“Are all those stories of the old days truly made up?” Alva asked with false innocence. “I suspected as much, you know. Dragons and fairies and deeds of heroism that only they witnessed—what nonsense these men like to talk!” But her words were belied by a sudden seriousness that crossed her face like a shadow, and Simon did not miss the quick glance that traveled between husband and wife.
If there was something bothering them, Sludig was not going to be the one to broach it. “Can you credit that?” he said, gratefully accepting a large flagon of beer from a servant. “Treacherous woman. She is the one for dragons and fairies, far more than me—she’s practically a witch! Alva grew up in the superstitious north and has not an ounce of Aedonite piety, for all the time she spends in church.”
“Oh, good,” said Miriamele. “Someone worth talking to, then. Come and join us, Lady Alva, and hurry!”
Simon steered Sludig toward the men, who were occupying their own set of benches on the other side of the massive hearth. Now that the children and many of the servants had left with the duke’s family, the great hall had grown quieter and seemed larger, at least to Simon. But the north always makes me feel that way, he thought. Dark so early, and so long—and the cold! And knowing that there are things out there in that darkness who do not love us, of course.
Binabik leaped up with a glad cry and hurried toward Sludig to embrace him, something that could have been comical because of their different sizes had it not tugged so strongly at Simon’s heart. “If we had managed nothing else,” he said to the others as they watched this reunion, “we would still be remembered for allowing a Rimmersman and a troll to find a love to make the poets sing.” He was rather pleased with this, and repeated it loudly.
Sludig gave him a sour look. “Your Majesty still likes to make jokes. I will not apologize for what I feel for this little man.”
Binabik grinned. “Or I for what I feel for this large one.” He called to his wife. “Sisqi! Sludig is here!”
“She knows, I think,” Eolair said. “She is talking to Sludig’s lady even now.”
“Look at us all,” said Sludig, spreading himself gratefully on a bench beside Binabik.
“A little fatter, some of us,” Simon pointed out.
“Some of us, Majesty, are not all legs and nose, like a stork,” growled Sludig. “It is only right for a man to become more substantial with age. But a great scarecrow like you, king or no, is something that only frightens the children.”
“Hah! You are still too sober to make sense. Drink up!” Simon found himself a spot on another bench where he could watch the others talk from a little distance. With Sludig’s arrival, he felt as though a circle had closed and something was completed. The old friends, who had known each other since the days of the Storm King’s War, were quickly lost in reminiscence, talking of old terrors and of equally distant moments of joy and wonder. The beloved voices washed over him.
Someone sat down beside him. “Are you being well, friend Simon?”
“I am well indeed, Binabik, and so much better for seeing you and hearing your voice. Where are your daughter and her man tonight?”
“You may believe or not believe, old friend, but they are with your Prince Morgan. Little Snenneq has taken a liking to the prince, and they are spending much time together.”
Simon did not want to think too much about his errant grandson. “Are you happy with him as a match for your daughter? Snenneq, I mean.”
Binabik laughed. The familiar sound warmed Simon, made it seem for a moment as if time really could be cheated. “It would be making no difference at all if I did, I am thinking. Qanuc women are making their own minds up about the partners they are wanting, as Sisqi did when she was choosing me over her parents’ wishes.” The expression the little man wore as he looked to his wife made Simon’s chest ache a little. Did he and Miriamele still gaze at each other that way? He hoped so. “But, as it happens,” Binabik continued, “I am also liking Snenneq. True it is that he is having too much pride, as the talented young often are having—‘a man who only wants to step on unbroken snow,’ as we say on Mintahoq. Yes, sometimes Young Snenneq is being a bit of a braided ram.”
In the moment of silence, Tiamak’s voice rose above the others. “No, no, Eolair speaks the truth. I am a married man now.”
“By our good lord, I wish you well of it!” said Sludig. “What is the woman’s name, so I may pray for her poor soul?”
