you both live.”
“I’m not going to drink your poison, wolf.”
“It won’t hurt you. It will just let you see.”
The vial contained yew berry juice. I’d heard the wolves would negotiate only with people who drank their poison. The girl didn’t lie—it wouldn’t harm me. It would likely only turn me senseless for a while, or perhaps give me a vision or two. Nothing worse than eating a Sly Barbaric Mushroom, which I’d done once before.
I looked from the wolf to Elna and back again. “Hand it here.”
I pulled the small cork and sniffed. It smelled of sweet, ripe fruit and cold winter storms. I drained the vial and then threw it into the fire, where it shattered against the logs. I licked my lips. The poison tasted of crisp apples and fresh snow.
The wolf-priest released her dagger. It hit the floor, and I kicked it with the toe of my boot into the far corner. I grabbed Elna by the waist and pulled her to my side. She shuddered, as if to shake off the wolf’s touch, and then leaned into me.