Siglinda turned her attention back to the two men. Unnoticed, she sat on her hearthstone, her doll pressed under her chin for comfort, and listened to much talk that she did not understand.

  Gisl brought them ale and smoking meat, and other men came in from outside, stamping snow from their boots to run and melt on the hard-packed floor. They sat down at the table with Wulf and the stranger, her uncle Galarr and her three tall cousins and a crowd of her father’s liegemen. They all sat drinking and talking, their conversation and laughter like rough waves that washed over Siglinda, reassuring her that all was normal. In their midst Grimnir the stranger sat, silent for the most part, putting in a word in his deep voice now and again. Her unblinking eyes saw that he drank mead but did not eat. Instead he tore scraps from his meat and tossed them to the gray beasts crouching at his feet, who snapped them up and sat back to wait for more. One turned his yellow eyes on Siglinda and she shrank back in fear, startled by the feral depths of ferocity. But he turned away with indifference, keeping his gaze on his master’s hand.

  The fire burned low and more logs were thrown on, while the wind howled more wildly outside. At length when Gisl’s attention wandered, Sigmund crept from the kitchen to join Siglinda on the hearth. He gave her a rough pat and jostled her over to make more room for himself. With him beside her she felt more secure. But the stranger glanced over his shoulder at her brother, giving him a long stare from his one eye, and her heart beat faster until he turned away. She seized Sigmund’s arm in such a tight grip that he grew irritated and pushed her away, leaning forward to hear what the men were saying.

  “I challenge you to a riddle game,” Grimnir said to Wulf, lifting his mead cup high, his white teeth flashing. “Can you match me? Do you dare to wager?”

  Wulf gave a burst of laughter at that, and cast a knowing grin at his brother Galarr. “I am seldom beaten at that game. Try me!”

  “Are you sure?” asked Grimnir, his one eye gleaming under the heavy lid. “It could prove dangerous to wager against any stranger who comes to the door.”

  “I do not fear you. I can answer any question you can ask,” said Wulf. “But what will you wager?”

  “My head,” said the stranger promptly.

  The talk died down; there was incredulous laughter and some astonishment. Wulf grunted and banged his cup down on the plank. “You are sure of yourself. But what use is your head to me? It would not even make good soup. What about that jewel you wear at your throat? Will you wager that? The ruby against—what you will.”

  The stranger’s cloak was clasped by a smoky red ruby set in a silver brooch. He did not glance at it, but said with a grim smile, “What I will? Very well, I will have what I will. You begin.”

  Wulf narrowed his eyes in thought. Siglinda watched her father’s face anxiously, sensing more at stake in the contest than she could name. Beside her Sigmund squirmed with excitement.

  At last Wulf said in his slow husky voice, “Who is it that hauls forth Day to brighten the world of men, and who drags forth Night from the east and makes the grass glisten where he passes?”

  There was a rumble of voices, and a stir at the table. Grimnir showed his teeth in a smile as he replied, “The horse who hauls forth Day is named Bright-Mane, with shining golden mane, and the one who drags Night from the east is Ice Mane. The foam that falls from his bit is the morning dew.”

  “You answer well,” said Wulf. “But how well can you ask?”

  “You shall judge for yourself,” said Grimnir, and drained his cup. “Now tell me, where does the wind come from that breathes over mortal men?”

  “That is easy,” said Wulf, wiping foam from his mustache. “At the world’s edge sits eagle-feathered Hraesvelg. From the wafting of his wings comes the wind that blows over mortal men.”

  “You know a little,” admitted Grimnir. “Ask again.”

  “Tell me this,” Wulf said. “At the end of days, what horn will be blown to sound the warning?”

  “The end of days?” murmured Grimnir with a shrewd glance. “Do you concern yourself with so far off a time?”

  “All men know that Ragnarok must come; only the Aesir know when,” said Wulf. “You are stalling for time.”

  “Perhaps I am,” said Grimnir, and smiled again in the way Siglinda did not like. “But the horn heard at the end of days will be the Gjallert-horn, that Heimdall will blow at the coming of the hosts of Muspellheim.” He drank again from the cup that Gisl had refilled for him. “I drink to the courage of your heirs,” he said with a glance at Sigmund, “for they will need it. Now tell me this: what will be the first sign of the last battle?”

