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an Alfar, and if these stones can bring you power.”

Gotiskolker lifted one sharp shoulder in a shrug. “As I

said before, carbuncles are sometimes bought, sold, or stolen. Mine

was sold a long time ago, but I won’t bore you with the story.

Fridmarr’s is the only one of interest to you.“ His tone was

almost venomous in its harsh self-loathing. ”Parting with my jewel

is partly to blame for the wreck I am now. Alfar do not live well

without their carbuncles—or wisely, I fear.“

At last Leifr heaved a reluctant sign and picked up the stone

again. “I’ll carry this stone for the sake of your venture, but I’ll never

be host to it. As soon as I’m finished with it, I’ll give it back to you. I

can still scarcely believe that all I have to do is carry it and everyone

will see me as Fridmarr.”

“There are curiouser marvels,” Gotiskolker said drily, watching

sharply as Leifr fashioned a hanger for the stone and strung it around

his neck inside his shirt.

Leifr returned his watchful stare with a belligerent scowl to hide

uneasiness and distaste for wearing the carbuncle. “Well then, do I look

like Fridmarr?” he demanded challengingly.

Gotiskolker looked away, reaching for his walking staff again.

“The resemblance is there,” he grunted unhelpfully. “And it will

increase the longer you wear his jewel—whether you like it or not.”

Leifr felt as if a cold wave of air had touched him, awakening

him to the utter strangeness of the Alfar realm. All the normal laws

of Scipling behavior and expectations had been suddenly revoked,

leaving him bereft of guidance.

Gruffly he said, “Well, I’m not going to like it, so let’s get it over

with. We’ll meet again soon, I trust?”

Gotiskolker shook his head. “You’ll be completely on your own,

except for the carbuncle. I’m not particularly welcome at Dallir, except

to haul away rubbish that no one wants or to bring tallow for candles.

I’ll watch out for you when I can, and you know where to find me, if

you care to. I’m your dear old friend, remember; but also remember that

it isn’t wise to be seen with your old conspirator, as far as Sorkvir is

concerned.”

“Sorkvir be blasted,” Leifr muttered in consternation. “You’ve

got to help me at least some of the time.”

“I hope it won’t be necessary,” Gotiskolker responded.

The sun was low in the west, casting long shadows behind

the rocks, barrows, and thickets. Gotiskolker hurried along with many

uneasy glances over his shoulder. Once he motioned to Leifr urgently,

and they crouched in a ditch while six riders in long black cloaks went

by with an officious jingling of harness and weapons. Leifr stared at

their battle banners, hung on long pikes ornamented with fluttering

trophies of hair and rattling bones. The devices on the banners were

skulls and bats, which matched the symbols on the warriors’

shields and helmets. When they had passed, Leifr looked to

Gotiskolker for an explanation.

“Dokkalfar,” Gotiskolker whispered grimly and hurried

onward, darting from shadow to shadow until they came into view of a

turf house and its many sprawling annexes and barns and stables.

As they advanced along a crumbling stone wall, Leifr could see

that Dallir was more nearly a ruin than it was a working homestead.

Portions, if not all, of each building had fallen into unclaimable ruin,

although use of the building continued with stolid determination to

endure until the structure finally collapsed entirely. A sullen red

light burned in one end of a sagging turf barn, and a few sick sheep

stood listlessly in a muddy pen.

As Leifr and Gotiskolker crouched beside the wall among the

nettles and thistles, a ragged figure carried a milk pail and a guttering

horn lamp toward the main hall. An annex door opened briefly, casting

a slim wedge of light into the gloom, then vanishing quickly.

Gotiskolker nudged Leifr sharply. “That’s the kitchen. Fridmarr

would never use the front doors. Go on, and good luck to you.”

“I’m sure I’ll need it. Who will be there that I should know by

sight?”

“Just Fridmundr, Snagi the house thrall, and Thurid—you’ll

know him by his thin hair and his arrogant clothing. His headgear is

typical of Djarfur district, but you’d know nothing of the dress

customs. Pretty vain and foppish, but some good wizards have come out

of Djarfur.”

Leifr shook his head, which was suddenly filled with images

of blue and yellow Djarfur hats, with red tassels and crowns shaped

like a horses’ nosebags. “Red tassels!” he exclaimed in amazement. “If

this is an example of how that precious carbuncle works—” He made as

if to tear the string off his neck.

Gotiskolker fastened his claw in Leifr’s arm. “It will tell you

other things. You’re not losing your nerve, are you? I hope the Rhbus

weren’t malicious enough to send me a coward.“

Leifr jerked his arm away. “If this doesn’t work, you old barrow

robber, I’m going to come after you and break your other arm and

maybe your neck.”

Gripping his sword hilt, he stalked toward the annex door, his

heart thudding. He nearly leaped out of his skin when a pair of small,

scruffy-looking dogs suddenly erupted from under a broken cart with a

vociferous uproar of barking. Sniffing suspiciously at his heels and

growling and whining worriedly, they scuttled away in craven terror

when Leifr stamped his boots at them. Unfortunately, they took a

defensive position on the stoop, growling, bristling, and showing their

teeth. Leifr hesitated, eyeing the porch window, where it was considered

more polite to knock, and watching the dogs, whose belligerence

increased with his hesitation.

Suddenly the door opened, and the dogs scrambled inside,

still growling, with their tails curled between their legs. A ragged

individual leaned out to peer into the darkness at Leifr, calling out in a

nervous, cracked voice, “Who’s there? Answer up quick, unless

you’re a draug or a Dokkalfar. Once the sun goes down, I don’t

open this door for anybody.”

