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Leifr pictured her as he had seen her. In spite of her opinion of

Fridmarr and her angry demeanor, he could not keep the admiration out

of his voice. “She’s beautiful still, in spite of the cold wind and the

ragged clothes. In all my travels, I’ve seen few to rival her, even dressed

in a shepherd’s rags. She would be worthy of a king’s ransom in

jewels. She has no great opinion of Fridmarr, I might add. If words

were poison adders, I’d been so bitten that I’d be green with venom.

She accused me—Fridmarr, I mean—of causing Bodmarr’s death out of

sheer jealousy. He didn’t really do that, did he?”

Gotiskolker ignored the question, waving it away with a

contemptuous spitting sound and turning his back.

“You can’t blame her for being bitter,” he said. “A chieftain’s

daughter, accustomed to comforts and the best of all things, and now

her father and brothers are all dead by Sorkvir’s hand. Her mother

died long ago and was spared all this.”

“Did Fridmarr and Bodmarr quarrel over her?” Leifr asked.

“It was always Fridmarr she cared most about, although Hroald

had cradle- promised her to Bodmarr. Hroald always hated Fridmarr,

even in the early days when Hroald and Sorkvir were cheek by jowl and

Fridmarr was Sorkvir’s pupil in magic. Then Bodmarr fell out of favor,

things went sour between Hroald and Sorkvir, and the real trouble

began. Hroald lost his land, his sons, his chieftaincy, and finally

he died in a dungeon. Sorkvir waited until then to turn Ljosa out to

make her way as a shepherd.”

Gotiskolker seemed almost to forget about Leifr as he recited the

tale of woe, and his brusque manner softened perceptibly. “She has

suffered many disappointments—but I think perhaps none was greater

than the loss of Fridmarr.”

“You’d never guess it,” Leifr said, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t

you think she’d be glad to see him, in spite of the past?”

“She’s proud, you dolt. Don’t you know the meaning of pride? It

means choosing to suffer rather than admit you might have been wrong

—even if your happiness is at stake.” Gotiskolker’s lips twisted in a

bitter grimace.

“There’s nothing to prevent her having her choice now,” Leifr

said, his hopes suddenly brightening.

“Except for the fact that she could not forgive Fridmarr forgoing

over to Sorkvir, considering what befell her brothers. Besides that,

you’re not Fridmarr, in case you’d forgotten. 1 can see that you’re

captivated by her quite on your own initiative. It makes our charade all

the more convincing.“

“I’m not captivated,” Leifr retorted fierily. “She hates the sight of

me. I can see I haven’t a chance, so I won’t waste my time by trying.”

Gotiskolker pursed his lips sardonically. “You’re going to be

proud too, eh? I didn’t know you were one to give up so easily. When

you restore the Pentacle and destroy Sorkvir, I think Ljosa will forgive

Fridmarr for his past mistakes. Don’t judge her harshly. It’s the way she

protects herself from pain.”

Leifr sighed and nodded. “Just out of idle curiosity—do you

think an Alfar chieftain’s daughter would consider a marriage offer

from a landless mortal?”

Gotiskolker smiled bitterly. “Perhaps you’d have a better

chance than Fridmarr.”

“But with Sorkvir gone, Ljosa will be restored to ownership

of Gliru-hals and a position much loftier than mine. If she is as

proud as you say, she may look for a duke or an earl.”

“Her pride isn’t that sort. She’s no more humbled by herding

sheep than I am by rendering tallow. It’s the forgiving and relenting that

she can’t abide. My advice to you is to apologize to her for Fridmarr.

He was too proud himself to ask her forgiveness—even knowing that

he didn’t cause Bodmarr’s death out of jealousy.” Gotiskolker sighed

and shook his crooked shoulders as if he were shaking off something.

“Enough of this useless chatter. There are more important

matters, whether you think so or not. Just get Thurid to his cave at dusk

tomorrow, and I’ll put this matter before him. Now get out of here while

I’m still in a good mood.”

“Don’t forget the tallow. And don’t try to cheat us.” “Trolls take

you and be welcome!”

Of evenings it was Thurid’s custom to sit near Fridmundr and

guzzle ale and smoke his pipe while rattling off a great list of the day’s

activities on the farm. Most of the time, Fridmundr’s gaze was fixed

upon infinity, or he sat dozing with his head bowed down to his

chest. It mattered not to Thurid; he talked on as if he had roomful of

appreciative listeners.

It was Leifr’s duty to listen also, although he was fast becoming

dissatisfied with the procedure, particularly when his thoughts roved

from Gotiskolker to Ljosa to Sorkvir and back around again, like an

endlessly grinding treadmill.

“Can’t you see he doesn’t hear you?” Leifr snapped suddenly,

unable to bear the mundane dronings any longer. “He’s got far more

important things on his mind than sheep ticks and botflies, and so do I.”

Thurid gazed haughtily down the length of his long, aristocratic

nose. “This is important business,” he said with withering reproach. “It

might be of benefit for you to listen. One day soon, this farm will be

yours, and you’ll be in charge of the running of it. Then perhaps you’ll

appreciate the long, weary hours of faithful service poor old Thurid has

contributed. When you’re the master here, I expect I’ll be turned out

like an old cat to starve on the bitter mountainside, in the middle of

winter, if it’s at all convenient.”

As he talked, the laces of his boots untied themselves, waving

and wriggling in the air like curious little snakes. Thurid slapped at

them angrily until they subsided.

“You may think it’s humorous to humiliate me with your infantile

magic,” he grunted as he knotted his laces. “Great wizards are seldom

appreciated by their old friends. Only my tolerance and self control

keep me here where I am so grossly underappreciated.”

“Thurid, for the last time—” Leifr began, exasperated.

