Poet’s Bane

Sellswords & Spellweavers, Book 7

By Rachel Ford

Liss

Chapter One

The fjord of Østhavn lay upon the far shores of the southern sea. Technically still a holding of the North, it little resembled the northernmost reaches of the land. Østhavn rarely saw snow, and when it did, it never lasted for many days at a stretch.

Here, there were not long, dark seasons, nor cold, frozen winters. The sea didn’t ice over, the rivers flowed steadily all year round. A city had taken shape upon the cliffs and hills. Not a single cluster of dwellings and shelters, but a long, sprawling stretch of habitations and farms that covered both sides of the river.

Overlooking both river and sea on one side of the divide sat Jarl Storbjørn’s hall. And on the other, in a roughly comparable position lay the Østhavn Inn. East Haven Inn, in the common tongue.

Not an inn in the common use of the word, though. Not by any stretch. Østhavn Inn might better have been described as a palace, though no one’s permanent residence. Østhavn Inn took wealthy travelers from all over the world, and treated them like royalty for whatever period of time they elected to stay.

In our case, we had come for a month. Not that my fiancée Idun or I could ever have afforded such a stay on our own. No, we had come as bodyguards to the jarl of Little Eerie and his bride, Knut and Vilde – and even they had only come through a wedding present from King Geir.

To say I felt out of place, therefore, would be an understatement of the grossest kind.

Østhavn hosted the wealthiest of every nation, with far more princes in attendance than jarls. And certainly more jarls than sellswords.

Yet, here I was. Surrounded by men and women whose most trifling adornments cost more than I would own in a lifetime, who had long known the safety and security of being waited on hand and foot by people like me.

Knut had asked us to come as a favor, knowing well enough that this would be a once in a lifetime experience. He had no need of bodyguards in a place like this. Despite his good intentions, I might have considered it less of a favor than he intended were it not for the view.

But the view was beyond compare. Neither hour nor weather mattered. Calm seas or turbulent, mist or haze, rain or sun, dawn or dusk, midday or midnight, it was all the same.

Magnificent.

Every mood of the sun and sea, every whim of wind or storm, painted itself with vivid color and dramatic sound.

The reds of sunset, the blue-grays of storm, the blue-greens of calm. Quiet, gentle ocean rhythms, or tumultuous, angry waves.

Magnificent.

Then there were the beaches. Great, sandy stretches, where one could walk or bathe in sea or sun. Beyond the beaches lay caves, some black as night and others lit with the luminous blues and greens of iridescent flora and fauna.

Perhaps most amazing of all were the hot springs, those naturally heated pools of pale blue water that seemed to wash away every ache and pain in body spirit.

And all of this against a verdant backdrop of hills, and then mountains behind – towering snowcapped peaks that framed the fjord.

If the gods had ever leaned down from on high to mold a place of perfect, unrivaled beauty and grace, it would be Østhavn.

So I felt the full weight of Knut’s gift as Idun and I strolled the beaches, or bathed in the hot springs, or explored the caves in all their eerie glory.

It was as we were leaving one of the caves on the fifth day of our stay, in the company a cheery, if somewhat overtalkative guide named Julius, that we came across the body.

A man’s body, floating face first in the shallows.

It might have been the dark, greenish gray clothing the man wore. Or perhaps, it was nothing more than the incongruity of a corpse among such serene surroundings. But either way, though I saw the figure, I didn’t register it as a body.

In fact, had a wave not come in at the moment my eyes passed over it, causing the figure to bob ever so slightly, I might have thought the dead man nothing more than rock and seaweed.

But he did bob, in the way no flotsam or jetsam can – not unless it’s of the human variety. And I’d seen my share of corpses.

Idun and I had been walking hand in hand, and at that moment I clutched hers tighter. She glanced at me, her dark eyes curious but not alarmed.

I nodded with my head, and she followed my gaze. “I don’t see…” Then, she broke off, and I heard a quick intake of breath. “Oh no.”

Julius, his eyes fixed on the shore ahead of us, went on chatting. He predicted a fine sea on the morrow, and offered his services should we wish to explore again. “If you want to take a boat, I can talk to–” He cut off sharply as he glanced over his shoulder and spotted us. Just as quickly, he glanced out to sea.

It took a moment to notice the figure, and then he stood unmoving for another. When he finally spoke, he said, “Oh dear. I do hope – well, that isn’t one of the guests.”

It wasn’t.

The cut of the dead man’s clothes made that apparent as soon as we neared the body. Aside from the ill-fit and coarse fabric of the garments, the sheer volume of accumulated filth attested to the man’s lack of status.

This was no prince who bathed in hot springs and heated baths, who had his clothes pressed and steamed by staff. This was a man who lived rough, probably on the streets. Not even the tide had been able to lift the months, or perhaps years, of dirt from the fabric – or his person.

Julius clasped a hand to his nose, saying again, “Oh dear. Is he – is he the source of that unfortunate odor?”

I nodded. It wasn’t the reek of decay. He hadn’t been dead long enough for that. This was purely body odor.

Julius began to apologize. “I’m so sorry, ladies. How unpleasant this must be for you. If you’ll come with me, we’ll get you inside – and see that the proper authorities deal with this.”

Despite the solicitousness toward our comfort, I felt his comments grossly out of order. A man had died. Discomfort didn’t compare to that.

I said, rather sharply, “We need to haul the body onto shore.” It would be a while yet before the tide started to come in, but a particularly large wave might dislodge the corpse from its current position and drag the body out to sea.

And those came and went.

Julius stared as if I’d sprouted a second head. “You mean…don’t you think…well, surely the magistrate…”

Neither Idun nor I responded, except to close the distance between ourselves and the body. Here, the water rose to our mid-shins, which left the body floating. But a corner of the man’s tunic had snagged between two rocks, anchoring him in place.

Idun levered a rock aside by a fraction of an inch, and the fabric escaped. Now, the dead man moved more freely.

She took one side and I the other, and we first flipped him. His time among the waves and rocks had left him battered, but underneath the damage, behind the beard, a middle-aged face and vacant blue eyes stared up at the sky. Hard lines surrounded the eyes and mouth, and even death could not erase the traces of weariness life had imparted – nor the long scar over his left eyebrow and cheek, or the faded scars on his knuckles and forearms.

I didn’t recognize the man, but I recognized the situation. A fate that, not so long ago, looked like it would be mine one day. When injury or the day to day demands of sellswording grew too great to sustain.

He’d been an adventurer of some kind, once. Maybe a sellsword, or a guardsman, or something less reputable – a highwayman or a cutthroat perhaps. But he had lived by the sword, and nearly died by it too, if the scars he bore were anything to go by.

Yet it had been no blade that killed him. Nor did it look like the blade had been his profession any time recently.

For starters, he carried no weapon of any kind, and he bore no visible injuries except those inflicted by the waves. But more than that, his clothes were tattered, he wore no shoes, and in turning him over, we had unleashed a new smell. That of alcohol.

I knew only too well how tightly intermingled drink and the sellsword profession could become. Not so very long ago, my own days had been an endless loop of tracking criminals and drinking off the scrapes and bruises I’d taken along the way.

Studying this man, his unseeing eyes staring blankly heavenward, I felt a wave of sorrow wash over me. Who had he been, once? What had pushed him so far that he couldn’t quite find his way back?

“Come on,” I said gruffly. “Let’s get him onto shore.”

Julius acquiesced with a good deal of reluctance. Despite the three of us, it took a little time to get the dead man out of the water. Waterlogged and limp, he was heavier than he looked.

By time we’d finished, Julius had gone very pale, and looked like he might be sick. Annoyed as I’d been with him, I felt a little compassion. My line of work desensitized me to death, perhaps. Gods knew I’d come across plenty of corpses, from accidental deaths, to deliberate murders, to animal killings.

Fortunately, most jobs did not come with that hazard. “Go on,” I said to him, more kindly than before. “Head up to the inn. We’ll wait with the body.”

He hesitated. “Are you certain, ladies? I don’t want –”

“Quite certain.”

“We’re investigators with the University, and Little Eerie,” Idun told him. “We’ve seen dead bodies before.”

He flashed us a grateful glance and scurried away posthaste.

Once he’d gone out of earshot, Idun asked, “What do you think happened?”

“He drowned,” I said.

She nodded slowly. “But where? It couldn’t have been here. The water’s too shallow. And he hasn’t been dead long enough to float in from deeper waters. He’s barely cool to the touch, and there’s no signs of decomposition or bloating.”

“Depending on how drunk he is, the water level might not have mattered.”

“Surely someone would have seen him.”

“I barely saw him floating there,” I admitted. “Even if he made noise, we were in the caves. We wouldn’t have heard him, and unless someone happened to be coming by at the right time, they might have missed it too.”

For a moment, she stared at the body in mute consternation. Then she said, “Poor man. What a way to go.”

“If he was drunk,” I said, “he probably didn’t even notice.” As consolation went, it was something anyway.

In due time, Julius returned with two of the more senior inn staff, and a local magistrate in tow.

The former contributed little to the overall proceeding, as they seemed far more fussed about the inconvenience and discomfort to their clientele than anything else. But the magistrate, a burly fellow called Tristan, whose red beard and bushy brows hid as much of his face as I could see, took charge of the situation.

He first examined the body, and shook his head. “Always knew it would come to this one of these days. Poor devil.”

“You knew him?” Idun asked.

“Sure I did. Harald ‘the Hawk’ was what he was called round these parts, though I don’t know if that were his proper name. A mercenary he was, back in the day, afore he took bad. Two years back now. Fever of the joints. Put him in a world of hurt, even after the fever went. Ruined him for any kind of bladework. Bladework, or anything that required physical labor. And he weren’t ever a thinking sort of man, if you get me. Which isn’t to say he didn’t have it in him to think. He were as smart as they came, in a practical sort of way. Only he was a man who lived by his blade, not books or figures.”

“So he turned to drink for the pain,” Idun said rather than asked.

Tristan looked up sharply. “You knew him then?”

She shook her head. “No. But – I can smell it.”

“Oh, aye. You could always smell the booze on him. Poor devil.”

“Wasn’t there anything the doctors could do for pain? Or, the wizarding school?”

“No wizarding school in these parts. Not for a hundred miles. And doctors – well, Harald weren’t a rich man. He went through the little he’d put by quick enough on doctors. Then, they wouldn’t help no more. So he did what he was left to do.”

Tristan shook his head. “Only a matter of time, I s’ppose. Still, a shame to see it happen. Don’t guess he’ll be needing that where he’s gone now, though.”

“I suppose not,” Idun said. “Poor man.”

I’d been following the conversation, but I’d also been observing the body: the way water droplets collected on his skin and suddenly ran off in streams. The way, in some trick of breeze and shadow, it seemed now and again as if he’d exhaled a breath, the hairs of his beard moving ever so slightly.

It was the beard that caught my eye now, for a fragment of something blue was lodged in the thick mass of hair. A strange, almost glowing blue.

I knelt beside the dead man and pointed to the particle. “What’s that?”

Tristan and Idun followed my gaze, and though it took a moment of searching, they too spotted what I’d seen.

“Hmm,” he said. “Looks to be some kind of luminescent fungi. They grow in the caves around here.”

“Why is it in his beard?” Idun asked.

“He et it, I shouldn’t wonder. Lots of the species round here are edible. And as for them that ain’t, well, that never stopped someone from trying. Not if the hunger was bad enough.”

Gingerly, he leaned over the body and picked through the mass of facial hair. In a moment, he pulled out a tiny glowing section. In the palm of his hand, I could make out the natural fibers amid the soft, spongey flesh.

“Sure enough,” he said. When we’d satisfied our curiosity, he discarded the piece in the sand. “Well, I shouldn’t detain you ladies anymore. You did right by staying with him, but we’ll see that he’s taken care of from here, proper like.”

Thus said, he sent us on our way. We set our steps back to the inn, where we would change from our wet swimming clothes. But somehow the prospect of returning to that place of luxury didn’t appeal. Far from imparting a sense of security or comfort after the sight of death, it repelled me.

A man had died in water and drink and agony for want of funds, while just up the hill princes and jarls and merchants squandered more on food and wagers and entertainment than he would have needed in a lifetime.

It was one thing to know such disparity existed, and another altogether to partake in it, even from the periphery.

Idun seemed to sense my discomfort, for she squeezed my hand. “Let’s change and head into town. There’s a troupe of thespians in town, and they’re supposed to be very good. They’re performing tonight. Perhaps we could catch the show.”

I wasn’t sure I was up to entertainment, but on the other hand, I’d rather watch a performance than endure the spectacle around us. So I acquiesced.

“It’s a history of Østhavn,” she went on. “Well, not a history so much as the legends surrounding its history. You know, the mead of poetry, and all that.”

I nodded. Among its many boasts, Østhavn claimed to be the source of a mythical mead that was said to unfetter the bonds of mediocrity in many a man, to unleash the true bardic potential that lay within. There was a whole complex history of gods and dwarves and I knew not what – mostly, because I had not paid particular attention to such things.

It was true that many great literary geniuses had sojourned here, but that seemed to me to be more a product of Østhavn’s reputation than anything else. People came expecting to be inspired, and when, among so much beauty, they were, they attributed inspiration to magical forces.

Still, I could think of worse ways to spend my evening. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter Two

There was a reason I’d never done well in theology class, and stuffed into crowded the amphitheater among so many other spectators, I remembered only too well.

It didn’t make sense.

None of it made sense: a bunch of angry, violent, vengeful gods and heroes, behaving in foolish, impractical, and downright nonsensical ways. The story of Østhavn and the mead of poetry exemplified my take rather neatly, as it began in the way so many of the old sagas began.

Needless bloodshed.

The gods had been at war, and after many battles and much killing, made peace. As part of this peace, each of the gods on both sides spit into a vat, and from the spittle the All-Father crafted a being of such extraordinary wisdom, none – not even the All-Father himself – could match his knowledge. He knew everything, could solve any problem, answer any riddle.

Which is all well and good, except that this all-wise being promptly marched himself into a trap.

The particular trap had been laid by two dwarves. Two rather bloodthirsty ones, like most of the rest of the characters in the saga. They lured this wisest of all men into their home on the flimsy pretext of having knowledge to share so secret that only his ears could hear it. When I pointed out the obviousness of the trap to Idun, she only hushed me.

To literally no one except the so-called wisest man’s surprise – there were no gasps in the audience, not even from the children – the pair slit his throat.

They then drained his blood in magical vats, into which they threw honey and berries to create a blood mead unlike anything anyone had ever crafted before. This was, of course, the mead of poetry. A graying thespian named Brynjar who doubled as an actor in various roles as well as the play’s narrator declared it carried all the wisdom and cunning of not only the man but the gods whose spittle had created him. A single sip could transform the most addle-minded oaf into a true skald, a poet and a scholar of great understanding.

The dwarves drank their fill day by day, and the magical vats never ran empty. Which we knew, because they confirmed the point in a song and dance number.

But the murdering pair weren’t quite done with bloodletting. Nor did their frequent consumption of this mead of wisdom and poetry prevent them from making catastrophic missteps.

Their next set of victims was a husband and wife from among the giant peoples. The husband, they lured out to sea in a boat. Knowing that he could not swim, they capsized the boat and swam to safety, leaving the hapless giant to drown.

As for the grieving widow, they finished her off with a millstone dropped from a tower. “Stand just here, m’lady, and I shall point out to you the spot in which the terrible accident happened.”

Of course, the unsuspecting woman stood where she’d been bade, and of course she was duly – and predictably – murdered.

My commentary on the predictability of these crimes earned me a furious shushing from our nearest neighbor in the row. So I contented myself to snorts as the dwarves scurried about the stage content in their crimes, never fearing the looming shadow of retribution.

A shadow that manifested in the form of Suttungr, the eldest son of the slain giants, who showed up at their doorstep.

After a battle that involved more song than fighting, at least if the thespians’ rendition was anything to go by, Suttungr bested the little rogues, and prepared to drown them as they had drowned his father.

The desperate dwarves bartered the blood mead for their lives, a bargain that Suttungr took. With the blood price paid, he left the dwarves to mourn the loss of their mead.

Which they did, in the form of a song. Much to my chagrin. It was one thing to endure silly myths, but quite another when those myths were put to song and dance by a troupe that clearly had not yet encountered this mythical mead of poetry.

When the dance concluded, Suttungr carried the mead to his own homeland, where he hid in a fortress deep in a mountain, and set his daughter to guard it.

Who commemorated the task with yet another song.

Despite the musical interludes, I by this point was rooting for Suttungr. Of all the characters so far, only he had acted with a whit of common sense. Certainly not the All-Father, who had let the wisest of beings wander out of his sight without so much as a bodyguard. And not that supposed wisest being either, who had walked blithely into a trap. Nor, for that matter, the dwarves themselves, nor the giants they’d slain.

But common sense would not win the day.

In a dizzying whirlwind of nonsensical actions, the All-Father set out to retrieve the lost mead. Not by confronting Suttungr, or bargaining with him.

Oh no.

He first found the farm of Suttungr’s brother, Baugi, and murdered all the slaves working his fields. Then he presented himself to Baugi in the guise of a man, and proceeded to do the work of the dead slaves. Thus ingratiating himself into Baugi’s favor, he asked Baugi to procure him a sip of the mead in payment.

Baugi applied to Suttungr on the All-Father’s behalf, but was denied. In song.

The All-Father then convinced Baugi to climb the mountain fortress with him, and, using a divine drill capable of such a feat, they bore a hole into the mountain.

When I whispered to Idun that the All-Father might have saved himself – to say nothing of the unfortunate murdered slaves – a good deal of trouble by bypassing Baugi altogether, she grinned and whispered, “Be quiet before we both end up murdered. Very predictably.”

I forced myself to finish in silence. A hard-won silence, as events unfolded: the All-Father’s betrayal by Baugi and his seduction and betrayal of Suttungr’s daughter, Gunnlöd, in turn.

Having tricked Gunnlöd into allowing him to take three sips of mead, the All-Father drained each of the three vats in giant gulps, and then transformed into a great eagle. Before the giantess could touch him, he escaped from the mountain fortress by air.

Suttungr, however, was not willing to give up his mead so easily. He pursued, also in the form of a great eagle. This was apparently something both gods and giants did in those days.

At any rate, the thespians performed yet another song and dance routine, this time depicting the chase across the skies to Asgard.

For all his zeal, Suttungr proved too late. The All-Father reached Asgard first, and spat the mead of poetry into vats of his own. In the process, he heaved a little too hard, and some of the liquid escaped from his backside.

This so-called rhymester’s mead, Brynjar explained, was the source of all bad poetry through the ages. The puffed up, self-aggrandizing, over-the-top verses, the bards who wailed offkey, the masters of saying nothing at all in as many words as possible – they all spring from this one, unsavory source.

The crowd roared with laughter at this juncture, and I admit, I might have laughed too, had I not been so preoccupied by the inanity of the story.

I started to collect myself to depart. From my long-forgotten theology classes in the orphanage schools, this was where the tale concluded.

But the play had not ended. The stage cleared. The great eagles vanished into side chambers. Brynjar resumed centerstage.

“The skalds tell the tale as you have seen it here. But there is one detail that even they, in their inspired wisdom, did not know. A detail that only a blessed few have ever known. And that is where and how the mead of poetry reaches us.

“We know how the rhymester’s mead rained down on our realm – almost literally, as rain from above.”

The crowd laughed and groaned at the imagery.

“But what of Odin’s own drink, the mead of gods and poets alike? For that, we must turn not to heroes nor gods, nor mighty warriors of ages gone by. We turn instead to the humblest of all men. A simpleton sent to the mountains of Østhavn to mind sheep.”

A man dressed in a rough spun tunic wandered onto the stage, alongside a pair in huge, fluffy sheep costumes.

While the narrator absconded to the edge of the stage, the trio broke into a song and dance routine in which the man identified himself as Heimir the Foolish. Man and sheep hustled about the stage in comic fashion, Heimir singing bitter complaints about his own intellectual shortcomings, and the sheep amusing themselves by outwitting the hapless Heimir.

Brynjar returned to center stage to explain that the mischievous sheep, having led their keeper deep into the mountains, now abandoned him.

After the spoken interlude, Heimir devoted himself to singing about his fears, his hunger and his thirst, while the sheep, scampering about the outskirts of the stage, gloated about his misfortune.

Finally, an exhausted Heimir stumbled to a spring. He drank deeply and greedily, Brynjar explained – the actor miming drinking in exaggerated fashion.

“And no sooner than had the water touched his lips, was Heimir a new man.”

Heimir scuttled about the stage, rounding up his lost sheep – who in turn cowered at the sight of this new and improved sheep minder.

“For he had tasted the mead of the gods,” Brynjar explained. “Here, in the very mountains that overlook Østhavn, Heimir the Wise – no longer Heimir the Foolish – found the Mead of Poetry.

“For you see, gentle folk, across the ages one of the great vats into which the All-Father spewed this precious fluid sprang a leak. On a clear day, if you peer long into the heavens, you can see the mead falling to earth, one great, god-sized droplet at a time.

“Drip. Drip. Drip.

“And we know it as the river Gudselv. River of the gods, for it is indeed a river of the gods. A river of inspiration, of magic, of poetry. For thousands of years, travelers have come to Østhavn to sip the waters for inspiration.

“But they have never found Heimir’s pool, the first and most potent source of the mead, where the great drops meet land. A very few know the secret of its whereabouts, for Heimir held the secret close, passing it on to his children and they to theirs.

“Fortunately, we have with us tonight a descendent of Heimir’s, young Alfsen. He has brought casks of the mead of poetry to sell tonight. Purchase a horn of the god’s mead, or fill your water hide, or buy an entire barrel – but do not go without tasting the Mead of Poetry!”

A young man with light hair and an overbroad smile came onto the stage. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, in a very good imitation of an everyman sort of fellow. It was all an act, I felt certain. He was another of the troupe, a skilled playactor performing his role – relieving the gullible of the audience of hard-earned coin.

“Well,” I said to Idun as this supposed descendant of Heimir explained where to find him after the show, “there we have it. They’re selling something. Like most priests.”

“You’re a good deal too cynical for someone who lives at a wizarding university,” she said with a laugh.

“Come on,” I said. “You can’t tell me you believe any of this?”

“It does sound like a yarn,” she admitted. “Still, I’m going to find Heimir’s great-great-whatever he is grandson, and see what the going rate for ‘mead of the gods’ might be.”

I groaned. “They’re charlatans, Idun.”

“Probably. But I’m curious. I’ve heard of course that Østhavn and the river are supposed to be connected to the mead of poetry, but I didn’t know about Heimir.”

“Probably because they invented him, so they could also invent a grandson.”

“Yes, no doubt. Still, the place does have a storied reputation for poetic inspiration. There must be some truth to it, somewhere along the way.”

“That’s no mystery,” I said. “You need only look around to see why people come here and are inspired. Where else do you get mountains and streams and the endless sea all together? You’d be a pretty bad poet if you weren’t inspired. Pretty bad anything.”

“No doubt you’re right,” she said gently, almost indulgently. “But I’m still going to check it out.”

Which she did, falling into a lengthy line queueing up to get their hands on this so-called mead of poetry. All around us, the amphitheater emptied as people streamed back to their homes.

But, I noticed with some dismay, not so many people as I would have thought. The troupe’s pitch, which I had found a little too obvious and on the nose for my tastes, seemed to have done its business.

People chattered excitedly as we wound our way toward the seller. A lady – a quite sensible lady, to judge by her practical and somewhat severe dress – gushed, “I missed them last time they were here. I was visiting my mother-in-law. She’d broken her hip, and we needed to stay with her. But I told Aki – Aki’s my husband – that I wasn’t going to miss them this time, whatever happened.”

A somewhat dandyish young man dressed in a curious ensemble that combined top rate fabric and tailoring with worn, tattered and paint-splattered garments declared that he had come to Østhavn expressly for the purpose of finding this troupe.

“I heard they would be here. I saw them in the capital last year, and I confess I was rather skeptical at the time. But the muse – vixen that she is – had been playing her usual tricks, and I was desperate. I bought a bottle – just a bottle, fool that I was. By time I realized the magic of the stuff, well, it was too late. They’d moved on.”

“It really works?” Idun asked.

“Works? My dear girl, it’s pure magic. Better than magic. This is bottled inspiration, nothing more and nothing less.”

Someone else, overhearing this, fell into conversation with the young man about her own experiences with the mead, and he forgot about us.

I leaned in close and needled, “Better than magic? Look out Idun: these thespians will soon put you out of a job.”

Idun had been grimacing ever since the ‘dear girl’ line, but now she snort-laughed. “I won’t hold my breath.” Then, she added, “He’s staying at the inn, isn’t he?”

“Is he? He doesn’t look like their type of client.”

She shot me a bemused look. “He’s a prince something-or-other. Ivan, maybe. No, I think it was Godfrey.”

My jaw sagged a little. “A prince? Of where?” I couldn’t quite picture a prince of anywhere dressed like he was.

She had apparently read my mind, or at least guessed it, because Idun shook her head. “My dear Liss, it’s a look. A deliberate look.”

I stared at the man, at the tattered, speckled vest. Certainly, the shirt underneath looked to be of the finest silk, pristine and white and well maintained. The trousers, too, had been expertly tailored to highlight the musculature and length of his legs. But then, what of the sash or belt or whatever it was that hung about his waist, all full of paint residue?

Maybe she was right, I thought. Maybe this prince was as much an actor in his own right as Alfsen and all the rest of the thespians out and about today.

Only his role was that of the great artist rather than prince who dabbled with paints.

Chapter Three

The line took three-quarters of an hour to progress to Alfsen, and I nearly laughed out loud when the young rascal named his price.

Exorbitant didn’t cut it. This was highway robbery, pure and simple.

Yet Idun forked over a distressingly large pile of coins for a single horn of mead. I forbore to remark on the folly of rewarding these charlatans. She could do as she pleased with her own money, of course, and she had already endured enough of my complaints.

Still, I could not fathom it myself. Certainly, I understood wanting the full experience of the show.

But at a cost of nearly a week’s salary?

That was an experience too rich for my blood.

Alfsen, if that was indeed his name, handed her a commemorative mead horn, engraved with a somewhat redundant symbol of an overflowing mead horn. These horns were also offered for sale, also at an exorbitant rate.

This one, however, was full to the brim with golden mead.

“We’ll be here through the morrow week,” Alfsen said. “For when you want more.”

I snorted as we moved from the table, Idun taking slow, careful steps. “As if.”

She paused when we’d cleared enough distance so as not to hold up the line and took a sip. I saw her wince.

Not a promising sign, that.

“Well,” she said, “it’s not the best I’ve had.”

“Are you a poet yet?” I teased.

She grinned and took another taste. “It’s not all bad, really. Just – there’s a flavor I can’t quite make out. Here.”

She pushed the horn at me, and I retreated a step. “Oh no. Not at that price. I’m not risking it. If I spill–”

“Come on,” she said. “Try it. Tell me what that taste is.”

Carefully, as if she’d asked me to handle some kind of precious crystal or ancient artifact, I took the mead.

She laughed aloud. “It’s not going to bite you, you know.”

Ignoring her commentary, I drank a mouthful. And nearly gagged. She was right that it wasn’t the best mead, in the way that a bear mauling is an inconvenience. It was damned near the worst mead I’d ever tasted.

I could taste very little honey, and a lot of alcohol. No wonder our painter prince swore by it, I thought sourly, if he found his muse at the bottom of a tankard. It’d take no time to get intoxicated on this stuff.

But there was something else. Something earthy and – well, dirt-like.

“Oof,” I said, pushing the horn back to her.

“You taste it too?”

Smacking my lips in disgust, I demanded, “How could I not? It’s like drinking a mouthful of mud.”

She laughed again. “It is mildly earthy.”

“Mildly? It’s disgusting. And I’m not even sure that’s mead at all. I can barely taste honey.”

“They probably supplement with other sugars to aid the fermentation process,” she said absently. “I just wish I knew what that additive was.”

“Dirt,” I said confidently.

She shot me a bemused look. “You goose. It’s not dirt.”

“It tastes like dirt.”

“Yes. Which makes me wonder why they’re putting it in at all.”

I shrugged. I didn’t see how it mattered. Cheaply made, vile and overpriced – those were the salient points.

To my surprise, she took another long, slow drink. “It’s not a byproduct of the normal process,” she said. “So they’re definitely adding it. Some kind of root, maybe? Or berries?”

It was common practice to add berries, fruit, and spices to mead to alter the flavor profile. The better meaderies had their own secret and proprietary blends, so valuable that men had killed to get their hands on the formulas. Everyone had heard those stories.

But this was the first time I’d ever heard of a formula that made the finished product taste worse.

I said as much to Idun, and she nodded slowly. “Exactly. Which makes me wonder…” She took another sip. “I don’t feel any different.”

I didn’t quite know what to make of that. It was a strong mead, certainly, but not so strong three mouthfuls could intoxicate.

“They said they found it in a pool on the mountain,” I reasoned. “A lie, obviously. But maybe they put something in it to give it an earthy flavor. You know, since it came from the ground, supposedly.”

She murmured something that might have been agreement, and hand in hand we made our slow progress back toward the inn. Now and then, she would take a sip from the mead horn.

I found my thoughts drifting to the morning, and the dead man. The show had thus far distracted me, but the prospect of returning put him foremost in my thoughts again.

“I wonder how he washed out,” I said suddenly. We’d just reached the great bridge that spanned the river, and combined the two halves of the city. Idun looked up at that.

“Who?”

“Harald. If he was foraging for mushrooms in the caves, I wonder how he ended up on the shore. He couldn’t have been washed out with the tide. He’d died too recently for that.”

“The waves must have carried him, I suppose,” she said.

It was possible, of course, but I didn’t feel convinced. The sea had been calm, the waves more swells than anything else. Which presented another problem.

“The body was pretty badly battered. Were the waters rough enough for that?”

She took another sip of mead. “Depends on where he was, I guess. If he got knocked back and forth on rocks, maybe.”

I nodded slowly. It all made sense, in as far as it went. None of it was outside the realm of possibility. And yet…

And yet, I didn’t quite buy it. Somehow, something felt wrong. A sense I’d missed earlier, but that grew in my mind the more I considered it until it became almost a conviction.

“I don’t know about that mushroom either,” I said.

“The piece in his beard?”

“We saw plenty of mushrooms in the caves, but they looked nothing like that.”

“It was hard to tell what that one looked like,” she said, with a frustrating reasonableness, “since there wasn’t much of it.”

“I know,” I admitted. “But the color – did you see anything that blue in the caves?”

“No.”

“Exactly. And we’ve been all over the place.”

“But we’ve been with a guide. We don’t know the caves for ourselves. Maybe they grow somewhere that’s less accessible, riskier to get to.”

“You have an answer for everything,” I sighed bemusedly.

“That’s what happens when you drink the mead of poets,” she declared, raising the mead horn in a mock salute.

“Oh no,” I groaned.

“Oh yes. Heimir’s special stash.”

“I’m giving you fair warning. If you break into song and dance, I’m going to take my chances down there.” I gestured to the river far below us, and she laughed.

“Never fear, dearheart. I think I’m more inclined toward painting myself.”

“Like our friend the prince?”

“Exactly so. I just need to find an artfully stained cowl or a distressed shawl or something to complete the look.”

“The look,” I repeated scornfully. “That’s all it is to him, too. A role he playacts. An aesthetic he adopts as it suits him.”

“He did seem insufferable,” she conceded. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s actually a good hand at paintings.”

I offered a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort. While the precise noise might have been difficult to define, the intent was not.

“You are a skeptic tonight,” she said. “Although I’ll concede that you were right about the mead at any rate. Though I’d still like to know what it is they use to give it this flavor.”

I had some little trouble getting to sleep when we reached our room. For reasons I could not quite define, my brain seemed unwilling to give over to rest, or quiet at all.

Ever and again, I kept returning to poor Harald, to his strange appearance on the coast and the unusual fungi clinging to him.

Idun by contrast had finished all but my one taste of the mead, and she drifted off to sleep easily and promptly. So it was with no small degree of confusion that I woke some hours later to find her working by candlelight, scribbling furiously in a journal with several books spread out before her.

I blinked into the quiet room, my faculties slowly ebbing back. “Idun?”

She jumped at the sound of my voice, so violently that she knocked a taper candle out of its holder.

It sputtered out, but left a trail of hot wax.

“Damnation,” she cursed, retrieving the candle and then peeling the wax from her page. Then, more composedly, she turned back to me. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No,” I said. I wasn’t sure how I’d waken. It might have been the light, or just a dawning awareness of her absence. The specifics didn’t matter. “What’s going on?”

“I was thinking,” she said. Her eyes were wide and bright, gleaming with an intensity that – I must confess – somewhat alarmed me. There was something uncanny about it, something almost fanatical. Idun was always enthusiastic about her work, but never fanatical. “About the mead.”

“The mead?” For a moment, I had no idea what she meant. Then, I remembered the play, and the mead horn. “Oh. But – what of it?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. But there’s something Liss, something that I can’t explain. Something beyond mead.” She spoke in a rush, the words tumbling out upon each other in a frenzy. All the while, her eyes shone with that singular light I’d already observed.

I decided it must be some trick of the candle.

“I didn’t feel it at first. All I felt was sleepy. But now.” She sprang to her feet. I saw that she was twitching with energy. “I can feel it. Like my mind is awake, as it’s never been awake. Inspiration? It doesn’t cover the half of it. I feel like I could solve all the problems of the cosmos. Like there’s no mystery of magic or mathematics or men that could elude me, with a little time.”

I struggled out of bed, the sense of alarm I’d been so far fighting moving firmly into the foreground of my thoughts. “Idun, are you sure you’re well?”

She laughed, a gay, joyous sound. “Well? My dearest, I’ve never been better. Do you hear me? I am alive – truly alive, and awake. That mead – it’s not pouring down from some vat in Asgard, I know that. But there’s something to it.

“And I think I have an idea. That earthy flavor, you remember? We both tasted it. You made that funny face.”

She scrunched her features up in an unflattering if comic imitation of my expression. She laughed again, louder and more merrily than before. I had the idea that she might be drunk, though I struggled to imagine anyone getting drunk on so little mead as she’d had. But I couldn’t fathom another explanation that covered her agitation and energy.

“There’s something in the mead,” she went on, hardly pausing for breath. “Something – I’m not quite sure, but I think it might grow on the mountain. You remember he said that’s where Heimir found the mead.”

“Yes, dripping down from Asgard.”

She brushed away my skepticism with a wave of her hand. “Forget Asgard. Forget the vat, or the mead either, for that matter. It didn’t come from the mountain.”

“Obviously.”

“But that earthy taste, whatever it is they add to the mead? That came from the mountain. I’d lay odds on it.”

When she turned back to her books with the same manic energy, and no further explanation, I ventured, “Why?”

She didn’t look up. “Why what?”

“Why do you think it came from the mountains?”

“Oh. That’s easy: the caves.”

“The caves?” I repeated. “What caves?”

Now, she did glance back, with an expression that indicated just how silly she found the question. “The caves, where the mushrooms grow.”

“What mushrooms?” I demanded. Unless I’d missed something, this was the first mention of mushrooms.

“The mushrooms they put in the mead.” She sounded exasperated.

“Hold on. They’re putting mushrooms in the mead?”

“Yes. Haven’t you been listening? It’s not the mead at all, it’s the mushrooms.”

I started to protest that I had no idea what she meant, but cut off suddenly. As garbled as the explanation had been, I thought I might have figured out her meaning anyway. “You mean…this effect you’re feeling now, the ‘inspiration.’ You think it’s not the mead, but the mushrooms in the mead?”

“Exactly. That’s the flavor – the earthy flavor. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Of course. Why make your mead taste like dirt, unless there’s something special about whatever causes that dirt flavor?”

I could follow that so far as it went, but I still didn’t see how she arrived at mushrooms. “But what makes you think it’s mushrooms at all? There’s tubers that taste like dirt, and roots. And dirt, for that matter.”

“Yes, but they don’t do this.” She gestured frantically at herself.

“Thank the gods,” I said. “Idun, are you sure you’re alright? I’ve never seen you this – well, excited.”

She waved the concern away. “Better than alright. If I’m right, this is huge, Liss. This is going to change alchemical history.”

“Is it?”

She nodded. “You have no idea.”

Which was true enough, despite our conversation so far. “Idun, listen, I think I should call a physician. Just to make sure.”

She seemed now, finally, to hear me. She fixed her eyes on me, and for two seconds – a record so far – said nothing. Finally, she broke the silence. “You don’t understand at all, do you? No, I can see you don’t. I’m not ill, Liss. I’m – I’m on fire. My mind, my brain, it’s on fire.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. This isn’t normal.”

“No, of course not. It’s the mushroom. No, don’t look like that. I’m alright, truly, and I’ll explain everything. But first, I need to find a name. And then, I’ll explain. I promise.

Idun

Chapter Four

I didn’t know what exactly Liss thought might be wrong with me, but she was worried. I could tell that before she even said anything.

True, perhaps I was a bit excited, but with good reason. And she didn’t seem to understand that.

Of course, she’d only had a sip of the mead. Maybe it would have been different if she’d had more.

I could have tried harder to explain it, maybe. But I didn’t know if I could, in any way that would do it justice.

How could I explain fire raging through my thoughts, through my soul – a pure inferno of ideas, of understanding, beyond anything I’d ever dreamed before? I wouldn’t have been able to comprehend it without experiencing it myself, and I didn’t think any words I possessed could make her understand either.

I didn’t know if language could even handle the task.

But it wasn’t just that. Every delay, every moment I squandered on irrelevancies caused me almost physical pain. I had to be working, thinking, finding my answer.

I had to.

So I poured through the books, searching for the name of a mushroom I’d read about once, many years ago.

A species of fungi believed to be either long extinct or purely mythical. A species that tasted like earth, but worked a kind of magic on human, elven, and dwarven minds, inspiring frenzied creativity and comprehension.

According to the book I’d read, this mushroom had been highly valued in ancient days by scholars and bards. So valued, that it had been overcultivated, and eventually lost to history. In the end, kings traded entire kingdoms worth of gold to get their hands on the last dried fragments. Men had murdered and been murdered in turn. People had gone into all manner of peril seeking new sources of the mythical toadstool.

I understood why, now.

But for the life of me, though I could remember the stories of murder and theft in vivid detail, I couldn’t remember what it had been called.

Page after page, I scoured my books for references to this legendary fungi. My aggravation mounted. I was shaking with irritation and nerves. I barely heard Liss’s increasingly concerned inquiries. I barely noticed when she left the room.

And then, halfway through a heavy tome on lost herbs and plants, I found it. An illustration of a glowing blue toadstool, its cap flecked with spots that matched the pale, bluish gray of the stalk.

Blue-gilled agaric, also known as: Graybeard’s Ghost, Ghost in the Cave, Madness’s Muse, Lady in the Dark, the Blue Lady, Elf-Heart, Dwarfbane, Kingsbane or King’s Bane, Siren’s Curse, Jötunndust.

Toadstool of perhaps mythical origin. References to the blue-gilled agaric appears in the earliest human literature. It is also referenced in multiple surviving elven works, dwarven literature, and folktales of the Jötnar.

Sources disagree on effects of blue-gilled agaric. While most agree that it is edible, a few maintain that it will cause permanent neurological damage or madness.

A list of sources followed, but these I passed hastily over. The book continued,

Most tales, however, attribute positive outcomes to consumption of the toadstool. The only disagreement is in the degree of impact. Some allege a permanent transformation, making wise men of fools. Others suggest a more modest, and temporary, transformation. Some sagas relate that elves and dwarves are driven to an almost manic level of cogitation, while men and giants experience a slower, more modest increase in cogitation.

Again, the author listed the sources of these claims – various sagas, histories, and even fairytales.

These sources reference an unpleasant flavor, reminiscent variously of burdock root, tar yam, or, least flatteringly, “fresh turned dirt” (See: Sigrid’s Travels, ‘The Wise Witch’).

Whatever the truth may have been, if blue-gilled agaric existed at all, we may never know, as the fungi now seems to exist only in literature.

I laughed out loud – or, more properly, cackled – with sheer delight. I knew with instinctual certainty that this was what I was looking for.

The strange, earthy flavor, like fresh turned earth, the pure fire of ideas coursing through me – it all fit. Blue-gilled agaric, Ghost in the Cave, Madness’s Muse – whatever it had been called through the years, that’s what the thespians had found in the mountains.

That’s what they used in their mead.

I looked around for Liss, about to explain now – finally. Then, as I took in only an empty room, I remembered that she’d slipped away.

No matter, I decided. This was bigger than Liss, or me. Honeymoon or not, this had to go to Knut. And maybe after him, to the king himself.

If half the stories about blue-gilled agaric were true and it had been found again, the gods alone knew what trouble might come of it.

Book tucked firmly under one arm, I crossed the room posthaste. I was just reaching for the handle when it burst open – and rather to my surprise, Knut appeared in the aperture.

“Speak of the devil,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Well, I guess I wasn’t speaking, exactly. Think of the devil. But, no matter – you’re here now.”

His fair, bushy brows creased at that, and he stared at me with troubled blue eyes. “Are you well, Idun?”

I dismissed the query with an impatient sound, wondering vaguely what it was with people asking me that. “I need to talk to you,” I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the room.

At least, I tried to pull him. As far as I knew, Knut had no jötunn blood in his veins. But it didn’t stop him from looking half-giant anyway. He stood quite a bit taller than me, and despite my urgent yank, he didn’t so much as budge.

“Hurry,” I urged. “This is important.” Then, lowering my voice. “And confidential.”

He placed a hand on mine. “Idun, are you sure you’re well? Liss says you drank something –”

“Liss,” I sighed. “I should have known this was coming from her. Of course I’m fine. Liss just doesn’t understand –”

“Understand what?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I said, exasperated. “If you’ll just step in and shut the door, I can tell you all about it.”