For a moment Tiamak seemed to bridle, then he heard the laughter of the others and realized Sludig was jesting. It was hard to tell with the Rimmersman sometimes. In his younger years Sludig Two-Axes had been a serious, often sour-faced man, but age—or perhaps Lady Alva—seemed to have mellowed him. “You are a wicked man, Jarl Mischief,” Tiamak said, wagging his finger, “but I will tell you anyway. Her name is Thelía.”
“Is she Nabbanai?”
“That is where she was born, yes. I met her in Kwanitupul. She had been a nun.”
“A nun?” Sludig looked around in mock astonishment. “So this little fellow stole one of the Aedon’s brides right out of a nunnery? No wonder Isgrimnur thought him a fit partner for clambering through ghant-nests!”
“You mock too much,” Count Eolair said gently. “Lady Thelía was no longer under the convent roof when Tiamak met her. She was serving as a healer in the poorest parts of Kwanitupul, working with the Astaline Sisters. A very noble woman.”
“And all the nobler for marrying Tiamak, no doubt,” Sludig said. “At least she seems to have taught him to wear shoes! But the count is right—I make too many jests. Tiamak, I am truly happy for you. A good marriage can redeem even the wickedest fellow, and you were already one of the best of men.”
Tiamak smiled. “I could not agree to that, my good jarl, but I can agree that both you and I have been lucky in our mates.”
“Hear, hear!” said Simon, lifting his cup. “A toast to all married men! And a cheer for the best of women, their wives!”
“Methinks the king has had too much to drink,” the queen said; and yet, she was glowing.
Elvritshalla Castle had fallen out of sight, blocked by the imposing, nearer shape of the cathedral, as the prince and the two trolls made their way by diffident moonlight down to the lake that lay at the heart of the city. The snow had stopped falling but the north wind still cut like a knife. “I think it’s time for a little more of that kangkang,” said Morgan. “One swallow is not enough to ward off this chill.”
“No, with sorrow, Morgan Prince,” said Little Snenneq. “Afterward, I was saying, and afterward it must be. Not only is there some risk, but you also will need a clear head to appreciate the cleverness of my device.”
A day spent with the trolls in the castle was one thing—Morgan had quite enjoyed drinking fiery kangkang and trying to puzzle out Snenneq’s and Qina’s strangely amusing speech. Wanting more, he had even declined the chance to accompany Astrian and the rest down to the Kopstade tonight. But following Little Snenneq through bitter cold wind to the arse-end of Elvritshalla was another matter, and Morgan was already regretting his choice.
This end of the city was mostly dark, with only an occasional lantern to paint the angles of the streets and buildings, and a few fires burning in the small, high-roofed houses. Morgan, who had spent most of his time in Elvritshalla evading the guards his grandparents arranged for him, suddenly began to wonder what might happen if he and the trolls were set upon by robbers in this dismal section of the city. Was that why Little Snenneq wouldn’t give him any more of the reviving liquor? Because the troll expected a knife fight with angry Rimmersmen? The Northmen certainly didn’t like Little Snenneq or his kind very much.
Morgan didn’t have the chance to ask, because Snenneq put out his arm and waved the prince to stop. “No farther. Not yet. Soon there is an icy downslipping. I have been here already, because I am a great one for learning and prepa
ring. Is that not so, Qina?”
His betrothed, who had been following them as quietly as a shadow, nodded her head vigorously. “Preparings, yes,” she said. “And there are learns, too. Many of them my nukapik is having. Oh and most yes.” Morgan thought he could see her smile.
“Because that is how it must be. I will be Singing Man of all Mintahoq one day. Learning is my duty. Wisdom is my destiny!” He turned to Morgan. “You see, not only princes are having these destinies.”
Morgan could only shake his head in confusion. “Why did we stop? Is it time to go back?”
“Ah. Not for going back, but so I can be showing you my cleverness.” Little Snenneq shrugged off his pack and rummaged in it, then began to pull things out that made jingling noises as he piled them on a stone. “Put these on,” he said, and tossed a clinking something onto the snowy ground beside the prince.
