At Alfadas’s order, all the sick and injured were housed in the few solid buildings Sunhill still had to offer. The very old and the very young had also found a warm place.
Although the twilight was rapidly fading, the valley still rang with the rhythmic clang of axes. Four days after the battle on the ice, Orimedes and his army of over a thousand centaurs had joined them from across the fjord. They came too late to drive out the trolls but just in time to take up the battle against winter and its miseries. They shared their provisions generously with the humans. Since their arrival, no one had had to suffer from hunger. At the start, many of the refugees had looked at the manhorses with awe, some even with naked fear. The huge creatures were too strange, half human-like, half horse. But with their rough, rude ways they were far more akin to the Fjordlanders than to the elves. They helped wherever they could. Orimedes had sent hunters into the woods to supplement their provisions with wild game. Most of the centaurs, however, helped build new huts from sprucewood. Seven plain windowless huts were completed every day. They continued to build more billets as new refugees arrived, and soon the patchwork village of tents and makeshift dwellings would disappear.
Emerelle had sent Yilvina to the heartland to request food and clothing from Master Alvias. Thanks to the queen’s magical powers, the elven warrior had recovered quickly from her wounds. From her, Alfadas had learned about the terrors of the flight with his son. How would all that he had been through change him?
The stories that were told about Ulric among the refugees had already taken on a fabulous aspect. It was said that he had wielded the sword of dead King Osaberg and had killed a troll prince with it, saving the life of his maiden and an elf woman. In the stories, Ulric and Halgard had ridden through the woods on Blood’s back, protected by the spirits of the trees. Others told of how the ghost of King Osaberg appeared to the children to lead them to his hidden grave and save them from a snowstorm.
Was it really Osaberg who lay in the cave? The winged helmet, the bronze armor, and the magnificent sword—it all fit with the legends of the dead king. But there would probably never be real proof.
Alfadas was worried about Ulric. It was not good to be celebrated as a legendary hero at the age of seven. What would his life bring? It was good that he had Halgard at his side. The girl would straighten out Ulric’s head whenever his high spirits got the better of him. Alfadas had heard the story of the ghost-wolf that had stolen Halgard’s youth. Emerelle had undone all that and had gone further: she had given Halgard sight. The girl had been blind from birth. Now she was slowly getting used to her new gift. She wore a snow mask to protect her from the bright light, but the sensitivity would soon pass, the queen had said.
Alfadas looked down over the makeshift village. Other wounds would take longer to heal, and for all Emerelle’s efforts, many things in the Fjordlands would never again be as they once were. Half of its towns and villages had been devastated, and most of the men who could fight were dead or maimed. How were they supposed to defend themselves if the trolls came again?
When he thought of everything that lay ahead, he felt old and tired.
He turned away from the valley and peered up the trail above him. Where was Ollowain? The elf had been gone for five days. Was he so slow to return because he’d found them? Alfadas’s heart began to beat faster, although he had forbidden himself any scrap of hope in recent days. The Maurawan had been unable to find Asla and Kadlin, and there were no better trackers. But his friend would search with his heart. If anyone was still able to find something that the Maurawan had missed, then it would be him!
Alfadas heard the thud of hooves long before he saw the rider. The big horse picked its way carefully down the snow-covered mountain path, and the rider held himself very erect in the saddle. He wore his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. When he saw the duke, he clapped his mount on the neck and dismounted. He looked tired.
Alfadas glanced up along the dark path, but the rider had come alone. I should not have hoped, thought Alfadas bitterly. Hope was a fruit whose sweetness all too easily turned to bile.
“In the night after the avalanche, the snowstorm caught them unawares,” said Ollowain, his voice toneless.
Alfadas looked at him in shock. “Did you . . .” His voice failed him. He tried again, but the question would not come.
Ollowain shook his head. “They were not among the frozen that I found. But I met a woman who had seen Asla and Kadlin walk off into the woods. Kalf was with them. It was not long before the storm came.”