“Alright,” he said, and I thought I detected a placating note in his tone. “Alright, I’m coming.”

“Good. Now, shut the door. That’s it. Right. So, I’ve found it. This.” I opened the book and thrust it into his hands. “Not me, exactly. The thespians. They’re the ones who found it, but I’m going to find it.”

He glanced between me and the illustration, the concern only growing in his expression. “A mushroom?”

“Not just any mushroom. Blue-gilled agaric.”

“But – it says it’s mythical.”

“It says it may be mythical. But we know – now – that it’s not, because the actors found it. That’s what I’m telling you.”

“What actors?”

“Ohh.” I threw up my hands in exasperation. I didn’t mean to be uncivil, but my brain ached as I retread this same ground over and over, first with Liss and now him. I didn’t understand how they could fail to see what seemed so clear to me. “The play, tonight. The actors we saw.”

“Liss mentioned you saw a play,” he said, as calmly as ever.

“Yes. Yes, and we purchased mead afterward. I did, anyway. They said it was the mead of poetry, but of course that was nonsense. It’s not from the All-Father’s vat, it’s just laced with mushrooms.”

Knut’s bushy brows rose in alarm, and for the first time, his tone lost that placid quality. “They’re poisoning people?”

“No. No, it’s not poison. It’s…it’s…” Words failed me, and I gestured mutely for a long moment. “Perfection. Inspiration.”

One eyebrow returned to its normal station while the other remained on high alert, giving him a quizzical, deeply comical expression.

I couldn’t repress a laugh, which sadly did my case no favors in his eyes. He cleared his throat while I was still howling, and said, “Let’s find a physician, why don’t we?”

Despite my protests that I needed no healer, he led me gently onward. After a futile pull that achieved nothing, I stopped trying to break away. I didn’t particularly care where we went. Not really. Convincing him of the seriousness of what I’d found was all that mattered.

So I prattled on, explaining and re-explaining my theory and its implications. As we passed open doorways, I spoke in whispers, but in deserted halls, I spoke at volume. It didn’t seem to matter how many times I rephrased my thoughts, though, or whether I shouted or not.

Knut barely took an interest, except in directing me between passages. Finally, we arrived at an office, outside of which hung a large bronze sign.

Artemus

Healer and Mage

“I told you,” I said, “I don’t need a healer.”

Knut ignored me and rapped heavily on the door. A rather high voice from inside called, “Enter, do.”

With a twist of the knob and a quick push, Knut had the door open. Then, while I protested, he dragged me inside and latched the door after us.

A balding, bespectacled man beamed at us from behind a desk that looked far too large for him. “Come in. Come in!”

He sprang to his feet and darted out from behind his desk, clapping Knut on the upper arm – as high as the little man could reach. “Delightful. Impeccable timing. Impeccable. I thought I should die of boredom, but no: a patient arrives. Excellent. Sit, sit. Tell me what ails you, my good man. Tell me what you need? A tonic? Surgery perhaps? I’m no bonesaw, but I’m happy to give it a try. A tooth extraction, perhaps? You look as if you’re in pain. Oh!” He leaped backward a pace and clapped his hands together.

“A tonic for pain. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“No,” Knut said.

The little man seemed to deflate. His shoulders sagged, and his smile melted.

“Are you – forgive me, doctor, but have you been drinking?”

“Drinking? Drinking? What a question.” For all his bluster, the little man – Artemus, presumably – flushed a deep crimson. “Well, perhaps a little sip of mead. Nothing that would get in the way of my practice though, I assure you. On the contrary, I’ve never been fitter, never been sharper. I feel as if the hand of the All-Father himself has touched me tonight. So, tell me what it is you need, my good sir, and it shall be done.”

He stamped a foot for emphasis, and I laughed, a bit giddily to my own ears. It struck me that he was – must be – drunk.

“On second thought,” Knut said, “it’s nothing.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I put in. “There’s nothing wrong with me whatever. The mushrooms – mead of poetry if you prefer –”

Artemus sucked in a sharp breath. “The mead? Oh! Then you’ve tasted it too?”

I stared at him, at his hands clasped before his face in such eager anticipation, at the almost childish enthusiasm in his expression.

“You’ve had it too,” I said, understanding at last. “You know what it is – to know.”

“To know,” he repeated. “Oh, my dear child, to know so much. To understand. Oh. Oh!” He clasped me firmly on the forearms, and we squealed with delight. I think we might even have hopped or danced a bit, though it all happened in such a fog that I can’t be certain.

Primarily, I was aware of an overwhelming sense of euphoria, the heady rush of finding a kindred soul.

Someone else who understood what mere language simply could not express.

Artemus started to speak of the wonders of human anatomy, and a theory relating to diseases of the liver. I confess, I did not pay much attention, in the first instance because magic could heal such maladies with far less uncertainty than he proposed, and in the second, because my own mind blazed with thoughts of the blue-gilled agaric.

So we talked past one another, fueled by enthusiasm more than anything else. I might not have understood a word of his liver business, nor he paid a second’s attention to my talk of toadstools, but I felt certain that he knew what he was talking about even if I didn’t. And I think he must have felt the same about me.

As it was, neither of us noticed Knut’s departure, so we were each taken aback when he returned – with Liss in tow, this time.

“Oh no,” she said.

“Another one,” he said. “You’re certain they’re not just drunk?”

I realized that they must have meant us, Artemus and myself. He seemed to come to the same conclusion, because we spoke in unison. I said, “I’m not drunk, dammit.”

He said, “All-Father’s beard, how many times must I say it?”

Liss at least backed me up. “I don’t know about him, but she didn’t drink enough to be drunk.”

“See?” I demanded.

“Nor did I,” Artemus said. “I had the merest sip. But a taste.”

Chapter Five

For some reason, Knut didn’t believe us. Instead, he insisted that we follow him to the dining room, where we would drink down a mug of the strongest tea they could procure.

We followed, for we had little choice, but we protested the entire way. We’d made it halfway to the kitchens when one of the suite doors burst open, and Prince Godfrey jutted his head out to meet us with a ferocious scowl plastered on his features.

“Blight you, can you not shut up?” he demanded. “The Muse is finally whispering her subtleties in my ear, but I cannot hear her over your shouting and tromping about.”

Liss and I had met Prince Godfrey in queue while waiting to buy the Mead of Poetry, and I’d passed him once or twice at the inn. I could not recall what he was prince of – some minor fiefdom or another, on the outskirts of northern holdings – but he might as well have been king of the north, for his haughtiness.

Before I could offer a response, however, Artemus cut in. “Trouble us not with your trifling art, pretentious princeling. We are discussing great matters.”

Godfrey sputtered for a moment, and then let out a profanity-riddled stream of angry words and threats. Fortunately for Artemus, he didn’t seem to recognize him as a member of staff. I suspected Prince Godfrey never did recognize the staff.

For his part, Artemus gave as good as he got, shouting curses that would have made a sailor blush. I laughed and cheered him on.

Knut, meanwhile, herded us all on while Liss tried to hush us, but to no avail.

Finally, once we’d rounded a corner and put solid wood and stone between us and the screaming prince, Artemus gave up his own tirade, falling back into the comfortable topic of diseases of the liver.

He was, I thought, curiously well versed on this brand of ailment. I wondered if it had something to do with his clientele, patrons who were given to excesses of every variety, or if diseased livers somehow truly were his passion.

Knut settled us into seats and disappeared. Liss engaged with both of us, enough to keep our attention focused on her. I laid out my plans for departing to the mountains, so soon as Knut gave up his meddling, and Artemus declared that he must have a liver to examine, posthaste.

Then Knut returned, steaming mugs in hand. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Never mind what it is. Just drink it.”

“Sounds like something a poisoner would say,” Artemus declared.

Knut lost his composure for the second time that night, and spluttered indignantly that he was no poisoner. Which in turn provoked a fresh wave of giggles from the pair of us.

Still, we drank the brew. A bitter concoction, though a dollop of honey did a little to smooth its rougher edges.

Artemus and I analyzed it as we drank, picking out the distinct flavor of herbs – herbs he used in his poultices and wraps, and herbs I used in my potions and elixirs. Between us, we identified quite a few, but they seemed to all belong to a singular category.

Hangover remedies.

I might have been annoyed with Knut, had I been less interested in the task at hand. More to the point, the more of the brew I drank, the quieter the noise in my head grew until at last, it seemed to vanish altogether.

All that remained was a dull, cloudy feeling of mild discombobulation – and sleepiness.

After that, the night seemed to pass in a blur. I was vaguely aware of a subdued return to our room, of halls passing by, or doors and corridors that all looked alike. Once or twice, I protested that I should be on my way to the mountains.

And then, I was in bed, trying to resist the weight of my eyelids.

Some hours later, I blinked into bright sunlight. A wave of nausea passed through me, but vanished just as quickly. Confused, I pushed up onto my elbow.

In a plush chair across from me, Liss stirred, blinked, and then sprang to her feet. “You’re awake.”

“Yes,” I said, rather obviously. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

“Oh blast,” I said. “I wanted an early start.”

She stared, confusion in her blue eyes. “Early start? To where?”

“The mountains. The caves. To look for mushrooms.”

Liss groaned. “Oh no. You’re still sick.”

“I’m not sick, Liss. Or delusional or drunk, for that matter. I’m perfectly rational and perfectly sane.”

She eyed me in a distinctly unflattering fashion.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s true.”

She harrumphed. “You do seem a bit calmer,” she admitted. “But you and that physician were raving last night about livers and mushrooms and caves and I don’t even know what.”

The memory of the evening before washed over, and with it, a profound sense of pleasure and loss. Like a once vibrant fabric now sun bleached, that frenzy of perfect understanding had vanished, and left in its place my standard mental processes.

A pale shadow of their former glory.

The memory of my behavior rushed back too, and that brought me less pleasure. I recalled being snippy, and a bit ridiculous at times.

“That was the mead,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.

She smiled archly. “So I gathered. I was worried about you – we all were.”

“Oh gods,” I groaned. “That’s right. You brought Knut into it too, didn’t you?”

“And Vilde,” she admitted, eliciting another, louder groan from me. “She was the one who said you should be okay after a night’s sleep.”

“I wasn’t too rude, was I?”

“Everyone understood it was the mead at work,” she said, though her attempt at diplomacy only made me feel worse.

“Well, I’m sorry. I know I was impatient.”

She flashed another smile. “Rather.”

I grinned too. “I just – couldn’t find the words to articulate everything going on in my brain.”

“I don’t know. Between you and that doctor, I think I heard more talking in one evening than I usually hear in a month. Mostly, about livers.”

“He is oddly preoccupied with them,” I acknowledged. “But I remember everything he said – he has some idea of how to reverse liver damage without magical intervention by–”

It was her turn to groan. “Not you too.”

“The point is, it sounded like it would work.”

“Bully for him.”

“But what I’m really interested in are the toadstools. I wonder…” I broke, frowning in concentration. As I saw it, I had two options open to me. Last night, the obvious – in fact, the only real – option seemed to be to trek into the mountains myself, and explore the caves until such time as I found the fungi in question.

Now, however, a far simpler alternative presented itself. Why search blindly when someone already knew exactly where to look?

“What?” Liss prompted.

“I’m thinking I should pay those actors a visit.”

She snorted. “Get in line. I’m going to have a serious talk with them about selling people tainted mead.”

“It’s not tainted, it’s – laced.”

“That’s not much better.”

I didn’t argue the point. “I need to find out where they’re getting those mushrooms. If they’re the ones I think they are – and I’m nearly certain they are – this could be a very big deal, Liss.”

“Yes, you mentioned that last night. A dozen times or so.”

“I’m serious. They’d be worth a fortune, of course, but it’s much more than that. If they exist, and if the stories about them are true, the last time people got their hands on them, they were willing to kill for them. Go to war.”

She snorted again. “People killing each other over a limited resource? What else is new?”

I sighed. Cynical though she might be, she wasn’t taking this seriously enough. I wished now I could remember the name of the book I’d seen that original mention of blue-gilled agaric, with its stories of destruction and betrayal and murder.

Maybe then she would understand my apprehension.

“Anyway,” she went on, “even if you’re right and this is some ultra rare mushroom – especially if you’re right – it’s not like they’re going to tell you. Not with the prices they were charging.”

She had a point there. To divulge their secret would be to give up a sure and steady cash flow.

“So maybe I don’t ask,” I said. “Maybe we try a different approach.”

“Putting them in prison for a few weeks for selling mead laced with unknown substances would be a good deterrent,” Liss said. “Might scare them straight.”

“With what they were charging?”

“Good point. They’d probably just move to a different province.”

“Exactly. And then I’d be right back where I started: searching blind. No. No, I have an idea, Liss. If I’m careful, it just might work.”

“If we’re careful,” she corrected.

“What?”

She shrugged. “I still say we should turn them over to the jarl. But if you’re convinced that it’s so important to find these mushrooms, and these crooks are our best way to do it, you’d better believe I’m not letting you go after them on your own.”

Going after them wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. More like, a little harmless rattling. To that end, after a light breakfast – this, at Liss’s insistence, though it took some effort to get down on my part – we set out in search of the thespians.

They had set up a kind of camp on the outskirts of town, with covered wagons and trailers. Such was common practice for traveling showman and sellers, who either could not afford local rents, could not rely on the availability of shelter, or could find nowhere to put up their animals.

What was less common was an armed guard.

Yet, such was what we found on approaching the caravan. Five swordsmen in total patrolled their ring of wagons. One broke off to approach.

A big man with a long, pale beard and piercing blue eyes, his hand rested, I saw, on the hilt of his sword.

Not a threatening posture – not yet, anyway – but ready all the same.

“Well met, travelers. The players are not receiving visitors this morning, but if it’s the mead you’ve come about, you’ll find them selling it at the amphitheater this evening.”

“We’re not here to purchase anything,” I said, assuming what I hoped was an authoritative tone. “My name is Idun, and I am a mage with the Northern University of Arcane Arts.”

He didn’t look impressed, or even interested, for that matter. He said nothing.

“I am hoping to speak with Alfsen, or whoever is in charge of the mead distribution.” I had a sneaking suspicion that Alfsen was just a figurehead – a handsome, rustic smiling face to represent the mead, and not much more.

The big man stared blankly at me. I might have been speaking in the ancient tongues of dragons, for all the understanding he showed. “The players are not receiving visitors.”

I was about to argue further when Liss touched my elbow. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Well, I guess we’ll go to the jarl instead then. Storbjørn, right? He’s an open-minded sort of man, from what I hear. I’m sure he’ll be interested to hear about these – what did you say they were called, Idun? Blue-gilled toadstools?”

“Agaric,” I corrected.

“That’s right. Well.” She smiled at the big man. “Thank you for your time, sir. You have a good day.”

With that, she turned me gently and started walking back toward town at a slow, steady pace.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Gambling that your mead-inspired mushroom classification was accurate.”

“What?”

“If you’re right about this mushroom, dropping the name should be all we need to pique their interest. If you’re not, well, we confuse him and disappear.”

I frowned over at her. She sounded far too amused for the situation. “And if you’re wrong? If they don’t take the bait?”

“If this mushroom is everything you say it is, and they’ve got their hands on it, they’ll take the bait.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

She flashed me a grin that rather made my heart melt – a little confidence, a little arrogance, and quite a bit of charm. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

I ignored the comment. “I don’t hear anyone coming after us.”

“Don’t look,” she warned. “Just keep walking.”

A timely caution, for I’d been just about to turn my head. “I hope you’re right. I’d much rather do this the easy way.”

Chapter Six

We’d followed the main track back into the city without being stopped, and I’d despaired of getting an answer at all, when an out of breath man hailed us.

Fair haired and handsome in a straightforward way, it took me a moment to recognize him. This was Alfsen – but without the ruddy hue to his cheeks, and the dark tint to his lashes and brows.

The actor, sans face paint.

“Your pardon ladies,” he rasped, bowing in a showy fashion. When he straightened, he said, “But Olsen tells me two very lovely ladies tried to speak to me. As you are by far the fairest in the vicinity, I can only suppose it must have been you.”

He was, as the saying goes, barking up the wrong tree with this flattery. Still, I smiled. Liss, on the other hand, rolled her eyes.

“It was us,” I confirmed.

“Ah. Well, I am delighted – and very sorry for the trouble. Come, we can walk back to the camp. I’m afraid we’re only just starting breakfast, so it will be a bit of a shambles. An actor’s life. What can I say?” He smiled, and the expression captured some of the stage magic I’d seen the night before.

We turned with him, back in the direction of the wagons and tents.

“Olsen tells me that you are mages?” he asked, and I thought I detected an edge beyond curiosity in his pleasant tone.

“I am a mage,” I said.

“How exciting. Though I’m certain I don’t know what we can do for you, Spellweaver.”

“That remains to be seen,” I said. I hoped it sounded duly mysterious.

He shot a quick sideways glance my way but said nothing.

“I wanted to talk to you about the mead. I bought a horn of it last night.”

“Oh.” He surveyed me again. “I hope it was to your taste?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Not from the perspective of palate, at least.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m afraid we don’t issue refunds.”

“The effects of it were something else entirely.”

“Ah. Well yes. The mead of poetry.”

“Come now, Alfsen,” Liss said. “We all know that swill did not come from Asgard. It came from the discount wine merchant.”

Alfsen blinked at the assault and seemed for a moment to hesitate between blustering outrage and outright laughter. In the end, he settled for the latter. “I do believe that’s a first. I’ve heard the mead of poetry called many things, but never that.”

“It’s the mushroom you add to it that I’m interested in,” I said. “Blue-gilled agaric.”

Alfsen’s face was a study in immobility. “Blue-gilled…what? I’m sure I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you, Spellweaver.”

“Oh I think you understand all right,” said Liss.

“I assure you I don’t.”

“Greybeard’s Ghost,” I went on. “Ghost in the Cave. Jötunndust. Dwarfbane. Perhaps those ring a bell?”

“Dwarfbane? Well, of course.” He laughed lightly. “But that’s just a myth, isn’t it? Some kind of herb – or was it a fungus? I don’t remember. Anyway, it would drive dwarves to madness or some such, wouldn’t it?”

Now, he stopped and frowned at us. “Are you saying you think that we put that in our mead? But how could we? It doesn’t exist.”

“And yet, here you are: come running at the mention of it,” Liss said.

He blinked at that. A momentary lapse before the familiar smile slid into place, but I caught it all the same. “My dear lady, as I told you: Olsen mentioned two beautiful women were looking for me. I will never not come running for such an invitation.”

“And that’s all you have to say?” I prompted.

“What else can I say?”

I exchanged glances with Liss, and she shrugged, saying, “So be it.” There was the faintest hint of a threat mixed in with her nonchalance, and Alfsen didn’t miss it.

“But I am curious – whatever put the notion of Graybeard’s Ghost into your head?”

I smiled to myself. Not that I’d needed reassurance, but I had it all the same. If this was purely an odd encounter, two lunatics ranting about an extinct, perhaps mythical mushroom, he’d be far keener on removing himself from the situation than figuring out the reason for our particular delusions.

No. He wanted to know what we knew.

If we were a threat to his enterprise.

“I know what you’re doing,” I said.

“And what is that, besides putting on a damned good show?”

“I know that mead is nothing to do with the gods.”

He smiled broadly. “My dear mage, we are entertainers, not priests. We entertain. If our theology is off, well…” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “That’s what priests are for, isn’t it?”

“You’re lying to people. You’re making claims about this mead –”

“We are entertaining them,” he said. “Providing an experience. That is all.”

“So you admit the mead isn’t the mead of poetry?”

“I admit I’ve never been to Asgard,” he hedged. “I admit that I’ve never seen the mead leaking from Odin’s cauldron with my own two eyes. I admit that freely. But can you say for certain that it isn’t?”

I ignored the faulty logic and focused on my key point. “I know you’re lacing the mead with blue-gilled agaric.”

He stared at me for several long seconds, his frozen smile seeming rather wooden in the moment. “You ‘know,’” he said.

“Yes. I know.”

“Ah. But can you prove?”

“You don’t deny it, then?”

“Of course I deny it. Wholeheartedly. Absolutely. With every fiber of my being. But it is not I making the assertion. ‘Tis you. So I am asking, have you anything to back up these ludicrous claims?”

“He means,” Liss put in, “do we know where the mushrooms are.”

The façade broke for half a second. His eyes darted to her face and then back to mine. Then, the mask returned: the calm eyes, the wooden smile.

“Well? If these mushrooms exist – these toadstools of legend – surely you must be able to tell me where. And if so, why trouble me at all? Go and pick them yourself. Or go to Storbjørn or the king or the merchants – whatever it is you mean to do.”

“Well,” I said over a plate of – well, I wasn’t quite sure what. Something greasy, covered in mashed potatoes and gravy, and absolutely delicious. “He called your bluff.”

“My bluff?” Liss asked. “I thought it was your bluff.”

“Our bluff,” I conceded.

Liss loaded her fork with the pub’s signature goop. It was, in fact, the only thing Angry Tobias’s Watering Hole served: the platter.

We’d dipped into the little hole-in-the-wall eatery and pub after parting ways with Alfsen. Drawn by the smell, my own meager breakfast long forgotten, I had no difficulty choosing an entrée since the proprietor informed us we had exactly two options: the platter, and a double platter, which differed from the regular platter only by size.

Now, she paused to gulp down one of these forkfuls, then asked, “Ours, huh?”

“Ours.”

“I seem to remember this all being your idea. ‘The easy way,’ if I do recall correctly.”

“That might have been overly optimistic. But I wasn’t the one to mention blue-gilled agaric, was I?”

She paused for another mouthful of gravy-covered something. “I’ll give you that one. But you know what this means, don’t you?”

“That we’re nowhere?”

She shook her head. “On the contrary. It means you were right.”

“I already knew that.”

“Perhaps. But it’s good to get confirmation.”

I laughed at that. She was trying very hard not to offend me, but I understood. Until she’d spoken to Alfsen herself, she’d had nothing more than my strange, frenzy-borne belief to go on.

“We could talk to Knut,” I suggested.

“I’ve already bothered him and Vilde once,” she sighed. “I don’t want him to regret bringing us.” She glanced up now, meeting my gaze. “Do you really think this is as big a deal as all that? That the discovery of this fungi could lead to trouble?”

“I do. I’m certain of it, in fact.” Times were better now, certainly. No more wars between men and giants and elves, no more did people starve to death across long winters.

But the nature of man hadn’t changed fundamentally. Scarcity and greed bred violence. Handled well, the reappearance of blue-gilled agaric might be a boon to many.

Handled poorly, though? I didn’t wat to think of that. “We need to tell him, Liss.”

She nodded. “Understood. Well, it won’t be until later this evening. He and Vilde were going out riding, and I know they didn’t mean to be back any time soon. They ordered a picnic lunch, and took it with them.”

I frowned at that. The sooner we knew more, the better. “I wonder…”

“What?”

“I wonder if we should shadow Alfsen. Or, his camp anyway.”

“The thespians? What for?”

“Because if their ‘mead of poetry’ – specifically, the toadstools they use in it – really does come from around here, and that’s not just invention to sell mead, our visit might unsettle them.”

“Wasn’t that the whole point of going there?”

“Yes. But Alfsen wasn’t rattled.”

“Exactly.”

“No, I mean, he didn’t give anything away. But maybe he’s going to talk it over with someone else. His boss, if he’s not in charge. Or maybe he’ll just think it over. Either way, he may decide to go check on his mushrooms, just to make sure we haven’t interfered with them at all.”

“Maybe,” Liss said, and she sounded skeptical. “But he knows we don’t know where they are.”

“He thinks we don’t know.”

“We don’t.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know that. Not for sure.”

“Even so, he’s got a show tonight. He can’t go traipsing off into the hills.”

That gave me pause, and I thought for a moment. “True. But it’s probably not him that harvests them anyway. He’s just the salesman, but there’s an entire operation. They’re all involved in selling the stuff, at least a few of them have to be involved in the rest of the enterprise.”

“So he might send someone else to check?”

“He might have already done it,” I said, feeling a fool for not having thought of it before. “We might be too late.”

“Well,” Liss said, shoveling a forkful into her mouth, then speaking through the food, “I’m going to finish this before we go anywhere.”

Liss

Chapter Seven

We finished our meal hurriedly, but we finished all the same. After navigating the Østhavn Inn menus for my food these past days, I was overdue pub food. Granted, it probably wasn’t the best for me with its mass of meat and gravy and potatoes. The only greens I saw came from the scallion pieces sprinkled over the top.

But on the other hand, I didn’t have to guess at portion sizes, or contort my face into funny shapes to pronounce a name from a language I’d never even encountered before, only to wind up with a tiny serving of fried potatoes or some such. There were no pretentions with pub food.

Idun, I think, would have left at once. But I’d been eating like a bird these past few days, in part because the menu – I admit it – intimidated the hell out of me, and in part because the portions were as often as not laughable.

The mutton dinner from two days ago, for instance, had consisted of two silver coin-sized mutton medallions served in a dollop of mint sauce, and overlaid with a single parsley leaf each. A pasta main I’d ordered consisted of two small, cheese-filled pockets over a drizzle of some kind of sweet sauce.

Idun said that this was because we were expected to order many courses of food. That was the way things were done in the world of princes and kings. But that was a world very unlike my own.

Still, I hurried as I ate, because hungry though I was, I didn’t want to miss our quarry. I hadn’t been very sold on this whole mushroom business, but Alfsen had changed all that. He’d as good as admitted we were on the right track, taunting us for our lack of evidence.

So we set out shortly after, full and happy. As the camp was situated on open ground with no real way to approach undetected – no convenient grove or undergrowth in which to hide, no well-placed abandoned buildings to duck into – we detoured into a clothier’s shop. Not the sort of tailor that would attract the city’s upper crust, nor those traveling princes on their way to Østhavn Inn.

We chose a small, rundown place on a backstreet, with murky windows that probably hadn’t been cleaned in the past half century.

A gargoyle of a man hailed us as we entered, stooped with age and reeking of drink. He looked us over from head to toe, cracked a toothless grin, and introduced himself as Erik the Stallion.

“I leave it to you ladies to figure out why they call me that.”

By ‘they,’ I assumed he meant himself.

“Now…what can I do for a pair of pretty girls like yourselves?”

“We need traveling clothes,” Idun said briskly.

“Traveling? Not by your lonesome, I hope? The roads are a dangerous place, especially for girlies like you.”

I thought of the magic I’d seen Idun wield, the way she could trap a person in a net of energy and hold them fast – so fast, they couldn’t breathe unless she allowed it.

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “Do you have clothes?”

“Of course. Of course. I’ll have to measure you two first. Just to confirm the fit.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said. Those grubby paws weren’t going anywhere near me or Idun. “We’ll take our chances.”

He grunted disappointedly. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on. Let’s see what I’ve got.”

He led us to a back corner of the shop. The smell of musty fabric and stale air hit us. “Here you are,” he said, gesturing to a stack of premade dresses and traveling robes.

Idun sorted through them until she found something she liked, a long gray dress with an apron overlay. Then, she started to sort through caps, picking a rather dowdy white thing. Dowdy, but effective, as it would hide her dark hair and give her the appearance of a hardworking homesteading woman – someone who tended gardens or animals or children, or, some combination of the above, and didn’t have time for her hair to be mussed.

I, on the other hand, gravitated toward the trousers and tunics, selecting a plain pair of woolen breaches and a dyed gray tunic and cowl. I’d be the peasant farmer to her lady of the cottage.

Erik named a low sum, and offered to let us change in his back room. An offer we politely declined.

Instead, we ducked into a windowless alley a few streets down. I stood at the mouth while Idun changed, and then we swapped places.

I quickly learned why Erik could afford to sell so cheap. Despite my undergarments, the trousers itched terribly. The sleeves of the tunic had been cut to uneven lengths, and the right armpit pinched.

Consoling myself that it would add to the part – our clothes would indeed look homemade, and by an unskilled hand at that – I rolled my own clothes into a bundle and tied this securely so that it looked like a traveling knapsack.

This done, we set out at last.

Our plan was to pass the camp by unremarked, and then find some secluded area to wait farther up the road where we could keep an eye on the thespians. If anyone left the camp, we would see them, and could follow accordingly.

That was the plan. But as it happened, we found matters had already progressed beyond that point. The camp had simply up and vanished in our absence, as if it had never been there to begin with. The tents were down, the wagons moved, the guards gone.

All that remained were the embers of campfires, a few deep ruts in the common, and their neighbors – the traveling merchants and doctors, the itinerant workers, and so on.

“We scared them off,” Idun said, crestfallen.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But someone here has to know where they went, or at least the direction. Come on. Let’s go talk to people.”

Some of the campers eyed us warily, but most opened up readily enough. Yes, they’d seen the actors leave. No, they didn’t know where they were going. Someone thought they’d heard a mention of the capital. Someone else was sure one of the older gentlemen had mentioned a sick mother. Or had it been grandmother?

But the group had followed the main road out of Østhavn. If they’d diverged from that, well, they couldn’t say.

Two things stood out, however: they’d left in a hurry, and they’d left recently.

“Which means, we can still follow them,” Idun concluded as we slipped out of the camp.

“They have horses,” I pointed out. “We’re on foot.”

“Yes, but they’re taking their entire camp. Anyway, I don’t think they’re going to the capital, or to see a sick grandmother. They’re running away from us. But if their supply of toadstools is here, they’re going to need to restock first.”

“And you think it’s in the mountains?”

“I think it has to be. Otherwise, someone else would have found it.”

“There’s plenty of people who go up the mountains,” I said. “Shepherds. Kids. Fugitives.”

“I know. So wherever it is, it’s got to be somewhere that’s either difficult to access or just not obvious. Which is why we’ve got to follow them – because we might not find it on our own.”

I groaned. “They could be halfway to the capital for all we know.”

“Not unless they’re flying a dragon out of here. And I think we’d have seen it. Come on: we can’t miss this chance.”

I no longer doubted her mushroom identification. I didn’t even question that things might be as bad as she thought, should it resurface. But it seemed to me that if this mushroom was so well hidden that we had to trail conmen into the unknown or miss our chance at finding it, it probably wasn’t going to be much of a threat.

No. As I saw it, a much sounder course of action would be to wait until Knut and Vilde returned, and let them handle it. It was a matter of diplomacy as much as – perhaps more than – anything else, after all.

She must have seen the indecision in my face, because she urged, “Come on, Liss. We need to hurry.”

And without waiting for me to change my mind, off she went, marching double time down the road, skirts flying this way and that, kicking up dust as she went.

Her pigheadedness was one of the things I loved about her. I reminded myself of that fact as I raced after her, trying to catch up.

Half an hour later, we still hadn’t caught sight of the traveling band. But we’d run into two separate pairs of travelers who remembered seeing them.

“Aye, moving fast they were, and none too friendly when my missus hailed them, neither,” one reported.

“A whole troop of wagons and jugglers and what have you? Oh yes. We saw it, not half an hour ago. Kept our distance, we did. Nothing good comes of actors, and no one ever did better by associating with them. You mark my words, young man. Layabouts and villains, the lot of them.”

This wisdom was imparted to me by the elder of two old men, who apparently took me to be another man.

I grinned as we took our leave. Apparently, my disguise was working. Small recompense for itching thighs, maybe, but good news anyway.

Idun barely noticed, so focused on the journey as she was. “They’re half an hour ahead of us,” she said. “We can catch them if we hurry.”

And hurry we did. The sun beat down hot on us, and the sea vanished behind homes and hills and trees. Even the mountains disappeared now and again as we passed through patches of forest.

Idun didn’t seem to mind. Or rather, she was too preoccupied to notice.

I, on the other hand, noticed well enough. My underarm was chafing where the sleeve hadn’t been cut wide enough. Sweat poured down my back. I’d long since thrown the cowl back – disguise be damned – but it only just helped. As for my legs, well, I was moving too fast to attend the constant sensation of itchiness, which was as well. I probably wouldn’t have had skin left.

Anyway, the chafing was doing its best to see to that.

In short, I was pretty miserable as we hustled along that dusty road. Preoccupied as I was, Idun took me by surprise when she halted suddenly, exclaiming, “Look.”

She pointed at what seemed at first glance to be a patch of empty grass. But in a moment, I saw what had caught her attention. A set of wheel tracks veered off the main road and onto the grass. Two wheels, probably belonging to some kind of cart. Not, I thought, a passenger vehicle, and certainly not a comfortable one. The tracks cut deep, indicating a lack of suspension.

Just a solid, reasonably heavy utility cart.

So where had it gone, and why had it veered off the track in the middle of nowhere? There were no houses here, no roads except the main road – not even any rough horse tracks or walking paths. Just a gently sloping meadow that disappeared into a forest, which in turn climbed upward.

Up, up, up, into the mountainside.

“It’s them,” Idun said.

“It might be,” I said. “Or it might be picnickers, or a local farmer.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. Harvesting hay?”

She glanced askew at me. “Hay? This time of year? It’s far too early.”

“So I’m not a farmer. But I’m sure there’s something up there for them. Mushrooms, or wood, or…I don’t know. Something.”

“It’s the thespians,” Idun insisted. “They split up here – most of them are going that way…” She pointed down the road. “To wherever they’re supposed to meet up. And someone, maybe a few someone’s, are going to harvest the blue-gilled agarics.

“If we’re wrong and we follow the cart, we’ve lost our chance to catch up to the actors.”

“I’m not wrong,” she said. “I feel it in my bones.”

I knew better than to argue intuition with someone of elven descent. So I capitulated. “Fine. Lead on, then.”

Chapter Eight

We traveled for another two hours before we caught sight of the cart. We passed through woods and glades, across sloping meadows and up jagged rises.

But the cart driver knew his way. That was apparent. His tracks went on steadily, with no backtracking, no turns or diversions.

The breeze reached us up here, and when we left the woods behind, we could catch glimpses of the fjord and the sea beyond.

Then at last we saw the cart, just a dark shape ahead of us – man and beast and machine all blurred together by distance.

That changed matters. No more could we cross the open without a thought except for speed. If we could see him, he could see us if he turned his head. And that wouldn’t do.

Not if we wanted to take him unawares.

So we took to waiting until he vanished from sight, into groves or behind ridges. Then, we’d dart forward and cover as much ground as we could until he appeared again. Sometimes, we’d wait for ten or twenty minutes. Others, we walked for forty-five minutes without interruption before catching up again.

On and on it went. The sun started to lilt westward. I wondered if we had made a mistake. What if he meant to go on through the night? He might know the safe routes through the mountain, but we didn’t.

What, for that matter, if he didn’t? What if he meant to make camp. He had no thoughts of pursuit. He could light a campfire without worry. But we would not have that luxury. We would pass a cold night in the mountain air, after a hot day of brisk travel. He would have food set by. We had none.

The more I thought on it, the worse our situation seemed. Even if we set back now, immediately, we wouldn’t reach Østhavn Inn until late. Would anyone notice? Would Knut and Vilde worry after the antics of the night before?

I was contemplating the quandary when Idun grabbed my arm and hissed, “Look.”

I followed the direction of her gaze, and squinted into the afternoon sun. There in the center of the glade, seeming to have emerged from the glare of the sunlight itself, sat a little cottage.

Not a quaint or comfortable cottage. Nothing with a thatched roof and whitewashed exterior or expansive garden.

This was squat and flat and sagging, its roof – or what remained of it – covered in green moss, its door hanging at an awkward angle. Whatever charm it had once held had long since vanished, along with any signs of agriculture. Fairy rings littered the lawn, some thick with mushrooms, and others mere darker circles of vegetation. As we approached, an unwholesome odor hit our noses.

The stink of wet and rot.

“What is this place?” I demanded, my own voice a hoarse whisper.

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, the man with the cart came here.”

She was right about that. The tracks led straight to the back of the house. Deep, dark ruts that broke through grass and left raw, black dirt – and released a pungent, earthy smell.

Our mysterious cartman had apparently lit a fire, for a column of peaty smoke rose up behind the structure. A thin, gnarled gray finger, reaching to the sky.

Somehow, despite the heat of the day, I felt a shiver run up my back. I wanted to say we should go back, we should get out of this place as soon as possible, that only evil things could dwell here.

But of course, I held my tongue. If Idun could venture here, I would follow. However much I detested the thought of it.

Slowly, carefully, we made our way toward the sagging cottage. So we had time to duck out of sight when a tall figure emerged from the trees some forty yards ahead, shouting exasperatedly, “Where the hell are you, Hawk?”

I recognized the man at once. He was Brynjar, the narrator from the night before, the thespian who seemed to be in charge of the acting troupe. He must also, I realized, have been the cart driver. We’d been too far away to see much of him before, but the graying hair and overall build matched.

And who else would be here, after all?

He waited for a moment, and when no one appeared, called, “Harald? Answer me, man.”

“Who is he looking for?” Idun asked in low tones. “An accomplice?”

“Must be. Someone who grows the mushrooms up here, maybe? All-Father knows, there’s enough fungi in the area.”

“Harald,” he called again, anger mixing with annoyance.

The mountainside remained silent as ever. Brynjar threw his hands in the air and stomped toward the little shack.

“We need to be careful,” Idun whispered beside me. “If he’s got an accomplice up here, we don’t want to run into him unawares.”

“I don’t think we will,” I said, my own tone barely audible. “He called for Harald, but he also called him ‘Hawk.’”

Idun’s eyes widened. “The Hawk. You mean, the man we found on the beach?”

I nodded grimly, an image of the lifeless body bobbing up and down among the rocks entering my mind unbidden. Harald was a common enough name, and I’d met a few called Hawk or ‘the Hawk’ over the years. But hearing that combination of names twice in as many days seemed like an awfully big coincidence.

“I think there’s a good chance,” I said.

“I don’t understand. How did he end up in the sea if he was up here?”

“I don’t know. The river, maybe. Or maybe – maybe you’re right about people killing over these mushrooms. Maybe it’s already started.”

She shuddered, and I reached out a hand to hers. “I could be wrong.”

“We need to talk to him.”

“Brynjar?”

She nodded, a steely look entering her eyes. “If one person’s already dead, who knows how many more might follow if we don’t end this, now.”

“He’s armed,” I cautioned. “Sword and dagger. Not that I think we can’t take him, but be careful.”

“I will. You too.”

I nodded. “If we’re lucky, though, it won’t come to anything like that. He doesn’t know Hawk’s dead, so he didn’t kill him. Couldn’t have.”

“That’s true,” she said. “He wouldn’t have wasted time coming up here.”

“Or if he did, to make things look good for the rest of his crew, he wouldn’t be out looking for a dead guy, and getting aggravated that he didn’t show up.”

“So either someone else did Hawk in…”

“Or he’s looking for a different Harald the Hawk.”

“Not likely, I should say.”

“But not impossible.”

“No,” she agreed. “So we’re back to where we started.”

“Be careful,” I finished.

Thus agreed, we crept forward. We reached a point about halfway across the semi-clearing when cover ran out. It was nothing but us and those damned eerie circles of mushrooms between us and the shack.

We exchanged glances. I shrugged. She nodded. So, rising, we made our way to the house, slowly but steadily. We kept out of the direct line of the two visible windows, gaping apertures that may have at one point held glass, but no longer did. I had my hand on the hilt of my sword. A faint sheen of magical energy glowed from hers.

Fire, if I wasn’t very much mistaken.

Brynjar, I thought, would be in for a very uncomfortable surprise if he resorted to violence.

We made it most of the way to the door when my foot hit a boggy patch. It sunk into three inches of putrid green moss and dirt with a squelching sound.

So far, we’d heard nothing of Brynjar inside the cottage. But now, wood scraped on wood, and a voice called out, “About damned time, Hawk. You were supposed to –”

He cut off just as he flung the door open and came face to face with the pair of us.

For a long moment, neither we nor he spoke at all. No one moved either. We all just stood there, frozen as if by some kind of enchantment – him, holding the sagging door back, Idun, glowing hands raised, me, gripping the hilt tightly.

Then, he blinked, and seemed to break the spell. He took a step back, into the interior. Idun lowered her hands an inch or two. I loosened my grip on the blade.

“You’re not Hawk,” he said.

“No,” Idun said.

“Hawk’s dead,” I said. “At least, we think he’s dead.”

Idun hastened to add, “But not because of us.”

Probably for the best, as Brynjar had started to reach for his own blade. “Don’t,” I warned him. “We’re just here to talk.”

“What did you do to Harald?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” we said in unison.

“We found him,” I said. “Drowned.”

He stared at us. “Drowned?” Then, he glanced over his shoulder, as if trying instinctively to see the mountainside. “Fell in?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “We found him on the seashore yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” he repeated. He seemed to be having some difficulty comprehending the words.

“We think it’s the same Harald,” I said. “The magistrate said he was called the Hawk too.”

“Had a lot of pain,” Idun put in. “From an illness some years back.”

Brynjar nodded. “He did. But – dead? Drowned? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do we,” I said. “But something’s not adding up here. Yesterday, you’re down there, peddling mead laced with mushrooms that are supposed to be extinct, while he’s winding up dead at sea. Now you’re up here trying to find him. And he’s lying in a morgue somewhere, or a pauper’s grave.”

At the mention of mushrooms, Brynjar’s demeanor changed. The hazy, confused look left his eyes, and something wary crept in instead.

“You’re the ones who threatened poor Alfsen this morning, aren’t you?”

“Threatened?” I almost laughed. “We didn’t threaten anyone.”

“We barely talked to him,” Idun said.

“Really, ladies, I’m not sure what you think you’re up to by driving a troupe of hard-working actors out of the city, and now stalking me up here too? I wonder what your university would say to that, Mage Idun? Surely, they do not sanction the persecution of honest thespians. Or perhaps I should take my complaint to the jarl. He might like to know how you treat guests of his city.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “We’ll tell him about the blue-gilled agaric. About how someone working for your mead scheme died in mysterious circumstances – and how you’re trying to cover it up.”

