“I’m so sorry, Hake.”
“As am I.”
I slide my arm through his, and then I straighten up and lay my head on his shoulder. We sit that way for a long time, without saying anything more, and then we slowly make our way back up to the steading.
CHAPTER 23
A NEW WORLD
Everything in the hall is wet. We leave the doors open to let in the breeze and the sunlight until the hearth is dry enough to hold a fire. We hang out our blankets over the tables and rafters. The stores in the larder burned up, but the food Gunnlaug had brought into the hall survived. There isn’t much, but with just the five of us to feed, it should last us a short time.
And we can fish. Ole left his net piled in the corner of the room where he used to sit and mend it.
Hake limps around inspecting the hall, every post and beam. In spite of its slant, he proclaims the building safe. So we go about the business of settling in. The blankets and floor dry throughout the day, and by the time the sun sets, we are gathered around a small fire in the hearth. I sit in shock, unable to hold all of what has happened in my mind. We eat together, but none of us speaks. What is there to say when nothing beyond the food and the fire makes sense?
I look at our little household and consider telling a tale. But I decide against it. I can’t begin my story yet.
Alric’s isn’t finished, even though I know he is gone. And yet he isn’t. How can he be gone when his voice is still in my ears, and his stories still hang in the air? Even if he were standing right next to me, it would feel no different than it does now, for he is still here with me. How can the others not feel it?
The next few days bring a lashing of winter back to the fjord, a chill in the air though the ground is warming beneath our feet. We’re crossing that unstable battlefield of seasons where neither side holds its position for long. Hake’s leg is back to mending, in spite of what we put it through climbing up the ravine and down again.
The hall seems so empty with just the five of us, and none of us ventures much outside. The ravens and other scavengers have begun to bring in their harvest, and death is every where. The hall has become a place for me to hide from it. When we speak now, it is in whispers. But I think the others are just wary around me. Sometimes I hear them in hushed conversation, Bera, Raudi, and Hake. And sometimes I catch Alric’s name. But when they realize I’m listening, they go stiff and fall silent.
They think I haven’t accepted Alric’s death. But they don’t understand, and I can’t explain it to them. I am only starting to understand myself.
So I pretend not to hear them.
I wake the next morning, and Hake is gone. Harald and I sit at the table with Raudi, watching Bera serve up our day meal of porridge.
“Where is he?” I ask.
Bera sets a bowl before me. “Eat your food, now.”
“Where is Hake?”
She doesn’t answer.
Raudi hands me a spoon. “He said he needed to stretch his leg.”
“Then why didn’t you just tell me that?”
Bera points her ladle at me. “Eat.”
So I force myself to finish the food she has served me. And then I wait. And I pace the hall. Harald stays close to me, his hand never far from mine.
At least once a day he asks about Per and Asa. Where do I think they are? Do I think they are safe? When will Asa come back? Why did they leave? The weak answers I mutter do not appease him. There are no answers, and even if there were, they would not change a thing.
It is afternoon before Hake returns. He staggers through the door, and we all rush to help him. But he waves us off and takes a seat, his leg outstretched, breathing hard. His clothes are soaked to the waist.
I fold my arms. “Where have you been?” He tips his head back. “I need to keep my strength up.”
“You need to heal.”
“I can’t wait for this leg to heal before I use it.” I shake my head. “You’re as stubborn as Hilda was.” And I walk away in exasperation.
The berserker is gone again the next morning.
I march toward the door. “I’m going out there to get him and bring him back.”
“Leave him be,” Bera says.
“He needs to rest.”
“He knows best what he needs. He knows what we all need.”
“Well, I need him, and he doesn’t seem to know that.”
Bera rubs her eyes. “He knows that better than you think. Just be patient, Solveig. He’ll return soon.”
And she is right. A short while later, Hake enters the hall, and once again his legs are wet. But they are also black with mud, as are his sleeves, and dirt outlines his fingernails.
“Everyone please come with me,” he says. Then he pivots and leaves the hall.
We all file through the doors after him.
I squint in the sunlight and hold my hand to my brow to shield my eyes. The world is so sharp and vibrant, the blue of the sky, the deep green of the pine trees, the gray stone mountains. The sight of it is almost painful.
It takes a moment to notice that the bodies are gone from the yard. Is that what Hake has been doing? He leads us through the steading gate and down the forest path. The corpses have been removed from the trees as well. We reach the shore, and from there, the berserker leads us into the wood, toward the runestone.
I’m not sure why he would want us all to go there, but as we reach the clearing, and I see the monument rising from the ground, I understand.
There at the foot of the stone, next to a freshly dug hole in the earth, lies Alric’s body. I look away.
Somehow, Hake found him in the wreckage left behind by the flood. He brought him here and dug him a grave. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. Hake stands near the body, his hands behind his back, his head bowed. But his eyes are watching me, and I see the worry in his face.