“And Silwyna? Did you meet her? I haven’t seen her for days. Maybe she—”
“Yes. I met her. We camped together for a night. The Maurawan are still looking for refugees, but they hold no great hopes of finding any more. It is hard to survive in this kind of cold without food and a safe place to sleep.”
Alfadas noticed that Ollowain was avoiding his eye. “What are you not telling me?”
The elf sighed. “The certainty you seek is something you may never find. The valley over there is vast. Asla, Kadlin, and Kalf may have lost their bearings in the snowstorm. No one can say where they went. As much as we search for them, it is more and more likely with every passing day that we will never know for certain. You should . . .” He shook his head. “No. Who am I to tell you what you should do?”
“What are you avoiding? Do you think the troll prince told the truth? Is that what you can’t tell me?”
“It is true that some of the trolls went up the reindeer trail after the avalanche. The refugees saw them.” He met Alfadas’s eye for the first time. “You want to know what I believe? I believe that Dumgar was a liar. He could not beat you with a weapon, so he tried his best to hurt you with words. And he succeeded. I don’t believe that anyone took Asla and Kadlin to him. But the problem with belief is that it has to exist without proof. Can you simply believe? Could you live with that?”
“In the camp below, by the palisade, they found children’s bones and blond hair,” said Alfadas dejectedly.
“And how many blond women are there?” the elf asked sharply. “It proves nothing. I camped with Silwyna in a cave in which we found the remains of a large fire. There were human bones there, too. Children’s bones. And the cave stank of troll. But there were no traces of blood; most likely, they just cooked provisions over the fire.”
“Or the bodies of the frozen.”
“Yes, that’s also possible. You will find no certainty, Alfadas. I rode into that valley as your friend to put your doubts to rest. I failed. But there is also freedom in uncertainty, if you are strong. You can choose for yourself what you want to believe. And I believe that Asla was not eaten by trolls. I have spoken with many refugees who survived that stormy night. They welcomed the storm. They preferred to freeze to death than be caught by the trolls.”
Alfadas could well imagine that Asla had felt the same way. He knew how spirited and defiant she could be. In his mind, he saw her in front of him, her chin raised obstinately, her hands on her hips. None of fate’s blows had ever been able to knock her down. She had always been stronger than him. When they had quarreled, he had almost always been the one to back down first. To never hear her voice again seemed to him unimaginable. But she would have done exactly what Ollowain said. With Kadlin in her arms, she would have marched away into the storm. She would have stayed on her feet for a long time; with Kalf’s support, she would have gone on until she had no strength left. In the end, the fisherman would probably have carried both of them. Kalf was a strong man. And when he, too, was exhausted and unable to go on, he would have looked for a place out of the wind.
Tears stood in Alfadas’s eyes. No doubt they would have taken Kadlin between them to warm her with both their bodies. Then Firn would have drawn his white mantle over all three. They fell asleep, never to wake. It was said that if the god of winter came to fetch you like that, you felt no pain.
Ollowain took him in his arms. The last time he had done that was when,
as a young boy, Alfadas had been beaten again and again by the pupils in his elven sword-fighting class. As hard as he tried, he was never as agile or fast as the others. The swordmaster had told him then that he would still win if he could absorb more blows than the others. They had beaten him black and blue with their practice swords, and he had taken it all with gritted teeth. And, in fact, from that day on he had, at least occasionally, been victorious.
Alfadas gritted his teeth now, too, because it was that way again. He had to take the blows that life dealt him. At least he still had a wonderful son.
“I have to go now,” he said, his voice calm. “You know what they want.”
“Yes. And I believe it’s right.”
Alfadas was not so sure about that. He thought of how Lambi had left Phylangan. The accusations the jarl had leveled at him then had been justified: he hadn’t given any thought to what would become of his men when they returned to the Fjordlands.
Alfadas walked beside Ollowain in silence as they descended the steep reindeer trail together. Then they turned to the left, onto the path that led to the large barn behind the village.