He paused for a moment and then smiled. “Well, there’s no need to be hasty, is there? I’m sure if we talk this out, we can come to some arrangement.”

“What kind of arrangement?” Idun asked.

“I suppose that depends on what it is you want. A supply of the stuff? A cut of the profits?”

“You’d cut us in?” I asked. Not because I had any intention of taking the money, but because I was curious as to just how far he’d go.

“Oh, I’m sure we could work something out. Half a percent each?”

I did laugh this time. “I’m not open to bribes, Brynjar. Which is good for you, since I’d be pretty offended by an offer of half a percent if I was.”

He smiled again, indulgently this time. “Hastiness is never good in this kind of business. Half a percent might not sound like much, until and unless you take into account the scope of the enterprise. Half a percent would be a very tidy sum, Miss – what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” I said.

“Well, my nameless friend, half a percent would see you prettily set up, and with no work from you. The rest of us, remember, earn our bread. We go from town to town, performing that rather ridiculous piece you saw last night. We deal with the public, and with suspicious jarls. We bribe the right officials – and figure out which officials to avoid. A perilous business. And one that takes a good deal of hard work.”

“You’ll forgive me, but I’m not particularly sympathetic. You’re unscrupulous conmen, selling people that mead under false pretenses.”

He snorted contemptuously. “Oh please. We’re not conning anyone. We promise them inspiration, and they get inspiration. And do you think knowing the source of that inspiration would change their minds?

“People have been looking for dwarfsbane for hundreds of years. Alchemists have devoted their lives to finding it. We wouldn’t have trouble selling the mead. We’d have trouble stocking enough of it.”

“So why don’t you?” I asked. “Why the song and dance, if it would be so much easier to tell the truth?”

He twisted his lips into an ugly, ironic expression. Something halfway between a smile and a sneering grimace. “Do you know nothing of history, girl? We may be unscrupulous, but we’re not fools. The last time people got their hands on dwarfsbane, the rivers ran red with blood. Whole villages, whole nations were lost to butchery and bloodshed.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

“Time doesn’t change human nature.”

“No,” Idun agreed. “It doesn’t. Which is what makes all of this so dangerous. Don’t you see, sooner or later, someone will figure it out.”

He started to scoff, but she cut in.

“I already did.”

“And so did whoever killed the Hawk,” I added. Granted, I was speculating at this point. But I didn’t have another explanation that made sense. And I needed him to listen.

It did the trick. He paused for a long moment, the color draining from his face. “He’s – he’s really dead, then?”

I nodded.

“Drowned, you say?”

“That’s what we assumed,” Idun said, “because we found him in the water. But – his body was pretty badly damaged. Covered in gashes and bruises.”

“You mean, it might not have been drowning?”

“I think – I think it’s possible that someone beat him.”

“Beat him to death?” Brynjar leaned heavily against the door, and it creaked in protest. “Why?”

“Maybe to get the secret of where you get those mushrooms out of him,” I said.

“He wouldn’t have told them,” he said. “You don’t think he told them?”

“Probably why he died.” It might have been cruel, especially since I didn’t know the truth one way or the other. But the concern in his tone for his precious secret rather angered me. “Probably, because he kept your secret.”

To my greater irritation, he let out a breath of relief. “I’m sorry he died. I really am. But people like that – they’d have killed him one way or the other. At least this way…”

He didn’t finish, but I took his meaning clearly enough.

“Yes,” I said. “This way, they need to get the secret from someone else. Who do you think they’ll try next?”

He stared at me and said nothing.

“Alfsen, maybe? He’s the face of your little scheme. And he’s clever, but not that clever. I don’t suppose they’ll have too much difficulty luring him away from the rest. Will he break, you think?”

Brynjar passed a tongue over his dry lips. “Alfsen…Alfsen doesn’t know where they are.”

“Oh. Well, then things won’t go well for him, will they? And I suppose, since they won’t – can’t – get the truth out of him, they’ll look elsewhere. Who do you think will be next? One of your actors? Or will they come straight to the boss?”

Chapter Nine

Brynjar sagged into a rickety wooden seat. I half expected it to collapse under his weight, but by some miracle of engineering or luck, it didn’t.

We’d followed him into the cottage, to an equally shabby table by an overgrown fireplace. Stones lay scattered about the hearth, and vines dangled through the gap in the roof where once a chimney had stood.

A second seat lay across from Brynjar’s, but neither of us took it. He might trust his dignity to the cottage’s relics, but I had no intention of it.

He got the story out of us, of how we’d found Harald ‘the Hawk,’ and where. Then, little by little, he told us the truth.

It had been nearly a decade ago when he’d first discovered the mushroom. He’d been an out of work jack-of-all-trades then, one of Østhavn’s many homeless. His latest incarnation had been a juggler, Igor the Nimble-fingered.

But he hadn’t been a particularly good juggler, and his nimble fingers had got him in trouble when someone caught him picking their pocket. So with a warrant out for his arrest, Brynjar fled to the mountains.

For several weeks, he foraged a meager living in the streams and caves, surviving on berries and mushrooms and the odd fish or rabbit he managed to catch.

“Never was much of a hunter or fisher. I’m not good at it, and I don’t like it besides. Whatever you may think of me, I don’t care to shed blood. Not even the blood of creatures.”

Still, desperation forced his hand. So it was that he found himself wandering the mountain caves in pursuit of a fawn.

“Just a little mite of a thing. But I managed to get a spear into him. Not much of a spear. Something I made myself, out of fresh wood and a knife. Anyway, I got it into him, but it wasn’t a good throw. It hit the haunches, and with a little wriggling he got it out. But he was badly hurt, and leaking blood. I thought I’d track him down in no time.”

He shook his head at the memory. “I didn’t. All I did was get myself miserably lost in those damned caves.”

For three days he wandered in near total darkness, until at last he stumbled upon a stream. Following this, hoping it led to an exit somewhere and not deeper underground, Brynjar eventually found himself in a room lit by a strange blue light.

The light, of course, came from mushrooms. Blue-gilled agaric.

“Fact was, I didn’t know what they were. Didn’t know if they were poison or not. But I was so damned hungry, I ate them anyway. Didn’t care if they killed me or filled me at that point. Either way, I was done suffering.”

They didn’t kill him, but they set his mind alight. For a long, frenzied night, he crawled through the dark, following the river and making plans about what he’d do after he got out.

“It all came to me then and there in the dark. As soon as I knew the things wouldn’t kill me, I knew I could make my fortune.”

Eventually, he did find his way out, and marked the spot where the river emerged so that he could return later.

Originally, he’d planned to simply harvest the mushrooms and sell them. But after researching the fungi and arriving at the conclusion that they must be the long-lost dwarfsbane, he changed his mind.

“I didn’t know what I’d do. I knew I couldn’t sell them. I couldn’t tell anyone about them either, not if I didn’t want trouble. So what could I do?” He shrugged. “I didn’t know. It was the toadstools that gave me the idea of this show. I was out somewhere – I don’t remember where now – and fell to talking with a priest. I’d had a little chew earlier, and it all just came together listening to him go on about the mead of poetry.”

And from these ignominious beginnings was born a very profitable scheme. Brynjar minimized his risks by moving frequently. No one could look too closely – or get too suspicious.

As for Harald, he’d been a recent addition to the team. They’d long held that they needed a local man to do their harvesting for them, and his unhappy plight had inspired something like compassion from Brynjar, though he brushed it off with a shrug.

“He needed a job, and I needed someone who needed a job.”

Harald had been at work harvesting the mushrooms. Brynjar would arrange to pick them up on the way out of the city by a signal – a fire behind the cottage, in a circle of stone set up for that purpose.

“Everything was going so smoothly. And then you two had to stick your noses in,” he said, scowling at us.

“We didn’t kill Harald,” I reminded him.

“No. I guess you didn’t. So now that you know the truth, what are you going to do? You want your cut? I suppose you’ll expect more than half a percent.”

I snorted. “You’re damned right we would, if that’s what we were here for.”

“But it’s not,” Idun added.

“Then what is the game?”

“We need to make sure these mushrooms don’t cause chaos all over again.”

“I’m with you so far. Especially if you can figure out a way for me to go on profiting from them.”

“Forget profit,” Idun said.

“I’d rather not.”

“We have a friend, a jarl. He’s very trustworthy.”

Brynjar snorted. “Show me a trustworthy jarl, and I’ll show you a better liar than me.”

Idun ignored this. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will. Line his lordly pockets is what. This can’t be your plan, to tell some jarl about the find of a thousand years?”

“We have to tell someone,” Idun protested.

“No we don’t. We tell no one, ever. We keep the secret, and make a little money out of it.”

“You’re forgetting Harald,” I put in. “Whoever killed him is still out there. Either they know where to find your mushrooms already – in which case, matters are about to take a very unpleasant turn for mankind – or they don’t. In which case, matters will also take an unpleasant turn. For you first, and mankind once they torture the truth out of you.”

Brynjar shivered violently. “Must you?”

I shrugged. “We don’t have a lot of options here, Brynjar. Either we get someone who can protect you on our side, or those guys get their hands on you.”

He scowled at me, but the expression made way for something more thoughtful. “What about you two?”

“What about us?”

“Well, you could protect me, couldn’t you? You’re some kind of mage.” This, he said with a wave in Idun’s direction. “And you – you’re always grabbing at that sword. I suppose you know how to use it?”

I laughed. “And why would we protect you?”

“Well, I can pay you.”

“We’re not interested in coin,” Idun told him.

“I really hope that’s just some self-serving platitude you tell people. Because otherwise…” He shook his head, as if hearing something truly sad.

“You said you want to stop a catastrophe. So do we.”

“Yes, but you’re willing to sacrifice my bottom line to do it. I’m not.”

“How about your life?” I asked. “Are you willing to let some random strangers hunt you down and beat your secrets out of you? Is your coin worth your life?”

He shuddered again. “All-Father’s beard, you are blunt, aren’t you?”

“Blunt, maybe. But not wrong.”

He sighed. “What exactly are you proposing?”

“First, you show us where we find the mushrooms,” Idun said.

He let out a sharp hiss of disapproval.

“Second, we tell Knut, and let him figure out next steps.”

“And who pays me for all of this?”

“We do,” I said. “As your bodyguards. We keep you alive and safe until we reach Knut, and the danger passes.”

He made a sound somewhere between choking and laughing. “So in fact, no one pays me anything at all, and I take it on faith that the find of a hundred lifetimes will be protected by this friend of yours, this Jarl Knut?”

“It’s that or take your chances with Harald’s killer,” I said. “But you’d better make up your mind soon. I’m getting hungry, and I’m not going to wait around up here for you to figure out how much you value your life.”

Brynjar took the deal, protesting the entire time that we were extortionists of the worst sort, that he had met more honest highwaymen and robber barons, and so on.  

I didn’t mind. He could whine all he liked, as long as we got what we wanted.

Not that I was convinced he meant to follow through. It occurred to me that he might just as readily intend to lead us into an underground labyrinth and leave us there as lead us to his precious mushrooms. For that matter, he might simply push us over a ledge at the first opportunity.

I did not mean to allow any such opportunity. I kept a pace behind him at all times. Close enough to intervene at a moment’s notice, and far enough away to get out of the way should he turn suddenly with a blade or weapon.

It made for an exhausting jaunt up the mountainside, with the terrain doing nothing to help. The higher we went, the harder the going. We found fewer and fewer easy, open meadows. The grassland sloped at steeper angles, and as often as not, bare rock supplanted all but the scrappiest vegetation anyway.

More than once, my foot slipped as a rock shifted or a treacherous patch of gravel slid out from under me.

He seemed more certain of himself, as if he knew these trails by heart. Probably, he did. Especially if that bit about being a fugitive up here was true.

If Idun entertained my suspicions of him, she didn’t let on. On the contrary, she engaged him in conversation and kept him talking almost the entire time.

At first, it was stilted and largely one-sided conversation, as he responded as little as possible. But after a time, Brynjar talked almost as much as she.

For my part, I listened.

They spoke of many things. The fungi and its effects, the mountains and her secret valleys and passages, the city below, and old Harald.

His was, I gathered, a sadder story than we’d already ascertained. He’d been married once to a woman named Katarina. But Katarina had died, or rather, been killed when hit by a speeding carriage.

Six horses trampled the woman, and then a wheel ran over her spine. The carriage did not stop, and by time passersby fetched a healer, she’d already died.

The coachman was eventually found and charged, but as he worked for a well-heeled nobleman, and his hurry had been at the command of that nobleman, who’d overslept and thus was racing to catch his berth before it left without him, the driver faced nothing more than a fine.

Even that went to Jarl Storbjørn, leaving the bereft Harald to cover burial expenses on his own.

He’d taken to drink after that, and for a few years was destitute. Those who remembered the tragedy would spare a coin when they could, and somehow neither drink nor elements did him in.

In time, Harald gave up the drink, and found so-called gainful employment, putting himself between robbers and various noblemen’s wealth. He was good at his job, though, and slowly turned his life around until he could afford a modest residence again, and even to put by a little money.

Then, the sickness came, and before long, he’d lost everything all over again.

Brynjar spoke with such anger, such bitterness, that I wondered at the man. Was this an act, an effort to keep us focused on past injustices and so distracted from whatever he might be planning?

Or did he really feel as bad as all that? And if so, what was he doing sending a man in poor health into caves to find his precious toadstools? Why not just give Harald the money he needed? Gods knew, Brynjar’s scheme must bring in enough.

Then conversation turned to the little hovel.

“It was a witch’s cottage, or so they say,” Brynjar told us. “Once upon a time. That was long before me, but the reputation is well known in these parts. Some think it’s cursed with black magic. Others think the old crone died up there, and her spirit haunts anyone who profanes her grounds. Bunch of bollocks if you ask me. I figure it’s nothing more exciting than some crone made her home there, and chased kids off back in the day.

“Still, I don’t deny it’s got an atmosphere. But nothing bad ever happened to me while I was up there. And more important, no one ever followed me there. Once or twice over the years, Storbjørn has sent soldiers up there to pull it down.

“But they never do. Their horses lose a shoe on the way up, or they have themselves a tumble and end up in the house of healing, or something. Fear, I suppose. Believe a thing is haunted, and you’ll act a damned fool and convince yourself it is.”

He sounded like he was the one trying to convince himself of something, but I didn’t argue.

“Anyway, if folks were too scared to come up there, well, I wouldn’t argue with them. It was a roof over my head anyway.”

“And food too,” Idun said. “I suppose some of the mushrooms are edible?”

He shivered visibly. “Maybe they are and maybe they’re not, but that’s one thing I never did try, no matter how hungry I was. I’m not superstitious, and I don’t put much stock in curses.”

“Curses are real,” Idun said. “Not all of them of course, but I’ve seen curses.” Which was true enough. We’d run into our fair share of them.

“Well, maybe you have and maybe you haven’t. I don’t mean to tell you what it is you’ve seen. All I know is, I’ve never seen nothing I couldn’t explain as something other than a curse.”

“But you still wouldn’t eat the mushrooms from the crone’s cottage,” she observed mildly.

He shot a frown her way, which morphed into a wry grin. “That’s what I’m saying. I’ve got my beliefs, but there’s some things I figure aren’t worth testing. And robbing the spirits of dead witches, if there’s such a thing, is one of them.”

“I don’t blame you,” Idun said. “There does seem to be…I don’t know. A presence there.”

“You can call it that if you choose. Some folk need to have a name for everything, and everything named. Me, I just need common sense. And common sense tells me, you don’t mess with witches.

“Living or dead.”

Idun

Chapter Ten

We reached the caves shortly before dark. Liss had been on edge all afternoon, but her nerves only increased as dusk set in and deepened. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to.

I could see it in the way she watched Brynjar, in the tenseness in her shoulders, the constant lookout she paid our surroundings.

It might have been overkill, but I was glad of it all the same. She’d survived on instincts I didn’t have. She’d been a sellsword, a hired blade, and she’d lived by the survival instincts that told her to never relax, never let down her guard.

Certainly, I had some of that. You didn’t survive as a mage in the field without it. But magic changed the equation. Most times, most fights, the person with magic prevailed. Certainly, they had the advantage.

My spells could close distances in the blink of an eye, could conjure fire and ice and earth before an opponent could even approach. Which meant, sometimes I lowered my guard. Maybe more than I should have.

And for whatever reason, right now, my instincts told me that Brynjar was no one to fear. A conman, certainly. A crook, no doubt. But not a killer.

Not a bad guy.

I knew I should proceed with caution, and I tried. I really did. But it would only last as long as I actively thought about it. Then, as soon as my thoughts moved on, my guard slipped.

So it felt good to know that at least one of us would be on the alert.

Still, we reached the caves without incident. Which meant that if Brynjar had any tricks planned, they’d be inside.

That made a kind of sense anyway. Presumably, he knew the cave systems up here. Why not commit murder, if that was his goal, underground and out of sight, where our bodies would be much less likely to be stumbled on by hikers or hunters, herdsmen or picnickers?

He’d halted outside a low, largely overgrown opening. Now, he said, “Well? What’s it to be: go in tonight, or wait for morning light?”

“Tonight,” Liss said. “Sunlight’s not going to do us any good in there. And I’ll be damned if I’m letting you slip away in the middle of the night.”

Brynjar grinned at that. “I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t at least occurred to me. But have it your way. On we go.”

Which we did. He pulled back a tangle of vines, and I conjured up a little orb of light and directed it into the aperture. A pale light revealed a wide cavern below, bleached a kind of bluish gray color. Stalactites hung from the ceiling in places, where stalagmites rose up to meet them.

“You first,” Liss told him. “Nice and slow.”

“Not very trusting, are you?” he asked.

“Not even a little,” she said.

He grunted and started to climb into the maw. “Well, suit yourself.”

Liss went next, keeping close to him, but not too close, and I took up the rear, concentrating on my orb as I did. It required only a flickering thought, but it required thought all the same. If I lost that thread of concentration, the light would sputter out, and we’d be plunged into absolute darkness.

And whatever my instincts told me about Brynjar, I didn’t want to put them to the test. Not like that.

Once inside, I paused to brush the dust off my knees and take a good look around. We’d emerged into a medium-sized chamber of gray stone. The ceiling vaulted to a good three meters over my head in places, though in others, it stood barely tall enough to pass without stooping.

It followed a mostly oval shape, with recesses jutting off here and there, and in the far end a long, dark passage.

“This way,” Brynjar said. His voice echoed and boomed all around.

“How far?” Liss asked.

“Some ways yet,” he said, which didn’t sound like much of an answer to me.

Liss must have thought the same, because she asked, “Can you be more specific?”

“Why? So you can off me in the dark, and find it on your own?”

“Why would we want to off you?” I asked.

“I don’t think you do,” he admitted. “But I’m no fool, little mage. Your friend there, she’s right to be suspicious of me. And me, I’d be a fool not to be suspicious in return, wouldn’t I?”

“We could have killed you a long time ago, if that’s what we wanted,” Liss pointed out.

“Sure. But then, where does that leave you and your pursuit of these toadstools? Nowhere, is where.”

“You’ve already told us what caves to look in,” I said.

“So I have. But not where. And these caves run all through the mountains. You could spend a lifetime looking and never find them.”

“Maybe,” Liss said. “But if you think we’re going to kill you once we know where the mushrooms are, why are you taking us to them? Or, are you taking us there at all?”

He grinned at that. “Now, that’s the question, isn’t it? See, I don’t think you’re going to kill me, as I say. But that don’t mean I’m going to make things easy for you if I’m wrong. That wouldn’t be very sporting, would it?”

“Suit yourself,” Liss said. “But if you try anything…”

“You’ll put that blade you’ve been eyeing all afternoon in my back? Believe me, I got it.” The parley concluded, he turned and motioned for us to follow. “Keep that light burning. There’s things in here you don’t want to meet in the dark.”

We didn’t stop after that for some time, but maintained a slow, steady pace through the dark. Once or twice, Brynjar hesitated before a passage, but only for a moment. Deeper and deeper into the dark we went.

Now and again, things skittered past at the periphery of the circle of light, and great, pale eyes blinked out at us before disappearing. A few of the creatures to whom the eyes belonged hissed or snarled as they went. And each time, I could feel a prickle of fear run up my spine.

Still, we went on and on, deeper into the darkness. I tried to track our turns, counting off the passages we ignored and those we took, but I was pretty sure I’d missed a few along the way, and overcounted others.

I hoped very much I would not need to put my memory to the test.

A cold, earthy dankness filled the air. Sometimes, as we passed pale pools, it smelled wetter and danker than others. It took on a slightly fresher smell when we reached an underground river.

This we followed for some time, my light sending pale fish and eels scattering, slithering behind slimy rocks and into darker depths. Still, the running water smelled better than the still, and I was glad of that.

But as time passed, I became aware of a different smell.

Something sulfuric.

It grew stronger as we went, and finally, I asked Brynjar about it. “Where’s that coming from?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. They say these mountains were volcanoes, back in the time of elves. Maybe there’s some brimstone left somewhere around. Not that I ever found it, but I suppose it could be. All I know is, we’re close.” He flashed a toothy grin, and tapped the side of his nose. “That’s the secret. Follow your nose.”

“Do the mushrooms produce the smell?” I asked. It seemed to me that if the smell increased nearer the mushrooms, that they might well be the source.

But he shook his head. “No. That’s what I thought too at first. But they’re odorless up there.” He waved vaguely overhead to signify the outdoors. “So it’s not them stinking down here.”

That made sense. Still, I didn’t care for the reek. Not only because it smelled appalling, and it did, but because I knew some of the gases in deep, underground places could kill. Some were odorless.

And some smelled like brimstone.

Brynjar resumed his pace, urging, “Come on. We’re very close now.”

Warily, I followed, pausing to sniff the air now and again. He took no notice, following the river on and on.

Then, abruptly, he drew up and pointed. “There we are.”

I had to glance around him to see it, but my breath caught in my throat when I did. Some fifty meters ahead a cluster of pale toadstools grew in a shadowy nook. Their long slender blue caps glowed blue in the darkness. Their long gray stalks glowed too, and so did the gray-blue spots on the caps.

They were beautiful. Truly beautiful, and not only from the perspective of a student of the plant world. Tiny, glowing works of natural art.

“That’s it?” Liss asked. “I thought they’d be more of them.”

Brynjar shot her an annoyed look. “Of course there’s more. They grow all up and down the river here. Which is part of what makes harvesting them so damned perilous. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He did, leading us deeper yet under the mountain. The sulfuric odors grew stronger, but I hardly noticed. The mushrooms grew more plentiful, clustering in patches on the ceiling, atop slimy rocks jutting out of the stream, in little stony islands, and up the walls.

They seemed to prefer moisture, as the clusters grew thicker and the toadstools larger the nearer the water they got. They did not, however, grow in the water itself, but only very near it. Whether that was because of the fast-moving current, or simply because they did not grow in water at all, I could not say.

Finally, he came to a stop in a wide, cavernous portion of the tunnel. It looked much like a larger version of the chamber we’d entered from, though it was just a portion of the tunnel we’d been following.

Here, the stream broadened into a wide river, in the center of which lay a small, stony island covered in pale vegetation – and a slew of glowing toadstools.

“This is it. My spot, where we pick,” Brynjar said. “Out there, on the island. We come back every few years, get what we need, and head out. We don’t overharvest. We’re careful, we take just what we need. Then when we’re back next time around, they’re back like we never touched them in the first place.”

“And that’s where you sent the Hawk?” Liss asked, her tone incredulous. “Out there, on the island?”

He glanced at her and shrugged. “Why not?”

She eyed the water, churning its way past at breakneck speed, foaming and frothing around wet stones. “It doesn’t look like a safe crossing.”

Brynjar scoffed. “It’s safe enough if you’re careful. There’s a way over. I’ll show you.”

“Oh no,” she said. “No way I’m following you into the rapids.”

He laughed. “You think I’ll push you? Not a bad way to get rid of you, I admit. But the whole point of this is you and your jarl buddy are going to save my skin, remember?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He shrugged and turned to me. “What about you? You want to check it out, or are you content to see it from a distance?”

I hesitated. Some part of me knew that Liss was right. Stepping into this river at all would be a risk. We had no idea how deep it went, or where the depth changed suddenly. We didn’t know what lurked under rocks.

And yet, just a stone’s throw away sat a lost treasure. An empire’s worth of it. A treasure that alchemists had scarce dreamed might ever be found again.

“I’ll go,” I decided.

“Idun,” Liss hissed.

“I need to check it out,” I told her. “You can stay here.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “If you’re going, I’m not letting you go alone.”

Brynjar laughed. “Such chivalry.”

Liss scowled, but aside from a little jeering, I didn’t detect anything particularly malicious in his tone. My gut told me that this was no trick.

“How do we get across?” I asked.

“This way,” he said, leading us up the river a ways, and around a bend. Then he paused, and frowned in turn. “I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Liss asked, apparently making no pains to hide her suspicion.

He didn’t answer, but instead knelt beside a stalagmite formation. For several seconds, he examined the base of the larger rock formation, and frowned.

Then, he stood. “There was a rope there. We tied a line over to the island and had a raft that ran between them. You know, like a cable ferry. We’d cross here. It’s wider, but the water is deep enough that you don’t hit rocks.”

I looked around, from shore to shore, and then downstream as far as the light of my spell would show me. I saw no hint of either a line or raft.

“It’s not here,” he said. “I know that. But it was when I was here last.” He stood and frowned over at the island, which was little more than shadowy points of blue light from this vantage.

“Maybe whoever killed Harald cut the raft loose,” Liss suggested.

“But that would mean they know where the mushrooms are,” I put in.

“So he must have told them.”

But Brynjar shook his head. “No. No, he wouldn’t have done that.”

“So what’s the alternative? He cut the rope himself? The raft disappeared into thin air?”

Brynjar ignored her question. “I don’t understand it. Even if the rope broke, and the river washed the raft down-mountain, there should be something left. A frayed end of rope, debris. Something.”

I stared out at the tiny island, bathed in shadow and patches of glowing blue. “I’m going to cross. See if I can find any answers over there.”

Chapter Eleven

Liss didn’t like it, but she wanted answers too. So did Brynjar. So, all three of us circled back around to the shallows, where the water foamed and frothed over slick stones.

“This is the way, but it’s a tricky crossing,” he warned. “That’s why we built the raft. If you’re going to come with me, you need to take it slow, and you need to make sure you have a firm footing before you put your weight on it. You do not want to find out that the rock you’re standing on is going to shift only after you put your weight on it.

“And you.” He fixed Liss with an accusing finger. “Concentrate on where you’re going, and stop worrying about how fast you can put a sword through me, yeah? Otherwise, your lady here is going to leave these caves bereaved.”

“If you think I’m going to let my guard down –”

“I didn’t say that. But right now, the river is a bigger threat than me. Surely even you can see that.”

She didn’t argue.

“Now, have either you got a length of rope?”

I shook my head, and Liss said, “No.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Because neither do I. Well, we’ll have to be that much more careful – because if you go down, we’ve got nothing to haul you up with.”

“We’ll be careful,” I said.

He eyed me dubiously, but finally nodded. “Well, let’s get to it then. First up, there are no steppingstones. Your feet will get wet, and they’ll get cold. If that’s a problem, stay behind.

“Second, I already told you it is shallower here, but because the riverbed angles upward, it catches a lot of loose rocks and general debris. So be careful where you put your feet. If you go down, you’re gone.

“Finally, it may be shallow but the current is still swift, and it will try to pull your ankles down. Stay close, and try to follow my steps unless I tell you otherwise.”

Cautions and directions duly given, Brynjar waded into the water. He walked exactly as he’d warned us to walk, with painstaking slowness and precision, testing each step before he released his full weight onto it. Little eddies sprang up about his shins, frothing and bubbling.

Liss went next. Not, I’m sure, because she had any great desire to plunge into those dark, icy waters, but because she wanted to be between me and Brynjar.

Just in case.

Not that our guide seemed to even notice. He went on testing one step and then the next, oblivious to those of us behind him.

I stepped in last of all, and a rush of cold washed over my feet and shins. A layer of slime seemed to coat the stone of the riverbed, and I found it difficult to find traction. I understood now why Brynjar’s steps took so long.

Each was an effort of survival.

I’d gotten half a dozen steps in before I encountered the debris he’d mentioned. It might have been an old log, turned over and over by the water until it lost its bark and became quite smooth, and covered in slime. It might have been an oblong stone. Whatever it was, I’d rested the ball of my right foot on it, and begun to transfer my weight when it spun out from under me.

I pitched forward, flailing my arms, and at the same time tried to transfer my weight to my left foot. For a moment, I hovered halfway between upright and lost. The light flickered overhead as my concentration shifted. My right foot found a new hold, and some traction. My left slid, then stopped moving. The light sprang back to full strength.

I took a long, shuddering breath. Water rushed over my shins, sweeping up to my knee, and then past – on, into the churning rapids, and then the deep black.

A close call. But I was still alive, and still standing.

Slowly, I unclenched my tensed muscles. The island seemed an eternity away now, but then, so did the shore behind me. Six steps had never been quite so far.

Still, I put my foot out, and more slowly and carefully than before, tested my ground. One step after the other, testing and retesting before each transfer of weight, I went.

And eventually, I reached the island.

Liss and Brynjar were waiting on the shore, but I’d been so focused on crossing that I hadn’t even noticed them reach it. Now, they each extended a hand, and hauled me up out of the water.

Only when I stood on solid ground again did I realize my legs were trembling.

Liss looked me up and down, but didn’t say anything. I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to explain how near I’d come to being carried off to parts unknown by the mountain current.

“Come on,” Brynjar urged. “Watch your footing. The island is safe enough, but it can be slippery too.”

I quickly learned the truth of this. The island had patches of dirt and – I was pretty certain – decayed biological matter, probably from rotted carcasses. But mostly, it was stone. And moisture pooled in the nooks and crannies, slicking the surface and turning it as slimy as the river rock.

The whole place had the dank, unwholesome air that comes with never seeing sunlight. An air certainly not improved by the smell of sulfur, though I had at this point become more or less accustomed to the stink, and so noticed it less.

Brynjar made for the far side of the island, the point at which his makeshift cable ferry had once been anchored, and we followed.

The island was larger than it looked from across the river, pale light now revealing portions that had been hidden in shadow before. It must have been fifteen, perhaps twenty meters across at the narrowest portions, and more in the longer.

“Hold up,” Liss said abruptly, pulling me from my thoughts.

Brynjar turned to her. We both did. “What?”

She pointed to a dark, lumpy shape half hidden behind a cluster of mushrooms. “What’s that?”

Her tone was low, and I understood why as I followed the direction she indicated. She’d spotted something large and bulky and covered in fabric. Something that might well have been a crouching, or dead, person.

Brynjar drew his blade, and so did Liss. I let fire creep up into the corners of my awareness, ready to trade for light at a moment’s notice. Fanning out, we approached the bundle from three separate directions.

And so we all knew the truth of the matter at roughly the same moment. Not a prone or crouching person, but a large sack. A giant sack, quite as tall as a man.

Brynjar tapped it with the toe of his boot, and it shifted with the pressure. “Well, it’s not a body in a bag,” he said. “It’d be a lot stiffer if it was.”

“But what is it?” Liss asked. “I thought you said no one knows about this place. So who has a bag lying around?”

“Beats me. Let’s find out.” He slid the tip of his blade between the cord holding the sack closed, and after a moment’s fiddling, pulled them free. Then, he pushed the mouth of the sack open.

Pale blue light gleamed out at us.

“Mushrooms,” Liss said, sounding no less confused.

But Brynjar seemed to understand. “Harald,” he said. “He was up here gathering, like I told you. This must be his.”

Liss frowned. “Why’d he leave them here, then?”

“He must have been getting ready to ferry them back.”

“No,” I said. “That doesn’t work.”

Brynjar frowned now. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense. We’ve been assuming that someone killed him to learn the location of the mushrooms. But if he was down here harvesting, either they already knew where the mushrooms were, or they couldn’t have got their hands on him.”

“Not necessarily. He had to bring them down from the caves to the cottage. It makes sense he’d take them one at a time. And it’s a long hike, as you well know. They might have intercepted him anywhere on the mountainside.”

“Which still doesn’t explain the raft,” Liss said.

“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t. Speaking of…” He moved again for the far side of the island, and we followed.

There were no stalagmites here, nor stalactites. But the island’s uneven surface provided an anchor anyway. A large boulder that seemed to have fallen from the ceiling overhead, probably some centuries before, lay on the shore.

And tied about its base lay a thick rope, gray and black with moisture and age. “There,” Brynjar said, stooping to examine it.

The rope had been knotted around the boulder, and the knot remained fixed in place. But rather than stretching to any far shore, the rope disappeared in the river.

Brynjar seized it and began to pull it out. At first, it seemed to resist. Liss took hold too, and together they strained.

All at once, the rope yielded, and came flying toward shore. Liss and Brynjar, straining against whatever invisible force had held it in place, now toppled backward.

They landed heavily, before I could intervene, and I winced at the hard sound of bones knocking against stone.

They groaned and swore, but brushed off my inquiries about their wellbeing with, “Fine. I’m fine,” and “Leave it, dammit, mage. Don’t fuss.”

I offered Liss a hand, which she took, and left Brynjar to make his own way up. Then I turned to the rope. Its end still dangled in the water, but when I tugged, it moved freely.

After a few seconds, I’d pulled it to shore. The end of the rope still held a single, small knot. But it wasn’t cut or otherwise damaged, and dangling from the knot hung an iron ring and a bit of smashed wood.

It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. The iron ring and smashed plank had been the wooden arm that kept the makeshift ferry attached to the line.

But that wasn’t even the most interesting part. That was the gashes in what remained of the board. Deep, raw cuts in the wood, recent and ragged.

“What the blazes happened here?” Brynjar demanded.

“It almost looks like someone took an axe to this,” Liss said. “Though it doesn’t explain the rope. It didn’t fray, and it hasn’t been cut.”

“Who would take an axe to the ferry?”

“You don’t think the Hawk – well, had some kind of incident out here? Maybe he ate too much of the stock?” I wondered, thinking back to my own manic state. In my case, my euphoria had produced a clearness of mind so overpowering I couldn’t speak straight.

But according to at least a few of the old stories, the mushrooms sometimes produced temporary madness. And sometimes, not so temporary. They weren’t called dwarfsbane for nothing.

Had the Hawk, in an altered state of mind, been convinced that he must destroy the ferry?

Liss’s head jutted up energetically. “You remember the blue speck we found in his beard. I’d wager it was blue-gilled agaric.”

I did remember now that she mentioned it. It didn’t necessarily mean that he’d eaten the toadstools. He’d had a rather large beard, and a flake might have fallen off in any number of ways.

Still, it at least fit with the evidence of the damaged ferry.

“Wait a minute,” Brynjar protested. “You’re telling me that Harald, in some fit of derangement, chops up our raft, then hauls ass out of the caves only to get picked up a bunch of crooks who beat him to death?”

He had a point. It was a weird story, and it only got weirder when we put it all together like that.

“We’re missing something,” I said. “We’ve got to be.”

Liss sucked in a sharp breath, and we both turned to her.

“What?” Brynjar demanded.

“This river…where does it lead?”

He shrugged. “Disappears under the mountain, but I suppose it goes out to the sea. Most of them around here do. Why?”

But I understood. I gasped too. Brynjar’s expression only darkened, and he said again, “What?”

“I think we might have got it wrong,” I said.

“I don’t think anyone killed Harald.”

The frown eased. “He’s alive?”

“No,” Liss said. “He’s definitely dead. But he wasn’t murdered. At least, I don’t think he was murdered. I think he died here. Somehow, the ferry was destroyed. Either it came loose or he took an axe to it or – I don’t know. Either way, it was wrecked, and he ended up in the water. The river washed him out to the coast, probably through one of the cave systems.”

“You said – you said someone beat him to death.”

“Yes,” she said. “But we were wrong. Not someone. Something. The river.”

Brynjar stared down at the remnants of the raft, and muttered, “All-Father’s beard. What a way to go. I don’t know if that’s better or worse than we thought.”

“Me either,” I admitted. “But there is a little comfort in it. At least there’ll be no more killings. I should say, no killings, since that was an accident.”

“What?”

“If no one killed Harald, then no one’s coming after you and your troupe.”

He frowned down at the wreckage, and then up at me, and said very slowly, “Which means, you tricked me into showing you this place. You deceived me.”

Chapter Twelve

Maybe I should have seen that one coming, but I didn’t. I’d been so astonished by the wrecked raft, I hadn’t even thought how Brynjar might take this new information.

Liss, however, was quicker. First, she snorted so contemptuously that even Brynjar paused as if to reconsider. Then, she said, “It’s not deception if we didn’t know any better ourselves.”

“It still wasn’t true.”

“But it wasn’t a lie. We told you what we thought to be true. Being wrong doesn’t make us liars.”

“How convenient for you.”

“Believe me, nothing about this has been convenient for me. But it’s lucky for you. Otherwise, you’d still be down there flapping your arms and huffing and puffing, waiting for a dead man to show up.”

He scowled at her. “You aren’t much for diplomacy, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish.”

“Not really,” I said, trying to put an optimistic spin on things. “It’s much better, actually. It means we don’t have to worry about the toadstools falling into unscrupulous hands.”

“More unscrupulous than yours,” Liss added.

I thought the comment unhelpful, but Brynjar grinned. “Hm. You make a good point. Tell me, does this mean you’ve had a chance to rethink my earlier offer?”

“Of course not,” Liss said.

At the same time, I said, “No.”

“Why not? It’s not so urgent now that there aren’t people killing folks, is it?”

“We don’t know what happened to the ferry,” I pointed out. “We think there’s not a murderer involved, but we don’t know that. Not for sure.”

“Well, I’m willing to take my chances. And you listen to me, ladies: once you start getting your share of the gold, you’ll be willing to. It’ll set you up good. I’ll take it a step further. You’re a mage, yes? If you’re willing to come in with us, maybe you can whip up some elixirs. Magical tonics. Whatever you want to call them. You could travel with us, see the world. Make your fortune.”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a fleeting frisson of interest. It’d be a rogue’s life, of course, but a hell of an adventure.

And what harm would there be in it, really? We might lie about the province of our elixirs, but not about their effects. People would still get what they paid for.

I shook my head, driving the thought away. “I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be right. These mushrooms – they’re too important to hide like this.”

“Hm. But you thought about it, didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“You realize, of course, ladies that this presents us with a problem.”

“Getting back across the water?” I asked.

“Oh, that? No. I mean, that’s a problem, but not the problem. The problem is, I was going to cooperate because I thought I had no other choice. Now…the way I see it, I’ve got plenty of choice.”

I could see Liss’s shoulders tense. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my own stomach.

“The way I see it,” he said again, “now our situation has reversed. It’s you who need me, not the other way around.”

Liss laughed, but he didn’t seem rattled.

“Oh yes, little miss. You can threaten me all you like. You can cut me down, if you so choose. But before you do, tell me: where does that leave you?” He spread his arms expansively, gesturing to the blackness just outside our radius of light. “All alone, with no way out. Or are you going to take your chances finding your way on your own? Did you memorize each turn we took, count ‘em off as we went?

“Are you willing to stake your life – and a miserable, cold, lonely life it’ll be, if you guess wrong – on it?”

“You want to get out too,” Liss said.

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m in no hurry.”

“We can wait as long as you. We’re not the ones with people waiting for us,” she said.

Which wasn’t entirely true. Knut and Vilde would wonder where we’d gotten too. But naturally, I didn’t argue.

“Oh, my people know better than to worry about me. In fact…” He lowered himself to the damp rock. “I just might have a little sit down, here and now. Maybe a nap.”

“Suit yourself,” Liss said. “But I’m not quite sure what you think that’ll accomplish.”

“I told you. A nap. A little lie down. Rest my weary bones.”

“If you think you’ll outwait us, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He said nothing but made a big production of yawning and stretching as if readying to sleep.

“And if you’re serious about sleeping, don’t imagine we’re going to let you slip away. We’ll take it in turns to watch you if we have to.”

“You do what you need to, ladies. Me? I’m going to take a nap.” And with that, he laid down, closed his eyes, and refused to budge.

That he wasn’t asleep, I knew well enough. No one fell asleep that quickly, much less on wet rock. But that hardly mattered. The point was, he meant to wait us out one way or the other – until we caved and agreed to his terms, or, far more worryingly, until he saw a chance to get away unobserved.

And the more I thought about it, the more the latter seemed likely. Whatever terms we struck under duress, he had no way of enforcing them once we emerged. The only way to protect his secret was to make sure we didn’t emerge.

Whatever my instincts had told me earlier, now fear overrode them. This was a man, after all, who had sent the Hawk here to work – a man riddled with pain, laboring in the dank and dark. The dank and dark that had eventually killed him.

That, I could not lay at Brynjar’s feet. He’d been as surprised as anyone. Still, Harald would be alive if he’d not entered these caves.

And with the thought of those dark corridors stretching on forever under the mountain, of the wet and stink, the hissing creatures with their pale eyes that dwelt in the darkness, my fears mounted.

Brynjar lost the aspect of a conman and became something else entirely in my mind. Something horrible and sinister, merciless and mercenary.

Liss, on the other hand, seemed far less rattled than I. She settled beside the actor, and said, “Have your little nap, Brynjar. We’ll be ready when you are. Idun, may as well put out the light. No point to that if we’re resting.”

I stared at her, mortified, but she nodded ever so slightly. Putting out the light was the last thing I wanted to do in this place, but the nod told me she had some kind of idea. Which was more than I had.