“Solveig.” His voice sounds so gentle. “We must honor him. His story is ended.”
When I hear those words, it feels as though my insides are wrenched sideways. How can it be ended? I start to tremble.
Hake holds out his hand. “Come here.”
I step away from him.
“Solveig, he must be laid to rest.”
“Only Alric can end his story,” I say. “Only him. Not me.”
Hake touches his chin to his chest, frowning. A moment later, he looks up. “Did he not finish your tales for you?”
“What?”
“When you were first learning, did he not finish the tales you started?”
“He did.”
“Well, now it is your turn to repay him. He cannot finish his story, so you must do it for him.”
“I can’t.” And I am afraid that if I do, his voice will fade.
“If not you, then who?”
My throat feels as though it is collapsing. He is right. There is no one else. I hug myself and cross the few steps between Hake and me. I take a deep breath and I look down at Alric’s body. I force myself to notice all the signs of death. I make myself aware of his shrunken eyes. I acquaint myself with the paleness of his skin. I memorize the features of his empty expression. And then I begin to weep.
I fall to my knees, and cover my face. He is gone. He, of all of us, seemed able to pass through any storm, to find purchase and thrive wherever the wind and waves carried him. But this time, he did not allow himself to be carried. This time, he fought against the current. And so I kneel before his lifeless body.
Alric. Skald. My teacher, whom I only really knew by the act that took him from me. And yet he knew me, somehow.
He saw what I was, and who I was, though I was too afraid. But he found me and led me to myself. He showed me what a story is and can be.
Hake and the others let me weep and mourn undisturbed for some time.
But eventually, the grief retreats to a place where I can contain it, at least temporarily. I lift my face and take a surface-breaking breath. Then I rise and watch as Hake lays
Alric’s body into its grave. I bend and help cover him with icy half-winter soil. This hole must have been very difficult for Hake to dig.
Bera was right. He knew what I needed.
Nearly a week later, a mighty longship enters the fjord. And even from the cliff, I know it is my father.
We gather at the waterline to greet him. And as his vessel plows toward us, it seems that even the waves bow down before him. Harald bounces next to me, and I try to hold my head high, though my heart is beating fast. The longship touches land, and the men on deck extend a gangplank to the shore.
My father appears then, broad and tall, and makes his way down toward us. He wears a cape of fur over his gilded armor, and a golden helmet that shines like a captive sun. When he reaches us, he removes the helmet and reveals his mane of thick black hair. If he is surprised by what he sees, our ragged little group of survivors, he does not show it.
All of us bow.
Then Harald rushes to him “Father!”
“My son,” our father says, and places a hand on my brother’s head. He looks down at me. “My daughter.”
I cannot help but drop my eyes. “Father, it is wonderful to see you. I thank the gods that you are well.”
“And I thank them for your safety. Where is your sister?”
I look up. Of course he would ask about her, before he has even embraced me. He waits for my answer, his face a guarded battlement, and I don’t know what to say to him. I do not want to be the one to tell him.
“Solveig,” he says. “Where is Asa?”
Hake clears his throat. “My king, there is much you and I must speak of.”
Bera is busy cooking the night meal for our father and the boatload of warriors he brought with him. When the messengers he had sent failed to return, he assumed the worst and set sail immediately, expecting to find Gunnlaug waiting for him. But instead he finds a drowned fjord, a broken steading, and only a handful of us remaining.
He and Hake speak at one end of the hearth, where they have been for much of the day. My father listens without showing any emotion, and I wonder if Hake has mentioned my desire to become a skald. I hope not. That I want to tell him, myself.
I think I may have an opportunity when my father approaches me later in the day.
“Solveig, I would speak with you.”
“Gladly, Father.”
He leads me out of the hall, out into the yard. Muninn is on my shoulder, and my father stares at him as we walk.
“Are you not worried your raven will fly away?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because he did leave me once. And then he came back.”
My father nods. “I see.”
We walk around to the back of the hall, to the woodpile, and he gestures for me to sit on the stump there.
“I am troubled,” he says. “Hake has told me much. Per’s treachery weighs heavy on my mind, as do the deaths of so many good men. But Asa’s betrayal is a dagger to my heart.”
“She disappointed us all.”
“She did. But for now, I do not wish to speak of her any further. I want to talk about you.”
I wait.
“Hake has told me a great deal about what transpired in this place. I realize now that I am not as wise as I believed myself to be, and that is a hard thing.”
I brace myself.
“I misjudged the people closest to me.” He kneels down next to me. “And I have overlooked you, my daughter. Hake tells me that you are the reason he, the servants, and your brother are still alive. You have made me proud.”
I repeat his words in my head, turn them over and over to make sure they are what they seem to be. I have waited so long to hear them. For a single, beautiful moment, I relish his approval. But then I start to wonder why I have wanted it so desperately.
My father rubs his dark beard. “He also tells me that you have something you wish to ask me, and that I should listen to you.”
