Thief Eyes - Janni Lee Simner [29]
The man stepped toward us. Ari edged closer to me. Behind us the sound of wings beat on. “And who might you two be?” The man’s voice was lazy and slow, as if he were used to having all the time in the world. He glanced back at Ari. “Your hair is white for one so young.”
Ari straightened beside me, though his hand was sweating in mine. “I am Ari, Katrin’s son. This is Haley, Gabriel’s daughter.” Gabriel—my father? “Who are you?”
“Svan is my name. Bjorn’s son. I guard this place in return for my lodging here.” He took another step toward us. I stepped back and nearly stumbled over the top stair. Ari grabbed my arm, steadying me.
He looked at the man. “Svan like in the saga? Surely not.”
The man laughed, though his gaze didn’t leave us. “Do they yet remember this old sorcerer out in the wide world?”
“Remember is one way of putting it,” Ari said.
Behind us, the wingbeats grew louder. My heart pounded. We had to get out of here. I stepped toward the door, not that I expected it to be that easy.
Svan grabbed his staff and stepped in front of me, blocking the way. He poked my chest with his free hand. I shoved him away, glaring.
Svan laughed again. “Haley. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t about to tell him so. Try that again and you’re going to get kicked where it hurts. Ari made a low sound that reminded me of his bear’s growl. “Haley is an American. A—a Vinlander, you might say.”
I couldn’t tell whether the words—American or Vinlander, whatever that was—meant anything to Svan. A pair of terns flew chittering into the room, landed on Svan’s desk, and watched us.
“Please,” Ari said, the politeness obviously forced. “We need to leave this place.”
The sorcerer chuckled. “I can see you are the sort of man who would rather bargain than fight, Ari, Katrin’s son.” Was that an insult? “Tell me what gift you would offer in return for your freedom.”
Ari hesitated, then squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “A poem,” he said.
I looked at Ari. He shrugged uneasily. “It works in the sagas,” he said in English.
If Svan understood English he gave no sign. He tilted his head as if intrigued. “Very well. Let’s hear your poem, boy.”
Two more small birds swooped into the room and perched in niches in the wall. Ari switched back to Icelandic, looking right at Svan as he recited:
This isn’t real, it’s just an old story
Lies and betrayals, words stab like swords
Birds cry out, someone’s running away
No one in stories heeds dusty old warnings.
This isn’t real, it’s just an old story
Footsteps that stop at the end of a path
The ones left behind, they keep the lies going
In stories there always are prices to pay.
This isn’t real, it’s just an old story
The pages all crumbling, the ending a mess
Stories don’t stop at the end of the summer
And magic has never solved anything yet.
Images flashed through my head at Ari’s words: feet running over gravel, a raven crying out, the rush of water. Svan stared at Ari, as if considering his poem, but then he threw back his head and laughed. “You price your words too high, boy. You’ll have to do better than that!”
I glared at Svan. “I liked it,” I said.
Ari looked down, and his neck flushed red. “I don’t have anything else to bargain with.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” A slow smile crossed Svan’s face. He reached out and grabbed my arm.
I tried to pull away, but he was stronger than he looked. I kneed him in the groin, hard.
Svan grunted and let go, doubling over. His staff clattered to the floor, but he didn’t stop smiling. “A strong woman. I like that.” He winked at Ari. “What do you say? A gift for a lonely old man? Long have I been in this mountain. She’ll more than buy your freedom.”
I tensed, ready to kick him, even as my eyes scanned the room for a weapon. The sorcerer straightened.
Ari shone the flashlight right into his eyes. Svan threw a hand up over