So I focused on the light energy and snuffed it out.

Blackness settled on us. A terrible, absolute blackness, broken only in patches of pale blue. Patches that did not extend beyond a tiny sphere surrounding the toadstools.

“That’s better,” Liss said, and she sounded quite content.

I shivered violently. The air seemed suddenly cold and close. Colder and closer than before. The water churned and whirled all around, its movement invisible but audible.

Every sound, every splash put my heart in my throat as I imagined the terrible creatures of this dark place leaping out of the waters.

Crawling toward the shore.

Crawling toward us.

For a long time, no one spoke. No one seemed to move. I could barely breathe, and so I focused on that. One breath and then another, reminding myself that I could call back the light at any moment with but a thought.

Then, abruptly, almost violently in the stillness, Brynjar’s voice rang out. “Bring it back, damn you.”

“What’s that?” Liss asked, as calm as ever.

“The light. Turn it on.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, only too happy to comply.

But Liss said, “Now why should we do that? I thought we were resting.”

“You’ve made your point, dammit. Bring back the light.”

I waited for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Liss said, “Let’s give him what he asks, Idun.”

I did, trembling with relief as the light sprang up from my fingertips and rose toward the stalactites overhead, driving the darkness back, back.

Back.

“So,” Liss said, “can we agree…no more nonsense?”

It was only then, drawn from my own relief, that I noticed Brynjar. He’d gone very pale, and sweat beaded his forehead. Like myself, he was trembling from head to toe, but with far more violence.

“Damn you,” he said.

“Damn yourself,” she said. “You’re the one who tried to use this place as a bargaining chip in the first place. I was just playing the game you dealt.”

He scowled at her. “I wouldn’t have really left you.”

“And we brought back the light.” She stood and extended a hand to him. “Now, shall we go? I don’t know about you, but I for one am done with caves.”

He took her hand, and once on his feet, took several long breaths. “How did you…how did you know that would work?”

“I didn’t know. But I figured there was a reason you brought Harald in, and it wasn’t charity. Charity would have been giving him the money he needed, not sending him into the dark. So you were getting something out of it too.”

Brynjar eyed her with grudging respect. “Hmph. You may be smarter than you look after all. Right, let’s go.”

We trudged on without stopping. As before, I paid close attention to our path, but this time I left little markers as we went. A button here, a thread there, a bit of mushroom elsewhere.

I figured we would not get Brynjar to show us the way a second time. Either I remembered it on my own, or this might well have been a futile exercise anyway.

Finally, what felt like days later, we emerged onto the mountainside on a gray morning. Down below, I suppose the city must have greeted this morning with dismay. No clear day at the beach, none of the usual endless sunshine.

But I had never seen a more beautiful day.

“Well,” Brynjar said, “here we are. Safe and sound. Now, you can go make the greatest mistake of your lives – and mine. Give that greedy bastard Storbjørn the greatest find of a hundred lifetimes.”

“We’re not giving it to anyone,” Liss said. “We’re giving it to everyone.”

He scoffed. “You don’t strike me as stupid, so I’m going to assume that you don’t actually believe that. So what’s it really about? Money? He may pay you better than me up front, but it won’t last.”

“It’s not about money.”

“That’s right. Honor.”

“Sneer if you choose,” Liss said.

“I do.”

“Some people have it still.”

“Some people are fools.”

“Better than vagabonds.”

“Is it, though? What has it done for you, I wonder, milling about at the heels of these jarls. Do they let you eat the crumbs from their table, as long as you’re useful to them? And what happens when you’re not anymore, when you, like Harald, can no longer wield a blade for them? Will they take you in and care for you, like a faithful pet? Or put you out to pasture, like they did him?”

“I’ll tell you what I won’t do,” she said. “I won’t die in the dark, doing the bidding of some second-rate conman.”

Brynjar had no witty rejoinder to that, and no biting retort. On the contrary, for the briefest moment, he looked genuinely wounded. Then, he laughed. A hard, contemptuous laugh.

“Your turn will come, little girl. Wait and see. This city, these jarls and great men you serve, they’ll chew you up and spit you out, like they do everyone else.

“Then you’ll wish you’d listened to me and feathered a nest for yourself. But it’ll be too late then. Too late for you, and too late for me.”

Liss

Chapter Thirteen

We paused a little way down the mountain, by a burbling brook. Here, we took water and picked mountain berries. Though there’d been water in the caves, no one had been keen to drink it. And no one had thought to pack food, either.

Fortunately, in this part of the country the golden berries ripened early than in our more northern home, and they were sweet and plentiful. After a time, my hunger subsided, and I felt energized again.

It was at this juncture that Brynjar took his leave. “There’s no love lost between me and that jarl, and I’ll have no part in this madness. I leave you two to it.”

I watched him go with a sense of relief. I didn’t trust the man, and I didn’t like traveling with him. Watching my back, every step of the way.

Not that I stopped checking over my shoulder. As soon as my initial relief passed and he disappeared into the mountain’s greenery, I found myself glancing behind. Watching and waiting uneasily for an ambush.

It did not come.

Instead, we made our way steadily down the mountain, until we reached the cottage. “Let’s stop and rest,” Idun said. “We can look for food.”

I had no interest in eating anything that came from that yard, but she insisted. “If the Hawk used it as a base, he must have had some kind of provisions laid by. Come on. It doesn't hurt to look, does it?”

I didn’t argue. I was tired, physically and mentally. We’d been in near constant motion for the past twenty-four plus hours, and I’d spent those hours on the alert. My feet ached, my legs dragged, and my mind felt dead.

A second look did not improve the cottage or its grounds. If anything, the stink seemed to have deepened, the shadows grown in our absence. The door hung at a sharper angle, I was sure of that, and the ground squelched louder underneath our feet as we passed.

Still, Idun seemed undeterred, so we went in. Light streamed through the empty window frames, casting long shadows on the floor between patches of light.

“Can you get a light going?” I asked, shivering slightly.

She nodded, conjuring up a glowing orb. It wasn’t quite as bright as the sunlight, but it eliminated the shadow anyway.

I breathed a little easier at that. “If he’s got food, there’ll be a pantry, or a chest. He wouldn’t just leave it out.” It would be far too easy for creatures to access supplies with all the gaping holes in the structure.

Idun nodded, and we set about making a search. Not a difficult task, considering how little remained of the cottage.

We turned up no chests or pantries, but Idun kicked aside an old, molding rug, and found underneath, a trap door.

A musky smell assailed us as we pulled it open, and we exchanged glances. I was hungry, but not so hungry that I wanted to crawl back into the darkness and eat food that came from a place that smelled like that.

“Let’s just go back to town,” I suggested. “We can get food there.”

She nodded slowly. “Let’s check the cellar anyway.”

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

Stifling a groan, I followed her down the rickety ladder, hoping wetness and decay hadn’t left it too compromised to bear our weight. The light followed, and we were once again underground in a place that smelled vaguely of rot.

It felt colder than the caves, though, and the reason why became at once clear. Large blocks of ice had been stacked against a far wall. Their slow melting no doubt explained some of the moisture in the air, and the dank smell. But I suspected it would be many weeks of warm summer before they fully melted.

And in the meantime, they would keep cold the sacks laid out on top of them. A row of burlap sacks, some large and some small, all neatly lined up.

“I think we found the food,” I said.

“And I’ll bet this is the rest of Harald’s harvest. Whatever he brought down, before the accident.”

“I still don’t understand that,” I said. “If Harald destroyed the raft in a fit, that’s one thing. But the rope doesn’t add up, unless he untied that too. And why?”

There’d been no fresh cut, but there’d been no frayed end either, nothing left on the shore of the river to indicate wear or incidental damage.

In fact, if I’d seen nothing but the rope, I would have assumed it just came untied – a knot that didn’t hold.

That didn’t match the evidence of the ferry, though. It had been smashed, and not by rocks and river, either. Someone had quite deliberately taken something sharp to it, and not stopped until it was in splinters.

This was no accidental slipping of a knot.

Even that made a kind of sense, if I started with the destruction of the raft. Someone might have hauled it on shore, smashed it to bits, and then untied the rope. Perhaps to prevent a second raft being put in place, or maybe as a symbolic purging.

But that sequence did not account for the Hawk’s death. If he’d been the one to smash the raft and untie the rope, how had he then ended up in the water? Surely, if he’d sampled his wares and concluded that he was engaged in insupportable work, he would have exited the caves as soon as he could. Not hung around to admire the handiwork of his destruction.

I had the sense that we were missing something still, though I couldn’t say what.

Idun didn’t seem to hear me. She was busy opening the sacks and examining their contents in turn.

“I almost don’t blame Brynjar,” she said in a minute. “This stuff – there must be a fortune’s worth here. And it isn’t like they’re harming anyone.”

“Harald might disagree,” I said.

“That was an accident.”

I grunted. “Well, if Brynjar hadn’t been greedy, he’d already have put by enough to retire.”

“Several times over,” she agreed. “Him and the rest of his crew. Who knows, though. Perhaps they have.”

“Then why keep up the pretense? Why travel the country peddling this snake oil?”

“It’s not snake oil,” she said. “It really works, Liss.”

I grunted again. It wasn’t that I disbelieved her. This was a more general skepticism, of the very concept of inspiration from a mind-altered state. It felt unwholesome somehow.

Dangerous.

Of course, I’d felt the same about magic not so very long ago, until I met Idun and started my work with the university. The world, I knew, had once been mired in magic, but these days it was less so. Mages and healers might be more common in cities and cosmopolitan areas, but they were few and far between in wild parts. It was easy to view the university, that secretive bastion of hidden knowledge and strange folk, with suspicion.

I supposed that I might have adopted a similar view here, of something I knew very little about, that worked in ways I didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was harmless, or better than harmless – helpful.

But I couldn’t quite quiet the uneasy voice, the slight prickling of the hair at the nape of my neck of this unfamiliar and largely inexplicable phenomenon.

“You do think it’s the right thing, bringing these fungi back to the world?” I asked. “I mean, the last time people had them, it didn’t end well, did it?”

“That was different.”

“It’s always different, until it isn’t.”

She glanced up at that and frowned. “You don’t think we should hide it?”

“Well, no. That is, I’m not sure. It’s just – it seems dangerous, doesn’t it? What if the same thing happens all over again because we tried to help?”

“It’s not for us to decide it’s too dangerous for humanity, though. We can’t make that kind of call.”

“And who can? Storbjørn? What makes his judgement better than yours or mine? Does he know more about plants and alchemy than you?”

“I suppose it’ll go to the king,” she said.

I knew King Geir, as much as anyone could know a king, and I liked him. I even trusted him. That was better than a jarl I didn’t know, I supposed. “And what if Storbjørn decides that they’re his to dispose of as he sees fit? They’re in his backyard, after all.”

“I don’t think Geir will let him.”

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t. But there we are. Back to war.”

She eyed me curiously. “Do you have a different idea?”

“No,” I admitted. The best of I could think of was ignoring it, and that was no answer at all.

“Let’s talk it over with Knut first,” she said. “Before we say anything to Storbjørn. He might think it best to go straight to Geir, and bypass –”

She cut off suddenly as the earth underneath our feet started to rumble and shake.

“What the blazes?” I wondered.

The noise grew louder, reverberating up. It sounded like the mountain itself was growling.

Roaring.

“Quick,” Idun said, “we need to get out of here.”

We scrambled for the ladder. She went first and I followed close behind. The rickety wood swayed and groaned. The whole cottage swayed and groaned, and the mountainside went on roaring and rumbling.

She pulled herself out and then grabbed my arm, hoisting me onto the platform above. Together, we raced for the door. Then, bursting out into the yard, we surveyed the clearing around us, and as much of the mountainside up and down as we could see.

The whole world seemed to be shaking with the cabin. Swaying. Shifting. Groaning.

“Earthquake,” Idun gasped.

High above us, a tremendous cracking sounded, and a slab of gray stone as large as a longhouse fell away from the mountainside. Slowly at first, and then with a rapidity that left my heart in my mouth, it dropped, seemingly straight for us.

But I didn’t have time to react. Because all at once, the earth gave out at our feet. Not a gradual collapse, or a slide downward.

A sudden drop, straight down. Dirt and mushrooms and stones fell with us. I tried to pivot, to look for Idun, but I was moving too fast – moving, and hitting things as I went. I could see nothing but the gray sky and pale sun overhead, growing ever farther away.

Something hard and rounded slammed into my back. A tree limb, maybe. Something harder and more jagged hit my knee. A stone.

Definitely a stone.

Bright light flashed behind my eyes, and half obscured the sky overhead. I reached out, trying to grab hold of something, anything. My fingertips grazed rock, but I was moving too fast to catch anything.

Then the dirt fell in overhead. A cascade of brown, blotting out the sun and sky. I flailed, more from panic than with any goal. My elbow impacted stone, hard. And then my head hit something.

The world went dark.

Chapter Fourteen

I woke in absolute darkness. For several long moments, I could hear nothing but the rush of blood in my ears, and feel nothing but pain. Overwhelming pain, that seemed to encircle my entire body.

Slowly, my senses ebbed back. The pain took distinct forms. My head throbbed, and I could feel blood crusted to my forehead and cheek. My limbs felt battered and bruised, though not seriously injured. My ribs hurt the most, though, and all the worse when I inhaled or exhaled – or tried to sit up.

I’d broken something, that was clear. A rib, maybe two. I couldn’t be sure.

As to where I was, I couldn’t tell that either. I saw no light – no distant point overhead or anywhere else. Nor could I search for it. I couldn’t even shift positions without a wave of agony washing over me.

First things first, I had to heal. I knew that.

But magic had never been my strongpoint, and though Idun had insisted on teaching me a healing spell, it took effort in the best of times.

In the throes of agony, it seemed almost impossible. Try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate on the magical energy I needed. I could feel it there, just beyond reach. But every time I tried to focus on it, some new ache or pain would drive it out of mind.

“Idun?” I rasped out, and new pain swept over me.

She didn’t answer.

Blindly, I groped about, trying to find her. Tears ran down my face. I think I might have screamed in pain.

The world faded a second time.

I don’t know how long I lay unconscious, but when I woke again, I was very much aware of the need to focus on healing. I could do nothing else.

So I listened for the sound of energy like Idun had taught me. I felt without moving, opening my mind to a sensation just beyond everyday awareness.

My ribs ached and my head swam. The magic came and went, like a tide washing in and racing out again.

I gritted my teeth, and concentrated. There it was, at my fingertips. I could feel it, like the moment before a static shock. A fraction of a second, an anticipatory catch of the breath, knowing what would happen.

And then it came, sharp and prickly, like a static shock. A static shock that rushed up my fingers, into my arms, and through my entire being.

Skilled healers could control the energy, blunt that edge that was still so raw with me. When Idun used her spells, they felt warm and comforting.

This was cold and piercing.

But it did the trick. First, the pain in my limbs disappeared. Next, the throbbing in my head cleared. That gave me a little focus back, and the magic lost some of its bite. Then the ache in my ribs changed.

It lost the constricting brutality, and I could breathe more easily, without feeling fire course through my lungs with every movement. In a few minutes, the pain had receded to a dull ache.

And then, at long last, it was gone altogether.

I sat up shaking. The pain might have gone, but I could still feel the aftereffects of it on my system and in my muscles. But I didn’t have time to sit and recover.

“Idun?”

My voice echoed around me, returning time and again a little hollower and farther away each time. Wherever I’d landed, I realized that it must be a large chamber, with high ceilings and faraway walls.

But no answer came.

“Idun, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

The words sounded over and over. No one answered.

Slowly, carefully, I felt about me. I felt loose dirt, some dry and dusty, some moist and musty. I found fragments of stone, and now and again bits of leafy vegetation and wood.

It had all come down with me, I realized, in the collapse.

My heart started to race. If trees and earth had followed me into this pit, Idun must be here somewhere too. Somewhere, unable to speak.

Unconscious, maybe.

I couldn’t let myself think of anything further, of any harm worse than temporary incapacitation. And yet, though I didn’t give the thought name, it lingered there in my mind.

I’d dropped a good ways, into some kind of pit far from daylight. I’d taken painful injuries in the fall.

But it might just as easily have killed me – the hit to the head, the broken ribs, the various collisions. Any or all of them could have turned into a broken skull, pierced lungs, or a hundred one other grisly ends.

What if Idun hadn’t been so lucky?

I scoured the dark chamber on hands and knees, wincing now and again as I hit boulders or branches.

“Idun? Idun, can you hear me?”

My voice sounded increasingly strange to my ears, like another person’s altogether. Some frantic, terrified woman. Some desperate soul, half-mad with grief and fear.

“Gods damn it, Idun, answer me!”

She didn’t answer, and I didn’t find her. On I went, searching, screaming.

It wasn’t until my foot plunged into open air, and I very nearly went down with it, that I paused to take stock of my situation.

First, I pulled myself away from the edge. Then, carefully, I felt the rockface. It ran on much as it had, with the usual pits and rises but otherwise flat, until it didn’t.

Until it dropped away entirely.

I leaned over and called, “Hello?”

My voice vanished, and then rushed back at me. Thinner, fainter. “Hello?”

And again. “Hello?”

“Hello?”

Each time, it seemed to lose something. Like a spirit, slowly fading away.

“Hello?”

I scrambled backwards. I’d come to some kind of ledge or cliff. I couldn’t tell which, but I knew I would not survive the drop, whatever it was.

For some long minutes I sat rooted to the spot, trembling as I tried not to think of what might have happened to Idun if she’d landed a few feet away from me.

If she’d gone down into that echoing abyss.

Slowly, my addled senses returned. I became increasingly aware of the need for light. I had no lantern or torch on my person, and nothing to light it with besides.

But I had magic, and a rudimentary understanding of light spells – again, at Idun’s insistence.

“Everyone should have a light in the dark, and a good healing spell.”

Fighting back tears, I focused on the magic. It didn’t spark and tingle the way healing energy did, but it was harder to feel, too.

A faint, gentle magic, that required a good deal of concentration to summon – and hold in place – I found the spell challenging. That had always amused Idun. Light spells were apparently among the most rudimentary and easiest. They were the first things acolytes learned, because they were easy and – I suspect – could cause no damage.

Which was all well and good for acolytes. But me, I’d never had much affinity to magic, and I found nothing easy about the light spell.

So it took me several, increasingly more frustrating minutes before I got even a spark of light, and that sputtered out almost as soon as it appeared.

Still, the glimpse gave me some idea of the ledge ahead of me. A deep, yawning maw of darkness. The sight of which was probably the reason the light went out, as my concentration immediately dropped.

It took me several more minutes to get another, longer flare, though it too met the same end – flickering out as I peered into the abyss.

The third try took. This time, I studied my feet for several moments. Then, slowly, I started to look around, pausing as I went to maintain focus. The light flickered as I gazed at the void, but held.

So, finally, I saw where I’d ended up.

I was in a massive cavern, some way down a steep stone slope, on a wide ledge overlooking a drop into absolute darkness. Even the light could not penetrate its depths.

All around me, I saw debris from the surface. Mushrooms and dirt and trees, flowers and clumps of grass. It must have come down with me, I knew. But either the hole had closed up after us, or we’d fallen somewhere far the collapse. I could glimpse no sky above, nor any sign of an opening overhead.

Just steep, bare rock.

And in it all, I saw no trace of Idun.

In that moment, the truth I’d been trying so very hard to deny hit me. I’d survived by merest chance. Chance, that had thrown me onto this ledge, rather than pitching me down into the depths below. Chance, that had spared my body from being smashed beyond the powers of healing magic.

But Idun wasn’t here. She hadn’t found safety on the ledge. The quake hadn’t spared her.

Idun, my dearest love, was dead.

Swallowed up by an avenging mountainside, perhaps never to be found again. As I perhaps would never be found, here in this deep, dark place.

Idun was dead.

A kind of numbness washed over me. The light flickered and then faded. Darkness returned. I lay on the ground, among the debris, atop the cold stone.

I didn’t weep or call out in anger or despair. I just lay there, peering into the blackness.

Waiting for death to find me.

Chapter Fifteen

It wasn’t death’s voice I heard, but it wasn’t Idun’s either.

I don’t know how long I laid there. I was cold and stiff and numb in soul and body. It might have been hours or it might have been days.

But when the voice came, I thought I must have been hallucinating. Hunger and thirst, playing tricks on my mind. So when it asked, “Are you injured?” I didn’t answer.

It was a strange voice, not spoken but projected. A voice that echoed through my thoughts, spoke in my mind.

“What is your name?” it asked. And when I didn’t answer again, “Do you have a name?”

It was persistent, that voice.

“Go away,” I said. I wasn’t sure why. It didn’t make sense to argue with a hallucination. Surely, the best thing to do would be to ignore it, and it would go away. Then again, what did I know? I had no particular expertise on hallucinations.

“Well, you’re cogent at least,” the voice said. “What is your name?”

I didn’t answer.

“Are you hurt?” When I didn’t reply, it said, “You don’t look hurt.”

I snorted. That settled it for me. This was a hallucination after all. I had not conjured a light, so no one could see me. Therefore, the voice in my head was just my own delirious brain.

“Are you with the one who lit my home on fire?”

I would have went on ignoring it, except that a sudden light blazed before my eyes. I cried out, lifting a hand to shield my face. It had been – well, I didn’t know how long since I’d seen light.

Long enough that it hurt, anyway.

“That’s better,” said the voice. “Now, answer me. Are you with the one who brought fire to my home?”

I blinked into the light. Somehow, it seemed too real, too bright to be a figment of imagination.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and when they did, I wasn’t certain they had at all. Because there, in the center of the light, sat a giant, scaley face. Two golden eyes gleamed out at me, suspicious and wary.

I screamed. Not consciously, but by pure reflex. The sound escaped before I could think, and echoed off the ceiling and walls.

“Stop that,” said the voice.

Clamping a hand over my mouth, I obeyed. That, after all, is what one does when a dragon gives an order.

And that was what I saw before me. Whether I was delusional or not, I couldn’t say. The green-scaled beast looked real enough, but then, I suppose, delusions must look real if people believed them.

What, after all, was the likelihood of a dragon appearing here and now?

Dragons, who had been absent from the world for generations. Dragons, who had either died off, or lived in realms beyond human reach.

Then again, I had once met a dragon. Not in this place, nor did I ever expect to do so again. But – stranger things had already happened.

“Tell me what you are called,” the dragon commanded.

“Liss,” I said.

“Very good, Liss. Now tell me: were you with the one who ruined my home? Do you know where he’s gone?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Hmm. You do not appear to be lying, so I must take you at your word that you did not have a hand in this. As to what I mean, I mean the collapse of my mountain.”

“The mountain has collapsed?” I asked.

“How do you think you got here?”

“I thought…I thought it was an earthquake.”

“It was no earthquake. Someone brought fire to the mountain.”

“Fire…to the mountain?”

“Never mind. Your senses are addled. Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But I used a spell. A healing spell.”

“Hmph.” It – he? The voice sounded masculine – didn’t sound convinced.

“Are you…are you going to kill me?”

“Why should I kill you?”

“You shouldn’t,” I said quickly. “Only, that’s what dragons do, isn’t it? Not all dragons, but – but some. Hungry dragons.”

“I am going to heal you,” the dragon said.

“I already did,” I reminded him.

“Yes, but without much skill. Your brain requires attention.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, and I started to protest when a wave of energy hit me. Not the prickly, invasive magic of my own spell, but something warm and comforting.

The words died on my lips, and a serene feeling came over me. I seemed to be glowing, awash in light and energy.

Slowly, the light faded. “There. That’s better.”

“I don’t feel any different,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true. I felt somehow more at peace. Less numb. But certainly, my body felt much as it had.

The dragon ignored my comment. “You have been here for three days. Do you know that?”

“Three days? I didn’t realize.”

“You talk to yourself. Do you know that?”

“No,” I admitted. “Do I really?”

“Talk is perhaps too generous. You mumble and mutter, and make a good deal of unpleasant and insensible noise.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure why I was apologizing. I didn’t even remember doing what he said. But then, maybe I had been a little out of my senses.

And he was a dragon. It never hurt to be polite to dragons.

“To answer your earlier question, no, I am not here to kill you. I am not a hungry dragon, and if I were, I should find something far more palatable than a gangly and chewy human like yourself.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know if I should be offended or relieved. “I see.”

“I am, however, going to kill the one who lit my mountain on fire.”

“Oh.”

“You are certain you do not know where he’s gone?”

“No. No, I’m sorry. I don’t even quite understand what happened. You say it wasn’t an earthquake. But how could fire bring down the mountain?”

“If you are as ignorant as you claim, you need not trouble about it.”

“Do you live under the mountain then?”

“As I have said.”

“Does the jarl know?”

He scoffed. A great billow of smoke rose from his nostrils. “Why should he know? It is not his mountain, but mine. It was my mountain when yours was but an infant race. It is mine now that I have returned to it.”

I hastened to apologize. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wondered if anyone knew that you were here, is all.”

“I know. That is enough.”

“Oh. Right.” I tried to sound convinced, but I was imagining visitors to the fair resort town of Østhavn suddenly discovering a dragon next door.

“And if it was up to me, no humans would ever know of my presence. You’re a pesky race, meddlesome and tiresome. But as you are meddlesome, it seems I cannot escape you. You are forever poking about in my home and causing mischief. Getting yourselves lost and killed.”

“I wasn’t poking around in your home,” I said. “I fell into it.”

“Because of another meddlesome human. And you were in my home, you and the other two, a few days back.”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t know it was your home. You can’t be angry that people trespass when they don’t know it’s owned to begin with.”

“I can be angry about whatever I choose,” he corrected. “But if I were angry at you, I should not be assisting you now.”

“You’re helping me?” I asked.

“What else would I be doing here?”

“I didn’t know,” I admitted. “Can you help me get out of here?”

“Yes. But thanks to your friend, it will be a long journey.”

“My friend?”

“The one who brought the fire.” A sense of aggravation invaded my thoughts, and I had the distinct impression I was annoying him.

But his words rather than the tone caught my attention. “A friend of mine did this?”

“As I said.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to contradict you. But, I only have three friends in the area. Two of them are in the city. They wouldn’t have done this. And Idun…” A wave of grief washed over me. “She’s – she’s dead.”

The dragon eyed me curiously. “I am sorry for that. How did she die?”

Tears stung my eyes. “When the…when the mountain collapsed. She was with me when everything fell. Only, she didn’t make it onto the ledge. So…”

“I see. Well, I cannot restore her to life. But if it is any comfort, when I find the one who did this, I will kill him. And then your Idun will be avenged, and my mountain too.”

“Why did he – do you know why he did this?”

“Why do insects buzz and moles burrow? It makes as much sense to me as trying to understand your people.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“Not to my knowledge. But then, I have only myself dug out of the rubble. If there are other bodies, I have not yet discovered them.”

“And – Idun?” I took a deep breath and got the words out all in a rush. “You haven’t found her yet?”

“I have found no one but you, and you are yet alive. This Idun – she was the one who came with you the other day, with the man?”

“Yes. You knew about that?”

“Of course. How could I not know about noisy trespassers tromping through my halls?”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said. “We didn’t know.”

“So you have told me. I suppose you were after the mushrooms like all the rest of them?”

“The rest of them?”

“The fools who come to my halls to die.”

I shivered at that. “You…you kill them?”

The dragon snorted again, and I could have sworn I saw sparks amid the smoke. “Of course not. They come here uninvited, and they rob my home, and in their greed, they forget that the river is fast and cold, and the rocks sharp.”

“You mean, they drown?”

“Drown, yes. Some of them. Others are battered. Some, I pull out half alive and mad with fear. Sometimes they attack me. Attack me for rescuing them. Others scream, as you screamed.”

“Oh.”

“It is quite unpleasant. But it is worse to be attacked. Then, I must kill them or leave them, and often they will die anyway. My home is large, and its passages many. I cannot traverse all of them.”

That I believed. If his head and neck, all that I could see of him in the moment, were representative of the whole, he was a very large dragon.

“They will wander into places I cannot go and get themselves lost. And then when they are dead, they will start to stink. And that is even worse.”

I shot him a mortified glance. Dragon or no dragon, it was a barbaric thing to say.

“Look at me however you like, little human. You would not appreciate mice tunneling into the walls of your home to die and stink you out. You would not care to hear their cries, knowing that if you try to save them, they will only turn on you.”

“They’re afraid,” I said.

“I am not a fool,” he answered. “You do not need to explain the obvious to me.”

For a moment, I said nothing at all. Then, a thought struck me. “A few days ago, was there a man – an older man – in the caves? Did something happen to him?”

“The one who took away sacks of mushrooms? Oh yes. He was here.”

“What happened?”

“He died like so many others upon the waters. They had a raft. Silly fools. They tied it to a rope and went back and forth to steal mushrooms. I do not know how it happened, but he fell into the water.

“A great racket he made, too. But before I could reach him, he was long gone. Down the river, out of my reach.”

I shuddered. “How terrible.”

“Not a pleasant end, no. But if it is a consolation, his moans did not last long. I think he struck his head early on.”

I suppose it was a consolation, in a way, though not much of one. “He was a very sick man, you know. He worked there to afford medicine.”

“Why did you not heal him?”

“I’m not a healer –”

“As your efforts for yourself attest.”

“And I didn’t know about him, not until we found his body. I’m not from here.”

“But there are healers of your race who do reside in the area.”

“Yes. But – he had run out of coin.”

“And so they let him die?”

“Yes. I guess they did.”

“You see? You take offense when I say your race is incomprehensible, and yet you behave with neither reason nor compassion.”

“Not all the time,” I admitted.

“A meddlesome, interfering, and incomprehensible race.”

I thought about the raft, and the cold waters. The rushing river. The sharp rocks. The long journey to and from the cabin, and the toll it must have taken on the Hawk’s body.

“The raft!”

“What?”

“Did you destroy the raft?”

The dragon’s golden eyes gleamed. “How did you know that?”

“So it was you?”

“Of course. It was bad enough to have people creeping about in my house, robbing me. But not dying too.”

“That explains the marks.”

“What marks?”

“We found a bit of the raft. Just fragments. But there were gashes in it. Deep gashes. I thought it must have been an axe.”

The dragon’s mouth opened, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth. He was, I realized, grinning. “No axe, little human. My own claws, and nothing more and nothing less. Now, are we to stay here conversing, or would you like to get out of these caves?”

“I’d like to get out,” I said. “But – one more question, if I may.”

He sighed, a long, sulphureous sigh. “One more, then we go.”

“What is your name?”

Idun

Chapter Sixteen

I’d been standing beside Liss when the earthquake began, but all at once the ground pitched underneath my feet. A long, jagged spear of rock broke through the turf, and I careened backward.

I caught a glimpse of Liss dropping suddenly, but everything moved too quickly to see where she’d gone or what had happened.

For what seemed an eternity, the world rumbled and roared and rocked all around. I gained my feet only to lose them again. I was rolled and tumbled, battered by falling trees and pelted by branches and rocks.

Then, it stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. The mingled stink of smoke and sulfur and vegetal decay filled the air – and with it, a heavy, terrible silence.

Not the quiet of a calm day, with the rustle of trees in the breeze and birdsong on the air. An absolute silence, as if the entire world was holding its breath.

Waiting for what would come next.

I pushed to my feet. Somehow, I had survived mostly unscathed, with nothing worse than a few scrapes and bruises to show for my trouble.

The rest of the mountainside had not fared so well. The cabin was gone, and so were many of the fairy rings. In their place sat nothing but emptiness. Dark, deep holes, pits that seemed to drop on and on.

I scanned the clearing, or what remained of it, looking for Liss.

I didn’t see her, but I didn’t despair. Not yet. The earthquake had turned everything upside down. It had uprooted trees, split stone, and sundered thick sod.

In my heart, I didn’t – couldn’t – believe anything had happened to her. She was just out of sight. Behind something, perhaps half buried under the branches of some overturned tree. Maybe winded or stunned.

But alive and well.

I moved without any particular direction in mind, searching as I went. I scrambled over rocks and under tree limbs, looking for her.

The mountain, I saw as went, had undergone a drastic change, not only in the clearing but everywhere that I could see. The earthquake had collapsed long swaths of surface and opened deep fissures. Long, dark fingers snaked up and down, and huge sections had simply vanished.

Others seemed to have collapsed downward. Piles of rock and soil lay half-visible at various points down the mountainside, through lingering clouds of dust.

Fortunately – strangely – the catastrophe seemed not to have impacted the neighboring mountains. They stood untouched, blue and green and white against the horizon.

So, for that matter, did Østhavn behind us.

I didn’t fully understand that. How could an earthquake be limited to a single mountain, and nowhere else?

But at the moment, it didn’t seem to matter. I was keenly aware of the fact that I hadn’t found any sign of Liss yet.

And those terrifying pits, those gaping maws into the void, grew in my imagination larger and larger. More daunting than ever.

I began to fear.

To understand.

She’d been right beside me before the quake began, just a few steps away, and I’d been tossed and tumbled far from where we’d begun. But when I thought about it, when I tried to picture where we’d started relative to this chaos, all I could see was the pit that had swallowed half the clearing.

By time I’d finished canvassing what remained, I knew what had happened.

The quake had taken her. Liss was gone.

What followed were the most miserable hours of my life. I searched high and low, scaling as much of the nearly sheer pit walls as I dared, digging through dirt and mess, calling for her. I screamed until I was hoarse, but to no avail.

Liss didn’t turn up. She didn’t answer. And I didn’t find her among the debris.

I was still searching when the riders showed up. A group of half of a dozen of Jarl Storbjørn’s men, though not the jarl himself. But I saw a familiar face among the riders.

Jarl Knut.

I didn’t know at the time why or how he’d come. Later, I learned that he’d volunteered to join the search for anyone who might have been hurt on the mountain. No surprise. Knut was the sort of man to pitch in during a crisis, honeymoon or no.

At the moment, though, the sight of a friendly, familiar face somehow seemed to make the whole thing more real. More terrifying. I had the idea, ridiculous in hindsight, that he’d come to search for Liss.

That he knew the worst of it.

I collapsed in a sobbing heap, and it took some time either for me to understand that they knew less than I, or for him to understand that Liss had been swallowed up by the earthquake.

The searching began anew. It didn’t matter that the sun had disappeared behind the western mountains. Knut insisted, and the men, though no charges of his, answered anyway.

He was that kind of leader, the sort who gave orders that no one dared to question, much less his authority to give them. The men grumbled about the witch’s cottage, about the evil magic she must have exerted to bring down the mountain.

But they did as they were told.

They lit lanterns, and I cast light spells, and we set out to look for her. At least, I started to join them. But Knut took me by the elbow and pulled me away from the group.

“Idun, when did you eat last?”

I tried to think of when it had been but came up with nothing. “Earlier, I think.”

He pressed a canteen and a satchel of food into my hand. “Sit and eat.”

“I need to find Liss.”

“Yes,” he said. “But you can’t do that if you pass out.”

“Knut –”

“Idun, trust me. Please.”

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I dared not speak. So I just nodded, and started to open the satchel.

“Do you know what happened here?” he asked.

I shook my head. “We were in the cottage –”

“The witch’s cottage? The one Trygborne keeps talking about?”

I didn’t know who Trygborne might be, but I nodded anyway. There was only one cottage in the area. “People think it’s haunted.”

“I know. They didn’t want to come here at all. But – what were you and Liss doing?”

“Looking for mushrooms. And food.”

“Mushrooms?”

“It’s a long story,” I rasped. My throat felt raw and scratchy, and whatever I’d thought before, I didn’t care about the toadstools. Not anymore.

He seemed to understand. With a nod, he asked, “You said you were in the cottage? Where is it now?”

“I don’t know. It was right there.” I pointed to the edge of the clearing – now, a vast, empty hole.

He nodded gravely. “How did you escape?”

“We heard rumbling. Felt it, before everything fell through. We got out, and then – then…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

Placing a hand on my shoulder, he nodded again. “Eat, Idun, and drink. We will search.”

I did, numbly chewing bread and dried meat at first. But as I began, my stomach awakened from its dazed hibernation, and I realized I was starved and parched. Wolfing down food and water, some of my senses returned.

First, the strangeness of the situation impressed itself upon me. So far, I’d been looking at the situation as an earthquake. But quakes didn’t limit themselves to a single mountain.

This had been a collapse – a collapse that impacted every part of the mountain that I could see.

That didn’t make much sense either. Certainly, the mountain was, or had been, riddled with caves. Sometimes, cavern ceilings would give out. And sometimes, one collapse would trigger another nearby.

All of that made sense.

But I’d never heard of damage on this level. And to judge by the caginess of the search party, this was new to them too. They seemed to think it had something to do with the witch.

I didn’t. Even if such a person had ever existed, the dead rarely held sway over the living. Not without some kind of powerful magic.

And I hadn’t sensed that kind of magic here.

No. No sorceress had brought the mountain down. This was something natural, and not magic at all.

But what?

I had no idea, but I let my mind linger on the problem. It was easier than facing the other, larger problem.

The fact that Liss had been gone for hours, that I’d neither seen nor heard any trace of her. The fact that the searchers had turned up nothing so far.

No. I wouldn’t think on that. I would focus on the mountain, and what had taken it down.

I turned my mind over the first sounds we’d heard, back in the cottage cellar. Those moments before everything turned to disaster.

The roar that reverberated from far below us, up through the soil, up through my very bones. More than sound. Much more. There’d been energy there. Not magical energy, but deep, powerful energy.

An energy that terrified me, even thinking about it.

A memory flashed through my mind, from deep in the caves the night before. Not a sight, but a smell – something acrid and sulfurous.

I’d smelled that since. I’d smelled it as soon as the mountain started to tear itself open. Was that a coincidence, or was there a connection there?

I started as someone laid a hand on my shoulder. Spinning, I saw Knut standing behind me. He held a bit of fabric in his hand. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

I squinted. The fabric had been light, a gray or blue. I couldn’t tell which, as a heavy layer of dirt had turned it a darker brown color. But not so dark I missed the dark crimson-brown stain of blood.

“We found this,” Knut said, his tone low and kind. “Stuck to a root, near where the cottage used to be.”

“What is it?” I started to ask. And then, I clutched at the fabric, letting loose a cry of despair.

A cowl. A gray cowl, that had once been paired with a tunic of the same shade.

Liss’s cowl.

“You recognize it?” Knut asked.

I nodded. “It was…it was…”

“Liss’s?” he asked.

The words didn’t – wouldn’t – come out. I nodded again.

He nodded too. “I’m so sorry, Idun. I’m so, so sorry.”

Chapter Seventeen

The ride back to Østhavn passed in a blur, and I remembered little of it afterwards. All I knew was that we had searched until morning, and then, finally, the captain of Storbjørn’s party insisted we move on. Not even Knut could persuade him to give it more time.

There might be others on the mountain, he said, and besides, there’d be no helping Liss. Not if the mountain had swallowed her up.

After that, nothing else seemed to matter. Not the colors of the sunrise or the temperature of the day. Not the vistas overlooking the sea or the glory of the fjord.

The sky had lost her color, the sea and mountains had turned to grays for me.

Liss was gone. Probably dead, and if not, trapped under tons of rubble. And I could do nothing to help her.

When we reached the inn, Knut called Artemus, the house doctor, and he administered a tonic. I don’t know what was in it, but I fell asleep within a few minutes of drinking it.

I remained asleep for some sixteen hours – a deep, troubled sleep, full of dark dreams and terrible fears.

With sunlight streaming through my windows, I woke to find Vilde at my bedside. “Oh, good. I was beginning to worry.”

“What?” I asked.

“You were asleep a long time.”

“Liss? Is she – did they find her?”

She shook her head. “Knut has gone back to the mountain. He spoke to the jarl, but Storbjørn will not spare any men. There are superstitions about that place. They say a witch lived there once.”

I knew all about the superstitions. Right now, I was more interested in what Knut was doing. “He’s gone back to the mountain?”

“Yes, but…” She laid a hand on my arm and spoke with great tenderness. “He’s not hopeful, Idun. He wants to find her body, but he doesn’t think it likely.”

A lump filled my throat, and for a moment I could not speak.

She said, “But if anyone can, he will.”

I nodded, blinking back tears. Some part of me had hoped it was nothing more than a bad dream. But if it was a terrible nightmare, it was of the waking variety.

She really had gone.

Vilde sat with me for some hours, but I barely heard her conversation. She called for food and drink, and Artemus came and went. She insisted I bathe, and then she administered another sleeping draught.

I slept again, another deep and unhappy sleep.

But this time, I woke to the feel of a hand on my shoulder. Instinct kicked in before my senses, and I slapped at the hand.

A sharp hiss sounded, and a voice said, “For the gods’s sakes, calm down.”

I knew the voice, but I couldn’t quite place it. My mind felt addled, sleepy. Probably the effect of Artemus’s concoction.

Still, waking in the dark to an unknown hand and a vaguely familiar voice sent me into something of a panic. Flames rushed up my arms and fingertips as fire magic sprang to life. A defensive mechanism, but it served another purpose.

It lit up the room with an orange hue, showing me a somewhat discolored version of everything around me – the bed, the various dressers and end tables.

And the face.

A man’s face, relatively handsome though greatly alarmed in the moment. Not young, but not particularly old either despite the gray at his temples.

A familiar face.

“Brynjar?” I asked, the fire dimming but not vanishing altogether.

“For Odin’s sake, cut the magic before you burn the place down around us.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Shh. Not so loud. I need to talk to you.”

“In the middle of the night? And my door was locked. How did you even get into my room?”

“I used the window, not the door.”

“That was locked too.”

“I know my way around locks,” he said with a wry smile.

I didn’t doubt that, but it didn’t answer my main concern either. “Why are you here?”

“I told you. I need to talk to you.”

“Why now? And about what?”