“And here I was thinking you’d snuck off!” Lambi stepped out of a patch of fir trees. “I’ve been searching for you for ages, Alfadas. Let me tell you, you’re making a bigger fuss than a girl before her wedding. Come on!”
The jarl had something wrapped in a white cloth jammed under his arm. When he noticed Alfadas’s gaze, he frowned. “Today’s a special day. I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Why would we fight?”
Lambi threw back the cloth and showed him a gleaming golden winged helmet. “A king should have a crown. Try it on! I’ve got some parchment with me to pad it if it’s too big.”
Alfadas instantly recognized the helmet. “You stole it from the grave. You—”
“Its owner didn’t bat an eye when I took it,” Lambi interrupted him. “And a king needs a crown—or at least something that looks a bit like a crown.”
Ollowain laughed. “Let him do it, Alfadas. You don’t get to be king without a coronation, after all. And you can’t do that without a crown. Even Emerelle puts up with it now and then.”
The duke looked at the old helmet doubtfully. “You don’t understand. The people believe that this is the helmet of a famous king. It’s—”
“That’s the whole damned plan!” Lambi almost shouted. “They said King Osaberg would return when the Fjordlands needed him the most. And that’s exactly what’s happened. He’s been gone for centuries, a character in old stories. And all of a sudden, he’s back—in our people’s hour of greatest need. The old prophecy has come true. He came to give your son the sword with which he slew the troll, and now he’s giving you his crown. Your rule begins—”
“With a lie!” Alfadas interrupted him, upset. “It isn’t Osaberg crowning me, but my best friend, who I regret to say has no morals whatsoever.”
“Trust him, Alfadas,” said Ollowain. “What Lambi is trying to do is good and right. Kings are weighed with a different scale. The people will look up to you, and depending on what they see, they will find hope or lose faith. Use the stories that surround King Osaberg. Miracles don’t just happen, Alfadas. They are made. Who are you hurting by making this helmet and its enchanted history your crown? Be generous! Give your future subjects a miracle that will lend them strength in these difficult times.”
“Listen to a man who knows his way around kings and princes,” Lambi said. “Now will you finally come along?”
Alfadas consented, although his misgivings had not left him. They led him to the barn, and he entered through a narrow door at the back.
Inside, it was stuffy and hot. The large room was overflowing. It stank of sweat, soot, and clothes that had been worn too long. Many of his veterans from Albenmark had come to be present at his coronation, but there were also the refugees—men, women, and children with careworn faces but hope in their eyes. Feeling ashamed of himself, Alfadas thought of Ollowain’s words about miracles. It was up to him, now, to make them happen. He had to try.
At the end of the barn, a small stage had been constructed so that all could see the new king being crowned. As Alfadas climbed the steps, he felt like he was climbing a gallows. When he left that stage, he knew, his old life would be forfeit.
In the front row of those present, he saw his son beside Emerelle. Ulric was looking up at him, his face aglow with pride. He held Halgard by the hand. The girl’s eyes were hidden behind a narrow snow mask.
Lambi told Alfadas to kneel. Then he unwrapped Osaberg’s helmet from the white cloth and raised it high overhead. The jarl delivered a moving oration about the golden king and his return in their hour of direst need, the tale reaching its climax with a bony hand offering him the helmet, and Osaberg, in a deep, sepulchral voice, enjoining him to crown the elvenjarl as king.
The brazen lies took Alfadas’s breath away. But he also saw how the warriors, farmers, and fishermen below, in front of the stage, accepted what Lambi was telling them. After all their suffering, they wanted to believe in the miracle.
Finally, Lambi crowned him with the heavy winged helmet. Alfadas rose to his feet and was greeted with rejoicing cheers. In the midst of all the noise, the notes of a lute sounded.
Alfadas felt the blood rising in his cheeks. He knew the melody. The cheers turned to singing.
“There comes the jarl of Firnenstayn
with his elven blade so fine.
The lion heart of many a fray
Sent by the gods to win the day.”
