The Liar’s Key. Mark Lawrence

older Hrothson leaned forward and hawked up a mess of dark phlegm, spitting it to the boards. ‘That for the Hardassa. Odin grant you vengeance and Thor the strength to take it.’

      Snorri clapped his fist to his chest though the words gave him no comfort. Thor might be god of strength and war, Odin of wisdom, but he sometimes wondered if it wasn’t Loki, the trickster god, who stood behind what unfolded. A lie can run deeper than strength or wisdom. And hadn’t the world proved to be a bitter joke? Perhaps even the gods themselves lay snared in Loki’s greatest trick and Ragnarok would hear the punch line spoken. ‘I seek wisdom,’ he said.

      ‘Well,’ said Old Hrothson. ‘There’s always the priests.’

      All of them laughed, even the honour guards.

      ‘No really,’ the younger Hrothson spoke for the first time. ‘My father can advise you about war, crops, trade and fishing. Do you speak of the wisdom of this world or the other?’

      ‘A little of both,’ Snorri admitted.

      ‘Ekatri.’ Old Hrothson nodded. ‘She has returned. You’ll find her winter hut by the falls on the south side, three miles up the fjord. There’s more in her runes than in the smokes and iron bells of the priests with their endless tales of Asgard.’

      The son nodded, and Snorri took his leave. When he glanced back both men were as they had been when he left them five years before, gazing out to sea.

      An hour later Snorri approached the witch’s hut, a small roundhouse, log-built, the roof of heather and hide, a thin trail of smoke rising from the centre. Ice still fringed the falls, crashing down behind the hut in a thin and endless cascade, pulses of white driving down through the mist above the plunge pool.

      A shiver ran through Snorri as he followed the rocky path to Ekatri’s door. The air tasted of old magic, neither good nor ill, but of the land, having no love for man. He paused to read the runes on the door. Magic and Woman. Völva it meant. He knocked and, hearing nothing, pushed through.

      Ekatri sat on spread hides, almost lost beneath a heap of patched blankets. She watched him with one dark eye and a weeping socket. ‘Come in then. Clearly you’re not taking no answer for an answer.’

      Snorri ducked low to avoid the door lintel and then to clear the herbs hanging from the roof stays in dry bunches. The small fire between them coiled its smoke up into the funnel of the roof, filling the single room with a perfume of lavender and pine that almost obscured the undercurrent of rot.

      ‘Sit, child.’

      Snorri sat, taking no offence. Ekatri looked to be a hundred, as wizened and twisted as a clifftop tree.

      ‘Well? Do you expect me to guess?’ Ekatri dipped her clawed hand into one of the bowls set before her and tossed a pinch of the powder into the embers before her, putting a darker curl into the rising smoke.

      ‘In the winter assassins came to Trond. They came for me. I want to know who sent them.’

      ‘You didn’t ask them?’

      ‘Two I had to kill. The last I disabled, but I couldn’t make him speak.’

      ‘You’ve no stomach for torture, Undoreth?’

      ‘He had no mouth.’

      ‘A strange creature indeed.’ Ekatri drew out a glass jar from her blanket, not a thing Northmen could make. A thing of the Builders, and in the greenish liquid within, a single eyeball, turning on the slow current. The witch’s own perhaps.

      ‘They had olive skin, were human in all respects save for the lack of a mouth, that and the ungodly quickness of them.’ Snorri drew out a gold coin from his pocket. ‘Might be from Florence. They had the blood price on them, in florins.’

      ‘That doesn’t make them Florentines. Half the jarls in Norseheim have a handful of florins in their warchests. In the southern states the nobles spend florins in their gambling halls as often as their own currency.’ Snorri passed the coin over into Ekatri’s outstretched claw. ‘A double florin. Now they are more rare.’

      Ekatri set the coin upon the lid of the jar where her lost eye floated. She drew a leather bag from her blankets and shook it so the contents clacked against each other. ‘Put your hand in, mix them about, tip them out … here.’ She cleared a space and marked the centre.

      Snorri did as he was bidden. He’d had the runes read for him before. This message would be a darker one, he fancied. He closed his hand around the tablets, finding them colder and heavier than he had expected, then drew his fist out, opened it palm up and let the rune stones slip from his hand onto the hides below. It seemed as though each fell through water, its path too slow, twisting more than it should. When they landed a silence ran through the hut, underwriting the finality of the pronouncement writ in stone between the witch and himself.

      Ekatri studied the tablets, her face avid, as if hungry for something she might read among them. A very pink tongue emerged to wet ancient lips.

      ‘Wunjo, face down, beneath Gebo. A woman has buried your joy, a woman may release it.’ She touched another two face up. ‘Salt and Iron. Your path, your destination, your challenge and your answer.’ A gnarled finger flipped over the final runestone. ‘The Door. Closed.’

      ‘What does all that mean?’ Snorri frowned.

      ‘What do you think it means?’ Ekatri watched him with wry amusement.

      ‘Am I supposed to be the völva for you?’ Snorri rumbled, feeling mocked. ‘Where’s the magic if I tell you the answer?’

      ‘I let you tell me your future and you ask where the magic lies?’ Ekatri reached out and swirled the jar beside her so the pickled eyeball within spun with the current. ‘The magic might be in getting into that thick warrior skull of yours the fact that your future stands on your choices and only you can make them. The magic lies in knowing that you seek both a door and the happiness you think lies behind it.’

      ‘There’s more,’ Snorri said.

      ‘There is always more.’

      Snorri drew up his jerkin. The scrapes and tears the Fenris wolf had given him were scabbed and healing, bruises livid across his chest and side, but across his ribs a long single slice lay glistening, the flesh about it an angry red, and along the wound’s length a white encrustation of salt. ‘My gift from the assassins.’

      ‘An interesting injury.’ Ekatri reached forward with withered fingers. Snorri flinched but kept his place as she set her hand across the slit. ‘Does it hurt, Snorri ver Snagason?’

      ‘It hurts.’ Through gritted teeth. ‘It only gives me peace when we sail. The longer I stay put the worse it gets. I feel a … tug.’

      ‘It pulls you south.’ Ekatri removed her hand, wiping it on her furs. ‘You’ve felt this kind of call before.’

      Snorri nodded. The bond with Jal exerted a similar draw. He felt it even now, slight, but there, wanting to pull him back to the tavern he’d left the southerner in.

      ‘Who has done this?’ He met the völva’s one-eyed gaze.

      ‘Why is a better question.’

      Snorri picked up the stone Ekatri had named the Door. It no longer felt unduly cold or heavy, just a piece of slate, graven with a single rune. ‘Because of the door. And because I seek it,’ he said.

      Ekatri held her hand out for the Door and Snorri passed the stone to her, feeling a twinge of reluctance at releasing it.

      ‘Someone in the south wants what you carry, and they want you to bring it to them.’ Ekatri licked her lips, again – the quickness of her tongue disturbing. ‘See how one simple cut draws all the runes together?’

      ‘The Dead King did this? He sent these assassins?’ Snorri asked.

      Ekatri shook her head. ‘The Dead King is not so subtle.