“Now, because it’s urgent and I don’t want anyone to see me. And about the mountain.”

“The mountain?” A fresh wave of pain shot through me. “The mountain.”

“Yes. The explosion.”

“Explosion?” I asked.

He nodded. “They said – they said in town someone died. Is that true?”

I blinked at him. Did he really not know? Had people in the town spoken of Liss’s death without even knowing her name? Had her death ended up nothing more than a curious bit of gossip bandied about to pass the time?

“Have you heard anything?”

“It was Liss,” I said numbly.

He stared at me. “Liss? You mean…? Oh gods.” He staggered backwards, bumping into the washstand. A glass pitcher tottered and then crashed to the floor, erupting into a shower of shards and water.

“Shit,” he said. “Sorry.”

At the same time, a knock sounded at my door. “Miss Idun? Is all well?”

I didn’t know the voice, but I thought it best to answer. “Fine.”

“Can I come in?”

Brynjar shook his head furiously.

“Uh…”

“I’m going to come in,” the voice said, more urgently now. The doorknob started to turn.

“One moment,” I said. “I’m not decent.” Then, in a whisper, I told Brynjar, “Quick. Hide.”

“Hide? Where?”

“Anywhere.”

He cursed, made for the bed, and then changed his mind and ducked into a standing wardrobe.”

“Miss Idun?” The voice sounded more urgent.

“Right. You can come in now,” I said.

The door opened and light flooded the room. A sandy haired young man poked his head inside and glanced about the chamber. His eyes fixed on my hands, which were, I realized, still flaming.

“Sorry,” I said, willing the fire back into place. “Nightmare.”

He nodded understandingly. “Of course, Miss. I’m very sorry. I’ll clean the bowl.”

“Don’t worry. Leave it until tomorrow.”

“I couldn’t do that, Miss. You might cut yourself on the glass. It won’t take a minute, and then you can go back to sleep.”

I frowned at him as he stooped to pick up the mess. “How did you know I’d dropped anything, anyway?”

He glanced up. “Oh, Miss Vilde asked that we have someone on standby. In case you needed anything.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. Someday, I thought, I would appreciate her kindness and concern. But not today. Not right now.

Right now, it seemed to bore a hole straight through my heart.

The young man finished picking up the glass, and would have come back for the water had I not assured him there was no need. “It will dry.”

“Of course, Miss. I’ll leave you then. If you need anything, I’ll be just outside. And – I’m very sorry, Miss.”

I waited until the door closed before turning to the wardrobe. Then I hesitated. The truth was, I had no idea why Brynjar had come to see me in the middle of the night, much less via a window.

He’d mentioned prior run-ins with the jarl, but I’d been under the impression that those had happened a long time ago. Certainly, he hadn’t feared returning to Østhavn with his acting troupe.

So why all the subterfuge now? Had he committed some fresh crime?

Before I could summon him, or decide what to do instead, the wardrobe door opened, and he peered outside ever so slowly, whispering, “Idun?”

“It’s clear.”

Brynjar stepped out of the wardrobe and scuttled over to me. “I need your help.”

“My help?” I stared at him, confused. Maybe it was the sleeping agent Artemus had administered. Maybe it was reality, not quite, fully settling in. “Liss is dead.”

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry. But – there’s something in the mountain. Something terrible.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think – I think it might be a dragon.”

“A dragon.”

“I know. I know it sounds impossible, but – I think I saw it, just for a second, as things started to go under. And I know I heard it.”

“A dragon,” I said again, no more believing it now than before. “Are you drunk?”

“No. Listen, Idun, I know it sounds impossible. No one’s seen dragons in – well, I don’t even know how long. But no one saw those mushrooms, either. And they were real enough, weren’t they?”

“I know dragons are real. But – here, in Østhavn? And what’s it doing under the mountain, anyway?”

“I think it might live there.”

“Under the mountain?” I couldn’t contain my skepticism. “And no one noticed it? Not the people who live here? Not you, on any of your forays into the caves?”

“Shh,” he cautioned. “They’ll hear you. No, I didn’t see the dragon, but I suppose this dragon didn’t want to be seen.”

“You suppose that? And why?”

“Because I didn’t see him.”

I didn’t bother to point out the illogic of his reasoning. I focused instead on what he claimed to have seen. “What did you see?”

“It was only for a moment. I was being tossed around pretty brutally, I can tell you.”

I nodded. That at least tracked with my own experience.

“There was a thing. Huge, moving. Definitely alive. Scales and wings and…” He shivered. “It was a dragon. Then, the mountainside came down, and I had to scramble to avoid going with it.”

“Even if it was,” I pointed out, “if the mountain collapsed on it, it’d be dead now.”

“No. No, it wasn’t. I heard it, as I told you. I heard it, roaring away.”

“That was just the mountain.”

“No. I’m telling you, this was more. This was – alive. A voice.”

“How did no one else hear it, then? Why didn’t I, or the people in Østhavn?”

“I don’t know. Maybe – maybe I was closer.”

“Or maybe you mistook the sound of the mountain coming down for a dragon’s roar.”

“No.” His voice had taken on a pleading note. “Look, I know it sounds mad, but – Idun, I’m telling you, there’s a dragon up there. And it’s still alive. And – and I think it’s going to mean trouble if it ever gets out.”

“Out?”

“Out from under the mountain. As long as it’s contained, we’re safe. But it’s a dragon. No one can contain a dragon, not forever.”

I rubbed my forehead. My head hurt, and it still didn’t feel entirely clear. But this didn’t make sense, and the more Brynjar talked, the more likely it seemed to me that he’d hit his head as he was being tossed to and fro, and imagined some kind of monster in the mountain.

“If there really is a dragon,” I said, “we should tell Jarl Storbjørn. He’ll know what to do.”

He made a sound that vaguely resembled a cat trying to pass a hairball. “Odin’s beard. What is it with you and these jarls? When will you learn, you can’t trust them, any of them?”

I thought of Knut then, rummaging through the rubble trying to find Liss’s broken body. And my eyes filled with tears.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“I know. I know. And if there was anyone else, I’d go to them. But you’re a mage, and this is a job for a mage.”

“What job?” I scoffed.

“Shh,” he cautioned again. “Finding this dragon and neutralizing it. While it’s weak and injured.”

“Your wits have abandoned you,” I said. “I’m just one mage, not a dragon fighter. Go away and leave me in peace.” I knew I sounded pathetic as soon as I said it. But all I wanted to do was slink back into bed, and bury my head in the pillows, and cry myself to sleep.

“Idun.” He reached a hand toward my shoulder, but I took a step backward. “I didn’t want to tell you this. But – I think the dragon might have had something to do with the mountain coming down.”

I stared at him. “What? You said it was his home. Why would he bring his home down on himself?”

“I don’t think he did it on purpose. But, well, you remember that smell in the caves? The sulfurous odor?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Then you must have noticed the dragonstones?”

“The what?”

He shrugged. “I think that’s what they’re called. They burn fast and hot.” He must have seen the confusion in my face, because he went on rapidly. “When I was lost that first time, I found a few of them. Strange black stones, almost purple. They smelled bad, but I’d never seen anything like them. I thought, maybe I could use them, like the mushrooms. You know, pawn them off as some kind of rarity or something.”

I didn’t really care about his coin-making schemes. “What about them?”

“Well, I dropped one of them by my campfire. And it caught fire. Not just burned, but…” He made a gesture with his hands, the two moving away from each other rapidly. “Sent flaming bits of log everywhere. Damned near caught the mountain on fire.”

I’d heard of things like that before, but as myths – great, mystical weapons, sometimes from realms far beyond ours.

“I think the mountain is full of them, and that’s how it came down.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Think of chips. You know, the game you play with the little wooden pieces? And you stack them all up together in a row, and you go until someone knocks one over.”

I nodded. It was a child’s game. Everyone knew it.

“Think of what happens when they do. The first chip knocks down the second, and the second the third, and before you know it, the entire line is gone.” He repeated the motion of earlier, the two hands moving rapidly away from one another.

Slowly, the scene unfolded in my head, and I thought I understood. “You think – the dragon lit one of these stones on fire? And it lit the others, all through the mountain?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then nodded. “Yes. Probably. I mean, we can’t really know for sure, can we? And it may have been an accident. But that’s my point. He’s dangerous. If he could take down a whole mountain by accident, what will he do when he’s out?”

It took several minutes after that for Brynjar to get anything out of me at all. The idea of Liss’s death being some kind of dragon fire fueled accident stunned me. I sank back onto my bed, trying to really wrap my head around it.

He pressed a flask into my hand, prompting, “Drink this. You’ll feel better. That’s it, a nice long drink.”

I did drink, and I did feel better, though not much clearer. My head swam worse than ever. But now, it didn’t matter as much.

He pressed me to drink again, and I didn’t argue. He took a swig himself, and urged me to follow suit.

Some few minutes later, with the flask now empty, I found myself following him out the window and into the dark street below. I wasn’t entirely sure why, but I had the vague idea that we were going off to avenge Liss.

To kill the dragon who had killed her.

Chapter Eighteen

Our trek up the mountainside passed in something of a haze. Brynjar seemed to have an unending supply of alcohol about his person, for whenever one flask or bottle or skin ran dry, he’d produce another.

When I inquired about this, he tapped the side of his nose in a knowing manner and said, “I’m a planner. That’s me. The man who looks out for the details.”

He was, I think, rather drunk at this point.

But then, though it didn’t feel like it to me, so was I. And so I remained as we went on. If I didn’t reach for the bottle myself, Brynjar was quick to press it into my hands.

Especially when I thought to ask questions about our endeavor. Then, he’d urge me not to overthink the matter. “It’s all clear, if you don’t get mired up in the weeds, so to speak. Here, take a sip. More drinking and less thinking. That’s what you need.”

Which in the moment made a good deal of sense. Further evidence of just how addled I really was.

The black of night faded to a grim gray, and then a slate of colors chased the gloom from the sky. As far up as we were, the damage had become more apparent than below. Down there, a few trees had split, and rocks tumbled out of place. Up here, I’d already begun to spot the odd fissure – deep, dark gashes in the mountain, disappearing into the depths until they became as black as the fading night.

When I thought of what lay ahead, of the devastation – of the death – I found my steps lagging. My legs felt heavy, and my head woolen, so finding a fallen tree, I set myself down on it.

“What are you doing?” Brynjar demanded. “We’ve got to go.”

“I just need a breather,” I said.

Grumbling, he drew up beside me. Back to the log, he stared out over the vast fjord – and as was our well-established custom at this point, popped the top on a wineskin.

“Tell me again, where this dragon is,” I said.

He waved vaguely behind us, farther up the mountain. “Up there.”

“But where?”

“For Odin’s sake, woman,” he said, thrusting the skin into my hand and sloshing wine over us both in the process. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Despite my annoyance, I accepted the drink. “I ask questions,” I said, pausing to imbibe, “because only fools face dragons without knowing what they’re getting into.”

“Only fools face dragons at all,” he said. Then, laughed heartily.

I frowned at him. “You really are drunk.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

He reached for the wineskin, but I pulled it away. “Oh no. You’ve had too much already.”

He hissed with annoyance. “Careful. You’re spilling it. Anyway, who are you to tell me I’ve had too much? Look at you.”

I took a long, deliberate sip. “I can hold my drink better than any man.”

He snorted.

Ignoring his skepticism, I explained, “It’s the elven blood. I can outdrink anyone. Well, not Liss. She’s…”

Pain washed over me, and for a moment I sat still, blinking into the morning. Trying to process the sudden agony. Why did I feel so utterly alone?

So crushed?

Then, of course, I remembered.

“She’s dead.”

Brynjar reached out a hand, this time to pat my shoulder. It required a stretch, which sent more wine spilling. “I’m real sorry about that, Idun.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, he said, “You should probably drink some more of that. It helps with stuff like – well, feelings. Trouble anyways, feelings. That’s what I always say. You need to have some, of course, or you’ll end up like one of them bodies swinging on execution dock.

“But too many, and that’s no good either. You start trusting people and liking people, and that’s just a way to end up hurt. Either they’re liars or cheats or thieves or – or dragons show up.”

All at once, he wrested the skin from my hands. I didn’t anticipate it, and by time I realized what was happening, only a few fingers remained. Still, I managed to put up a bit of a struggle, and we both ended up soggy and smelling the worse for it.

“There,” he said triumphantly. “So much for holding your drink, eh?” He took a long draught, then, more soberly, resumed, “But in life, girl, there’s two things that are real. You’re too young to see it now. Youth is always pigheaded and full of romantic notions.

“Love and honor. You think you’ll change the world. But none of that’s real. None of it means anything at all. You know what’s real?

“Money. Money’s real, and so’s death. You’re promised one, but there’s no guarantees you’ll ever see the other. Not unless you take it. You can’t ask, you know. You can’t do it politely. None of this talking to jarls that you’re all about. No.”

He paused long enough to take another long drink. “You have to reach out and take it. That’s what I learned, a long time ago. Up here in this mountain, as it happens. Reach out and take it.”

“And how’s that worked out for you?” I asked with a snort, grabbing for the wine. He held on, and for some time we remained locked in the struggle, each grunting and cursing in turns.

Finally, Brynjar elbowed me in the ribs, and I sunk my teeth into his hand. He let go of the wineskin, and I went careening backward off the tree. I have no idea where the wine ended up, but I lost hold of it.

Brynjar cursed, and I cursed, and then somehow he was laughing. I started to laugh too, but wound up crying instead.

At which point, everything faded.

Some hours later, I woke to the blazing light of a hot midday – and a loud, unpleasant rasping sound.

Shielding my eyes with one hand and pushing myself up with the other, I had to wait out a period of intense discomfort as my stomach roiled and my head swam.

I was, I realized as my head cleared, quite hungover. Fortunately, I did have a spell for that.

A few minutes later, with the hangover banished, I took stock of my surroundings. I was exactly where I remembered the world disappearing the night before. So was Brynjar – and it was from him that the unpleasant noise emanated.

His mouth hung open, and each breath began as a rumble and ended as a wheeze. It might have been funny, if not for the vomit that covered his tunic. Even from several feet away, I could smell it.

So, for that matter, could I smell the stale wine about my own person. We had got truly drunk, though I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

Nor, for that matter, did I really know what I was doing here on the mountain. In the clear light of a new day, Brynjar’s reasons made little enough sense.

But even if I followed them all, even if I believed a dragon had made his home in the mountains, had I really come up here to confront – perhaps to fight – that dragon?

It was madness. The kind of madness that only drink could induce.

And what, after all, had I been doing drinking so much, so soon after my dear heart’s death? Guilt washed over me, and with it, anger.

Anger at myself, anger at Brynjar, anger at life.

For a moment, I considered abandoning our mad scheme outright, and leaving the conman where he lay. If no animals had troubled us in the dark, it seemed unlikely that they would stumble over him in the light of day.

Then, though, we’d had no warning about the collapse the other day, and we still had no idea what had caused it.

Dragons, in the clear light of day, seemed even more improbable than before.

So, finding a spot on him that was not soiled with waste or wine, I shook Brynjar. At first, he went on snoring. I shook harder, and he sprang to life, like a trick toy. One minute, he was on the ground making a racket, the next he was upright so fast his head impacting with mine.

Pain flared through my face as our skulls collided. Clutching my nose, I rolled away. Blood trickled between my fingers, and I let out a muffled combination of wail and curse.

For his part, Brynjar shouted. Nothing that made any sense, just a string of words, like someone sputtering, but at great volume. “Wha…? Where? What the…?” and so on.

When I’d finally regained some composure, I focused on directing healing energy to my nose. He began to pepper me with questions and demands for answers, but I ignored him.

The rest – checking to see if Brynjar was alright, answering his questions, chewing him out for being a fool – could wait.

The pain slowly ebbed, and the blood stopped. I could feel my nose rearranging itself, cartilage and bone slipping neatly back into place. Finally, it was done.

“Dammit, Brynjar,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? You’re the one who attacked me in my sleep. What exactly were you playing at, anyway?”

“Attacked you? I was trying to rouse you, you fool.”

“Rouse me? Was I asleep?”

I scowled at him. “Asleep? I should say. And only snoring loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Oh.” He glanced around, up at the sky overhead and the sun – and winced as he did it. “Oh! We’re well behind schedule. Well, I told you we shouldn’t rest. But, uh, I don’t suppose you have any spell or anything for headaches?”

“I shouldn’t,” I grumbled. “It would teach you a lesson about solving your problems with alcohol.” So saying, I proceeded to weave the spell for him anyway.

Slowly, his grimace disappeared, replaced eventually with a grin. “Thank you. And don’t you believe it. If life hasn’t taught me anything yet, it’s not about to now.” He pushed to his feet and stretched. “Come on. We’ve a long way to go before we can kill ourselves a dragon.”

“Hold,” I told him. “I’ve been thinking about that. Aside from the fact that none of it makes sense to me – dragons in the mountains, and no one seeing them – even if you’re right, what are we going to do about it? It’s not like I can fight a dragon, and I doubt you can.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” he admitted. “Fighting isn’t really my strongpoint. I’m more a talking guy.”

I snorted. “And what? You think you’ll sweettalk a dragon into leaving the area?”

“No. That’s why I need you. You’re a mage, aren’t you?”

“Yes. An apprentice mage.”

“Right. Well…” He waved his hands and moved his fingers in a crude approximation of spell casting. “Make some magic, mage.”

“No,” I said.

“No?” He seemed genuinely surprised by the response. “What do you mean, ‘no?’”

“I mean, no. I don’t think there’s a dragon up there –”

“There is. I told you, I saw it.”

“But even if I’m wrong – especially if I’m wrong – I’m not going to confront it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to die.”

“But, you’re a mage. You can fight fire with fire.”

“Dragons are immune to fire.”

“Well, maybe not actual fire then. But you take my point. The only thing that’s going to stop a dragon is magic.”

I didn’t bother to remind him of all the stories of armies and warriors who had slain dragons, or mages who had been slain by dragons. “I’m an apprentice. I can heal a broken nose – thank you very much – and cast light spells and fire balls. But I cannot fight a dragon.

“And anyway, even if you’re right about everything, even if the dragon brought down the mountain, you said yourself that you don’t think he meant to do it.”

“Did I say that? Oh. Well, I think I meant, I didn’t know. Maybe he did.”

“I’m not going to kill something over a maybe. Presuming I could kill a dragon at all.”

“Well, then maybe you could – I don’t know, talk to it. Find out what it means to do.”

I frowned at him. There was a note of something in his tone, something I couldn’t quite define. But it sounded very nearly like desperation. “What do you mean? What makes you think it plans to do anything at all?”

“Well,” he said again, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant way. “If the mountain was its home, and now its home is gone, it just follows, doesn’t it?”

My frown deepened. He was definitely up to something. He’d masked any hint of urgency in his tone, but he’d gone too far, tried too hard. Now, he sounded almost comically disinterested.

I folded my arms. “What the hell are you up to, Brynjar?”

“Up to?” He repeated the question as he might words of an unknown language. “My dear child, I haven’t the foggiest notion what you mean.”

“Don’t you dare ‘dear child’ me. You’ve got something up your sleeve, and I want to know what it is. And don’t lie. You’ve dragged me all the way up here, plied me with liquor, lied to me –”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Lied to you? Plied you with liquor? I don’t remember that. If memory serves, I had to wrestle the bottle out of your hands.”

“It was a wineskin,” I said. “And that was only after you got me drunk. I want to know why.”

“What a nasty, suspicious mind you have. If I ‘got you drunk’ – and I say ‘if’ because I don’t remember it like that at all – it was only out of concern for your wellbeing.”

“Concern?” I almost laughed.

“Yes. You were very cut up about – well, no need to go into that. Suffice it to say, for obvious reasons, you were experiencing the doldrums. I thought a little liquid cheer was just what the doctor ordered.”

“Bollocks. You listen to me, Brynjar. Either you tell me the truth, or I’m leaving.”

He hesitated for a brief moment, then spread his hands plaintively, “Idun, I am telling you the truth.”

“Fine,” I said, turning my back on him and marching away.

He scoffed, and then called, “Really? You’re just going to leave?”

I kept marching.

“I would have thought you were too old for tantrums like these. Idun, come on. Idun! Dammit it, girl, don’t you want to avenge Liss?”

I winced inwardly. A hit below the belt if ever I’d heard one. But I didn’t acknowledge the comment, not to him.

Liss

Chapter Nineteen

“My name,” said the dragon, “is Fornbardi, for I am the teller of ancient songs. Or so I was, once.”

“Fornbardi,” I repeated. It was a word in the language of the elder days, long before the infancy of humankind. A difficult language for mortals to master, but one full of magic and meaning.

“That is my name, and my name is that. Now, if we are done?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Very well. Then, you had better travel with me. I do not think your legs will take you down this drop. Not if you desire to remain in working order, at least.”

As I very much desired to remain in working order, I acquiesced. Fornbardi placed a great, scaly shoulder against the ledge, and very carefully, apologizing as I went, I stepped onto him.

“Your apologies are not needed,” he declared. “It takes more than a tiny creature like yourself to injure me. Now, hold fast.”

I did, clutching at a thick spine that rose from his back. And not a moment too soon, as Fornbardi promptly dropped into the pit.

For an agonizing period that might have been a few seconds or a few minutes, we plunged straight downward. Blackness consumed us, and I may have yelped in fright.

Suddenly, Fornbardi stopped moving. He must have landed with all the grace of a cat, for I felt him crouch low and spring back up underneath me. More to the point, by time the force of impact reached me, it barely rattled my teeth.

“You don’t mind if I conjure up a light, do you?”

“As it happens, I do. Your conjuration skill leaves much to be desired, human. I shall provide the necessary illumination.”

Which he did, without further preamble. A vast ball of light floated above us, revealing a wide, tall stone cavern. Here and there, gems and veins of minerals twinkled in the light.

“Wow,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is. And it was far more beautiful before that wretched human damaged it.”

I glanced down and found my grip tightening on his back. The floor seemed very far away. Probably not a deadly distance should I drop unexpectedly, but I had no desire to find out. Fornbardi stood at several times my height, and there would be no soft landing here. Only stone and more stone.

A fall would not end well, whether it killed me or not.

“This is the long way out of the mountain. I have not used it in some years, but with any luck, it will still be standing,” Fornbardi said.

“And if it isn’t?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be pessimistic, nor was I always the one to think every eventuality through. But it seemed to me that it might be nice to know if a backup plan existed, considering the state of this mountain.

“If it isn’t, we will need to dig. Unfortunate that you are human, and not a dwarf.”

And with this, my mind not much settled, Fornbardi set out. Unlike the passages we had traveled with Brynjar, that sometimes became narrow and difficult to traverse, the dragon stuck to open spaces with high ceilings.

Like those passages, though, we passed many of the blue toadstools. If anything, they seemed more abundant deeper in the mountain than they had been above.

I supposed that might be why no one had found them before. If they existed deep within these subterranean passages, it might have taken ages for them to migrate to the upper levels. And who, if anyone, would have come so deep into the mountain and survived?

Without Fornbardi, who knew the way, I very much doubted I would have found an exit. Not in a year, not in a hundred years. We must have passed a hundred tunnels going in every direction, some of which the dragon turned down, and others he ignored.

No. Any poor soul who wound up here would have a devil of a time finding their way back to the surface without a guide.

So maybe blue-gilled agaric had never gone extinct at all, but simply had been overharvested. Only those mushrooms that existed far below ground, well away from people, had survived.

I should have been happy with this theory, as it all made reasonable sense and I could think of nothing to disprove it. Still, a nagging feeling persisted in the back of my head, one that I couldn’t quite explain.

It had to do with something Fornbardi had said, I was sure, though I couldn’t remember what. Still, I felt as if I was missing something.

Something.

He was not a talkative one, this so-called teller of ancient songs. He did not speak at all as we traveled, unless I spoke first to him. Which for the early part of our journey, I did very little, occupied as I was with my own thoughts.

As time moved on with no answers, though, I grew increasingly frustrated. Finally, I decided to address the question to him.

“Those mushrooms you see there,” I said, gesturing to a pale cluster growing halfway up the cavern wall. “Do you know them?”

He snorted, and a plume of smoke wafted back into my face. “Know them? How could I not, with you humans trespassing to rob my home of them?”

“You said something earlier that made me think of them.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m blessed if I know what, unless it was about that wretched saboteur.”

I shook my head. “No. It was something else. But – I think it was important.”

“Unless you can be more specific than that, I’m afraid I will be of little help.”

Which of course was the entire problem: I couldn’t be more specific because I didn’t know myself. I decided on a different approach.

“Do you know anything about those mushrooms?”

“You mean, aside from the fact that you humans will commit theft and vandalism to acquire them?”

“Yes. Aside from that.”

“I know that they are plentiful underground.”

I blinked at that. “Plentiful?”

“I’ve rarely dwelt in a cave that did not have them.”

“Really?”

“Would I have said so if it were not so?”

“No,” I said. “Of course not. Only…well, I don’t mean to disagree with you.”

He snorted again, and another puff of smoke enveloped me. “And you will do so, quaking all the while. Go on, mortal. Tell me I’m wrong about what I have seen with my own eyes. But do me the favor of not quaking so. I shall not harm you for being the fool.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I think. At any rate, I’m not arguing with what you’ve seen. I’m only saying, those mushrooms have been thought to be extinct for centuries.” I paused, trying to recall the details of the stories Idun told me. “Maybe longer. That’s the whole reason people came into your mountain at all – because they’re so rare, and so precious.”

“Precious? You humans are more easily amused than even I remembered. But what do you mean, ‘rare?’ I tell you, you have only to look underground and you’ll find them. They are so plentiful, I tire of their glow.”

Then, suddenly, I remembered what it was he’d said that set my mind whirring.

“Dwarves!”

“Dwarves?”

“Yes, dwarves.” I could barely contain my excitement.

He was not impressed. “Have you hit your head a second time, little human? What have dwarves to do with anything, unless you’ve got one hiding in your pocket?”

“You said, if we can’t get out through the back door, we’d have to dig out. Do you remember?”

“Not exactly, but it sounds like something I might have said.”

“You did. And you said it would be better in that case if I was a dwarf.”

“I do remember that. But what of it?”

“Don’t you see, Fornbardi? Dwarves value blue-gilled agaric every bit as much as humans. They’ve gone to such lengths to get their hands on them, that one of the names for the mushroom is ‘dwarfbane.’ I don’t know why, exactly, but – the point is, they certainly would recognize it.”

“I do not question that.”

“Yes, but where do dwarves dwell?”

“In dwarven homes.”

“Underground. Not always, of course, but – they’re miners, for one thing. And many dwarven cities are underground too. They inhabit caverns and tunnels all through the north.”

“Be that as it may, you have yet to explain how this relates to the fungus.”

“Don’t you see? If these grow as plentifully as you believe, dwarves would certainly have found them by now.”

“Perhaps they have. Perhaps they simply keep the treasure to themselves – if they are indeed as valuable among mortal races as you claim.”

“They are,” I said. “And you may be right. But I don’t think so. A thing like that would be hard to hide forever. Sooner or later, someone would try to sell them. Just like Brynjar.”

“Who?”

“A rather unscrupulous man of my acquaintance. Yours too, in a sense.”

“I know no one of that name.”

“You don’t know his name, but you’ve seen him before. He’s the one who showed us the mushrooms.”

A long spout of flame burst from the dragon, and the cavern filled with smoke. His body rumbled in a great growl. “The saboteur.”

I glanced down at Fornbardi. “The saboteur? You mean – Brynjar was the one who brought the mountain down?”

“The man who showed you and Idun the way. He was the one.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“Oh yes,” he said.

“You’re – you’re sure?”

Another blast of flame filled the enclosure. “Do you think I would mistake something like that?”

“No. No, of course not. But – why would he do that?”

“How should I know what malicious thoughts ran through his foul mind? I can convey my thoughts to another’s mind if I choose, but I am not able to read theirs. Not without an invitation.”

Fornbardi was quite literal, it seemed. “I didn’t mean that. Only, I thought you might have some idea as to why. For that matter, how? How can a single man bring down an entire mountain?”

“He ignited the drekistone. Dragonstone, in your tongue.”

“Dragonstone? What’s that?”

“How much you mortals have forgotten in our absence. It is a formulation that gathers in dragon lairs. I do not know the whys. Elven wizards said it was a product of vapors we emitted. Not flattering imagery, if you ask me.

“But whatever the cause, it does grow where we live. A purple-black powdery substance. In time, it accumulates into larger clumps. Stones.”

“Strange,” I said. “I think – I think I might have seen some of it when we were in the caves.”

“Not strange at all. It is – was – all throughout the mountain, before that vagabond sabotaged it.”

“You said he ignited this dragonstone?”

“Yes. He crept back into my home and collected several rather large dragonstones. These he ignited. What the fool did not expect was that the combustion would cause a chain reaction – igniting dragonstones all through the mountain.”

“All-Father’s beard,” I said. “That’s what caused the collapse?”

“It is. And when I find the saboteur, I shall make him answer for his crimes in blood.”

I forgot about dwarves and mushrooms altogether in the wake of this revelation. Brynjar had been the one to bring down the mountain.

Brynjar had been the one to kill Idun.

My first instinct was to cheer on Fornbardi – or better still, to ask him to stay his hand, so I could wring the conniving thespian’s neck myself.

Certainly not my finest moment, I admit. But rage and hurt blinded me to any nobler sentiment. Not least of all, because while Fornbardi might have no clue as to his motivations, I thought I did.

Brynjar had thought himself tricked into showing us the location of the blue-gilled agaric patch. He’d railed at the notion of sharing what he deemed his find with jarls and the king.

Had he, after we’d parted ways, crept back into the mountain to collect explosives in order to seal the entrance, to ensure we couldn’t do that?

The more I thought on it, the more likely it seemed. And the more I wanted to wring his neck.

He’d killed Idun, taken down so much of the mountain, for nothing more than greed and spite.

Fornbardi’s thoughts invaded my mind. “There now, little human. Do not dwell so much on your pain, lest it consume you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I can feel your pain,” he said, aloud this time. “It radiates off you, like heat from a burning fire. You are thinking of the one you have lost.”

“Yes,” I said. “And of Brynjar.” Then I told him my theory. To judge by the flaring smoke and fire that escaped his nostrils, I suspected the telling kindled his own wroth.

“I shall burn him to ash,” he declared when I’d finished. “And still, it will be too good an end for him.”

Hearing the dragon’s fury, so similar to my own, spoken back to me, I felt a twinge of something like remorse. “I don’t think he meant to bring down the mountain.”

“What?”

“I think he was trying to stop us from getting at the mushrooms, is all. Not that it excuses what he did. But I think he only meant to stop us.”

“He did rather more than that.”

“Yes, but – he wouldn’t have given up a good source of income so easily. He’s a miserable conman, a filcher even, but…but I don’t think he’s a killer. And even if I’m wrong, even if he’d kill to keep his secret, what would be the point of destroying them?”

“Perhaps I shall ask him,” Fornbardi said. “Before I burn him to ash.”

We traveled on in silence after that. My thoughts were heavy with memories of Idun, and the pain of her loss – of not knowing exactly where she’d fallen, or what end she’d come to.

The mountain grew darker, as the blue-gilled agaric grew scarcer and scarcer. Sometimes the stone ceiling would come down so near I could reach up and touch it. Occasionally, Fornbardi would crouch and crawl forward, grumbling the entire while about how much younger and smaller he’d been when he’d built this entrance.

Eventually, we reached a great cavern. Pale stones glimmered here and there in the stone, and long veins of gold stretched down to the floor. Diamonds, uncut and unpolished, but of many sizes. Some were pearl-sized, others acorn, and some nearly as large as an apple. Among the diamonds, I saw dark blue gems too, and green and red, turquoise and yellowish-orange.

Mushrooms, it seemed, were not the only object of value here in Fornbardi’s home.

“Ah good,” said the dragon. “It is as I remember it.”

“The gems?”

He snorted. “You humans are as bad as dwarves when it comes to riches.”

“It’s dragons who have a reputation for hoarding gold,” I pointed out.

“Yes. Among humans, who kill each other over coppers. But no, I did not mean the gems. I meant the door.”

I glanced around, frowning into the great cavern. The only way in or out seemed to be the passage from which we’d just entered. “What door?”

“Not one that your eyes can detect. Hold on, little human.”

And with that, he strode forward purposefully. We reached the center of the room – and suddenly, his head seemed to vanish, and then his neck. Still, the force of his movement propelled his body forward.

I yelped just as I reached the point at which he’d vanished.

And suddenly, the cavern was gone, and we stood high upon the mountain. Sunlight streamed down on us, and the ruination stretched out ahead of us. Great, jagged peaks of raw rock, and deep, dark pits and gullies, where once there’d been centuries of vegetation and growth.

Fornbardi groaned, a deep, rumbling sound that issued from deep in his body. “My home. My beautiful home.”

“That door,” I said. I wasn’t trying to be insensitive to his despair, but we’d stepped through something quite invisible, and quite remarkable. “Is it magic?”

He glanced back at me, a golden gleam of annoyance in his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Can you get back?”

“Obviously. But I must hunt first.”

I shivered at that. What had seemed understandable, reasonable even, in the deep dark of the mountain’s belly seemed monstrous now. Inconceivable.

“Fornbardi, do you think – well, what if it was an accident?”

“He lit the dragonstone. That was no accident.”

“No. But he probably didn’t know what would happen.”

“So you continue to tell me.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” I conceded. “Maybe he did mean to bring down the whole mountain. But if I’m right, doesn’t that change things?”

“Does it bring back my mountain? Does it bring back your Idun?”

“No,” I said, pain clutching at my heart. “But will killing Brynjar?”

He snorted, and flames mingled with the dark smoke that rose from his nostrils. “You vex me, little human. I do not tell you how to manage your own affairs. If you desire to let live the worm who…”

He cut off suddenly, sniffing the air. Then, a low growl rumbled deep within him. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end.

“What?” I demanded.

“He’s here.”

Idun

Chapter Twenty

I’d made it some ten or fifteen yards before Brynjar finally moved. Running after me, he called, “Wait. Idun, wait.”

I didn’t stop, though I did slow a little. Still, he was panting heavily when he raced up beside me and grabbed my arm.

“Alright, listen, there is something I haven’t told you.”

I snorted. “Obviously.”

“But only because I thought – I thought you might be angry.”

I crossed my arms. That was never a good beginning. “Well?”

“The thing is, the dragon – he didn’t bring the mountain down. Not exactly. I mean, he did and he didn’t.”

“What does that mean? Either he did or he didn’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

“What I mean is, it’s partly his fault. And partly…partly mine.”

I don’t know why. I suppose I should have seen it coming from a mile away. Gods knew, Brynjar had been acting shifty all along. Still, the words stunned me. “You? But – how?”

“Promise you won’t incinerate me?”

“No,” I said.

He laughed, but eyed my hands nervously. “Of course you won’t.”

“What did you do, Brynjar?”

“You remember how you said you were going to tell your friend, the jarl, about my mushrooms?”

“Yes.”

“And how I said you shouldn’t.”

“Get to the point.”

He passed his tongue over his lips. “The thing is, I thought…I thought if I blocked the entrance to the cave, he might not think it was worth his time to investigate. People think they’re just a myth, you know.

“So…so I…I was the one who set off the fire stones.”

“You?” I said. It was the only thing I could say. Words didn’t quite capture the feeling of absolute astonishment and betrayal.

“I didn’t think – I never imagined…” He shook his head. “I just meant to bring down the mouth of the cave.”

“But why?”

“To stop you and the jarls from getting in there.”

“You’d rather no one have them than everyone?”

He cracked a grin at that, though it vanished in a moment. “Oh, I had another way in. One I didn’t show you.”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise me. But neither was it particularly relevant. “So it was you all along, and not the dragon? You set off the blast that reverberated through the mountain?”

“Yes. But it was the dragon’s fault that there were all those stones there, not mine. That’s why they’re called dragonstones, because the dragons must make them. Only, I didn’t realize that. Not until it was too late.

“So you see, it was me – by accident – but him too. He must have trapped the mountain, in case something like this happened.”

My heart felt numb, as if I couldn’t quite process what I’d learned on an emotional level. So I focused for now on the facts. “Why would he do that? Why would he trap his own mountain?”

“Who can fathom the schemes of wyrms?” he asked, with a dismissive shrug. “All I know is, that’s what happened.”

“And you want to kill him, for that? Because you think he might have trapped the mountain?”

He hesitated, and I caught my breath.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

Brynjar shifted in place. “When everything fell in…I caught a glimpse of him, and he of me.”

“The dragon?”

“Yes.”

“So that was true, then?”

He flashed me an annoyed look. “Of course it was true.”

“It’s not exactly as if you’re a paragon of honesty,” I reminded him. “So you saw him, and he saw you. Was that it?”

“No. No, he – his thoughts – he put them in my mind. I could hear him, but just up here.” He touched his head with a forefinger.

“And?”

“And he said…he said he was going to kill me.”

“So you want me to kill him first?”

He nodded now, vigorously. “Exactly. I thought, you being a wizard, you might strike first. If we’re lucky, we’ll find him dead already. The mountain did collapse in on him. But if we’re not, then maybe you can use some of that magic…” Again, he moved his fingers in a rapid, twinkling motion. “And finish things up.”

“You want me to murder him to protect you?”

“It’s not murder if you’re protecting someone. It’s self-defense.”

“He’s not threatening me,” I pointed out. “He’s threatening you.”

“Well, defense of another person, which is about the same thing.”

“Not when you blew up his home.”

“By accident. And we don’t know that the mountain was his home, do we?”

“Why else would he kill you for destroying it?”

He paused for a second, frowning. “Well, how was I supposed to know that? It’s not as if he hung a sign declaring the fact, is it?”

“Do you normally blow people’s homes up if they don’t have a welcome sign out front?” I demanded.

“Of course not. I just mean, I didn’t know it was a home at all.”

“And it’s not just his home. It’s Liss. You killed her.”

His face changed now. There was fear in it as before, but sorrow too. “I know. I’m sorry, Idun. I never thought – not in a million years…”

“No,” I said, my tone bitter. “You only thought of gold.”

“I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

“And yet people keep dying anyway, all around you and your pursuit of gold. Liss. The Hawk. And now, if you have your way, this poor dragon.”

“He’s coming after me,” Brynjar said, and he sounded exasperated now. “I’m only defending myself.”

“Coming after you because you shook down the mountain in your pursuit of gold.”

“Look, I made mistakes, I admit that. I don’t even necessarily want to kill the wyrm. I just don’t want to die. Is that a crime?”

I thought of the earth splitting beneath Liss’s feet, of that second of horror as she vanished from my sight. I could feel fire surging up in me, coursing down my arms and through my fingers.

“Idun,” he said, taking a step back. “Idun, what are you doing?”

I stared down at the flames encircling my hands. “You killed Liss.”

“Idun, don’t – don’t do something you’ll regret.”

Now, I met his gaze. “Who says I’ll regret it?”

He raised his palms placatingly. “I know you’re upset, but murder?”

I ignored the latter part of his question. “Upset? You killed Liss!” Fire energy surged in me, and flames flared from my hands toward the sky.

Brynjar yelped and jumped backwards, covering his head with his hands. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. Idun, it was an accident. Please.”

For a moment, the fire raged, and I could not master it. But for an even more terrifying moment, I didn’t even try. I let it rage, and flame, and roar.

Then, though, thought broke through rage, and I fought the fire.

At first, without success. But then the flames receded, and finally disappeared. Slowly, Brynjar uncovered his head. He was ashen and trembling from head to toe.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” I said.

“No. I shouldn’t have. I was a fool to lie to a mage. I’m sorry.”

“Not because I’m a mage. Not just because I’m a mage.”

“I know. Of course. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t believe him, however many times he said it. Oh, he was sorry alright. Sorry he’d provoked me. Not sorry he’d lied and manipulated.

Liss had been right about him from the start, and I’d been naive. I saw that now. My naïveté had gotten her killed.

But that was on me, not Brynjar. He was what he was, what he’d always been. Liss hadn’t been in the mountains that day because of him.

She’d been there because of me.

I turned again. “I’m going home.”

“But – the dragon.”

“That’s your problem, Brynjar. Not mine.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. I hoped I didn’t sound hopeful. I wasn’t sure if that’s what I really wanted. Maybe – probably – not. But in the moment, it seemed like it would be a kind of justice.

An old-world justice. A life for a life. Blood for blood.

I started to walk away. I could hear his footsteps pursuing.

“Please, Idun. I know I made a mistake.”

“Just one?”

“Many mistakes. But you can’t leave me to die.” He raced out in front of me and tried to grab my arm, but I swatted him away. “Please.”

“You killed Liss.”

“I know,” he said. “And if I’d known – if I’d had any idea – I wouldn’t have done it. I’d have given the mushrooms away for free. Whatever you might think of me, you have to believe that.”

“I don’t,” I said, fighting back tears. A losing battle. As I spoke, they started to spill freely down my face. “I don’t believe anything you say. I don’t want to help you. I won’t help you. I hope the dragon does kill you.”

He winced as if the words hurt him. But he nodded too. “I suppose I deserve nothing less. I’m sorry, Idun. Sorry about lying to you. Sorry about Liss. Sorry about everything. If you don’t want to help me, I won’t try to stop you.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I won’t, dammit.”

He nodded again. “I understand.”

For a long moment, we stood there. Him, forlorn and unmoving, me, furious and weeping. But for all my words, I didn’t walk past him.

Slowly, gingerly, he reached out a hand to my shoulder. Then, with a slow, awkward motion, he patted it. “It will be alright, you know.” I sobbed the harder at that, and he tried again. “If it’s any comfort, I’m sure she didn’t suffer.”

I slapped his hand away for a second time. My tears dried, replaced by raw fury. “How in the All-Father’s name can you be sure of that?”

