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after some furious argument. Gudrun stood, watching them come; Ragnar barely turned his head. She knows, Jessa thought in a sudden panic; she knows everything. Gudrun smiled at her, a sweet, cold smile.
    â€œThe preparations for the journey are made,” Ragnar snapped. “The ship leaves early, with the tide.” His hands tapped impatiently on the chair arm, a smooth wolfshead, worn by many fingers.
    As Gudrun moved to the table, Jessa glimpsed a peculiar glistening wisp of stuff around her wrist; she realized it was snakeskin, knotted and braided. The woman took up a jug and poured a trickle of thin red liquid into four brightly enameled cups. Jessa picked at her glove; Thorkil’s strained look caught her eye. But they would have to drink it—it was the faring cup, always drunk before a journey. One after another, silent, they picked up the cups. Gudrun lifted hers with slim white fingers and sipped, looking at them over the rim all the while. Playing with us, Jessa thought, and drank immediately, feeling the hot sour taste flame in her throat. Thorkil tossed his off and banged the cup down empty. Mord’s lips barely touched the rim.
    â€œAnd we have these for you both.” She nodded to a thrall; he brought two arm rings, thin delicate silver snakes, and gave them to Jessa and Thorkil. The silver was icy to touch; it had come from her mines where men died in the ice to find it. Jessa wanted to fling hers in the woman’s face, but Mord caught her eye and she was silent, cold and stiff with anger.
    Gudrun turned away. “Take them out.”
    â€œWait!”
    Every eye turned to Thorkil; men who had been talking fell silent. “Don’t you mind?” he asked, his fingers clenched on the ring. “That we’ll see? That we’re going there…?” Despite himself he could not finish.
    Jessa saw a movement in the corner; it was the old man Grettir. He had turned his head and was watching.
    Gudrun stared straight at Thorkil. All she said was “Thrasirshall is the pit where I fling my rubbish.” She stepped close to him; he shivered in the coldness that came out from her.
    â€œI want you to see him. I’ll enjoy thinking of it. I’ll enjoy watching your face, because I will see it, however far away you think me. Even in the snows and the wilderness nothing hides from me.”
    She glanced down, and his eyes followed hers. He had gripped the ring so tight the serpent’s mouth had cut him. One drop of blood ran down his fingers.

Five
Better gear than good sense
A traveler cannot carry.
    The ship lay low in the water, rocking slightly. In the darkness it was a black shadowy mass, its dragon prow stark against the stars. Men, muffled into shapelessness by heavy cloaks, tossed the last few bundles aboard.
    Jessa turned. From here the Jarlshold was a low huddle of buildings under the hill, the hall rising taller than the rest, its serpent-head gables spitting out at her.
    â€œDid you sleep?” Thorkil asked, yawning.
    â€œYes.” She did not tell him about the dreams, though; the dream of walking down those endless corridors full of closed doors, the dream of Gudrun. Or that she had woken and opened a corner of the shutter at midnight, gazing out into the slow, silent snowfall, while Mord’s youngest daughter had sighed and snuggled beside her.
    Now Mord was coming over, with the young man called Helgi, who was to be captain of the ship.
    â€œWell…” Mord kissed her clumsily and thumped Thorkil on the back. “At least Wulfgar got away. They won’t find him now. The weather looks good for you....” For a moment he stared out over the water. Then he said, “Words are no use, so I won’t waste them. I will try and get Ragnar to revoke the exile, but he may not live long, and Gudrun will certainly not change things. You must face it. We all must.”
    â€œWe know that,” Jessa said quietly. “Don’t