He found Veleif’s heroic song overblown and embarrassing. He had to remember to give the skald an important task in his court—anything to keep him from writing songs in the future. And he’d better keep Lambi close by, too. Maybe he’d make a good duke?
In the doorway of the barn, a slim white-clad figure appeared, her cloak billowing around her. Hardly anyone noticed her arrival, but Alfadas could not look away. She seemed to him like a child of winter, born of snow, just as she had on that distant day when he had first seen her at court in Albenmark—the day on which he had lost his heart to Silwyna.
SUMMER
Filled with love, the fisherman watched the blond woman on the shore. She sat on a rock in the sun and nursed her baby daughter. They had decided between them to call the girl Silwyna. If it had been a boy, they would have named him Luthson, for the weaver of fate had been generous with his gifts. Now Kadlin jumped out of the bushes. She had a long switch in her hand and held it over the water as if she were trying to fish. Quickly, though, she grew impatient and ran over to her mother.
The fisherman pulled in the line with the bird’s foot. It had served him well so many times already. As he pulled it in, he thought back to the snowstorm and the trolls. He had never understood why the man-eaters had taken them to that cave. At first, he had believed that they would slaughter him. They had kindled a large fire and brought in a good supply of firewood. He could no longer remember everything that had happened, not exactly. A fever had overcome him, and when he awoke the trolls were gone. They had even left behind a few nuts and some beechmast.
Then Silwyna had come. The fisherman looked again to the woman on the shore: his woman. She waved to him. It had been her decision not to return.
Silwyna had helped them find this remote valley with the lake. It lay like a great blue eye among extensive forests, and there were fish and game enough to feed his small family. The fisherman said a silent prayer of thanks to the weaver of fate.
Again, his mind turned to the trolls and the elf woman. It was foolish, as a human, to try to understand what lay behind the actions of the Albenfolk.
The fisherman stood and poled his boat toward the shore. What did he care about the Albenfolk? He was happy. That was all that mattered.
APPENDICES
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Aesa—Daughter of the farmer at Carnfort Farm
Aileen—Lover of Farodin; in Ollowain’s parable, a le
gendary archer in the saga of Nazirluma and Aileen
Alathaia—Elven princess of Langollion; in a feud with Emerelle; it is said that she has walked the dark paths of magic
Alfadas Mandredson—Jarl of Firnstayn and prince of the Fjordlands in times of war; son of Mandred; grew up in Emerelle’s royal household in Albenmark
Alfeid—Washerwoman in Firnstayn; mother of Halgard
Alvias—Elven chamberlain of Emerelle’s court; commonly known as Master Alvias
Andorin—Elven healer in Emerelle’s court
Antafes—Centaur warrior; member of Emerelle’s ceremonial escort in Vahan Calyd
Asla—Wife of Alfadas
Atta Aikhjarto—Souled oak tree that saved the life of the hero Mandred
Audhild—Wife of the farmer at Carnfort Farm
Birga—Troll shaman; foster daughter of Skanga
Blood—Alfadas’s dog; a gift from Asla’s uncle Ole
Boltan—Troll artillery chief
Branbeard—King of the trolls
Brud—Scout in the service of Skanga
Dalla—Healer in the service of King Horsa
Dolmon—Kobold in Phylangan
Dumgar—Troll duke of Mordrock; adviser to King Branbeard
Egil—Son of King Horsa; heir to the throne of the Fjordlands
Eginhard von Daluf—Chronicler of King Horsa
Eleborn—Prince beneath the waves; ruler of the Albenkin that live in the oceans of Albenmark
Emelda—One of the names used by humans for Emerelle
Emerelle—Elven queen of Albenmark; one of the oldest beings in her world
Erek Erekson—Fisherman in Firnstayn; father of Asla
Fahlyn—Young elf woman from Phylangan; a member of the Farangel clan
Farodin—Legendary elven hero
Fenryl—Elven count of the Normirga
Finn—Oldest son of the farmer at Wehrberghof
Firn—God of winter in the pantheon of the Fjordlanders
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