He blinked at the question. “Well….well, it all happened so fast. I’m sure she…that is, when things collapsed, they would have…you know.”

“Killed her? You can’t even bring yourself to say it. You killed her in your pigheaded quest for gold, and you can’t even say it out loud.”

He stood there, looking miserable and awkward while I glared at him.

“Say something, dammit.”

“I’m sor–” he started.

“Not that,” I interrupted. “Something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Give me a reason not to just leave you here. Well? You must have something to say for yourself.”

“I don’t,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Damn you!” I said. “Fine, I’ll do what I can. I won’t kill the dragon. But I’ll try to reason with it.”

He stared at me. “You mean, you’re not going to leave.”

I scowled at him. “Of course I’m not going to leave. I should. But I can’t.”

“Why? Actually, ignore me. I don’t need to know the reasons.” I suspected he meant he didn’t want to give me a chance to rethink my position. He rushed on, “Only know that I am forever in your debt, Miss Idun. And if there is anything I can do –”

“Stop talking.”

“Of course.” He jumped backward, placing his fingers on his lips in a theatrical gesture.

“And don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Any of that.” I waved vaguely at him. “You’re not funny, and even if you were, I’m in no humor for…”

“Humor?”

I glared at him.

“I’m sorry. No more quips. But sometimes laughter can be quite healing –”

“One more word, and I’m going home.”

He clamped his mouth shut quickly. And though he acted the bit out quite unnecessarily, at least he did so in silence.

I turned my mind to the problem of finding a dragon with murder on his mind. A dragon buried somewhere deep under the surface.

A dragon who would likely be hungry, and thirsty, and very, very angry.

Perhaps, I thought, I could open my mind to him, communicate telepathically. Dragons were reputed to have that power, though some of the old tales reserved it only the wisest and most powerful of the ancient race.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try – and it certainly seemed safer than poking about pits. I closed my eyes and tried to open my mind to any presence in the area. Not an easy proceeding, with my emotions so heightened and my nerves so frayed.

I gritted my teeth, then unclenched my jaw. I took a deep breath, and realized I was holding it. I let it out.

“Idun.” Brynjar’s voice cut into my reverie.

“I told you I didn’t want to hear –”

He didn’t wait for me to finish my threat. Fingers grasped my arm and a strong arm shook me violently.

My eyes flew open, and I started to turn furiously on the actor, when a shape overhead arrested my movement.

Just as I turned to face the dragon – for that is what it was – Brynjar let out a piercing scream.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Stop that,” I shouted, trying to be heard over him. When that failed, I hit him. Not hard, not with the fury I reserved for the man. Just a quick, stinging slap to bring his attention back to the present. “For the gods’s sakes, shut up. You’re going to get us killed.”

The slap must not have been hard enough – or maybe, it was too hard – for Brynjar only screamed the louder.

At the same time, a voice invaded my thoughts. “Stand aside, elf child, or you shall die beside the saboteur.”

“You are the dragon,” I thought. “The dragon under the mountain.”

“Under the mountain no more. Now, stand aside. You have been warned.”

“Wait,” I called. “Please.”

“For what?”

A fourth voice rang out. Not the dragon’s, booming and magisterial. Not my own, quavering and fearful. Not Brynjar’s, high and hysterical.

A voice I’d given up for dead.

“Idun?”

Stunned, I turned about, scanning for her. “Liss? Liss, is that you?”

“Idun? Odin’s beard, she’s alive. Fornbardi, she’s alive!”

“Ah. So it is you, elf child. Well, well. And still keeping company with this robber and destroyer? How disappointing.”

I was searching in vain to find Liss. She was nowhere on the ground, and so it struck me that she must be in the air. With the dragon. But I could see no sign of her. Just the great creature, his wings spread wide as he circled overhead.

“Please,” I said. “Give me a chance to explain.”

“Listen to her, Fornbardi,” Liss’s voice urged. “Please.”

The dragon let out blast of fire, and this time I screamed alongside Brynjar. But the flames swept harmlessly overhead.

“Vexatious little mortals. Were I a wiser wyrm, I should cast you all down the mountainside.”

“Please,” Liss urged, from some unseen vantage overhead. “If Idun has something to tell you, I know it’s important.”

“It is important,” I said. “Very important.”

“I will be the judge of that,” said the dragon, beating his great wings to rise overhead. Then, slowly, he circled back around, and very slowly, came to rest on a jagged stretch of mountainside. “And I shall be the judge of all of you, if this information does not please me.”

I barely heard this last threat, because as the dragon lowered onto the mountain, the sun glinting off its scales, I saw something else.

The most beautiful sight in the world.

Liss, whole and not dead at all. Very much alive and well, and smiling at me.

The dragon crouched, and she skittered down its side. I bounded over, heedless of the danger of approaching a dragon unbidden. All I could think of was throwing myself into her arms, convincing myself that she was real.

Not some phantasm or conjuration, not a happy fantasy spun up by my overwrought senses.

But my Liss, alive and well.

She was. In a moment, we were in each other’s arms, weeping rapturous tears. She planted kisses all over my face, and I held on for dear life.

“You’re alive. You’re really alive.”

I was only vaguely aware of a third presence close at my heels. Brynjar, no longer screaming, but whimpering fearfully. Not until the dragon spoke did I take proper note of him, though.

“There. Now you are united. Yet I still wait for this news, whatever it is, before I kill this wretch.”

With a good deal of effort, I forced myself to concentrate. Liss was alive. I could get the how from her later. If we lived to enjoy a later.

As to that, it might very well depend on appeasing this dragon. If not for us, then certainly for Brynjar.

Now that Liss was restored to me, I forgot all my earlier evil wishes for the man. It had been an accident. A terrible accident, but no one had died.

Not yet, anyway.

I turned to face the dragon. “Good sir,” I said.

Liss spoke in a low tone. “Fornbardi. His name is Fornbardi.”

“Good Fornbardi,” I amended. “Great dragon of the mountain, you have delivered my fiancée to me, alive and unharmed. For that, I am ever indebted.”

I spoke formally, for that is what my university mentor taught me – though little did I ever imagine I would have the opportunity to put my dragonwhispering training to use.

“But I beg that you would allow me to impose a moment longer on your time.”

“You are well taught, Elf-Child. Your manners are above reproach, so I will spare a moment,” Fornbardi conceded, with all the grace of a king. “But I tire of moments. Do not dally.”

I bowed low. “This man you see before you –”

“This wretch,” he snarled. “This destroyer of homes. My home.”

“Indeed, he is a wretch,” I said.

Brynjar whimpered out an inarticulate question. I ignored him. Liss shot me a confused glance. I ignored her too.

“And a conman, and a liar. He is a thief, and a fugitive, and a fool. He is greedy and stupid.”

“Then I shall kill him with a clear conscience.”

“He is all the things you have heard. But what he is not, is malicious. The injury he dealt this mountain, oh great Fornbardi, he did in ignorance. In foolishness. In greed, to keep others away from a treasure he believed to be his own.

“But he did not know that the mountain was your home. Nor did he know he would destroy it. He meant only to block a single entrance, and nothing worse.”

“Then he is a fool,” Fornbardi roared.

My ears rang, and my heart hammered in my chest. But so far, he hadn’t turned any of us to ash. I took that to be a promising sign.

“Yes, he is a fool,” I said, as gravely as I could manage. “But is that enough to kill a man – even a wretched, miserable man as this one?”

Fornbardi scowled at us, his eyes drawing into catlike slits. For a long, tense time, he said nothing. Then, abruptly, he raised his head to the heavens and let out a bellowing roar. Flames shot from his mouth and danced in the sky.

Brynjar dropped to a crouch, covering his head with his hands. A rather helpful touch, I thought, as the dragon’s fury seemed to morph into contemptuous pity.

“I have heard your pleas, Idun, Elf-Child. And I see for myself what a sad and sorry creature he is. Do you pledge to me that what you have said is true? That this man destroyed my home without intending to do so?”

“I swear it, Great Fornbardi, on the honor of my house. On the honor of those who have passed before me, and those who may yet follow.”

“The word of an elf is good enough for me. Even one who carries as much human blood as you. Very well. Tell the fool to rise.”

“Get up,” I told Brynjar. And when he didn’t, I nudged him hard with my foot.

This time, he did rise, though he didn’t stand to his full height. Rather, he stood hunched over, as if expecting Fornbardi to change his mind and strike.

But I did not fear that. Dragons were mercurial and could be evil-tempered. They might be deceitful, and certainly vengeful. Yet Fornbardi had nothing to gain from lying to us. We were entirely at his mercy, should he choose to dispose of us.

“You may consider your life mortgaged on the word of this elf,” Fornbardi said. “If you have any honor at all – though this I rather doubt – you will repay your debt to her.

“Now, I give you this warning once, and once only. You may leave the mountain alive, but if ever you return, I care not who pleads on your behalf. I will destroy you, and the fire of my wrath will burn so brightly, they will find not even ash. Go now, and never disturb my sight again.”

Fornbardi took his leave without ado. He simply leaped into the air and flapped his massive wings. Great gusts of air nearly bowled us over as he rose high into the air.

Then, he was gone, vanished behind the peak.

For a long moment, no one spoke. I cannot say what Liss or Brynjar thought, but for myself, I was too busy wrapping my head around what I’d just seen – and done – to be quite capable of anything else.

Liss broke the spell by slipping her hand in mine, and saying, “How did you do that?”

I jumped and turned to her. “What?”

“That.” She gestured at the spot where Fornbardi had stood. “How did you know what to say? He was determined to kill Brynjar before.”

“I didn’t know,” I admitted.

“It was bloody brilliant,” Brynjar put in. “I thought you’d hung me out to dry, but I was wrong. You twisted that old devil right around your finger.”

I ignored him and spoke to Liss. “I figured the best defense – the only defense – was the truth.”

Brynjar frowned at that. “Well, it wasn’t all the truth.”

“Yes it was,” I said.

“Not the bit about me being a fool.”

Liss and I snorted in unison. “Especially the bit about you being a fool,” she said.

A frown started to crease his brow, but suddenly it vanished into a wide grin that crinkled his features. “If you were anyone else, I’d take proper offense to that. But on the whole, I think I earned that one.”

We didn’t waste time on explanations. We each knew enough of the salient points: Liss was alive. I was alive. Brynjar was alive – but only if he fled the mountain, never to return.

That was all we needed for the present. The rest, we hashed out as we descended. I learned of Liss’s miserable, delirious days in the underground. She learned of my confinement and belief in her death – and she learned the whole story, of Brynjar’s misguided efforts to keep the mountain’s treasure to himself.

Though we talked all the way, we moved quickly. Fornbardi had spared Brynjar – all of us – but no one felt like trying his patience.

And yet, I could not be entirely happy with this outcome. Certainly, I was overjoyed to have Liss return from the presumed dead. I was pleased too that Brynjar had escaped.

But I had stood near a dragon – a real creature of flesh and scale and bone. A dragon, in my world. I might have reached out and touched its gleaming scales.

Not that I would have. Such a thing would be quite impolite. Still, I’d been there, so near. And now he was gone, perhaps forever. Certainly, he’d indicated no interest in mingling with mortals. Why else would he cloister himself away from the world, in the heart of the mountain?

No. He had gone, probably for good. Any conversation we’d had had been squandered on saving Brynjar’s life.

An unjust thought, perhaps. Still, I thought with a pang about what wonders such an ancient creature might have shared, such knowledge and experience as he must have.

Now, with the mountain destroyed, he would probably find some other abode, somewhere else in the world. Or he might leave this world altogether, as the rest of dragonkind had done.

Taking his knowledge with him, forever.

Liss

Chapter Twenty-Two

Brynjar was an incredibly lucky fool. But then, I supposed, weren’t we all – incredibly lucky, and damned fools into the bargain.

Reclusive, ancient dragons, to say nothing of mysterious, legendary fungi, really were beyond the scope of a sellsword’s life. It would make a fascinating story for the university, perhaps.

But inwardly, I vowed that I would never again involve myself in the affairs of dragons. I’d gotten away with my life, and that was a record I really didn’t want to risk by repeated ventures.

All in all, I felt pretty good as we descended. It would take a bit, I supposed, to process the pure trauma of thinking Idun dead, but in the short term, the relief of finding her alive drove away the worst of it.

And really, did anything else matter beyond that? I didn’t care a fig about mushrooms or mysterious inspiration or any of that.

Idun was alive. We were all alive.

That was good enough for me.

On top of that, the day was sunny and warm, the breeze mild and cooling. The birds had begun to return to the devastated mountain. Not so many as before, but their song echoed out anyway.

Beyond us lay Østhavn and the sea, the green and blue of the fjord, and the great jarl’s hall. We had survived almost certain death to gaze upon these things once more.

To my eyes, they looked more beautiful than they had ever done.

In fact, I was admiring the beauty of the fjord when I heard hoofbeats. We’d come about halfway down from the point where Fornbardi parted ways. I could still see the city and sea beyond, but I could not make out the riders.

Not a huge surprise, as the terrain here had in parts been violently rearranged, and in others undisturbed – so that dense patches of forest remained, where a few feet over pits had opened or jagged boulders risen out of the ground. An army could conceal themselves easily enough.

Still, I drew our band up.

A lot had happened these past days, and riders might be approaching for any number of reasons. They might be Storbjørn’s men, still searching for survivors. Or Storbjørn’s men, come in search of the dragon, if he had been spotted in the city.

Or they might be bandits or fugitives, hiding here the way Brynjar had done so long ago.

I did not think it exceedingly likely, but only a fool lets unknown riders come upon them if they can help it.

“Riders approaching,” I said. “Take cover.”

Brynjar didn’t argue. I suspected he was quite familiar with hiding from all kinds of people – the law, certainly, but probably aggrieved clients too.

Idun, however, frowned. “Why? Do you expect trouble?”

“I expect nothing. I just don’t know who it is.”

She nodded and said nothing further. Together, we crouched behind a patch of brambles to wait.

The sound of voices reached us next, mingling with the sound of hooves. Tense voices, most of them male. I could not make out what they said, in part because they said very little at all. Just a quick, sharp word here and there, or a question, promptly answered. So much I gathered from the tones and pitches of their voice, but nothing more.

Then, finally, the figures drew into sight. Four dozen riders, on four dozen great steeds, with a contingent of some several dozens of footmen at their heels.

Brynjar crouched lower to the ground, and in a way, I didn’t blame him. I knew his reasons were bad. He was a rogue, and groups like this spelled trouble for men like him.

But then, they rarely boded well for anyone. This was no hunting group, no band of picnickers or revelers.

This was a war party.

Yet for all that, I saw a familiar face among the others. Light haired, light eyed, and very grim of countenance in the moment: Knut.

If he was among these men, however unhappy he looked about it, I felt confident that we would be in no immediate danger. So I stood and hailed them.

Half a dozen bows and arrows moved to me, but luckily, they held fast.

“Don’t shoot,” I said, feeling it would do no harm to reiterate the point. “We’re no threat to you.”

“Liss,” Knut said. “Gods above. You’re alive.” Then, to the men, “Lower your weapons. These are friends of mine.”

A large man with light but graying hair, so that it looked like a curious blend of silver and gold, glanced first at Knut, then back at me, and said, “Do as he says.”

The bowmen lowered their weapons.

The man said, “I am Jarl Storbjørn, and you are called Liss, yes?”

“Yes, Jarl.”

“I was told you were dead.”

“I was under the mountain for several days, I understand. Trapped in the landslide.”

“And yet you live.” It was not so much a question as a statement of fact, with – did I imagine it? – suspicious undertones.

“And yet I live.”

“You are very fortunate. Not least of all as there is a dragon upon the mountain.”

“Yes,” I said. “We encountered him.”

“And yet, you live.” Incredulity had replaced the hint of suspicion.

“He didn’t want to kill us,” Idun put in.

Still crouched behind a boulder, Brynjar snorted.

“He’s not a threat,” she insisted.

“And yet, was it not this dragon who took down the mountain?”

“No,” she and I said in unison.

At the same time, Brynjar said, “Yes. It was him.”

Storbjørn frowned. “Who is that? I see two of you, and no man.”

Slowly, Brynjar got to his feet and brushed himself off. Then, with a showy bow, he said, “Only me, your worship.”

“I’m a jarl, not a judge,” Storbjørn said, with some disdain. “What is your name?”

“I am Brynjar.”

“And what is it you do, Brynjar, besides skulking in the shadows?”

“Ah, I am but a humble entertainer. I must humbly beg your pardon, good Jarl. I did not mean to skulk. I only wished to avoid interrupting my betters.”

Storbjørn harrumphed, but seemed somewhat less contemptuous all the same. “Tell me, Brynjar the entertainer, why do you say the dragon brought down the mountain?”

“Well, uh…” He glanced nervously at us, and I scowled at him. I hoped it was sufficiently threatening. The sort of scowl that warned him if he lied, I’d tell the truth – and let the jarl know he was looking at the man responsible for taking the mountain down.

Somehow, I didn’t think Storbjørn would be quite so forgiving as Fornbardi.

Brynjar gulped, and Storbjørn said, “Don’t look at them. Answer me. How do you know it was the dragon?”

“Well, I…I suppose I don’t know. Just a guess. Probably wrong at that. What do I know, after all? I am but a thespian.”

“If you know nothing, why are you speaking?”

Brynjar bowed again. “A just question, Jarl. I shall henceforth keep my thoughts to myself.”

Storbjørn turned to Idun. “And you – are you only guessing too? Or do you have some reason for saying that this beast did not take down my mountain?”

“I am not guessing. The mountain is his home.”

“Is it?” Storbjørn’s mustache twitched in aggravation. “He, perhaps, does not know this, but you I would certainly expect to remember, Mage. This is Østhavn. Its territories are mine, and no dragon’s.”

Idun and I exchanged glances. “I believe his time here predates Østhavn by some centuries, Jarl Storbjørn,” I said. “But, he keeps to himself.”

“So you say. Yet I see a ruined mountain, and no real reason why. Except the dragon.”

“My lord,” Knut put in, “you may believe the word of these two. They are not only confidantes of mine and the heads of two universities, but they have sat at the right hand of King Geir himself.”

“The king may seek council where he chooses, as may you, Jarl Knut. But when dragons appear at my doorstep, I shall make up my own mind, thank you very much. If these two have some evidence that it was not the dragon, well then, I shall believe them. Otherwise, it is not for nothing that all was well in Østhavn until a dragon appeared.”

Idun glanced at me, a pleading look, as if I might conjure up an answer that would neither incriminate Brynjar nor lead to a clash with the dragon. But my mind was elsewhere.

A phrase the jarl had spoke captured my thoughts. Until a dragon appeared. In my mind, I picked up a train of conversation I’d had with Fornbardi, and abandoned in the caves.

We’d been discussing the blue-gilled agaric, and I’d been trying to figure out why dwarves – and even goblins, for that matter – had never discovered them. Both races delved deep underground, and so would have encountered the mushrooms if they were as plentiful as Fornbardi believed them to be.

But the fact remained that they – not dwarves, goblins, men or elves – had found them.

Until a dragon appeared.

Idun had started to speak. She seemed to be implying that someone might have accidentally lit a dragonstone on fire, and caused the reaction that brought the mountain – but an unspecified someone. “A traveler or hunter or, well, anyone really.”

“Blue-gilled agaric,” I interrupted.

Everyone looked at me. Storbjørn’s mustache twitched again. “Blue-gilled what?”

“It’s a type of mushroom. An extinct strain of mushroom, highly prized in its day for its ability to activate the mind’s dormant abilities.”

Storbjørn held up a hand. “I don’t care. What have mushrooms to do with my mountain?”

“Nothing, and everything. They’re not the reason the mountain came down, but they’re related. They’ve been extinct for years. Hundreds, or thousands, of years. Or so people thought. But they’re not extinct. They’re right here, on this mountain – in this mountain.

“And they’re here because of the dragon.”

Brynjar hissed angrily. Storbjørn blinked. Idun caught her breath.

“Dragons, they secret – odors. Vapors. Whatever the old mages used to call them. It creates dragonstones. That’s why the mountain came down, by the way. Dragonstones.”

I decided to spare Brynjar, so I brushed over the specifics with, “Somehow, one of them ignited, and because the dragon lived under the mountain for so long, there were enough to create a kind of chain of explosions.

“But it’s not just dragonstones. It’s the mushrooms. They must feed on the dragon vapors. That’s why no one has seen them in so long – because there have been no dragons in our world for ages. It’s why they went extinct when they did. Because the dragons vanished.

“And it’s why no one has found them again since. Because we haven’t had dragons back again. Not in our world.”

“All-Father’s beard,” Idun said. “I think you’re right.”

“Why do you keep focusing on this fungus?” Storbjørn demanded.

Idun started to speak, but Knut cut in, “It’s valuable, isn’t it? Very valuable.”

Storbjørn glanced at him, then at us. “Is it?”

Brynjar’s lip curled in disgust, and he flashed me a contemptuous look. An I warned you, didn’t I? look.

But I knew what he did not. Knut had sized Storbjørn up, and figured out the best appeal for the man. And he’d gambled right.

“Very valuable,” I said. “Kings have mortgaged entire kingdoms to get their hands on a little of this fungi. Men have gone to war over it.”

Storbjørn blinked again, very rapidly this time. “And you say – it is under the mountain?”

I nodded. “Fueled by the dragon vapors. If the dragon were to abandon the mountain, the toadstools would in time wither and die, as they did before.”

“I see. Yes, I see. Well, I suppose I must talk to this dragon. See what his intentions are. If he means to make peace or war, but – well, the information you give me is very helpful, young ladies. Very helpful indeed. I should not like to assume the worst of a visitor to these parts. Especially one who has such a history as you mention.

“No, I think this requires some thought before we proceed. A gentle hand.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Knut tarried with us a few minutes after the larger party departed. He wanted to know the full story. Apparently, Idun, having believed me dead and thinking the mushrooms had nothing whatever to do with our situation anyway, had been too distraught to delve into the full story of why we’d been on the mountain.

So this had been news to him as well as Jarl Storbjørn.

As to the reason the mountain had come down, he picked up on what Storbjørn missed – that we knew more than we let on.

“It wasn’t you?” he asked, with more concern than I felt necessary.

“Of course it wasn’t Idun or me,” I said.

He glanced at Brynjar, who shrugged and said, “No idea. Sorry.”

Then, he glanced back at us, more suspicious than ever. “It was an accident, Knut,” I said firmly. “And neither Idun nor I had a hand in it.”

“It’s not you two I’m worried about.”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” Idun said.

“Who says I don’t want the answer to this one?”

“Does knowing who did it change anything?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll bet Storbjørn would like to have a word with him.” He added in an ironic tone, “Whoever that might happen to be.”

“I’m sure he would,” I said. “But he doesn’t strike me as the type to take into account the accidental nature of the event, does he?”

“No,” Knut said again. “I suppose I’ll leave it be, then.”

He had news for us as well. He’d been in the city when the dragon was first spotted. In fact, he’d been asking around for news of Idun, whose overnight disappearance from a watched room had apparently left the hotel in something of a flutter.

“I went straight away to Storbjørn. He was rallying troops. I’ll give him this. He may be less reliable when it comes to dead witches and their haunted cottages, but he’s no coward in the face of dragons. He insisted on riding at the front of the party.”

“More fool him,” Brynjar muttered.

We all pretended not to hear him.

“Speaking of, I’d better get back to it. There’s nothing more you can tell me about this dragon. Fornbardi, you say his name is?”

I nodded. “He views the mountain as his own. His bark, as they say, is worse than his bite. He talks as if he does not care for people very much, but he saved my life. Healed me and brought me to the surface. And he didn’t kill Brynjar.”

“And what reason would he have for killing Brynjar?” Knut asked.

I felt my face flush. “Oh. Uh. Well, I mean, just look at him. Who wouldn’t want to hurt him?”

Brynjar grinned.

“A wily face, I’ll grant,” Knut said.

“You’re too kind, Jarl Knut.”

Knut snorted. “Right. I’d better go.”

“One more thing,” I said. “Idun talked to him…I don’t know how to describe. But like in the old stories. Very flowery and – forgive me, my dear – a little stuffy.”

She laughed. “If you’ve ever read a story of knights addressing dragons, speak as the knight did. However ‘stuffy’ you think it sounds, it will not be stuffy enough. Dragons enjoy the old ways of speech – and a good deal of flattery besides. But, don’t overdo it.”

“Oh, well. That’s clear as mud.”

“The flattery, I mean. Don’t overdo that.”

“And whatever you do,” Brynjar said, “don’t light any strange purple stones on fire.”

We all glared at him. He maintained a perfectly innocent expression, so I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or if he actually thought that might be helpful.

At this, Knut took his leave. “I am delighted beyond words to see you both alive and unharmed. With luck, I will return to you shortly in the same state.”

We waved him off as he raced up the mountainside to catch the others. Brynjar watched us and shook his head disgustedly.

“You poor fools.”

I would have been content to ignore him, but Idun asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You really think you’re friends with that jarl, don’t you? You think you know him.”

“We are friends,” Idun said.

“I was his friend long before he was jarl,” I said. “I do know him.”

Brynjar snorted. “As I say, fools one and both.”

“Says the man who brought down a mountain and almost killed himself and everyone else on it.”

“Three people,” he said. “It was only three people.”

“Oh, is that all?” I snorted.

“Three people and a dragon,” Idun corrected.

“Anyway, even if I am a fool – and I contend that one simple accident does not a fool make – it doesn’t absolve you of being fools.”

“We’re not fools,” I snapped. “You’re too damned cynical to believe that a jarl could be a decent person? Well, that’s on you. But I know Knut. And he’s one of the best people I know.”

Brynjar just laughed, which annoyed me.

So I added, “I’d trust him over a dozen of you any day of the week.”

“Well, you’re not entirely hopeless, at any rate. But it’s not a question of him versus me. Or, him versus a dozen of me. My point is, you just gave those jarls the greatest treasure humankind has ever known. And you mark my words, nothing good will come of it.”

I found I had very little to say to Brynjar after that. The man annoyed me greatly. I’d stuck out my neck to divert the jarl’s attention from him because it had been the right thing to do.

But that didn’t mean I liked him, or ever would.

In fact, I liked him less as time went on, for he decided to sing. He had an average voice and could carry a tune well enough. But he seemed to be composing verses on the fly, as most were aimed at me or Idun. And I was always a grim-faced oaf in his telling, and she a fair lady, though too trusting for her own good.

A few dealt with the dragon and the ruination of the mountain. Those verses cast himself as a benighted hero, whose actions were forced by the threats of the oaf and the lady.

Me and Idun.

Finally, I said, “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to push you the rest of the way down this damned mountain.”

A mistake, as his composition now turned to the violence and hotheadedness of ‘the oaf.’ I was about ready to push him for real by time we approached Østhavn.

But as we neared, both he and I were distracted by the clusters of anxious people. Some stood out upon the road, waiting for news. Others hunkered down in their homes, or in traveling carts. Still others looked ready to flee, with animals laden in packs and standing ready.

They peppered us with questions as we approached.

“The dragon – have you seen the dragon?”

“Did Jarl Storbjørn kill the beast?”

“What happened to the jarl?”

We told them what we could, that the dragon was no threat as far as we knew, and that Storbjørn had gone to parley with him rather than slay him.

I don’t know how many actually believed us, either that the dragon was no mindless, ravening beast, or that the jarl meant to do something other than murder. Still, we tried.

Somewhere along the way, Brynjar disappeared. He didn’t take his leave or make any indication that he meant to part company.

He was simply there one moment, and nowhere to be seen the next.

Glad as I was to be rid of him, his thief-in-the-night departure only annoyed me further. We’d saved his life, and that was the best he could do, to sneak away when our backs were turned?

I checked my pockets, just to be sure he hadn’t picked them. I was a little surprised to find that he hadn’t.

It took us some time to reach the inn. The streets teemed with people and animals, and an air of tension hung so heavily that I felt I could almost reach out and touch it.

The guards didn’t help, and there were plenty of them, marching up and down the streets, ordering people to their homes. A few took it into their heads to search carts or persons, though what they hoped to find, I couldn’t say.

Even when we reached Østhavn Inn, we did not find ready admittance. The doors had been closed and barred, and the attendant took some convincing that we were in fact who we claimed to be.

Finally, after summoning a more senior member of the staff who opened the gate to us with many apologies, we found ourselves in the resort.

With the door closed after us, the atmosphere at once changed. The tension of the city seemed to evaporate. No one peered out at us from behind half closed shutters or drawn drapes. No one stood in the street, peering anxiously at the mountain. None of the windows had been closed or the lights put out.

Here, the only sounds were those of merrymaking. Laughter and music, the rattle of dice and the cheers of players echoed out from various parts of the establishment. A well-dressed attendant came running up to us, inquiring as to our well-being.

He stopped as he saw the man who’d admitted us. “Oh, Mister Tobias, my apologies. I did not see you.”

“Not at all, Olaf. I shall leave the ladies in your capable hands. Ladies.” With a bow to us, he hurried away.

Olaf, a clean shaven, middle-aged man, launched into a breathless inquiry as to our well-being.

He hoped we had not been too badly harassed by the fools in the streets. People were acting quite senseless – quite senseless indeed. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. Yes, people said a dragon had been spotted, but he’d seen nothing, and his eyes were quite sharp, even at nine and forty.

And what if there was a dragon, he’d like to know? Had not the jarl gone to investigate, with a whole host of men? If they couldn’t handle one little dragon, well, he really didn’t know what the point of guards was.

On and on he prattled, interspersing his commentary with solicitous inquiry.

Were we sure we were quite alright? Really, we did look rather roughed up.

Would we like a hot bath? He could have the water drawn at once.

Or perhaps a good, stiff drink. Goodness knew, with how people had been acting today, a stiff drink might be exactly what the doctor ordered. If we’d forgive him using that particular turn of phrase.

After a bit, I interrupted the flow of chatter. “What I really want is food.”

“Of course. Of course! The dining room is open. Or, if you prefer, we can send it direct to your room.”

Idun answered for us, declaring we would like our food delivered to our rooms. “And a hot bath ordered.”

Olaf took our order – the house special meal, which was completely unpronounceable but seemed to involve beef and a slew of sides or courses or whatever they called food here. Then, we parted company.

We were nearly to our room when a door burst open, and a man rushed out. “William, is that you? It’s about…oh.”

I recognized him as the prince we’d met, so many days ago in queue for the Mead of Poetry, and then afterwards in the hall, ranting about his muse. Whether he recognized us or not, I couldn’t say. He seemed perplexed, but that might have been because we were not the William he’d been expecting.

“Oh,” he said again. “I thought you were someone else. My cousin, actually. Not much of an artist himself, but he’s got a good eye for it.”

“How nice for him,” I said, making no effort to sound sincere. Idun nudged me, but the prince didn’t seem to notice.

“It is. As for me – well, I’m having a…I don’t know what you call it. A crisis of confidence.” He threw his hands in the air. “I can’t tell if it’s my great masterpiece, or if it’s absolute rubbish.”

Before I could tell him that it was probably rubbish, Idun cut in. “I’m afraid I’m not much of an art critic myself.”

“I am,” I interjected.

She elbowed me again, but I ignored her.

And Prince Godfrey’s face lit up. “Are you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I was, I admit, in a peculiar, mildly malicious mood. It might have been my time underground, or the frequent brushes with death. Or maybe I was still annoyed with Brynjar. But for whatever reason, I decided I wanted to see this so-called masterpiece.

I wanted to know what the Muse did for princes who fancied themselves painters.

“Good. Excellent.” He clapped his hands, and then laid one on my shoulder, and stretched the other out in front of us. “In here. Tell me – and be honest. Brutally honest. Is it good? Or does my vanity deceive me?”

He led us into a set of rooms that looked very much like our own, though in far greater disarray. Clothes were scattered all over, half of them smeared in paint. Canvasses lay in piles, some half-finished and discarded, others slashed or otherwise defaced.

Catching the direction of my gaze, Godfrey waved a dismissive hand. “Ignore those. Those were my failures. This – this is my masterpiece. I think.”

He had guided me to an easel, upon which stood a painting of a woman. Not a pretty woman. Not at all. One aged and bent and weathered, with hard, pensive eyes and a despondent expression.

I felt my jaw sag a little. Somehow, I’d imagined Godfrey, with his ridiculous scarves and pretentious manners, to be an unskilled pretender.

And granted, I was no art critic. I could not say what made a good painting and what didn’t. But looking at this one, I felt I knew this woman, could feel her despair and anger at a merciless world that broke her down a little more every day.

“I call it, Mother Time,” he said. “Well? What do you think? Oh, if only I had more of the mead. I saw so clearly then. Tell me. Is it rubbish?”

“No,” I said. “Not rubbish at all. It’s very good.”

“Very good? Very good?!” He practically shrieked the words out, with so much dismay that I drew my eyes away from the work to survey him. “Is it really only ‘very good?’”

I blinked, realizing that – somehow – he took a verdict of very good to be an insult. “I mean, it’s excellent.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you say ‘good,’ if it’s excellent?”

“Very good,” I reminded him.

“Exactly. Not excellent. So, which is it? ‘Very good’ or ‘excellent?’”

Chapter Twenty-Four

It took me twenty-some minutes to placate the irate prince, and stop him from chucking his masterpiece onto the fire then and there. Normally, I would not have minded. Normally, I would have said that anyone fool enough to sabotage themselves in such a manner deserved what they got.

But this was unlike any painting I could recall. Even as I stepped out of the room, I cast a glance over my shoulder to get one final glimpse of the old woman’s eyes.

I thought I would never quite forget them. They were haunting and terrifying, and at the same time, plaintive and desperate.

The idea of anyone destroying it, even the painter, filled me with a dread I couldn’t countenance.

So I’d suffered through a series of apologies for my clumsy phrasing, and heaped scores of praise upon the fragile artist. Then, finally, Idun and I made our escape.

She waited until we’d put some distance between ourselves and Godfrey’s room, and then burst into laughter. “I have no idea what you were playing at, but I’m guessing you got more than you bargained for.”

“Spare me princes and their egos,” I groaned, explaining that I’d only meant to play a little trick on Godfrey.

“I told you he was good,” she reminded me.

“Hmph. Someone didn’t learn their lesson, after listening to a lecture on the difference between good and excellent.”

She laughed again. “I’ll give you that one. Still, I’m glad you stopped. Not because I wanted to hear him. But that painting…” She shook her head. “It was something else. And did you notice the ones on the ground?”

I harrumphed again. “How could I not? They were all over the place. Prince or not, the man is an absolute slob.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant, the style.”

“What? Oh, no,” I admitted.

“The work was very similar. You could tell it was the same artist. But the quality – it was like looking at the work of a master, during the height of his career, and comparing it to his early sketches.”

I glanced askew at her. For someone who knew nothing about art, she certainly had picked up a lot more than me in our short time in Godfrey’s rooms.

“It had to be the mead. The mushrooms. It took his work from – well, good to excellent.”

I groaned. “Not you too.”

We had by now reached our room, and the smell of food welcomed us as we pushed open the door. Two trays had been laid out on opposite end tables, each covered with silver lids. Underneath lay six dishes, some set with meat, others vegetables, another a sauce covered lump of unknown origin, and one bread.

The portions were predictably small, but with six to go, I figured it would do something to sate my hunger.

Idun, for her part, went for the bath instead of food. “I am vile,” she explained. “I can’t stand to smell myself, I can only imagine how I smell to you.”

The truth was, I didn’t smell her at all. Not over my own days of accumulated stink. But I was too hungry to think of anything of the kind. So I devoured my six courses while she bathed, and when they were done, rang the bell and ordered another two trays.

One for me and the other for Idun. Probably, it would be too much for her. But that was no problem. I wouldn’t let anything go to waste.

The attendant returned with our second meals just as Idun was getting dressed. I took them from him and shut the door. “Dinner’s here,” I told her. “Again.”

She poked her head out. “What?”

“I’m starving. I ordered seconds.”

She grinned at that. “Good. I’m starving too. Although, probably not as hungry as you. I ate while you were gone. At least…” She paused to think. “I’m pretty sure I ate. Vilde would have insisted – oh! We should let Vilde know we’re back, and that you’re alive.”

I nodded. She was right, of course. Vilde would be worried, and not just about us. She’d be worried about the dragon Knut had rushed off to face. “As soon as we eat.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” she said. And, wrapped in a towel, she sank down into a seat across from me and dove into her food.

It was, I have to admit, quite the view, and it quite put thoughts of dragons and near-death escapes out of mind.

I found myself thinking of how long we’d have to spend with Vilde. Not that I didn’t enjoy her company. I did. Only, I had other things on my mind now.

Getting back to our room, as soon as possible.

I made up my mind that after we delivered our good news, I could get away by pleading exhaustion. I’d tell her that I needed to get back to bathe and sleep. Which of course I would do – the bathing right away, the sleeping later on.

Of course, Idun might have other plans. Time to find out. “So I know we need to check in with Vilde,” I said, “but what do you think about…”

The door started to swing open. A noiseless movement on well-oiled hinges, but the motion caught my eye. I glanced over just in time to see Brynjar’s face poke in.

He met my gaze and flashed a smile. “Perfect.” Then, quick as lightning, he ducked inside and locked the door after him.

I stared at the vagabond, demanding, “What are you doing here?”

Idun asked, “And what happened to knocking? Although I suppose I should be glad you came in the door this time, and not the window.”

I frowned at that. “This time?”

“My dear child, you didn’t have a guard posted outside your door this time. There was no need for the window. Although I confess, I didn’t expect to find you half naked.”

I scowled at him. “Wait a minute, what’s this about a window?” I turned to Idun. “Has he been bothering you?”

“No. No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Nothing like what? Oh goodness, no. No offense, Idun. You are quite lovely, of course. But you can unclench your fists, Miss Liss. You’re not my type, either of you. Now, if I was paying that jarl friend of yours a visit in the middle of the night, we’d be having a different conversation.” He grinned cheekily.

I felt a little embarrassed for my temper, and said only, “Oh.”

“But what are you doing here?” Idun asked.

“Yes,” I put in. “Last I saw you, you were skulking off to parts unknown.” A stretch, as I hadn’t actually seen him skulk anywhere. He’d simply vanished. But the point was the same, and it made for better imagery.

“Yes, well, circumstances change.”

“Change how?”

“Have you looked outside your window?”

“No. What’s happening?”

He did not answer, though. Instead, he got to his feet and marched over to the windows. One by one, he drew back the drapes, and when he’d finished, he raised his arms with a flourish. “See for yourself.”

At first, I saw nothing out of the common. Just a city and the fjord, much the same as ever.

But in a moment, I saw what he meant. A dark shape crossing the horizon.

A dragon.

Every now and then it would spit fire, not at any structure or target, but rather just spray it through the air like a challenge.

“Is that – Fornbardi?”

“Well, I can’t imagine there’s two of the beasts,” he said. “So yes.”

“But, what about the jarl’s envoy?”

“Exactly. What about the jarl’s envoy?”

“They went to make peace,” Idun gasped.

“Well, I’d say they didn’t do a very good job of it. But I think you underestimate Storbjørn.”

“He said –”

“Yes, of course. Jarls say whatever they want. But what a jarl says and what a jarl does is quite a different matter, isn’t it? Storbjørn went up there to get his hands on those mushrooms. And my guess is, he was none too polite about it. Certainly not the kind of polite a dragon expects, anyway.”

I snorted. “Look at you: suddenly an expert on dragons. And all it took was almost getting killed by one.”

“Some of us,” he said lightly, “can learn from our mistakes. And I, you will at least do me the honor of remembering, did not know about the dragon.”

He was right, but I didn’t feel like ceding the point. “If Fornbardi’s spitting fire…what about Knut?”

He shot me a look that was less mocking and antagonistic than anything I’d seen so far. “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to return,” he said, and there was a kindly element in his voice.

“Fornbardi’s not a murderer,” I said. “He listened to us and spared your life. If he was a killer, he would have just done for you, and probably us too.”

“Perhaps. But an irate dragon is not necessarily amenable to reason, is he? Your Fornbardi had some time to cool down in the caves. A few days. That’s quite another matter than an armed delegation riding up to confront him.”

“I don’t understand,” Idun said, eyes fixed on the dragon slowly drifting by. “Why did you come to us?”

“Well…” Brynjar shrugged. “What else was I going to do? Risk the open road? Go running to the jarl’s men? For all I know, that warrant is still active – and someone might recognize me.”

“But what are we supposed to do about it?” I demanded.

“I don’t know. But I do know one of you is a mage, and the other is – not meaning offense – a hothead who knows how to handle a blade.”

I scowled at him.

“Plus, you’ve already reasoned with that damned dragon. So I figured my chances would be better with you than without you.”

“Lucky us,” I said.

Idun said, “We don’t know that Fornbardi is going to hurt anyone.”

“No. And we don’t know he’s not. So…” He shrugged. “Here I am.”

I would have had no compunction telling him to get lost. But Idun nodded and set down her plate. “First things first, I need to get dressed.”

“I’ll step into the bathroom,” he volunteered.

“Or you can step into the hall, and go back whatever way you came,” I suggested.

He seemed not to hear. Idun went on, “Then I think we need to find Fornbardi.”

“That’s easy enough,” he said. “Just look up.”

“Yes, but we need to talk to him. Find out what happened.”

Brynjar’s face lost some of its color. “You mean, you’re going to confront the dragon?”

“Not confront him. Just talk to him.”

“What did you expect us to do?” I asked. “Tuck our tails and run away?”

He shot me a poisonous look but didn’t dispute the suggestion. Which didn’t surprise me. Not even a little.

“We should check in with Vilde before we go, though. Just so she knows,” Idun went on.

“Back up. Back to the part about confronting the dragon. Need I remind you, he doesn’t exactly think well of me.”