“I do have something to ask you,” I say. And he should listen to me. Before coming here, I didn’t think I had anything worth listening to, and maybe that is what has changed. Now that I know some of the strength I have inside me, perhaps I no longer need my father to tell me that I have it.
He smiles, and it lifts the shields from his eyes for a moment. “Ask me.”
I take a deep breath of spring air, the cleanest I have ever tasted. All winter long, I dreaded this moment, but now that it is here, I feel only joy and pride. “I would like to be a skald.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That I did not anticipate.”
“I trained all through the winter with Alric.”
“I would hear of him. Hake tells me he showed great courage in the end, but that you are the one who should tell me about that, also.”
For a moment, I wonder why Hake would leave Alric’s bravery for me to speak of, but then I realize why. Hake has thought of a way for me to show my father my abilities, while paying honor to Alric.
“Let me tell you a story, Father. Let me be your skald tonight, and then you will see.”
“You want to tell me a story? You and your raven?”
I look at Muninn. “Yes.”
“Very well. Tonight, then.” He stands, and I feel some of his soul-armor returning. “I must speak with Harald and then survey the steading. Go see if you can be of help anywhere. And I believe Hake wants to speak with you.”
“Yes, Father.”
He leaves, and I am at peace.
I find my berserker standing at the cliff. I join him, Muninn preening on my shoulder, and side by side, we face the ocean. The air, though not yet warm, smells of sea and pine. The sky is clean, new like the buds of green sprouting from the tree branches, and the fjord is open wide.
“I must thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For helping me see what I could be.”
“You would have seen it without me.”
“I don’t know if I would have. I don’t know who I would be if not for you. Or for Alric.”
“You would be who you have always been,” he says.
I pull my braid around in front of me and untie the leather ribbon holding it. Perhaps there is some truth in what he says. There is still much I have to learn. I finger out the braid, and then I vigorously rub my scalp and let the wind run through my loose hair.
“Father said you wanted to speak with me about something.”
“I do. Will you perform tonight?”
“Yes.”
“A story about Alric?”
I smile. “Yes, Hake.”
He nods. “Your father will be proud of you.”
“Perhaps he will.”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.
“I don’t think it matters to me as it used to,” I say. “I will be a skald, with or without my father’s approval.”
“For what it’s worth,” Hake says, “I am proud of you. But you are still young, and the world is dangerous. But I could … that is, your father might be more agreeable to your plan if he knew you would be safe. Perhaps … perhaps if I offer to come with you, wherever you choose to go. To guard you. Perhaps then he might agree.” Hake swallows. “If you would have me.”
My joy blossoms into a smile. “I wouldn’t have anyone else.”
He inhales deeply and returns his gaze to the sea. “I enjoy this time of year. Everything is so new.”
He is right. We have risen from the flood to a new world. One upon which we can write our own stories. Craft our own legends. I do not know what Alric meant about me shaking the earth or shaping it. But I know that I feel as if I am just waking up. I do not have Asa’s beauty, but I know that my stories do. I do not have Harald’s strength, but inside I feel a power of my own.
I know who I am.
I am Solveig.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Icefall was a challenging book, and I would like to express my gratitude to those who supported, encouraged,
and assisted in the writing of it. When I first presented the idea to my agent, Stephen Fraser, his advice and enthusiasm were what gave me the reassurance I needed to approach something new and different. The individual members of my critique group each offered their valued and unique perspectives. Danielle Jones provided additional insights, as did fellow writers DaNae Leu and Carrie Brown-Wolf. I owe a special debt to author Rebecca Barnhouse, for it was while reading the manuscript for her novel, The Coming of the Dragon, that the inspiration for Solveig’s story came to me. My editor, Lisa A. Sandell, guided me through the revision process with great patience and care, and her insights helped bring Solveig more fully to life. My coworkers in the Davis School District continue to provide me with friendship, especially Laurel and Don, who have each found special ways to show their support. As always, my family has been a source of love and encouragement, as well as much-needed first readers.
And finally, though there are no words to adequately express it, I am grateful to Azure, whose grace, intelligence, and understanding are what make my books possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matthew J. Kirby has been making up stories since he was quite small. He was less small when he decided that he wanted to be a writer, and quite a bit larger when he finally became one. His father was a doctor in the Navy, so his family moved frequently. Matthew went to three different elementary schools and three different high schools, and he has lived in Utah, Rhode Island, Maryland, California, and Hawaii, which means that while growing up he met many people and had many wonderful experiences.
In college, Matthew studied history and psychology, and he decided that he wanted to work with children and write stories for them. So he became a school psychologist, a job he truly enjoys. He then went on to write novels, including his debut, The Clockwork Three, and now Icefall.
Matthew currently lives in Utah with his wife, where he still works with children and continues to write stories for them. You can visit him at his website: www.matthewjkirby.com.
Also by MATTHEW J. KIRBY
The Clockwork Three