  Wulf drummed on the table, his brows knit. Siglinda held her breath, trying to think, to remember the tales her grandmother had told her, of the barking of the dog with the bloody mouth, and the crowing of the cocks to wake the sleepers: the rusty-red cock of Hel, the crimson cock of Jotunheim, the golden cock in Asgard. But it was none of those that Wulf mentioned. He lifted his head, his brow clearing. “It is the Fimbul Winter, which will last three winters without summer: the Winter of the Winds, the Winter of the Sword, and the Winter of the Wolf.”

  “You are right,” muttered Grimnir, “though you speak the names lightly enough. Have you another to ask?”

  “One more,” said Wulf, and cast a knowing glance down the table. “Tell me, in that battle, at whose hand will Odin meet his fate?”

  The stranger was still; Siglinda had not realized before how still a man could be. The fire crackled and in the kitchen a woman laughed, but in the hall a weight of silence seemed to have fallen. The one-eyed man gazed at Wulf. “You inquire into weighty matters,” he said softly. “Who shall slay Odin? I will tell you, for I have seen it in a vision. Only one is strong enough. Only the jaws of Fenris Wolf are fierce enough to crack the heart of the Aesir-lord.”

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  A branch broke and fell flaming onto the hearth, but no one moved to replace it. Every man seemed mesmerized by Grimnir’s bright one-eyed gaze. “Now I will ask you a question,” he went on in the same quiet voice that sent shivers up Siglinda’s spine. “Tell me, what did Odin whisper in the ear of his son Baldr as he was borne to the pyre?”

  Wulf frowned and cast an uneasy glance to either side, but was met by blank faces. “No one knows that but Odin himself.”

  “You are right,” said the stranger.

  The eldest of the three cousins was young and brash; into the crackling silence he said, “You cannot ask a riddle that you do not know the answer to.”

  “That is also right,” murmured the stranger. He rose from the bench, rose taller and taller until to Siglinda’s fearful eyes he seemed to tower like a mountain over the seated men, mere shrunken pygmies beneath his cloud-wreathed height. “I have won our wager,” he said, and his deep voice echoed in the hall as if from a vast distance. “And I will have what I will. I warned you it might prove dangerous.”

  Wulf stared up at him, his face paling beneath its ruddy hue. Then he groped stumbling to his feet. Siglinda shivered in fear, not understanding, afraid of the bewilderment in her father’s face. Sigmund sprang suddenly to his feet, his fists clenched and his face red with anger. But the stranger clapped him on the shoulder as he swung away from the bench and said, “We shall meet again, young warrior.”

  He strode to the door, the two gray beasts at his heels. There he paused and with a brief nod said to Wulf, “I thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps some day I may requite it.” The black cavern of the door gaped, and he was gone.

  Gisl had stood still as a statue behind her chair. She hurried forward to catch Sigmund up in her arms, and said to Wulf, “What was all that about? Did he leave in anger?”

  “No, not in anger.” Wulf shook his head as if he still groped for understanding. “He won the wager.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A great chieftain,” said Wulf slowly, blinking as if waking from sleep. “A lord among men. His visit was an honor to our house.”

  Gisl turned away, still clutching Sigmund, but Siglinda heard her say through tight lips, “An honor, maybe, that we could do without.” Siglinda’s own throat ached with foreboding. She stared at the closed door, hearing the storm bluster behind it, and thought that she could distinguish through the wind’s moaning a wild hollow sound, as if thundering hooves mounted the air.

  Sigmund stood in the stable doorway, looking out over the soft snow-shrouded hillocks and dimples of the pastures to the dark ragged outline of the forest beyond, as he waited for his father. His fingers were twined in the coarse hair of his pony’s mane, standing ready saddled and bridled, and his heart was buoyant with excitement. He squinted down at his boots, new leather ones that his mother had finished only last week, as thick-soled as the ones his father wore. Standing in them, he felt almost as tall as his three tall cousins, who were waiting in the stable yard for Wulf to come out of the house. Bjallart was whooping and horse-playing as usual; with an expression of high disdain, Vellart caught his leg and tipped him off his horse into a snowdrift. Njall, the eldest, watched with amusement, pretending to be too dignified for such antics.

