“I like chickens,” Silla offered, fatigue setting in once more.
“Very well,” said Vig jovially. “We have those in Kalasgarde.”
“Excellent,” she said.
Chapter Twelve
They rode for another three long days. Silla spent it largely in silence, bracing herself against the cold. The wind somehow grew more frigid, the mountain snow creeping lower. Climbing over mountain passes, they followed snaking paths into valleys where vibrant blue lakes glittered like jewels. They passed few animals but saw evidence of them everywhere—a paw print so large it could only belong to a grimwolf; tree bark scratched by grizzly claws.And while they met few travellers in the pass, each one had Silla pulling her hood as low as she could.
On the second day, the back of Silla’s neck prickled, telling her something was watching them. Wordlessly, Rey dropped back, and Silla’s stomach was knotted tight until he rejoined them the better part of an hour later. Horse’s white coat was flecked with black blood, but Rey’s face was impassive. After that, the feeling of being watched had vanished.
On the third morning, they climbed through a long, snaking mountain pass wedged between towering rocky ridges, a river rushing alongside the trail.
“This pass is called Svangormr,” Vig explained, his voice low. “It meanshungry serpentin the old language. In the winter, you must speak no louder than a whisper. Many a loud-mouthed warrior has found himself buried beneath an avalanche through these parts.”
“And yet you still live,” Rey muttered under his breath, which, as expected, began a fresh wave of bickering.
Late the next day, they arrived in Kalasgarde. The town was both larger andfar more beautiful than Silla had expected. Surrounded by a stone stockade wall, the hundred or so buildings fit perfectly in the valley’s basin, mountains climbing all around it like the walls of a fortress. Silla’s eye was drawn to the tallest, a blue glint shining from atop it.
“Those are the glacial terraces,” murmured Runný, following her gaze.
Silla stared in wonder. Layers upon layers of blue ice terraces dripped down from the mountain like something out of a fairy story.
“That is Jökull,” said Runný, pointing at the glacial terraces. “Its smaller neighbor is Snowspear. While Jökull houses Sunnvald’s many shields, Snowspear holds his armory of spears—a waterfall with great heights of frozen icicles.”
As they rode through the gates of Kalasgarde, a confusing range of emotions chased through her. Relief that their journey would soon end. Apprehension at being in a strange place, surrounded by people she did not know. Eagerness to meet this Harpa and learn how to master her galdur.
Silla studied Kalasgarde from beneath her hood. The homes were timber-sided and turf-roofed. But beyond that, there were a few peculiarities. For one thing, there were markings on many of the doors—a symbol that felt familiar and foreign all at once. And for another, each home held iron plates secured next to the door. With remnants of offerings left behind, Silla understood at once. These plates served as altars. But to whom?
Runný seemed to notice her interest. “The ice spirits have been restless as of late,” she murmured.
“What do they favor?”
“Butter and fresh sheep’s milk are their favorite. But when those are scarce, they’re content with bread and mead.”
Silla’s brows dipped. “In the south, offerings are done in secrecy. Do you not fear the Klaernar?”
Runný scoffed. “The Klaernar don’t bother us much up here. They come twice a year, if that, and our allies south of here warn of their approach. I think you will find Kalasgarde quite different from the Íseldur you know.”
“And the markings on the doors?”
“Protection runes,” said Vig, apprehensively. “There have been some…troubling happenings about these parts.”
The hairs on the backs of Silla’s arms lifted. She opened her mouth to ask what sort of happenings when a boy called out.
“Vig!” he exclaimed, rushing over. Silla pulled her hood lower on her face. Rey had informed her while in Kalasgarde, they’d stay at the shield-home, avoiding the town as much as they could. He’d said while he trusted the localUppreisna members, he did not know how the rest of the townspeople would react when those birch etchings eventually made their way to Kalasgarde.
But as the boy approached, it was difficult for Silla to imagine him as a threat. He looked to have seen near twelve winters, large brown eyes set in a pale face, cheeks rosy from the northern wind.
“Well met, young Váli,” said Vig, jovially. “Suppose you’re wondering about Snorri?”
The boy nodded. A basket hung from his elbow, a fur-trimmed cloak secured around his shoulders with a leaf-shaped pin. “He said he’d join me hunting snowcap mushrooms.”
Vig cleared his throat. “Snorri’ll be elbow deep in horse shite about now. While I was away, he’s had to shoulder my chores.”
“Very well,” sighed Váli, turning away.
“Don’t be going out alone, Váli,” cautioned Vig. “Snorri’ll be free in a few days’ time. I’ll go with the pair of you.”