“No one said you have to tag along,” I pointed out.

“If he didn’t hurt you earlier, I doubt he’ll hurt you now,” she said, perhaps more constructively.

“Yes, but we’re not talking about a wager at the gaming table. If you’re wrong here, I die.”

Idun nodded slowly. “Liss may be right. It might be better for you to sit this one out, Brynjar.”

He spluttered indignantly. “Take my chances on my own? No thank you.”

“Then I don’t see what other options we have. Come on. I want to get dressed.”

Brynjar disappeared into the other room, grumbling to himself about how much simpler matters would have been had we just disposed of the dragon in the first place as he’d requested. I pulled the drapes, and then Idun changed.

Not into the scratchy clothes of our first adventure up the mountain, nor her standard wizard’s robes, but into a comfortable, casual, everyday apron dress. The sort of thing I rarely saw her in, as so much of her life revolved around the university.

She looked quite lovely in it, and not for the first time, though perhaps for less noble reasons, I regretted that Jarl Storbjørn’s mission had gone belly up.

But duty called, and so I put any ideas of pleasure out of my head.

“Alright,” I said, “let’s go.”

“We need to get Brynjar first.”

“We could leave him,” I suggested.

“Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I can’t hear you,” Brynjar called. “I assume I’ll not be violating anyone’s privacy by coming out?”

“Come on,” Idun said.

“Hurry up,” I grumbled.

Five minutes later, we were in Vilde’s chambers. She listened as we explained why we’d come, and took the news as well as could be expected.

She turned very pale and clutched at a chairback to remain standing. But when she spoke, her voice did not tremble. “And Knut?”

“We don’t know yet,” Idun said. “We don’t know anything, Vilde. Not yet.”

“He may be fine,” I put in. “Fornbardi has a temper, but from what we’ve seen, he’s not vicious.”

“He is a dragon,” she said.

“That’s what I say,” Brynjar put in. “Capricious. Violent.”

Vilde blinked questioningly at him. “I’m sorry – who are you again?”

Brynjar stepped forward with a bow. “My name is Brynjar, bard and poet, at your service, my good lady.”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s with us. Kind of.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t mean that, Brynjar the bard. I meant, all dragons have tempers, don’t they? But they’re honorable too. Or at least, that is what I’ve read. I have not actually met one for myself. Not yet.”

“Exactly,” Idun said. “We will go and speak with him, if he will have words with us. We will try to learn what happened on the mountain. And with any luck, all will be well.”

Vilde nodded. “Very good. Give me a moment to fetch my cloak.”

We stared at her. “Your cloak?” Idun asked.

“I’ve had a chill all morning. But if it’s too warm for a cloak –”

“It is. But, that’s not what I meant. Are you coming with us, then?”

“Of course.” She seemed surprised by the question. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, dear lady,” Brynjar said. “Do come. The more the merrier.”

“The larger your human shield, you mean,” I muttered, just low enough that the vagabond could hear me.

He flashed a grin but didn’t deny the charge.

Idun

Chapter Twenty-Five

Vilde found a light, short cape among her belongings, after which we set out. I felt considerably relieved to have her with us. Vilde’s study of magic far exceeded my own. She had long ago finished her introductory studies, and now was a respected practitioner in her own right.

Not that I believed we would need wizardry against Fornbardi. And yet, I felt more secure in having her there all the same.

Of course, we did run a certain degree of risk that her presence might make the situation more and not less volatile. She was Knut’s wife, after all. And at the moment, Knut was missing.

Possibly dead.

If it turned out that we’d underestimated Fornbardi’s temper, or if Jarl Storbjørn or his men had attacked the dragon first, and Knut died in all of it, I did not know how Vilde would react.

But that was a bridge we’d cross when and if we reached it.

A few of the inn’s attendants eyed us warily as we passed. One even paused to inquire if Brynjar was a resident of the hotel – with the clear implication in his tone and manner that such riffraff could not actually belong here.

Brynjar bristled and Liss smirked. But Vilde kept a cool head, and a cooler tongue. “This man is a manservant of mine, and he has come with business. Urgent business. Now, if that is quite all, we will be on our way.”

These words earned a bow and a hasty retreat, and we were indeed on our way. Brynjar sputtered as we went, as much it seemed from being called a servant as anything else.

“I am many things. A liar. As Miss Liss so eloquently puts it, a conman. A thief even, when times were desperate. But a jarl’s lady’s dogsbody?”

“Would you prefer she said you’re a trespasser?” Liss demanded.

“No,” he admitted. “But that would have been more accurate at least.”

“Well, you’re not the only one who can lie.”

The two broke off their squabbling as we reached the streets. Already, even from within the resort’s walls, the sounds and feel of chaos reached us.

High voices, and many of them. Feet and hooves and wheels, stampeding and rumbling past. Fear, thick enough to cut, and anger.

So much anger.

I wondered if the presence of a dragon had been responsible for all of it. Or had Østhavn been the proverbial kettle left to boil, just near the point of boiling over, long before Fornbardi emerged?

The Hawk’s lifeless body sprang into my mind’s eye, where it had washed up on the beach. A man who had died trying to survive the city. Whose death had been marked more as an inconvenience to the resort goers than any kind of real tragedy.

No, I didn’t think Fornbardi could be blamed for the rage I felt wafting off the crowds. I suspected it had been there all along. A deep, simmering rage borne of years of scarcity and toil and life on the knife’s edge of despair, all within sight of wealth and excess and ease beyond imagining. And now, here had come a dragon to threaten even that meagerest existence.

No wonder the city felt ready to boil over.

I just hoped it would not wash us away in the scalding tide. A hope I did not feel justified by the sights outside the walls, as we stepped out into the city streets.

All around us, people fled with reckless abandon. A crushing mix of humanity, as varied as it was plentiful. Fine carriages carrying a well-dressed personage or two raced past rough carts laden with household goods and food, and they in turn overtook barefooted children with nothing but the rough clothes on their backs.

People yelled at, and shoved, and sometimes hit one another. In one alley, I saw a full on brawl unfolding.

People fell and scrambled back up. People fell and never rose again.

Little enough time had passed since Liss and I hurried through these streets, but I hardly recognized them now. Now, they looked like something out of a nightmare.

“Careful,” Liss called, pulling me back.

A second later, a large green carriage with goldleaf trim careened by at breakneck speed, so close I could have reached out and touched it.

“He could have killed us,” Brynjar gasped.

“I don’t think he would have cared,” Liss said.

Vilde waved her hands in a blur. I could feel energy emanating from her, but it shifted and transformed so rapidly I could not quite tell what she was doing. Suddenly, she closed her palms into fists.

Halfway across the block, a tremendous crunch ensued, as wood rent itself into pieces. We all turned.

All four wheels on the great carriage had broken, and at the same time, the horses somehow broke out of their harnesses. They galloped off into the crowd, untethered and free, while the carriage smashed to the ground in a cloud of dust.

A rough ride for those inside, I thought. But they’d live. And it would keep them from running anyone down.

Brynjar glanced appreciatively at Vilde. “Oh, I like her.”

“Let’s go,” Vilde said, ignoring both the comment and our astonished gazes.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Brynjar asked, as Vilde stepped into the road to push her way through the traffic.

“Wherever Fornbardi is going.”

She moved fast, weaving in and out of throngs of people. We raced to keep up, and as I went, I kept one eye to the sky overhead.

From the crowded streets, it was harder to find the dragon. But every once in a while, his great shadow would pass over, or I’d catch a glimpse of him from between distant buildings. He seemed to be moving fast and far, in wide circles.

As if searching for something.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Brynjar called, a little breathlessly, “but he doesn’t seem to be sitting still.”

When Vilde didn’t answer, he added, “And, even if we do somehow catch up to him…do we have any kind of plan for what to do after that?”

“I ask him about Knut.”

“Okay. That’s a start. And if he isn’t in a communicative mood?”

Vilde didn’t answer. She just moved a little faster.

Brynjar groaned and hastened to keep up.

I tried to listen for the dragon, to see if he might be projecting any thoughts to us. But though the crowd roared all around, I heard nothing else.

Fornbardi, I thought, sending my own thoughts out to the dragon. Can you hear me, Fornbardi?

Only silence answered.

Fornbardi, if you can hear me, we request a moment of your time. Please.

Silence again.

It is most urgent, oh lord of the mountain.

“Lord of the mountain.” Fornbardi’s words rang in my thoughts, angry and contemptuous. “That is not what the human king you sent after me said.”

I paused in my tracks. “King? What king? And I sent no one after you, Fornbardi?”

“That is not what the one who calls himself Storbjørn said.”

“Storbjørn is not a king,” I said, “but a jarl. And I did not send him after you, whatever he may say.”

“You call your jarl a liar?”

“He is not my jarl, and if he told you that I sent you after him, then yes, he is a liar.”

“Bold words, Idun. I wonder if you would say them to his face, or if you tell me one thing and this jarl another.”

“I am telling you the truth, Fornbardi.”

“Well, let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. But my inquiries and requests for clarification met with silence. Indeed, he refused to speak again, despite my repeated attempts to contact him.

By now, Liss, Vilde, and Brynjar had pulled up beside me, aware that something had happened. They’d been peppering me with questions, but only when I felt sure I would get nothing further out of Fornbardi did I answer.

“Well, the good news is, I don’t think we have to go looking for Fornbardi.”

“Oh?”

“Where is the wretched wyrm?”

“Why?”

“Because the not so good news is, I think he’s looking for us,” I said. At that precise moment a long shadow fell over us. “Or, more precisely, me.”

I’d only just finished speaking when Fornbardi dropped from the sky. He fell fast and hard like a stone dropping into a well. Then great taloned fingers were clasping around my arms, and a split second before he crushed me and himself against the ground, he beat his massive wings.

Up, up, up we went.

Liss and the others vanished from sight. I could hear her cries, and Vilde’s and Brynjar’s as well. But then they faded too, lost to the rush of wind.

Østhavn shrunk beneath me, growing smaller and smaller with each beat of the dragon’s wings. Her people grew tiny, like so many little ants milling about this way and that. The buildings seemed no bigger than children’s toys.

The earth seemed very far away indeed, and my stomach very uncomfortable.

“What are you doing, Fornbardi?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“I am assessing whether you are liar, or whether your king – jarl – is a liar.”

“And how do you mean to do that, if you do not believe what I tell you?”

To this, Fornbardi gave no answer, but went on flying. The city receded farther yet, and squirming to turn, I saw that we seemed to be headed to the dragon’s mountain. The ruined peak rose up jagged and split before us, like an old, broken tooth.

“Do not squirm,” said the dragon, aloud this time. “For if you fall, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Where are you taking me?” I demanded.

“Where do you think? To my home.”

“But why?”

“This, you know already. To see which of you lies, and which speaks true: you or the jarl.”

“Then, he is up there still?”

“Where else should he be?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. What I really wanted to know was whether he was alive or not, and the fact that we were headed up to the mountain presumably to interrogate both of us indicated he was. So I focused on the rest of the part. On Knut. “There was another with him.”

“There were many others with him.”

“Yes, but the one I mean is called Knut.”

“I do not trouble to learn the names of the insects that scurry about my home.”

“Knut is a good friend.”

“I shall remember that if I deem you to be a liar.”

Fear and aggravation warred in me. “What happened with Storbjørn? Was he – rude? Impertinent?”

A fiery blast ripped through the air before us, dissipating before we passed through. Still, the air felt very hot. “Impertinent? You have the gift of understatement, Idun. He was impertinent as a nighttime assassin is unkind. As a thief is ungenerous.

“Your jarl accused me of trespassing. Me, who has lived in this part of the world for longer than his wretched line has existed. He spoke of allowing me to remain as a gesture of goodwill, if I met his conditions.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Jarls can be very brash. But I am sure he did not mean anything by it, Fornbardi.”

“Certain. Are you indeed? How certain?”

I hesitated. Something in his tone felt very much like a trap. “Well…uh…as certain as I can be, since I wasn’t there.”

“Quite so. Tell me, did he not ‘mean anything’ by ordering his men at arms to attack me?”

“Oh no. He didn’t…”

“He did.”

“But – why?”

Fornbardi loosed another blast of flame. “Am I to read the minds of my attackers then? I can only suppose he did not care for my answer to his proposition. And I suppose you will ask, ‘What answer?’ and expect me to tell you.”

I was guilty as charged, so I thought it better to say nothing here.

“I shall not tell you at any rate, except to say that it involved the jarl and the singular version of the human mating ritual, and a recommendation that he should have better luck with that than in persuading me to allow him and his minions to overrun my mountain.”

“Oh dear,” I said.

“Well, maybe it was hasty on my part,” he said, and his tone was defensive. “But do you blame me, little human? When a man dares to ride up and make demands of me – on my own mountain, no less?”

“Of course not,” I said. “But maybe – maybe it was a misunderstanding. As dragons are accustomed to being honored, so too are jarls.”

“Not by dragons. The rat may be king among mice, but he does not expect the cat to bow.”

“Well, no. Perhaps not. But –”

“And you are a fine one to talk. Did not you just call this jarl a liar?”

“Not exactly. I said if he told you that I had sent him after you, he was a liar.”

“And I tell you that he did. Do you then call me a liar?”

Inwardly, I cursed the dragon for being so damned argumentative. Aloud, I tried to sound placating. “Of course not, Great Fornbardi. I only meant that it’s possible that something was misspoken or misheard.”

“So I am hard of hearing now?”

“Of course not,” I said again, not quite able to hide my aggravation this time. “But if there was something lost in translation, so to speak, it might be that the jarl’s point was not correctly conveyed or understood.”

“So I am not only deaf, but stupid as well. This is your best defense, mortal?”

“Of –”

“Course not,” he finished.

“Exactly,” I said, a bit huffily.

“And yet, you still cannot make your point without insulting me.”

“Or perhaps,” I said, “that demonstrates my point rather well. I am not meaning to insult you at all, great dragon of the mountains. And yet, try my best, I cause you offense, where none was intended.”

“Now that,” he said dryly, “is a novel excuse. Not that I am stupid, this time, but that you are stupid. You and your jarl.”

“I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”

“I would. And I grant, you may have something in that. Well, let us see what your jarl has to say for himself.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

He set down and I alighted on the edge of a great precipice. Only when my feet touched solid ground and I took a few steps did I understand why we’d come here.

Some twenty feet below the cliff’s edge ran a long, narrow ledge. And on this ledge were crammed Knut, Storbjørn, and the entire company.

A few of the men brandished blades at the sight of the dragon, but most made no moves at all. They were the wiser, I thought.

None of us – not me with my magic, nor them with their steel – could touch Fornbardi. And the dragon had already proved more than a little temperamental. Drawing blades could only provoke him further.

Knut, meanwhile, spotted me. “Idun? What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

A few of the men shouted warnings, urging me to flee. Storbjørn said nothing, but rather cradled one arm in the opposite hand, and stared into the abyss beneath his feet.

“There he is,” Fornbardi said to me. “Now, call him a liar, if a liar he be.”

I cleared my throat and called, “Jarl Storbjørn?”

The jarl didn’t move.

“Knut,” I tried, “is he alright?”

Knut glanced at Storbjørn and then back to me. “I think so. What’s going on, Idun?”

“It’s – complicated. Listen, I need to know. Did Storbjørn say I sent you here, after Fornbardi?”

“Something like that,” Knut confirmed.

“But it’s not true,” I protested.

“No,” Knut said. “It’s not. As I attempted to explain. You told us whose mountain it was, and begged us to use the proper address if we approached the lord of the mountain. It is not your fault, Idun, that we failed to follow these conventions.”

I shot him a grateful look. He at least seemed to understand the situation. “It’s all a misunderstanding,” I said. “I’m sure it is.”

Fornbardi snorted a plume of smoke and flame.

Knut said, “It’s not a misunderstanding, Idun. We did not follow your directions. Jarl Storbjørn – we – did not pay proper deference to the dragon of the mountain. And if we must answer for that, so be it.”

A dozen voices rose in protest all around him.

Knut turned now to the dragon. “But I would beg the great Fornbardi to consider that these men are only servants of their jarl. They follow orders, for they are loyal, but it is their lords who should answer for those orders. I am willing to accept whatever judgement is to be meted out. But I beg the noble lord of these mountains to spare the innocent.”

Fornbardi snorted again, though with less vehemence. “You overplay your hand, Jarl Knut. It is true that we dragons do appreciate flattery. But I am lord of one mountain, not the entire range.”

“Forgive me,” Knut apologized.

“Still, your manners are better than those of your peers, however insincere your words may be.

“And I do believe you, that it was not Idun who sent you here to kill me.”

I let out a breath.

“And what’s more, I believe her, that you are not to blame either. But that does not absolve Jarl Storbjørn. It was he who tried to claim dominion over my mountain, and he who ordered these vagabonds to attack me.

“What have you to say in your defense, Storbjørn?”

The jarl turned to him now, pale eyes vacant.

“The jarl has taken a grievous injury to the head,” Knut said.

“Of his own doing,” Fornbardi countered. “I struck only after he ordered a strike.”

“I do not dispute it,” Knut said. “I mean only that he is not in his right senses, and unable to answer your question. He has not spoken since you exiled us here, great Fornbardi.”

“Then perhaps I should kill him and be done. Well? What say you to that, Jarl Knut? Any pretty words in defense of your friend?”

“He is not my friend, nor have I any words – pretty or otherwise – to defend what he did. What we all did. I would only ask for mercy.”

“On what grounds? What have you – or he – done to deserve it?”

“Nothing. But would it be mercy if it was earned? Would it not then simply be justice?”

Fornbardi said nothing for a long moment, and then he emitted a deep, rumbling sound. I could not quite tell if he was angry or pleased.

Finally, he said, “You are wise among humans, Jarl Knut. Not much of a compliment, I grant, yet even a fool may stand out among other fools. Very well. I shall show your jarl mercy. I shall show you all mercy, and let you leave this place. But if ever you return without my leave, know this: no words, pretty, clever, or foul shall stay me.”

Fornbardi removed the men from the ledge. A tricky procedure, as half of them looked so panicked they might resort to an ill-guided attack as he approached.

But no one did, and in the end, all were safely removed without incident.

As to the horses, Fornbardi advised that he sent those on their way before he’d disposed of the men.

For my part, I tried to imagine the spectacle that that must have been: an entire troop of riders, tossed onto the ledge one at a time, like so many sacks of potatoes. Not a comfortable proceeding, I thought.

Certainly, a few had taken injury in the process. Some limped, and like Jarl Storbjørn, some clutched broken arms, or pressed makeshift bandages to bleeding headwounds.

But no one had died, and that was something.

We began our descent, as speedily as we could safely go. All but one of us, I should say. One of the men, a youngish lad with wide, frightened eyes, broke from the party as soon as Fornbardi placed him on solid ground. Running headlong down the mountain as fast as his legs could carry him, pursued by the dragon’s deep, rumbling laughter, he soon disappeared from sight.

But the rest of our party waited until we’d all been accounted, and then set out. Not quite as fast as the young man, but not far behind him, either.

I waited until we’d put some distance between ourselves and Fornbardi, until the trees and rises hid his great form, before I suggested we draw up for a breather. “And I can heal anyone who needs immediate attention.”

I worked as fast as I could go, and did not trouble with superficial injuries. Bruises and scrapes could wait. Broken limbs and banged heads, on the other hand, required more immediate attention.

So I focused on Storbjørn and several of the others. The jarl lost his hazy look, and began to speak. Nothing worth hearing. He was full of recrimination, for me rather than himself.

He maintained his story, that I had sent him up there to his near death. Which was certainly not how I remembered things. But when I pointed out that he’d already mustered men and ridden up half the mountain before he even met me, he only cursed me out the louder.

Knut just shook his head, so I gave up arguing and let him rant.

I supposed the jarl thought he had to save face, and blaming his ill-advised attack on me was his means of doing so. And what could I do about it?

Nothing.

Still, I reminded myself that no one had died. A jarl’s unfavorable opinion was a small price to pay for saving lives. Or so I told myself.

The rest of the crew were already pacing by time I finished, and we set out immediately. The sun hung low in the sky now, and the daylight was fading fast. After a space, I conjured a light.

A few of the men tutted or hissed in protest, but most seemed relieved to be able to see, magic or no magic.

The night grew steadily darker around us, and the lights of the city sprang up. Not as they had been even a night before, though. Now, they were few and far between, as if the people below feared to light lanterns or candles lest they bring the dragon down upon them.

We went on and on, breaking only long enough to collect our breath before starting out again.

Some few hours after we’d left Fornbardi, we had just sat down to one such break when I heard the approach of hooves and voices. I was not long left in suspense as to who might be approaching, for Liss spoke.

I didn’t hear what she said, but I recognized her voice. I’d recognize it anywhere, at any time, I thought.

Jumping to my feet, my weariness long forgotten, I called, “Liss?”

“Idun?” She sounded very far away, but I followed her voice all the same.

Behind me, Knut and the others did the same, though many grumbled that we should rest a while longer, or that we were diverging from the trail they’d used.

I didn’t care.

In a few minutes, after scrambling up and down the piles of rubble that separated us, I found Liss. And not alone. Vilde was with her, and two horses besides.

A reunion and explanations followed, between not just Liss and I but Vilde and Knut also. But these we made on the move, explaining that we were on our way down the mountain as fast as possible.

Seeing that we were unharmed, neither woman objected. Indeed, the only objections came from the party, who had only just settled in for a rest when I’d set them on the move again.

Liss and Vilde wanted to know what had happened to us first of all, so we obliged with that information. Then, we got their story from them.

They’d tracked my progress to the mountain, and saw in turn that both Fornbardi and I seemed to have vanished. So they’d wasted no time in finding horses and coming in search of us.

When I inquired about Brynjar, Liss snorted. “Oh, that rat disappeared as soon as he realized we were heading back here. Melted into the crowd. He’s probably halfway to the capital now.”

“Fornbardi did warn him never to approach the mountain again,” I reminded her.

“As if he needed a reason to run.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It wasn’t until we were safely off the mountain and away from harm that I really began to appreciate how much events of the past few days had altered matters in Østhavn.

I’d been preoccupied with the mushrooms, and what the reemergence of blue-gilled agaric might do the world of medicine and alchemy, of art and science.

But what were toadstools compared to dragons?

Or, a single dragon, in the case of Fornbardi. Either way, one dragon or many, it seemed more or less the same. It meant a world with dragons, present and active. A world that mankind had not known in more centuries than I could rightly guess.

A world of myth and legend, come to life.

I desperately wished Aage, head of my university and my mentor and teacher, had come with us. He would know what to do.

His was one of the few universities that still taught dragon protocols. More modern schools of thought had consigned such classes to the dustbin, dismissing half as myth, and the rest as useless. Certainly we students had laughed up our sleeves at the idea.

And yet, would I be alive now if Aage had not taught us the proper address for dragons? Would I be alive if I had not known how much dragons appreciated compliments?

Maybe. But I thought not.

I thought I might well have ended like the jarl of Østhavn – or worse.

So what happened now, now that Fornbardi had emerged from his mountain? Now that all the world nearabout, and as soon as news could fly, all the world in fact, knew that he returned to our world?

What would King Geir say, and do?

What I knew of the king led me to believe he would act prudently, and not rashly. He’d handled the goblin crisis well, after all.

But of course, dragons and goblins were not the same thing at all.

Aage would know what to do. Aage would keep a cool head, and provide wise and measured council. I knew that.

Yet Aage was many days’ journey away. So was the king, for that matter.

And the dragon was right here. On our doorstep.

I felt deep in the marrow of my bones a sense of unease. A sense of brewing danger. I could not define the reason nor pinpoint any one person as the source of unease.

Person, or dragon, for I didn’t think Fornbardi would break his pledge and sweep down from on high to kill us after all.

And still, the feeling of doom continued to grow as we approached the city.

It did not improve when, as we reached the foothills, Knut said, “I am, as you know, Jarl Storbjørn, at your disposal. If I may make a suggestion: I believe, following the events of this afternoon and evening, we should confer.”

“Confer?”

“There is much to discuss.”

“Is there? Like what?”

“Well, the king must be informed, of course.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Yes, you’re quite right, Jarl Knut. But – not tonight. I am weary, and despite your healer friend’s skill, my head feels…” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Well, not entirely whole.”

“If there is anything I can do,” Vilde offered, “I am happy to lend my services, Jarl Storbjørn.”

“What? Oh. I forget that you are a mage, Lady Vilde. Well, that is of course very generous of you. But no. I think sleep is what I need. Sleep, and a long drink of mead.” He cast a long look over our party, and then smiled. “I think we’ve all earned that, after what we’ve survived.”

A few of the men agreed with rounds of, “Hear, hear,” or, “Listen to the jarl!”

“And you, Idun – I fear I may have spoken in haste. I owe you an apology. You are not to blame for what happened on the mountain. I was – injudicious in my approach, and that is unfortunate. But no one died, and that’s better than we might have hoped.”

The apology surprised me, but I stammered out, “Oh. Well, uh, that’s quite alright, Jarl Storbjørn.”

He smiled at me, and then turned to Knut, clapping him on the back. “No. Leave it for tonight, Jarl Knut. We shall meet tomorrow and send out news to whoever needs it. But for tonight, let us sleep, so that we rise with fresh minds and clear heads.”

This turn of events seemed so contrary to my forebodings of doom that it unsettled me in turn. It was, of course, a best-case scenario. Storbjørn had admitted his own culpability in the conflict, and accepted defeat. There would be no bloodshed, no conflict or death.

I studied Storbjørn from under my eyelashes as we finished our journey, careful that he would not catch me watching him. I suppose I hoped to see some evidence of duplicity.

Or, rather expected, as I didn’t want to see it, but fully expected it anyway.

Yet nothing in his manner or expression justified my expectation. He was quiet sometimes and pensive, but considering how close to death we’d come, the reaction seemed appropriate. He talked now and then to some of his men, or to Jarl Knut.

History had been made tonight, he said. “Perhaps not in the most prudent of ways, not to begin with anyway. And there will be challenges. Still, this will be the day that marks the beginning of a coexistence between man and beast.”

And though I watched for any hint of duplicity, I saw none.

What was I so worried about? I didn’t know, and the longer I watched, the more foolish I felt. Then we entered the city, and I forgot anything except staying on my feet.

The crowds were thicker now, and more frenzied. Not even the sight of their jarl entirely quietened them. But Storbjørn did his best to reassure them anyway.

So far, I’d seen little to impress me. The jarl had been unwise, quick to shift blame to save his own hide. He’d apologized eventually, but eventually might have easily gotten us killed in the moment. But here, I got a glimpse of the man’s strengths.

Regardless of what we’d been through or how he felt, he showed no signs of fatigue or fear now. He spoke with a quiet confidence when addressing those nearest him, and just as easily, his voice projected halfway across the block when necessary.

“We have conferred with the beast, and as you see, returned alive to tell the tale,” he answered one frantic old lady. “I promise you, Mother, you have nothing to fear.”

And to a man who wanted to know if the dragon had been killed, he said, “The beast has agreed to our terms. He will cause no harm, and we have in turn agreed to avoid the mountain.”

This provoked a flurry of worried questions, and he listened and answered in turns, though his answers provided mainly vague reassurances rather than actual information. And even that was skewed to represent the jarl in the most favorable light.

“For now, we have granted him the use of the mountain. For how long, remains to be seen.”

“No, he has not harmed anyone, nor shall he.”

“Indeed, you are quite right: there is nothing whatever to fear. If the creature meant to attack the city, he would have done so already.”

“He has stood face to face with me, and I promise you this: he knows better than to attack a people protected by Jarl Storbjørn.”

On and on it went. And as detached from the reality I’d witnessed as it was, it did the trick. Fear turned to curiosity and even excitement. Questions moved from what the jarl meant to do to keep the city safe to what the dragon looked like and where he’d come from, and if more would follow.

It was here that Knut took his leave, and we followed.

Only after we were well away from Storbjørn and his men did we get the full story. The jarl had indeed greeted Fornbardi with the air of one performing a great service, and offered to let him stay on the mountain if he chose, so long as agreements might be reached.

Fornbardi responded with the indignation and wroth of a dragon truly affronted, and things eventually escalated as the dragon had recounted – into insults and finally violence.

Fornbardi had quickly vanquished his attackers, knocking their weapons aside and breathing fire so near he singed the eyebrows of a few. It was then that Storbjørn blamed me for his assault, pleading for mercy for himself.

He had, he said, acted on bad information.

All of my former misgivings returned as I listened to Knut’s story. However skillfully Storbjørn had worked the crowd from fear to excitement, he was still the sort of man who send a dragon after me rather than face the consequences of his own actions.

I didn’t like him, and I didn’t trust him.

The rest I knew already: the dragon had tossed the soldiers onto a ledge and left them there while he went in search of me. Storbjørn had hit his head and broken his arm in the fall, and that injury had been the source of his confusion earlier.

For that at least I was grateful, as it meant he’d had no chance to further sabotage our tenuous peace with the dragon.

What he would do tomorrow, I could only guess. But for tonight, well, we were safe.

Knut and Vilde went to their own suite when we reached the inn, and Liss and I to ours. We were too tired for anything but a quick freshening up, so, slightly less dusty than before, we tumbled into bed. My eyelids felt heavy, and I started to drift off as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Liss took a little longer. “I can’t wait until we leave this place,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep. “If I never get involved in the affairs of dragons again, I’ll be that much happier.”

I don’t know what I said in response. I started to say something, but before I finished, I was fast asleep.

The next thing I was aware of was the sound of splintering wood, and angry, raised voices.

“It’s this one. Quick. Quick, damn your eyes.”

Light flooded into the room as wood clattered to the ground. Dark figures loomed up in the doorway, and for a split second, I lay too stunned to do anything but blink at the sight.

“The witch: there she is,” someone called.

“Quick. Before she can bewitch you.”

Liss sprang to her feet and darted for her sword, and some semblance of sense returned to me. I pushed up. By now, burly, dark clad figures had already swarmed into the room and were circling the bed.

Grabbing her blade, Liss spun around. But not fast enough to avoid the heavy paw of a big bear of man, aimed straight at her head.

“Liss,” I screamed, a fireball surging effortlessly, thoughtlessly, from my hands. It flew across the distance, striking the bear just as he hit her. Flames seared his back, and he crumpled forward. She staggered, but still managed to get in a blow at one of the black-clad figures pressing in toward the bed.

Preoccupied by Liss’s situation as I was, I barely noticed the men around me. Only when someone grabbed my wrist did I turn. Fire flared up my arm.

And then, abruptly, stopped.

Someone else grabbed my other wrist, and I felt something cold and hard snap in place. The fire disappeared there too, as suddenly as the first arm.

“Got her,” a man called.

“The witch is cuffed,” said another. “Get the sellsword.”

“Idun,” Liss called, pivoting back toward me. In the split-second it took her to turn, one of the men clobbered her upside the head.

Liss went down, and though I screamed and flailed and tried as hard as I could to conjure up spells to come to her aid, I could do nothing. Our attackers were stronger than me, and whatever they’d clasped on my wrists bound my magic, containing it.

Liss

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I woke up in the dark, sore all over and with the mother of all headaches. It wasn’t the first time in my life that had happened, and so I assumed as had been the case before that I’d been out drinking the night before.

A little too much and a little too long.

But as my head cleared, no memories of a festive evening came to mind. On the contrary, I remembered a tense city, and a dragon, and…

The men.

I sat bolt upright, my senses swimming as I moved. I didn’t care. The last thing I remembered was men breaking into our room, and trying to haul Idun away. I needed to know that she was safe.

I tried to conjure a light, but any hint of magical energy seemed far away, and well out of reach.

“Idun?”

“I’m here, Liss. How are you feeling? How’s your head?”

I tried to move toward her, but some powerful force restrained me. Something cold and metal, holding my feet fast. “I’m fine,” I lied. My head felt like an army of ants were banging a thousand ant-sized anvils inside it. But she didn’t need to know that. “What about you?”

“I’m not hurt,” she said.

“Neither are we,” came another voice. A familiar voice, though preoccupied with Idun as I was, it took a moment to place it. “Not bad, anyway.”

“Knut?”

“And me,” Vilde said. “And he is hurt. It took five of them to take him down.”

“What the blazes is going on?” I demanded. “Where are we? And who is ‘them?’”

“In a dungeon, in the jarl’s longhouse,” Knut said. “And they were Storbjørn’s men. Damned fools.”

“In a dungeon?” I knew I’d heard him right, but for the life of me, I couldn’t make myself understand. “Why?”

“I’m not sure. I think he – Storbjørn, that is – wants to make sure we can’t interfere with whatever he’s got planned.”

“He’s going to break his word to Fornbardi,” Idun said.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “Not if you mean, do I have proof. But I was afraid of something like this from the beginning. Not this specifically, but that someone would do something to jeopardize the peace.”

“You mean…” I tugged at the shackles. “He clapped us in irons so we couldn’t stop him from picking a fight he can’t win?”

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” Knut said.

“He must have a plan,” Vilde put in. “He’s probably amassing an army to take the mountain by force.”

“Or summoning spellweavers,” Idun said.

“And how would we stop him from raising an army?” I asked. “Or spellweavers, for that matter.”

“I don’t think it’s so much what we’d do as who we’d tell. He doesn’t want Geir to know,” Knut said. “He’s making sure we can’t get word to him until it’s too late. Until the dragon is dead.”

“Or captive,” Idun put in.

“Captive?” Trying to contain a live dragon sounded even more dangerous than attempting to kill one.

“He wants the mushrooms,” she reminded me. “No dragon, no mushrooms.”

It was a good point, but it didn’t lessen the difficulty of taking Fornbardi alive. “Still, who can capture a dragon?”

“Not me,” she admitted.

“Not an army,” I agreed.

“That’s why I don’t think he’s raising an army. I think he’s calling wizards. Better wizards than me.”

“Why wizards?” Knut asked.

“Because only wizards can contain dragon fire and magic,” Vilde answered.

“Could you?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never thought I’d have to try. I still hope I won’t. If it comes to that, it will mean a good deal of violence, and probably bloodshed.”

“If Storbjørn attacks Fornbardi a second time,” Knut said gravely, “I don’t know if there’ll be anything but violence that can stop him.”

“And will we be right to interfere at all, if that’s the case?” Vilde asked. “It’s not as if Fornbardi asked for this fight.”

“You can’t leave him to massacre an entire city,” I protested. “Whatever Storbjørn did or does, those people aren’t to blame.”

“No,” she agreed. “But will Fornbardi see it that way?”

“Which is why we need to get out of here, before it gets to that.” Knut grunted, and I heard metal clink and clang.

“It’s no good,” Vilde said. “They made sure you were tied strongest of all, dearheart.”

“What about magic?” I asked. “Can’t one of you melt these chains? Or at least conjure a light, so we can see what we’re doing?”

“They put us in enchanted shackles,” Idun explained. “Vilde and me. We can’t cast spells or summon magic at all. Not until we’re out of these.”

I couldn’t see her in the darkness, but I could hear metal clinking. I supposed she must have raised her arms and jingled the hexed bonds.

“What about you?” she asked. “Can you cast a light spell? You know, like we practiced. Slow and easy. Focus on the energy.”

I tried again, and again, came nowhere close. The magic simply didn’t answer. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” I said. “Maybe it’s because I hit my head. But I can’t find any magic energy.”

“It’s not you,” Vilde said. “These shackles are all imbued with magic dampening powers. They weren’t taking any chances, for any of us.”

I could have given up at that, and accepted that there was nothing to be done. But giving up didn’t come easily to me. So for the next few hours, I tugged and strained and checked every joint and fastener I could reach, over and over.

But to no avail, except wearying myself that much faster. The bonds would not budge at all, much less break.

Even worse, the jarl’s men had chained Idun and I near one another, but not so near that even our fingers could meet. When I stretched to the farthest reach of my shackles and she to hers, I could do no more than feel the heat radiating from her body. A stark contrast to the chill dungeon air.

But I could not touch her.

Nor were the accommodations hospitable in any other way. Cold, damp stone, dank straw, and an odor of urine and sweat surrounded us.

Time rolled on and on. Hours, I was certain. No one came in to check on us. No one lit a lantern or opened a window, if there were windows in this place.

As cold and close as the air felt, we might have been a mile underground for all I knew.

I went back to looking for weak spots in my chains. Not because I had any real hope that I might find one, but because I had to do – something. I had to feel like I was trying at least.

Otherwise, if I just gave in and accepted my lot, I feared I would go mad in the darkness.

Idun occupied herself – and me – by talking. I suppose she sensed my tenseness and thought to distract me. It didn’t work. I still pulled and prodded and tried to find a way out I knew wouldn’t come. But I could have kissed her for the effort anyway.

The sound of her voice, in this cold, inhospitable place went some way to calming my spirit, and focusing me on the task I’d given myself.

How long we spent in that windowless hole, I didn’t know. But at last, the sound of bolts grinding over stone alerted us to a presence nearby. Then heavy hinges creaked and groaned, and a light sprang up, dazzling my eyes.

Bathed in the orange glow of a lantern, a guardsman stepped in, and then, aside. Behind him came Jarl Storbjørn. His silver hair gleamed in the flickering light.

He was not so crass as to grin outright. But the gleam in his eyes was one of pure triumph, the subtle set to his mouth one of satisfaction.

“Ah,” he said, “so here you are. You must forgive me not checking in on you earlier. I have been rather preoccupied with arrangements. Making history – it’s not for the faint of heart.” He chuckled.

No one else laughed.

“Now, there’s no cause to look so glum. The accommodations are not quite equal to Østhavn Inn, I’ll grant you. But they are temporary. You will be free in a few days.”

“Detaining us at all is a crime,” Knut said. “We have broken no laws.”

I saw as I gazed at him now what Vilde had meant earlier. He was quite bruised and battered, and unlike the rest of us, had two separate sets of chains on his feet.

“Ah. But can I be sure about that? You see, my esteemed guest, you and your friend there…” He gestured to the shadowy figure that I knew must be Idun. “Seem to be on very good terms with an enemy of my jarldom.

“Now, I am a fair man. I do not presume you guilty by association. But I would be a fool indeed if I allowed two dangerous sorceresses, a jarl who may or may not be acting as an enemy agent, and a rather ill-tempered swordswoman to run roughshod over my plans, would I?”

“That’s your explanation, is it?” Vilde asked. “That you think we’re in league with the dragon to do All-Father knows what? Then why not bring us to trial? Take it to the king, instead of kidnapping us in the dark of night.”

Storbjørn held up a hand, palm outward. “My dear lady, I said nothing of the kind. I am not accusing you. If I had evidence of wrongdoing, certainly I should bring it to King Geir. But I have no evidence, and our king is a very busy man. Certainly, far too busy to be troubled with my mere suspicions.”

“So you’ll kidnap us instead?” Knut asked. “Steal one of the king’s jarls, his wife, his entourage, and throw them in a dungeon?”

“I kidnapped no one,” Storbjørn said. “I am merely detaining you, Jarl Knut. Detaining you for a short period of time, while I establish whether you and your entourage are a threat to Østhavn.

“Østhavn, which it is above all things my sacred duty to protect. In service of the king and my people.”

“You can save your lies for your trial. Maybe the king will believe you, but we certainly do not. So what are you really up to, Storbjørn?” I asked.

Storbjørn turned in my direction, and his mouth twitched. “Ah. The sellsword. Really, Jarl Knut, you should teach your dog better manners. She did a number on several of my soldiers. If not for my particular orders, I do not think she would have made it alive out of the inn.”

“You are benevolence itself not to murder your kidnapping victims,” Knut said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Storbjørn tutted. “Well, I can see where she gets her manners, or lack thereof. She follows the example of her lord. Well, Jarl Knut, be as stubborn as you choose. I have tried at least.”

“Tried what?” Vilde demanded.

“To put your mind at ease. If you have done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to fear.”

“I feel better already,” I said.

“Come, Heinrich,” Storbjørn said, signaling the guardsman with the lantern. “I don’t think there is anything more we can do here.”

The pair turned for the door, Storbjørn in the lead and Heinrich with the lantern behind him.

“If you’re planning to attack Fornbardi, Jarl Storbjørn, you must know that you cannot prevail,” Idun called after him. “All you’ll do is lead your men to death, and maybe the city with them.”

Storbjørn paused to glance over his shoulder, and this time he indulged the smugness he’d only so far allowed the briefest emergence. A wide, satisfied smile played out across his features.

“And simple soldiers could never take a university-trained mistress of magic, nor for that matter, an apprentice. Yet here we are. You will find, Idun, things are rarely as unchangeable as conventional wisdom tells us. One’s limits, more often than not, are merely the boundaries of what one is willing to dare.”

“And are you willing to risk all of Østhavn in the process? Maybe all of the north? Is it worth human lives, whatever it is you’re daring?”

He didn’t answer. He just turned, and disappeared into the hallway beyond, calling over his shoulder, “There’s a bucket in the corner to relieve yourselves. You may need to pass it from person to person as needed. Oh, and food is at nine and nine. Nice and easy to remember. In the meantime, well, I’d say don’t go anywhere, but…” He shrugged.

Then the door slammed shut, and blackness consumed our world anew.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The door creaked open twice more that day, once to admit an old woman, stooped with age, and later a middle-aged man who smelled like death.

They each carried a pot of slop, which they spooned into bowls and left for us. Somehow, dinner looked worse than the pale, lumpy, gruel the old woman brought.

Chunks of pink, undercooked meat of suspect origin floated among gooey lumps of what might have been dumplings.

Might have been. They might also have been snots.

I didn’t partake of either meal.

By the second day, hunger overcame fastidiousness. So I tried the morning gruel. It tasted like nothing much, which was better than I’d expected.

As before, I skipped dinner.