  His father came out of the house, with his mother beside him and Siglinda following them. Wulf wore his broadsword buckled around his waist and carried the boar spear, slim-bladed, with its heavy crossbar to keep the beast from rushing on the hunter. He paced across the courtyard with his calm, unhurried stride. Beside him hurried Gisl, warning and exhorting as she always did when Sigurd was involved. He sighed as the anxious sound of her voice reached him.

  “The boy is almost grown,” said Wulf as he reached the stable and took the bridle of his horse from Njall. “He will do well enough.”

  “He is only nine,” insisted Gisl. Her face, under its crown of fair hair, looked pinched and bloodless in the wan light of the clouded morning. “He should really wait another year. If you ride far, he will be exhausted.”

  “He will do fine,” repeated Wulf, strapping the boar spear to the saddle. “Let’s go, lads.”

  Ulfert came running with the hounds, who strained at their leads and bayed with excitement. The dogs could smell the

  drive and purpose of the men, as they climbed onto their horses amid prancing and tossing of manes. Sigurd pulled himself into his saddle, a quilted leather one that Egill had helped him make that summer. Gisl was beside him, handing up a woollen blanket. “Wrap this around you,” she said. “And if you get wet, be sure you dry off and get warm before you go any farther.”

  “I will be fine, mother,” he said in unconscious mimicry of his father. In truth, it was all he could think of to say.

  Wulf led his horse over to Gisl. “We should not be gone more than a day or two,” he said, his hand on her shoulder. “Stay close to the house. I have heard ill rumors of our neighbors to the north.”

  “What rumors?” she said sharply.

  Wulf shrugged. “A man stabbed at a bridal feast, some hot tempers roused. It may come to nothing if those involved are willing to pay wergild; but it has not yet been settled. Those Hreidgoths are a wild and treacherous brood. If there is a blood feud brewing, I would as soon stay out of it.”

  Gisl sniffed. “Another of those senseless quarrels that spring up when men’s wits are overheated with drink. Ale is not as good for the health as some people say. But our neighbors’ quarrels do not concern us.”

  He frowned. “Aye, but we are kin to Beigad, whose son I hear was embroiled in the slaying. I have long told Beigad to put a curb on that over-hasty boy of his; now it may be too late.”

  “All this can have nothing to do with us,” said Gisl, though she began to look anxious.

  “I trust you are right. But it will do no harm to keep a lookout.”

  “I will.”

  He gave her a quick embrace and a clumsy pat on the back before mounting his horse. She watched him ride out into the yard and call to his men to mount up, a worried crease between her brows.

  Siglinda had stood quietly behind her mother all this while. As Sigmund wriggled his feet into the thongs he felt her gaze on him, and looked up to meet the mild blue eyes that matched his. He threw her a crooked half smile, knowing her feelings exactly. She would have liked to ride with them, but since it was impossible, she shared his happiness without grudging him the excitement he craved. She gave him back a quick warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Few words were necessary between them, so deep was the bond of understanding they shared. Their rapport ran quicker than speech; at times it seemed to him that she could read his heart. Her existence was as necessary to him as air or water, but he did not often think about it. The knowledge of her affection was simply a comforting thread that ran beneath all his thoughts.

  In trying to loop the rein around his hand he dropped it, and Siglinda came closer to hand it up to him. “I will see you soon,” he said, glancing into her eyes.

  “A safe journey,” she said in her soft voice. At his grimace she cast a glance at her mother’s shawled back, and with a suppressed laugh amended it. “Good hunting, then.”

  He nodded and kicked the pony’s flanks, cantering after his father who with the other men was already halfway across the pasture. He caught up with them at the edge of the forest, and paused there to look back and wave. In the pale dawn light his mother was a slim dark shadow against the snowfields, but Siglinda was a small running gleam, that waved and ran back into the house with a flash of bright gold hair. He ducked his head and rode on under the branches.