“What are they?” Morgan lifted one and it poked painfully into his finger. The object looked like nothing so much as an iron horseshoe, but longer, and the bottom and sides were covered with sharp spikes almost the size of house nails, each as long as the first joint of his finger. Long rawhide straps dangled from the spiked irons like some foppish decoration.
“Climbing spikes they are, of course.” Snenneq was strapping on a pair of his own, deftly weaving the straps up from his feet, through various tie-rings, then to his ankles like the ribbons twined around a Maia-tree. “We use them most time only for traveling in the highest of mountains, but it is icy where we go next. Also, they will be part of my surprise.”
Morgan stared helplessly. He could not for the life of him make sense of how the things were supposed to be used and he wasn’t certain he wanted to use them anyway. Qina saw his dismay and came to help, showing him how the flat parts pushed against the soles of his boots, and how the straps should be wound around his feet and ankles, then tied above his calves. It took several tries before Morgan could figure out how to climb to his feet while wearing the odd things without tripping or gouging himself, since spikes protruded not just from the bottom but the sides as well.
“Ha!” said Snenneq. “You are looking like a tall troll for certain, Morgan Prince. Are you now ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Good. Follow, then, and I will show you.” And just like that, Little Snenneq slid between two piles of rubbish that had once been dwellings, but had long since tumbled down and been cannibalized for their useful bits by the locals.
“It is not a fall to death,” said Qina reassuringly. “You go, Prince friend. Lowlander can climb down here without frightened.”
As she promised, what lay beyond the edge of the city here was not a steep cliff, but rather a descending slope of mostly flat stone, cracked and heaved up in places. Beyond it lay a great misty openness whose details Morgan could not quite make out, flat and white as a fallow field covered with snow.
“What . . . ?” he asked, then felt his foot begin to go out from under him. The sheets of rock on which he stood were covered in ice. He did not fall completely over, but saved himself only at the expense of a crack to his knee and scraped palms.
“Do not talk with Qina!” called Snenneq over his shoulder from farther down the slope. The husky young troll was scrambling with surprising ease across the icy surfaces, headed toward the misty white flatness below, and his words were faint in the wind. “Her words, however full of sense, will bring you distraction and tumbling. You must instead be watching your feet!”
Limping and grumpy, Morgan made his way as carefully as he could down the glassy, treacherous stones. Little Snenneq was definitely right about one thing: using the climbing irons demanded keen attention on such a surface, because the spikes on the bottom of them were small. In most situations, he discovered, it was better to use the longer side spikes to wedge his foot into spaces between stones, so he could move slowly and balance himself. Still, even managing after a while to stay consistently upright did not make the journey enjoyable. The worst part was watching little Qina, who stayed behind him all the way—clearly by choice—looking sympathetically at him from the depths of her furry hood each time he fell. She herself had not even donned the iron spikes, but made her way over the icy stones in just her soft boots, like a particularly graceful bear cub.
As he neared the bottom of the slope, the silhouettes of the wall towers and the castle rising high against the waning moon, Morgan could finally see that what he had first taken for a vast, snowy field was in truth a lake covered in ice, right in the center of the city. He had heard someone mention it, but that was not the same as coming upon such a wide and silent place in the middle of a dark night, accompanied only by trolls.
Little Snenneq had reached the bottom of the hill long before, and sat waiting for them, beaming in pleasure as though he had created the lake himself. “Bridvattin, this water is called. Here the Little Gratuvask river bends upon itself, and so was forming this lake. At the center is an ancestor house.”
“A what?” Morgan peered out toward a small island in the middle of the lake, where a low tower and several other roofs could just be seen through the fog. A few small lights burned in the windows, but otherwise it was only an angular collection of shadows. “Ancestor house?”
“Yes, with certainty. A place where your people come together to pray to the ancestors.”
“A church, you mean,” Morgan said. “Actually, I think it’s a monastery.”