On the third day, the door creaked open right on schedule, and a wizened figure with a hunched back and a pronounced limp hobbled in. She carried a lantern in one hand, and a bucket of slop in the other. She’d slung a kind of pack over her chest, both of which drooped below to her waist. The pack was the same she’d carried the previous two times, holding whatever bowls and utensils might be required for eating.

But the woman was not the same.

She bore only a fleeting resemblance to the silent figure who’d fed us so far, and she scanned us with a good deal more interest.

Brushing a matted lock from her face, she spoke in a high, cracking voice. “Ahoy! Rise and shine, ne’er-do-wells. It’s time for your feeding. The best slop in any dungeon north of the border. Guaranteed to contain no more than twenty percent rat per bowl.”

I blinked into the light at the crone. She looked not quite lifelike, though she was standing there as real as anything. Like a figure from childhood stories, come to life.

Warts and scars speckled her face and arms, but it was the leering look that made her repulsive. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and this little act of reveling in our misfortune, tremendously.

When no one responded, she hobbled deeper into the room. “Well? Nothing to say? They didn’t take out your tongues already, did they?” She cackled at this.

No one joined in.

“We’re not hungry,” said Knut.

“Not hungry? Not hungry? Is that all you’ve got to say to me? Don’t you recognize me?”

“Should I?”

She cackled again, setting down the pail and lantern and straightening to a height of some six feet or thereabouts. The hunched back slid upward and came to rest on her shoulders. Then, she pulled off her matted hair to reveal a wig cap, and started to peel off warts, one after another.

I stared at the crone. Somehow, the more warts and matted hair that came off, the more she did resemble someone I knew. But I couldn’t place her.

“Brynjar!” Idun gasped.

The old woman cackled, and I stared, mouth agape. Sure enough, as I watched, she started to take the thespian’s form. The actor’s putty peeled away, removing the bulbous tip of her red nose to reveal his straight, narrow one. The warts dropped here and there, revealing smooth skin underneath.

And the more he dropped, the more the lines and chasms on the old woman’s face began to look like nothing more than paint, until the old woman was gone altogether, and all that remained was Brynjar looking slightly more ridiculous than usual.

“At your service, Miss Idun,” he said with a very showy bow.

“You know this man?” Knut asked.

“We do,” Vilde said.

“What are you doing here?” Idun demanded.

“What do you think? I’ve come to get you out.”

This produced a flurry of questions, which he shushed. “I’ve taken care of the guards along this route, but for Odin’s sake, let’s not bring the whole prison down on us.”

“How did you get here at all?” Knut asked. “Surely, that costume did not fool them.”

“My good jarl, you may not know this, but you may refer to your lady for confirmation: you are looking at one of the greatest actors in the land, if I do say so myself. A consummate professional. I simply impersonated the old woman who feeds the prisoners.”

“And that worked?” I asked incredulously. “You look nothing like her.”

He flashed a grin. “Well, it worked well enough. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“What about the woman? The real one.”

He waved a hand through the air to dismiss the concern. “Oh, she’s fine. A little nap is all. She’ll be right as rain when she comes to.”

“You didn’t hit her or anything?” Idun asked.

“Of course not. Did I not say I was a consummate professional? I used a little potion I picked up awhile back. Always knew it would come in handy, though little did I guess it would be to break into a dungeon. Still, here we are. Now, unless here you would like to remain, can we proceed?”

He got no further argument from us.

How exactly he got his hands on the keys to our restraints, I didn’t know. The key to the door made sense. If he raided the prison matron’s living quarters, he would have helped himself to it. But she would not have the keys to shackles and irons.

He didn’t offer an explanation, and I didn’t press. Getting out was the main thing.

In a minute, he had us all unshackled, and while I stretched my cramped muscles and rubbed my bruises, he handed Idun a separate key.

“This, I believe, should handle those little nasties.” He tapped the iron bonds on her wrists, the enchanted baubles that constrained her magic.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded, curiosity finally overcoming prudence.

“From a very obliging captain of the guard. I believe you met him earlier.” He gestured to his eye. “Left a rather noticeable impression.”

“Good,” I said.

“I’m assuming he didn’t just hand over the keys,” Knut said.

Brynjar grinned. “He was not that obliging, no. But I am very persuasive when I need to be.”

“Did you kill him?” I asked.

“Would you be angry if I did?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. But no, I didn’t kill him. Unlike the crone of the kitchens, however, he will have a very nasty headache when he wakes.”

“We’d better move,” Knut said. “For all we know, he could already be awake.”

“Quite possibly. And you’re right, we do need to move. But it’s not as urgent as you imagine, Jarl. I figured our friend the captain, and his stooges too, would benefit from a – what do they call it? ‘Taste of their own medicine.’ He is shackled and gagged, and I don’t think anyone will find him until the rotation of the guard.”

I was genuinely impressed. “That’s very resourceful.”

“Is that a compliment, from Liss no less? Well, well. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Idun, meanwhile, had fitted the key to the first shackle. It opened, and the bonds fell away with a loud clang.

Brynjar winced, and she apologized. “Sorry.”

“Hurry,” Vilde urged.

She did, removing the next as hastily as she could manage, and catching it before it dropped this time.

Vilde went next, and in a moment both women were free. Fire flared up Idun’s arms, and a cool blue glow emanated from Vilde’s hands.

“Right. Let’s go,” Brynjar ordered.

We followed him out into the hall, where he shut the door after us. He was still in his rather ridiculous getup, sans wig and warts. He’d left the food too, and the satchel of utensils. But his padded chest swung like a pendulum as he hustled, and the tattered dress flared out around him.

He led us down a stone passage, with windowless doors on either side.

“Are there people in these cells?” Vilde asked. “Should we help them?”

“Not here,” he said. “These are the quarters they save for special guests, and right now, you’re the only occupants. At least, if you don’t count this cell.”

He scampered up to a door, and knocked thrice. Then, grinning to himself, he scampered back to our party.

“Who is in there?”

“Only your friend, the captain of the guard, and a few of his idiots. The ones who gave me trouble.”

“Trouble? I thought you said you got in without problems.”

“Trouble and problems aren’t the same thing, are they? Trouble is when problems can’t be easily handled. I handled my problems.” He gestured again to the door. “They’re all resting uncomfortably in there.”

“So they didn’t buy your outfit?” I asked. “I was wondering how you fooled them.”

“I’ll have you know, Liss, my costume is actually quite lifelike. I modeled it after the old woman herself. Although, I think I may have overdone it with the warts.”

“You overdid it with the breasts,” I scoffed.

He grinned, patting the oversized masses hanging from his shoulders. They started to swing again. “Well, I figured if I was going to give myself a pair, I might as well have fun with it.”

Knut coughed discreetly. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Mr. Brynjar. But could we discuss your, uh, breasts at another time?”

“Of course. Let’s leave our friends there to nurse their injuries in peace. Come on. It’s this way.”

He led us through the dark passage to a set of stairs. Light flooded down from the floor above. Bright, steady light, in contrast to the dancing orange lantern.

“Now,” he said, voice low, “this is where things get a bit dicier. I’ve arranged a way out, but you’re not going to like it.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because – well, better if you see it for yourself.”

Without another word, he moved to the steps and proceeded until his head just poked above the landing. Here, he paused, turned in a full circle, and finally gestured us to follow.

We did, onto a wide landing. The stone was dry here, and the air not so moist. Sunlight streamed through windows set high in the wall, and voices traveled down the hall to us. Some were low and conversational, others high and merry, and still others, mournful and pleading.

“This way,” Brynjar urged, beckoning us to follow him into a chamber some ten feet down the passage.

We did, and in the gloom of the unlit room, I saw a heavy iron door against the far wall, standing about half a man’s height.

“What is that?”

“Our way out. It’s an access hatch.”

“Access to what?”

“That’s the part you’re not going to like. The city sewer system.”

Chapter Thirty

He was right. I didn’t like it. But I liked less the idea of fighting my way through a dungeon full of Storbjørn’s men.

So once he unlocked the hatch, we climbed in after him.

I expected to be struck at once by the odor of waste, but I wasn’t. The air carried a slightly unwholesome aspect, but nothing like I’d imagined.

“These are old smuggler’s tunnels,” Brynjar explained. “They were repurposed when the sewers were installed. Now some are access tunnels, and some are part of the sewer system itself.”

“Hold a minute,” Vilde said. “If we’re going to be anywhere near waste, I want everyone healed first. No open wounds in septic waste.”

It was good thinking, and we all complied. I had scrapes and torn knuckles, and Idun helped me with those before tending her own injuries. Vilde tended Knut and herself.

Brynjar, meanwhile, shifted out of the top layer of his ridiculous dress and the makeshift body suit, leaving only the petticoats. Which somehow looked more scandalous than ever.

When we were all done, we set out again with Brynjar in the lead, confident and unwavering in his directions.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Knut asked.

Brynjar glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “It may or may not be my first time traveling this way.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you don’t need the details. Suffice it say, there’s a reason they keep that hatch locked from the inside. And it’s not to keep prisoners in. As far as I know, you’re the first prisoners to actually escape Storbjørn’s cells. Congratulations on that, by the way.”

I ignored the latter. “You mean – you broke in to Storbjørn’s longhouse before?” I asked, incredulously. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t always been an actor.”

“You were what? A thief?”

“If you’re asking me to admit to a crime in the presence of a jarl, Liss, you are going to be disappointed.”

“You already admitted to a crime,” Knut said dryly. “Trespassing is a crime.”

“So is breaking people out of a dungeon,” Brynjar observed.

“Yes. As is kidnapping people and throwing them into dungeons. So I’m not particularly concerned about what you may or may not have done to Storbjørn.”

“That’s very kind of you, Jarl Knut. Still, I think I’ll exercise a little caution.”

“Fine by me. As long as you know the way out.”

“Like the back of my hand.”

He was right about that, too.

The smuggler’s tunnels were a blend of natural formations and hand-dug passages. All were spacious enough to pass easily, which made sense. If smugglers used them, they’d need room to move their cargo, and as quickly as possible at that.

And despite the fact that they branched and crisscrossed this way and that, Brynjar didn’t hesitate. He went on following the map in his head.

Or maybe, he just followed his nose. For the deeper we went, the stronger the smell became. At first, it was just that vaguely malodorous stink I’d first noticed. Then, it grew stronger and stronger, and the reek of human waste became unmistakable.

We started to groan and grumble. Brynjar just shrugged and reminded us, “Told you, you wouldn’t like it.” Or, “Well, we could always go back. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind putting you up one of those fancy cells again.”

And occasionally, he’d remind us of the stink of our cell, with the single bucket for relieving ourselves. “Let’s not pretend you were living it up in there.”

He had a point, but it didn’t lessen the stink here. By time we reached the sewers, we were all covering our mouths and noses with something.

Even Brynjar, who had apparently some experience with this mode of traveling the city, wrapped a kerchief around his nose.

“The good news is that it’s not too far now that we’ve gotten here,” he called. “The bad news –”

“Oh great. More bad news,” I said.

“Is that we need to kill the light.”

“What?”

“There’s vents above. If people see light, they’ll know something’s up, and they’ll alert the guard.”

“How are we going to get around?”

“Carefully. The vents let in a little light. Oh, and that’s another thing. No more talking.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they’ll hear you up there. And walk softly, so they don’t hear footsteps.”

“Anything else?”

“I think that covers it.” He led us into a wide stone tunnel with a deep trench in the center. This trench was where the human waste made its slow, vile journey to – well, I wasn’t sure where. I hoped it wasn’t the sea. Not after all the swimming we’d done there.

Still, certain telltale signs remained that the waste didn’t always stay in its trench. Whether it was overuse or floods, I could only guess. But a slick, odiferous slime covered the tunnel floor and some good eight inches of the walls. Now and then, we had to step over clumps and lumps which I refused to identify.

I’d been grateful to Brynjar for getting us out of our shackles. Now, I wondered if I should have just stayed and waited it out after all.

Not a serious consideration, but fighting the constant urge to throw up, it didn’t seem like the worst plan, either.

Consequently, the general absence of light proved almost a blessing. We saw the world in hues of gray, with only narrow bars of light splitting the darkness. Which meant we saw very little of our surroundings.

Rarely a boon, but all things considered, very much one now.

We progressed as quickly as we dared, walking softly and carefully. Here, as before, Brynjar knew the way well. He didn’t hesitate or backtrack.

On we went, until at last he directed us to cross to the other side of a t-intersection. An old plank lay across the gap, indicating that this was not the first time he’d come this way.

“You’re sure that’s safe?” Knut whispered.

“Why? You afraid of a little swim?” Brynjar asked, grinning.

“Brynjar,” I hissed, “if anyone falls in, you’re the one going in to rescue them.”

“Relax, jarl. You’ll be fine. Just put one foot in front of the other, and don’t look down.” He scampered up to the plank and demonstrated the procedure.

He looked a little like a tightrope walker from a traveling circus, his hands stretched out to his side. The plank wobbled underneath him, all the worse as he reached the center, and his petticoat billowed and fluttered.

But in a minute, he’d gone to the other side, and beckoned for us to follow.

Vilde went next, simply because no one else budged. She was lighter than Brynjar, and the board accommodated her better. Still, my heart leaped into my mouth with every wobble and waver.

Like Brynjar, she made it across safe and sound. Idun followed, and I found the watching more painful than ever. Fortunately, she was light on her feet, and agile too, and she reached the other side without incident.

Which left Knut and me. We exchanged glances. Neither of us moved for the plank.

“Come on,” Idun beckoned me. “It’s easier than it looks.”

Idun was not usually one given to untruths. But this time, she definitely misled me.

No sooner than had my first foot stretched over the void did I regret it. The board shook underneath me, every contraction of my tense muscles sending a jolt through the old timber. And each new step was worse than the last, until I’d crossed the center.

I still don’t know how I actually managed it. Brynjar was hissing out warnings and reprimands, telling me all the things I was doing wrong. Idun’s face grew more worried the longer it took. And Vilde stood right at the edge, as if ready to spring across and help if needed.

Luckily, no such rescue necessitated itself. Dripping with sweat and shaking from head to toe, I stepped onto stone.

Idun wrapped me in her arms and pulled me from the side of the trench. Brynjar sighed disgustedly, while Vilde focused on Knut.

His crossing proved as precarious as my own. He was bigger than anyone of us, with broad shoulders and a tall, muscular frame.

And he was about as comfortable on the plank as I’d been. Maybe less so.

More than once, I caught my breath, certain he was about to topple sidelong into the river of waste. And more than once, with a good deal of flailing and pivoting, he managed to right himself.

Finally, he too made it to solid ground.

Brynjar wiped sweat off his brow and scowled at us. “Well, you two certainly made that harder than it needed to be. Come on. Let’s get out of here before the sewers are crawling with Storbjørn’s lugs.”

We turned now, following the side we’d just reached, and turning leftward. Some fifty yards down the passage, Brynjar suddenly stopped, and hauled himself into a nook in the wall that had been all but invisible to me in the dim light.

This proved to be another tunnel, like the one we’d used to exit the prisons, but far shorter. Some ten feet in, we’d reached a metal ladder that led up to a grate. Sunlight streamed in overhead, lighting up the rungs.

They were, I saw, set in the stone itself, and looked sturdy enough. A relief, as my muscles still felt weak after the business on the plank.

Brynjar lifted a finger to his lips, and cautioned in a nearly inaudible whisper, “I’ll check it out. Wait here.”

He moved rapidly up the ladder, slowing only as he reached the top. For a moment, he waited and listened. Then, carefully, he lifted the grate.

It emitted a low whine, as if its hinges required attention sooner rather than later. Brynjar poked his head out and turned this way and that.

Then, waving his arm for us to follow, he hissed, “All clear.”

We ascended in rapid single file. He directed us into a dark alcove some few feet away, and we stepped into the shadow to wait.

One after another, we emerged and reconvened. I used the interval to take in our surroundings.

We’d emerged in a narrow alley, in a part of the city I didn’t know. Rundown buildings and poor tenement houses surrounded us. The few windows that faced us had been shuttered long ago.

I supposed it made a grim kind of sense. The wealthy areas of town wouldn’t appreciate sewer access points in their backyard. But the poor would have no say in the matter. They’d just do what they could to ignore the stench.

Brynjar shut the grate and collected us, leading us down another alley. Here, he paused by a pile of rubbish, and in a moment produced a large fabric bundle.

“Here,” he said. “New clothes. I figured you wouldn’t want to wander the streets in your nightshirts. And, you might want something that smelled a little fresher.”

“So you put it under garbage?” I asked.

“I said a little fresher,” he reminded me. “If you want to blend with the rest of the city, you can’t go around looking like that but smelling fresh.”

I had a feeling our clothes played only a nominal role in how we smelled. But I was still glad to get out of anything that had picked up the reek of the sewers.

So one after another, we dipped behind the pile of trash, ignored the flies, and changed. Our own soiled clothes joined the heap.

Then, Brynjar changed out of what remained of his old lady getup. He shed the last of his warts and underskirts, and emerged in a rough tunic and leggings.

“Right. Well, let’s not waste time.”

“Wait a minute,” Knut asked. “Where are we going?”

Brynjar looked at him as if the question offended him. “To the docks.”

“The docks? Why?”

Brynjar’s face clouded further, and exasperation crept into his tone. “To get out of here. Why else?”

“But we can’t just run away,” Vilde said.

“We’ve got to help Fornbardi,” Idun agreed.

This time, Brynjar made no effort to hide his annoyance. “Are you out of your senses? He’s bringing in wizards – wizards! And I don’t mean namby pamby spellcasters like you lot. No offense. I mean the real deal. Powerful mages and warlocks and Odin knows what. The kind of wizards who can subdue a dragon.”

“I knew it,” Idun said.

“Yes, well, then you should know why we need to get out of here. As soon as possible.”

Idun

Chapter Thirty-One

So far, we had been too preoccupied with getting away from the dungeons and then the sewer to wonder much about Brynjar’s role in our escape beyond the immediate. Now, we realized that we needed to know what he knew – and how he knew.

He met our demands for information with impatience, but complied anyway. “I was watching to make sure you got back alright, okay? I mean, I wasn’t going to piss off a dragon that already had it in for me. Especially since he’d been pretty particular about not coming back near his mountain.

“But I wanted to make sure you jesters made it back in one piece.”

“So?” Liss asked.

“So, I saw you come you down with that rat, Storbjørn. And not to be the kind of guy to say I told you so –”

Liss scoffed. “Since when? You’re exactly that kind of guy.”

Brynjar’s frown of annoyance softened long enough to allow a grin to escape. “You’re right. I am. I told you so. I told you not to trust that two-bit jarl.”

“Better?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“So what does not trusting Storbjørn have to do with anything?”

“He looked way too calm, and way too comfortable. And you jesters, the lot of you, looked far too content, yourselves. Bought his benevolent, learned-his-lesson thing, I warrant.”

“Not quite,” Knut said.

Brynjar’s snorted. “Really? Because last I checked, you were in the cell along with everyone else. Anyway, point is, I knew he was up to something. So I kept an eye out. Which meant, I saw when his men come for you, and I watched them haul you off to the dungeons.”

“Watched and did nothing,” Liss put in.

“If a jarl, two mages and a sellsword couldn’t hold their own against those soldiers, I’m not sure what you expect a humble actor to do,” he said.

“And if they killed us instead of throwing us in a cell?” she asked.

“That would have been sad,” Brynjar declared. “I would have grieved you on the first boat out of port.”

Knut cleared his throat. “At any rate…”

“At any rate, I started casing the place. Checked to see if my old way in was still accessible. Figured out real quick I needed another entry. Came up with a plan, got together my supplies. Paid the crone a visit, waltzed myself in her place, and got to work.”

“I’m still amazed that disguise worked,” Liss said.

“People see what they want to see,” Brynjar said with a shrug. “Kind of like how you saw a jarl who’d had a change of heart, rather than the unprincipled snake I warned you about.”

“But what about the mages,” I put in, eager to preempt fresh squabbling. “How did you find out Storbjørn has mages on the way?”

“Oh, that. The town is buzzing with the news. He sent out riders that night, as soon as he took you into custody. He’s planning to retake the mountain. If the gossip is right – and I trust my sources – he’s got some idea about keeping Fornbardi alive, in some kind of cage. Apparently, people have spotted dwarves pouring into the city, as well as mages. Soldiers too. They’re going to be the ones building the cage. The dwarves, not the mages or soldiers.”

He glanced Liss’s way. “And if I had to guess, I’d say that’s your fault.”

“My fault? How?”

“Well, it’s both of your faults, really, because you insisted on telling him about the mushrooms. And then you opened your mouth about dragon fumes being the missing component, or whatever you called it, in growing them. He wants the mushrooms, and thanks to you, he knows he has to have the dragon to get them.”

“You know, that never would have been necessary if I wasn’t trying to save your skin. I only mentioned them to distract him from the fact that you blew up the mountain.”

“Well, it probably would have went better for Fornbardi if you had,” he said. Then, he added, “Still, he’s a big lad. I’m sure he can handle himself.”

“We’ve got to warn him,” Vilde said. “Before the rest of the mages get here, and the dwarves.”

“And we’ve got to get word to Geir,” Liss added. “He’s already proved he won’t listen to another jarl, but he might still answer to the king.”

“I’ve handled that already,” Knut put in.

We turned to him. “You did?”

“How?”

“When?”

“The other night, before we were taken. I sent a porter off as soon as we got back to the inn, on a fast horse. He’ll be well on his way to the capital by now. If he rode hard enough, he might already be there.”

Brynjar grunted. “Well, that was good thinking. Still, however fast he moves, the king’s unlikely to get here before Storbjørn makes his move.”

“Which is why we need to get to Fornbardi now,” I put in.

“Which is why,” he countered, “we need to get on the first ship out of port.”

“Idun’s right,” Knut put in.

“Much as I hate to say it,” Liss said, “I agree. I’m as anxious to get out of the affairs of dragons as you, Brynjar, but things are going to get very ugly if we don’t fix this.”

“She’s right,” Vilde added. “People will die if we don’t do something.”

Brynjar groaned. “You’re all mad. Do you have death wishes? You can’t think that jarl is going to let you waltz out of town and up the mountain without stopping you? Or that Fornbardi is going to welcome you with open arms. I’m assuming he gave you the same flea in the ear as he gave me.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“He more or less promised to kill us on sight,” Knut said.

“Well, there you go.”

“But we’ve got to try.”

Throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of despair, Brynjar demanded, “Why did I even risk my neck getting you out, if you’re going to throw your lives away?”

“That,” Knut said, clapping him on the shoulder, “is something only you can answer. But we must be underway, before Storbjørn realizes we’re missing. Or he will, as you say, prevent us from leaving.”

“And if his guards recognize you?”

“They won’t,” Vilde said. “Your disguises are quite effective. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”

This seemed to mollify him, if only a bit. “Well, you don’t spend as long in the theater as I have without honing a few skills.”

“Now, the real question is,” Knut said, “are you coming with us or catching that ship?”

Brynjar snorted. “Catching the ship. Obviously.”

Knut nodded. “Very well. Then, we thank you most heartily.”

“They can’t speak for themselves? Or is that some turn of phrase jarls use, like the royal ‘we?’”

Knut ignored the question. “If we survive this –”

“You won’t.”

“And if you ever find yourself in Little Eerie –”

“I probably won’t. No offense, but it’s a little rustic for my tastes.”

“I hope you’ll stop at the longhouse. We’ll try to repay the debt in food and song.”

Brynjar grunted. “Well,” he said.

“Well,” Knut said.

“I suppose I should be off. And you too.”

“I suppose so.”

Brynjar nodded but didn’t move.

“Or you could come with us,” Vilde suggested. “If Fornbardi doesn’t kill us on sight, he may consider the warning a good turn.”

He snorted again. “That ‘if’ is doing a lot of work there, Mrs. Jarl.”

“He may even rescind his banishment,” I put in.

“Or he may turn me to ash,” he countered.

“He may turn us all to ash,” Knut said.

“That’s only my problem if I make it my problem,” he said.

“So it is. Well, you must decide what’s best for you. And we must be on our way.” And without another word, Knut moved for the end of the alley.

Vilde followed him, squeezing Brynjar’s shoulder before she left. “Thank you again.”

I went next, urging, “You should come.”

Brynjar didn’t move, and the last sight of him I had before turning was a scowl. Not at me, but at Liss, who was making quiet, clucking noises, like a chicken.

She lingered only a few seconds. Then, her taunting complete, she raced after us.

I knew she and he had a longstanding dislike, but still, it felt wrong to insult him after he’d put himself in harm’s way for us. Once we were out of earshot, I said, “He saved our lives. A coward wouldn’t have that.”

“I know. But you wanted him to come – though Odin knows why.”

I glanced over at her, and she shrugged.

“He’s not going to risk his life to save a dragon just because you ask him. He’s not a coward – you’re right about that – but he’s not going to see it as a worthwhile risk. If he feels like he’s got something to prove, on the other hand…”

At that precise moment, footsteps rang out on the cobbles behind us. Half a minute later, a slightly breathless Brynjar jogged up beside us. “Wait for me.”

“You’re coming with us?” I asked, a bit incredulously. I couldn’t believe that Liss’s plan had worked.

“Well, it’s pretty clear you jesters can’t take care of yourselves. And I don’t want you wasting my hard work. So, yes, I am.”

Half an hour later, we were on the open road, putting more distance between ourselves and Østhavn with every step.

The guards hadn’t detained us. Most barely even glanced our way a first time, much less a second. Which was a good sign. If someone had noticed our escape, the local guard would have been on the lookout for groups of four that matched our description.

With any luck, we could be well on our way to Fornbardi before anyone sounded the alarm.

We didn’t dare risk a return to the inn, and only Brynjar had coin on his person – and not enough to rent horses for our entire party. So we were going on foot, and the longer we had without guards on our trail, the better.

More than once, we passed bands of dwarves or robed men and women hurrying toward Østhavn. A few turned curious eyes over us, but most took no interest.

It probably helped that we were not the only unwashed, anxious group of poorly dressed people exiting the city as fast as we could.

Curiously, we did not meet any well-heeled travelers. No fine carriages rolled by, no richly adorned horses trotted past. Either the wealthy locals and visitors had already fled Østhavn, or else they’d been placated by the jarl’s promises.

But the underclasses, as they so often did, seemed to have a better pulse on reality. Trouble was brewing, and those who could get away, were doing so.

We left the main road as soon as we could, doing our best to cover our tracks. When Storbjørn discovered our absence, he may or may not assume we’d go to the dragon. Hopefully, he’d think we fled for the capital, or retreated to Little Eerie.

Either way, we wouldn’t make it easy for him.

As we walked, I tried to reach Fornbardi. But if the dragon was about, he was either outside the limits of my reach, or choosing to ignore me.

Still, I went on trying.

Mid-morning passed to afternoon. The sun beat down hotter and brighter as the elevation rose. An eerie quiet settled on the land. Neither birds nor bugs milled about, and we’d moved too far from the main road to hear the sounds of passing travelers.

We might have been the only creatures in existence.

And then, with an abruptness that put my heart in my mouth, the bells of Østhavn rang out. Far away as they were, they carried up the mountainside.

“Sounds like Storbjørn figured out we gave him the slip,” Knut said. “We’d better pick up the pace.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Liss spotted the soldiers first – a whole column of them, pouring out of Østhavn’s gates. They looked like a procession of ants, as far away as we were. But so many ants that we could see them despite the distance.

There were hundreds of men and horses, in a line that went on and on until they disappeared from sight in the valley below.

What it meant, we didn’t know for certain. But there seemed only two likely options: that they’d left the city in pursuit of us, or that Storbjørn had escalated his timeline to now. And whichever might be the case, it all came to the same thing in the end.

We needed to reach Fornbardi, as soon as possible.

Yet despite my ongoing efforts, the dragon did not reply. Not to me, and not to Liss, either.

“We keep climbing,” Knut said. “If Fornbardi’s gone – and he may be. There’s not much left of the mountain – then our best hope is to disappear up here, where Storbjørn’s men can’t track us. Turning around will only get us caught.”

So we climbed, and we sent out our thoughts to the dragon. And for a long time, nothing happened. Nothing, beyond growing increasingly sweaty and tense.

Then, Brynjar yelped. A loud, screeching cry of alarm, that sent a flock of birds hurrying from nearby shrubs.

“Shh,” Liss hissed.

“What is it?” Vilde asked.

“He’s here,” Brynjar said. “And – oh, is he mad. Spitting mad.”

“Storbjørn?” Knut asked, glancing instinctively over his shoulder, back down the mountain.

“Fornbardi,” Liss said.

I started to ask how she knew, but I got my answer before I could finish the question. Pure fury invaded my thoughts. Anger, but more than that.

A sense of betrayal.

Righteous indignation.

Fornbardi had returned from wherever he’d gone, and he was furious to find us on his mountain.

But more to the point, he wasn’t alone.

A dozen minds assaulted mine with angry, probing questions.

“Are you not one of the banished? Why then do you tread where you are forbidden to be.”

“Why do you trespass on Fornbardi’s mountain?”

“Are you the reason for the soldiers?”

All at once the dragon’s great shadow fell on us. Then the wind from his wings beat fierce and heavy. Behind him, I counted more than a dozen forms. All dragons, of various sizes, their scales every color of the rainbow.

“Are you ready to die?” one asked.

“Are you the meddlesome creature who ruined Fornbardi’s mountain?” asked another.

Still another demanded, “Why do you desire death, little human?”

I ignored them all and focused on Fornbardi. “Great Fornbardi, listen, I pray you: we are here to warn you.”

“Warn me? Of your perfidy? Of your lies? To warn me that you cannot be trusted to keep your word?” he roared. “That you cannot keep faith, even when I show you mercy?”

“Oh for Odin’s sake,” Brynjar muttered. “Let her talk.”

“You are in danger, Fornbardi,” I said, ignoring the question and Brynjar. “There are men on their way–”

“It is you I have forbidden to step foot here,” Fornbardi said. “And not only do you defy me, you bring thieves and liars into my home. Again.”

“Listen, you scaly bastard!” Brynjar exclaimed. I stared at him in horror, but he took no nevermind. Trembling from head to toe though he was, he spoke with angry determination. “No one wants to be here on your godsforsaken mountain. We’re here because that crazy jarl wants to kill you. Or capture you and put you in a cage. Make you grow him fart mushrooms.”

Fornbardi blinked his golden eyes. “What?”

“That’s what we’re trying to tell you. You think she risked her life to come here for the pleasure of your company? No. Storbjørn – damn his eyes – wants to capture you. He’s got mages and soldiers working for him.”

“They’re on their way up now,” Knut said.

“To capture me?” Fornbardi sounded – was I imagining it? – amused.

“Yes. Because your stink…” Here, Brynjar seemed to remember a little of his senses, and flashed an apologetic smile. “Meaning no offense. But your vapors, let us say, are what he needs to grow his precious mushrooms.”

“So that is why the riders are upon the road? To come after me.”

“It is,” Knut said.

“Not only that, but Storbjørn threw these jesters in prison, so they couldn’t tell the king – or warn you.”

“They are not in prison.”

“No. Because I got them out.”

“You? Broke them out of prison?”

“He did,” Knut confirmed. We all murmured our assent.

“You don’t need to sound so surprised. But the point is, instead of escaping on the first ship out of port – which is what I wanted to do – they traipsed up here trying to find you. Knowing full well that you might roast them to ash with that temper of yours. But they risked their lives to warn you. And now the soldiers are after them too – and so, apparently, are your pals here.”

Fornbardi tucked his wings and landed heavily on a patch of broken ground before us. “If what you say is true –”

“Odin’s beard. Why would we come up here all by ourselves if it wasn’t?”

“You may be planning some clever subterfuge.”

Brynjar flailed his arms irately. “Do I look like the kind of guy who plans clever subterfuges?”

“A fair point, I concede.”

“You’re damned right it’s a fair point. A thief, I may be. A trespasser, absolutely. A conman? Sure. But I wouldn’t go toe to toe with a dragon for all the gold in the royal treasury.”

“You blew up my mountain,” Fornbardi reminded him.

“By accident. I had no idea you were there.”

“Which does not change the fact of what you have done. But I think I take your point. You will prey upon the weak, but not the strong.”

“If that’s how you want to put it, sure.”

“So you are not here to prey upon me.”

“Looks like all the things I’ve heard about the wisdom of dragons is true after all.”

“You are impertinent.”

“Yeah, well, constant threats of death will do that to a man.”

I thought it best to cut in here. “Fornbardi, I am very sorry that we had to come here after our promise. But we thought – hoped – you would find the danger to be a mitigating circumstance.”

Fornbardi studied me for a long moment. Behind him, still hovering overhead, the other dragons did the same. I wondered what they were thinking.

I wondered if they were working out which of them would eat whom among our party.

“There is no danger to me. Not from those soldiers, nor a hundred times as many,” he said at length. “But you are very small and weak. So to your mind, I suppose such a force must seem like danger.

“Very well, Idun. I will not kill you or your friends.”

“Your benevolence knows no boundaries,” Brynjar said.

“Mr. Fornbardi,” Vilde spoke up. It was, I realized, the first time she’d addressed the dragon, and she sounded quite terrified. “I think – not to contradict you – but you may be underestimating Storbjørn. You see, he didn’t just bring men at arms. He also brought mages.”

“Mages are of little concern to me.”

“Perhaps not. But I think they believe they can constrain you. I would – I don’t presume to tell you how to act, Great Fornbardi. But perhaps caution is advisable. Storbjørn would have collected the greatest wizards he could find.”

“Then they will be very sorely disappointed. Do not fear for me, human. I am not alone. And I shall not be the one to fall this day.”

Without another word, he leaped into the air. All around him, dragons roared. Then, together, they rose high into the air.

Moving fast, they made their way toward Storbjørn’s riders.

I scrambled to find a vantage from which I could watch, and eventually settled on a tree. Climbing as rapidly as I could, I still nearly missed the confrontation.

But, confrontation is too strong a word. This was no fight, no meeting of equal forces.

This was a retreat, pure and simple.

The horsemen turned and fled at the sight of the dragons. A few stopped to get off shots, and were quickly dispatched by dragonfire. But most ran, the dragons breathing streams of fire at their heels.

Not to kill them, but to make the point that killing might so easily have been done.

The mages presented the only real challenge, and then only for a few seconds. A handful of men in robes bound one of the smaller dragons in a paralysis spell, and for a space, managed to trap him midair.

Until several of his peers blasted fire at the mages. A few wrapped themselves in protective spells and managed to get away unscathed. A few turned to pillars of ash where they stood.

But their collective efforts were disrupted all the same, and the imprisoned dragon broke free.

The remaining mages made no further efforts and fled alongside the troops.

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was done almost as soon as it started. Fornbardi and the rest of the dragons chased the soldiers back to Østhavn, charring long, black strips into the open countryside as they went. Then they circled the city, breathing flames into the air and dancing and tumbling and freewheeling.

“This was a mistake,” Brynjar murmured.

“What was?”

“Helping them.”

“We didn’t have a choice,” I said.

Liss took the less tactful approach and snorted at him. “You want to cross blades with him?”

“Of course not. Just – well, they’re very large, aren’t they? And there’s so many of them.”

“You’re sure there was only one before?” Knut asked.

“Yes,” Liss said.

“I think so,” I said.

Everyone turned to me at that, and Brynjar demanded, “You think so?”

“What I mean is, I didn’t sense anyone else. But – if they were trying to hide, I don’t suppose we would.”

Knut grunted. “So either he’s got a whole, large family down there, or…what?”

“It’s a portal,” Liss said. “The same kind of portal he used to get to the surface.”

Now, our entire party turned its attention on her, me included.

“When Brynjar brought the mountain down on us–”

“By accident.”

“Fornbardi and I were trapped. He said the collapse destroyed his main entrance, and that was the backup. So if he had one portal, why not more than one?”

“Magical portals,” Knut repeated with a groan. “If you’re right, that means he can summon dragons from – well, wherever he’s got another portal.”

She nodded.

“What I don’t understand,” Brynjar put in, “is how come no one’s seen them. One of them, sure, if he’s careful. If he hunts at night and doesn’t eat people. But a whole slew of them?”

“I don’t think they were under the mountain all along.”

“Okay. But wherever they were, wherever the other portal goes – assuming there is another portal – someone would have seen them, right?”

“You’re assuming the other side is anchored in our realm,” she said.

“Well, obviously.”

Liss shook her head. “But dragons haven’t been in our world.”

“That’s my point.”

“Yes, and you’re close. But you’re missing the import.”

An eyebrow crept up Brynjar’s forehead. “Am I?”

“The dragons left our realm years ago. Not because they died, or ‘passed on,’ or whatever people say. Because they went elsewhere.”

“To this other realm?” Brynjar sounded incredulous.

“Yes. Somewhere dragons can go, but we can’t.”

This time, he snorted outright. “Poppycock.”

“We’ll be able to ask them soon enough,” Vilde said.

Which drew all of our attention back to Østhavn. The dragons had begun the flight back, and they made short work of it.

Fornbardi settled where he’d sat earlier, and rumbled out, “You were not lying, Idun. They did have mages with them. Fools.”

“You’re unharmed?” I asked.

He laughed, a deep sound like thunder. “Careful, human. A less wise dragon might take offense. But I am touched by your concern. I am unharmed, as you see. Though I cannot say the same for all of them.”

“You didn’t kill them all?” Knut asked.

“Not all, no. Those who fled, lived. Those who fought, died.”

“Seems fair,” Brynjar said.

“I’m glad you think so, thief. And speaking of fair, I have already said I will let you all live. I will go further – I may consider rescinding your banishment from the mountain.”

“You’re very gracious, Great Fornbardi,” Vilde said.

Brynjar just snorted.

“May we,” she went on, “beg a question?”

“You may. Though whether I answer or not, we shall see.”

“Your friends, these noble guests of yours, whence came they?”

“Ah. You wonder if they too lived under the mountain? No, they did not. They came at my request. I feared the jarl of Østhavn would not keep faith with me. And I did not mean to give up my mountain.”

I glanced up at the force of dragons still circling the mountaintop. “So they came to defend your home?”

“They did.”

“From – some other realm?”

His golden eyes focused on me. “Perhaps, someday I shall tell you. And perhaps not. But today, I shall not.”

“You’re going to stay at the mountain?” Vilde asked. “All of you?”

“That was my plan, yes,” Fornbardi said. “But now, I do not think so.”

Brynjar’s expression brightened, though he was wise enough to say nothing.

“Where will you go?” Vilde asked. “If I may be so bold as to inquire.”

“You may be so bold, little human. I shall occupy the jarl’s hall.”

We all exchanged glances. Brynjar said, “You don’t think Storbjørn will object to that?”

“I do not,” Fornbardi answered. “The dead rarely do.”

“He’s dead?” Knut asked.

“Yes. Though, not by my flame, more’s the pity. The fool fell from his horse, and was trampled by his own riders.”

Brynjar barked out a laugh. Fornbardi eyed him disapprovingly. I think we all did.

“A disappointment,” the dragon went on. “But there is some poetry in that.”

“The gods’ own poetry,” Brynjar said.

Fornbardi stared at him blankly. Liss shivered. “Don’t start, Brynjar.”

“Now,” said Fornbardi, “we must get you back to the city. And you, Jarl Knut. You have done me a service, but I would ask you another.”

Knut glanced about uncomfortably, but he cleared his throat. “Of course. If it is something I can do, I will.”

“You are acquainted with the king of your people?”

“I am, yes.”

“Good. And this king, he is reasonable?”

“I…yes, I would say so. Provided he is dealing with someone reasonable.”

“No one is more reasonable than dragonkind,” Fornbardi declared gravely.

Brynjar choked, and then cleared his throat. “Sorry. Don’t mind me.”

“Am I to take it you – you wish me to speak to King Geir on your behalf?” Knut asked.

“Indeed, it is so.”

“I see. About what?”

“I wish, now that I am come back to my home – and expanded its holdings to the jarl’s hall – to establish peace with him. In the days of yore, some men – reasonable men – were open to such peace.”

“I’m certain, if the terms are reasonable, that King Gier will prove open to any offers you may make,” Knut said cautiously.

“My offer is quite reasonable. This city is now without a jarl, and I am without a proper home. The city is mine, if I assert the right of conquest. But I do not desire to rule by force or fear.”

“Very reasonable of you,” Knut said.

“Still, I think I should like to make my seat there. Not away from people. I’ve spent long enough hiding under the mountain. But amid them. And I shall bring much too to Østhavn. The mushrooms, of course. But wisdom, too. A quality sadly lacking among your people, though you present a creditable variation from the norm.”

Knut ignored these comments. “I cannot speak on behalf of King Geir, of course, but I think he will be open to hearing your proposal. He will need to know, of course, that you will pose no threat to his people.

“The jarl may be dead, but Østhavn remains the king’s concern. He cannot allow his people to be harmed, or their flocks eaten, nor their crops burned.”

“I have no desire to burn crops or eat flocks, or harm humans. If you were better versed in the nature of dragons, you would know that already. But if you need to have my word on the matter, you have it. I pose no threat to anyone who does not pose a threat to me.”

“Well then,” said Knut, “I am certain the king will hear you. And what’s more, he may be able to accommodate your request for an audience sooner than you expect.”

“Oh?”

Knut explained about the rider he’d dispatched the night of our capture, and Fornbardi murmured deep, rumbling sounds of appreciation.

“Excellent. Then I shall prepare to meet him in my new hall. And do not look so worried, Jarl. It may take your king many days to travel here, but it would take me only hours to reach him. And not all the soldiers in his kingdom could protect him, if I really meant to kill him. I tell you again, I desire peace, and not war.”

“Well,” said Knut, “in that case, I believe you and King Geir should get along swimmingly.”

“Oh yes,” said Brynjar. “Swimmingly.”