To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [213]
‘Of course. Ask,’ she said. He had turned. His face was withered with cold, his shallow eyes icy blue.
He said, ‘Is it good magic, that your friend has? He says that it is. Do you believe this?’
It was the question occupying them all. There is a grammatical right, a geometrical right and a theological right. And there is the enigma of Nicholas de Fleury. She looked Glímu-Sveinn in the eye and said, ‘I will answer you when you tell me what you were doing outside the farmhouse at Selsund.’
Their ponies slithered and trudged. Hers pecked, and his hand came out to steady it. A veil had dimmed the horizon, as if the thunderstorm had overdrawn the day’s light. Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘We are a Christian country, but there are spirits older than Christ. Some places are known for them. If I have a little extra whey, or some tallow, I leave it.’
‘His magic is good,’ Kathi said. ‘It found Sigfús. It has found others. It is good because Nikolás-riddari did not seek it, and does not want it, and uses it only out of necessity. His chaplain permits it.’ She didn’t mention divining for metals. She hoped he would remember the effort it had taken to find Sersanders and Sigfús.
‘I see,’ said Glímu-Sveinn. ‘I thought perhaps he was like Sorcerer-Hedin, who was skoll-víss, deceitful, and could be hired to cause death; but perhaps he is more like Gunnar Hamundarson. You have heard some of our stories?’
‘Who was Gunnar Hamundarson?’ Kathi said. She glanced round briefly. Behind her, an approving Bank jerked up one of its borrowed four thumbs.
‘A fine man. His home was in Hlídarendi, where we are going. They say he sits there today, chanting inside his burial mound.’
‘How did he die?’ Kathi said.
‘They winched off the roof of his farmhouse and killed him. He was the dearest friend of Burnt Njall. You know Njall’s story, nei?’
‘Tell me,’ Kathi said. There were five hours of daylight still left. Or less, of course, if either one of the mountains gave way. Enough to get to Hlídarendi, and hear Gunnar singing inside his grave-mound, but not enough to get to the shore, and Robin, and safety. They had to live through the night to have a chance of that.
Glímu-Sveinn told his story, his voice jerking and hoarse in the absolute silence. She strove to follow it. Behind her, the two men were silent. She supposed Glímu-Sveinn had taken on himself, for the present, the role of entertainer to give them a respite – and also, Kathi thought, to bring back to mind those firelit winter days with his family, with the busy hands of his sons and his daughters about him. She glanced at him now and then, but he was always looking ahead.
That was the good part. Very soon after that, there was no room for tales, for the obstacles in their way were increasing. At first, they tried to circumvent the abrupt gullies, the fierce narrow streams and the bluffs, returning when they could to their route. Then a sigh and a whine brought a gust of frolicking wind and a haze of snow fine as dust, which forced Glímu-Sveinn to dismount, for both landmarks and track were now masked, and there was no chain of immaculate cairns in this tumbled and changeable territory, where even magnets were useless.
For a while the Icelander walked, probing ahead with his stave. Time went on, and the snow-haze persisted. Finally, he halted and pushed back his hood. There was snow on his cheeks as well as his beard, and his pursed lips were blue. He said, ‘We can go on, or we can dig in until it clears.’
‘Will it clear?’ Benecke said. ‘In time to reach Hlídarendi before dark?’
‘It would have to clear at once, and even then one could not be sure,’ said Glímu-Sveinn.
‘Then surely it is better to