“Monastery.” Little Snenneq sounded it out, repeated it. “A good word. In any case, it is here I will show you the main part of my cleverness. Look!” He lifted up his foot. Morgan could see nothing of interest. “For sliding on ice,” the troll said, waggling his leg.
The crescent moon gave just enough light for Morgan to see that something like a knife’s blade had replaced the climbing spikes on the bottom of the troll’s sheepskin boot. “Ice skates?” asked the prince, mildly nettled. “That’s nothing new. People here skate on ice all the time. We even do it down in Erkynland.”
Snenneq shook his head. “You are not seeing the beauty of what I have crafted. Here, sit down. Give me your foot.”
Morgan grunted in a put-upon way, but sat on a slippery stone and raised his leg. Little Snenneq scrambled over and began pulling on Morgan’s side-spikes. After a moment, and a clicking and clunking that tickled the bottom of Morgan’s foot even through his boot, the troll lifted his hands. “Do you see? With my idea, the climbing irons can be taken away and turned around—as so—and when they are again rightly affixed—they are blades for ice sliding!”
“Ice skating.” But Morgan could not help being impressed. In a matter of moments the troll had changed the shoe spikes into the blade of a skate. As he watched Snenneq do the same with his other foot, he suddenly realized what this meant.
“Do you mean we are going to skate here? On this lake?”
Snenneq almost chortled. “Do not worry! I am sure the church men in that ancestor-house will not mind.”
Morgan had a feeling that the troll didn’t know many Aedonite priests. “But . . . but I’ve never skated.”
Qina finally appeared. For some reason the female troll had stopped and retreated back up the slope, and now she was dragging a heavy branch much longer than she was.
“Not to fear, Morgan Prince,” said Snenneq. “I will teach you. I am a rare teacher. I have taught Qina many things!”
“Many, yes,” she said, settling herself and her long branch on a stone near the edge of the lake. “So I do not slide on ice tonight. I sit here. If you fall into cold wet, Prince Highness—” she patted the heavy branch—“this for you to pull out.”
If Qina herself did not want to get on the ice, Morgan wanted to even less. His grandfather and grandmother had told him many frightsome stories of how treacherous ice and snow could be in the far north. But Snenneq was already hurrying him out onto the glassy surface of the lake. “No
w do as I am doing. Your knees must be bending!”
Morgan did his best, but each time his feet went out from under him and he fell, he could swear he heard the ice fracturing beneath him. It was hard fully to appreciate the wonder of skating on an ice-mantled moonlit lake when all he could think about was the freezing black water that lurked beneath the ice.
“Oh, poor luck!” Snenneq said for perhaps the fourth or fifth time, so cheerful that Morgan wanted to kick him, but he had to concentrate instead on getting back up without falling over again. “Do not fear to fall, Morgan Prince! That way true learning is found! And that is why our creators gave to us hindquarters of flesh and protecting fat! Do wolves have such fundaments? Do sheep? No, only people, who learn by each tumble.”
Morgan wished he had gone to the Kopstade with the others, even if their evening had ended in a brawl. By now, he could have been comfortably drunk, and even being pummeled by angry Rimmersmen would surely be less painful than Snenneq’s ice sliding.
“By the Good God, I think I’ve broken my knee and my arse at the same time! How is that even possible?”
“Do not fear, Morgan Prince. You are doing well for a first try!” At least the troll was enjoying himself. “Yes, wave your arms, so, around and around, to keep from falling! Try to slide here to me, farther out. Of course I am knowing your knee pains you, but do you see? Such a good teacher I am that you are already learning! Soon you will be ice sliding like the most nimble Qanuc!”
“But I keep the long stick here,” Qina assured Morgan in a voice too low for Snenneq to hear. “Just for careful.”
The conversation had ranged widely over both past and present, from dragon fighting to cow breeding. As part of the estate at Engby, Isgrimnur had given Sludig and his wife several hundred head of long-bodied, short-legged northern cattle, and the creatures had become Sludig’s obsession.