Leifr came forward a few more steps, unable to think of any

appropriate words for a returning prodigal. The bright eyes of the

doorkeeper peered sharply at him around the edge of the door.

“Well, speak up, or I’m going to shut the door and let the

Dokkalfar and trolls have you.” He started to suit his words with the

appropriate action.

“Wait,” Leifr said, pulling off his hood in a gesture of peace.

“I’ve come a long way to get here. I heard that Fridmundr— my father

—is dying. I don’t know if I’m welcome or not, but I’ve come to see

him for the last time.”

The door was snatched open wider, and a tall, glowering

individual thrust the first speaker aside and surveyed Leifr from

head to foot with mounting suspicion and scorn evident in the harsh

glitter of his eyes. With his nose thrust forward like the prow of a ship

penetrating enemy waters, he swiftly peered around the farmyard to see

if Leifr had any cohorts lurking avariciously in the shadows, then

turned on the ragged fellow who had opened the door.

“Snagi, you old fool, how dare you open the door to a stranger

this way, with no regard for the safety of the house? How do we know

what sort of creature he is?” He turned toward Leifr abruptly, without

losing a stride in his rapid fire of questions and accusations. “How do

we know you’re not plotting to murder us all in the middle of the

night? How do we know you’re not one of them?”

Leifr’s heart condensed into a cold, hard knot and sweat trickled

down his spine. If this hard-eyed, suspicious character was Thurid,

Gotiskolker’s scheme would be detected immediately, and all due

retribution heaped upon him.

“Thurid! Won’t you listen a moment!” Snagi at last made

his presence known, after a series of unheard protests and exclamations

quivering with excitement. “Look at him, Thurid! Listen to his voice!”

“What nonsense is this!” Thurid flung open the door to let the

light fall upon Leifr. “Stop where you are,” he commanded, striding

out onto the porch, his eyes riveted on Leifr with a sudden acute

sharpening of his gaze.

Certain he had betrayed himself somehow, Leifr edged a step

backward. “I think I’ve made a mistake,” he muttered. “This must be

the wrong house. Sorry I’ve disturbed you.” He had almost turned away

when Thurid spoke.

“Fridmarr!”

Leifr froze, then swung around warily.

Thurid scowled blackly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know me. I

almost didn’t recognize you in that wretched attire. As long as you’re

here, you’d better come in, before Sorkvir gets wind of your return.”

Leifr’s eyes narrowed with dislike. He felt his hackles rising

dangerously. Men of this authoritarian, autocratic ilk had always

irritated him almost beyond endurance.

“Thank you for your kind invitation,” he said coldly. “I regret to

intrude myself where I’m not wanted, but I wish to see my father.”

“Intrude? It’s your hall now, since Bodmarr is dead. You know

I’m here only on Fridmundr’s sufferance.” He led the way into the

shadowy kitchen, fragrant with ancient wood and peat fires, whose

pungency had permeated every beam and turf for generations. “Let

me go ahead and prepare him for the shock of your

unexpected return.” Thurid arched his left eyebrow, as if to say

Fridmarr’s return was unwelcome as well as unexpected.

Resenting his officious tone, Leifr’s gaze traveled over Thurid’s

apparel, the long cloak and gown affected by scholars and men of

wisdom who often were paid to remain at the halls of wealthy men to

enhance the atmosphere. His clothing was of exceptional quality, if

somewhat threadbare and shabby, and his fine boots had been

assiduously mended and patched to extend their lifespan beyond the

normal years for a pair of boots.

“Still down on your luck, I see,” Leifr observed. “Your study of

magic hasn’t gotten you far, has it?”

Thurid darted him an evil glare. “Thanks to your late disgrace

and Bodmarr’s ill luck, I’ve lost a lot more credence in Solvorfirth. I

can’t even get children to tutor. Rhbu magic never prospers those who

practice it. Wait here while I see if Fridmundr is in any condition for

visitors. I shall summon you in a moment.”

“I’ll come with you,” Leifr said, not trusting Thurid out of his

sight. “I’m not a visitor here. I wish to. see my father at once.”

Thurid conceded with ill grace. “Come on, then,” he said,

stalking into a cold, dark corridor that led toward the back of the house.

“I can see there’s still no reasoning with you. By the way, did you ride a

horse, or are you afoot?” He glanced down at Leifr’s worn, dusty

footwear with a supercilious smile.

“I had to sell my horse long ago for ship’s passage. It was either

sell it or eat it.” He ignored Thurid’s visible shudder of disgust and

strode down the corridor at Thurid’s heels toward a dim doorway,

where a massive carved door stood ajar. In the dim light, Leifr saw

intertwining serpent designs that seemed to move in the dancing

firelight, writhing up and down the doorposts and across the panels of

the door. Leifr gazed at them, hesitating a moment, while Thurid

coughed with impatience, eyeing him with a knowing simper.

“You needn’t be so nervous,” he said. “Fridmundr is beyond all

anger and disappointment now. I believe he has quite forgiven you for

the blot upon the family’s name.“

Leifr spared him a cursory scowl and stepped into the room

beyond, mustering all his wits for the ordeal that awaited him; the

effort resulted in a very stiff and appropriately anxious demeanor.

A large, carved chair stood near the fire, and a tall, raddled figure

drooped listlessly between the two heavy dragons’ heads ornamenting

the foreposts. Completely white, his hair and beard covered his

shoulders and chest in a straggling mane, and he raised his head with

the fierce weariness of an aged lion at the sound of footsteps. His eyes,

white with cataracts, glowed like the eerie phosphorescence of foxfire

as they probed blindly at the two dim shapes that stood before him.