“Spare me your fulsome denials,” Thurid interrupted. “It’s time

to put the old master to bed. I fear he’s even weaker tonight. His days

of sitting in that chair are almost done. Since your return, he has no

reason to linger,”

They each supported Fridmundr from the side, and Leifr noted

again the old Alfar’s lightness, as if his bones were hollow and his

flesh mere shadow. As Fridmundr rose from his chair, his luminous

eyes fastened upon the front doors of the hall.

“Look,” he whispered in a vibrant manner. “Do you see it? There

by the doors.”

Awash with gooseflesh, Leifr turned to look at the shadowy form

he knew lurked there. He glimpsed a grizzled old ram with massive,

curling horns, down on his knees, panting wearily and holding up his

heavy, nodding head with difficulty. So swift was the vision that it

vanished almost immediately, but Thurid had seen it also. His eyes were

wide and almost transparent, and his breathing was suspended.

“He’s down on both knees now, Thurid,” Fridmundr said faintly,

his eyes closed. “Help Fridmarr, Thurid. The time is growing short.

Events are coming together. I can see Sorkvir’s doom. Promise me

you’ll help Fridmarr, Thurid. Cleanse the Pentacle of evil.”

His voice trailed away, and they gently put him into his own bed.

The light in the dying Alfar’s eyes seemed to permeate his withered

flesh, like lamplight through a threadbare curtain.

“He won’t rise from that bed tomorrow,” Thurid said gruffly,

keeping his face averted from Leifr. “The end comes.”

“Thurid, we need to talk,” Leifr said in a low tone. “There’s no

sense postponing it further. Our fates and Sorkvir’s are inextricably

mixed, whether we like it or not. But we can’t talk here. Let’s go to

your cave.”

Thurid flung up his head indignantly. “My cave? Never! I allow

no profane foot to cross its threshold, for fear of disturbing my

concentration with useless distractions.”

“If you ever want to become a real wizard,” Leifr said, “you’d

better listen to me. Do you want to go on forever as you are? This might

be your only opportunity to make something of yourself.”

Thurid tugged on his nether lip dubiously. Finally he heaved a

ponderous sigh, gripped his staff, and picked up his satchel. With the

noble mien of a martyr, he led Leifr through the maze of fallen

buildings and crumbling walls, following a detailed ritual. A certain

path must be followed, certain stones touched, and Thurid directed

Leifr to step over objects that had been there at one time but now

were removed. He even went through the motions of opening and

shutting a nonexistent gate.

“Why do we have to do this?” Leifr grumbled, as Thurid

patiently crawled underneath a toppled beam that he could have easily

walked around.

“Ritual magic,” Thurid replied. “I always do it this way for

luck. You must be certain to do everything exactly as I do it.”

■Leifr did as he was told, no matter how foolish he thought it

was to bow to the circle of standing stones in the upper pasture. As they

followed a narrow sheep track through the lava flows, Thurid suddenly

plunged between two thickets and vanished into a dark fissure.

Supposing it was the cave, Leifr followed Thurid’s lead exactly,

plunging into the fissure and slithering down a steep, smooth incline,

to land at the bottom in the middle of Thurid’s back. They both

sprawled in a tangle of dead twigs and branches fallen in from above.

“You buffoon!” Thurid spluttered, struggling to his feet. “I

stumbled! This isn’t part of the ritual! Now there’s no telling what will

happen. I should have known better than to trust a disruptive influence

like yours!”

Leifr raised one hand warningly and motioned Thurid to be

silent. Above, a horse’s shod hooves grated against a stone,

accompanied by the soft jingle and creak of harness and weapons. In a

moment the sounds diminished; then Leifr heard the snort of a horse

distantly and the splash of hooves crossing the beck.

“Raudbjorn!” Thurid said. “He suspects you’re up to something.”

“He didn’t find us.” Leifr smiled. “Thanks to your

clumsiness in falling down this chute.”

Thurid swelled importantly. “Keep that in mind next time you

feel inclined to deride my rituals. My every action is fraught with

significance.”

He snortled gloatingly for the rest of the way to the cave.

Enough light remained for Leifr to discern a door barricading

the mouth of the cave. The runic symbols carved into the wood glowed

with a faint phosphorescence. The ground in front of the cave seethed

with a peculiar mist that hovered over each rock and mossy stick in an

eerie aura.

Thurid positively beamed as he watched Leifr’s face suffuse with

awe. “Another little spell from that satchel you brought me,” he said,

giving the satchel a friendly slap with his hand. “Follow me; it’s damp,

but harmless.” He made a few motions with his hands and the door fell

inward with a welcoming creak of hinges.

At that moment, a dark shape rose up at Thurid’s elbow and a

bony hand reached out to give the door a push.

“Well done, Fridmarr, you’ve brought him here just as we’d

planned,” a hoarse voice said. “Let’s go inside, shall we, Thurid?”

Thurid gasped indignantly and planted his feet, but Leifr gave

him a small shove forward for encouragement, and Gotiskolker

vanished into the dark interior of the cave ahead of them.

“What’s the meaning of this invasion?” Thurid demanded,

rapping his staff on the floor and summoning a burst of brilliant light to

its knob. “This is my cave. What are you doing here, you purveyor of

dead carcasses?” He thrust the light toward Gotiskolker, who was

seating himself in a chair unbidden.

“Lock the door, Fridmarr,” Gotiskolker said. “The trolls will be

out before long. Thurid, how have you been progressing with that

satchel and staff Fridmarr stole from the Rhbu ruins of Bjartur?”

Thurid rounded on Leifr, his eyes bulging as he watched him shut

and bar the door. “Stolen from Bjartur? My staff and satchel? I never

dreamed you got them from Bjartur.”

“Yes, Bjartur,” Leifr replied rather faintly, then added with a