Page 17

Where the ice was relatively clear of snow, the going was easy, though the breeze tugged at her as if to make her lose heart. Then the wind picked up, and snow began to fall, and the ice crust beneath her feet broke so that she stumbled through knee deep drifts until she found thicker ice.

Then the drifts were deeper, and the snow slithered into her boots before she could find a solid place to climb up again.

Again and again she fell through, and her breath came hard. The wind caught her hood and pulled it back so hard that the clasp in the front yanked on her throat.

She wept in frustration, and her tears froze on her face. Still she pressed on until the ice broke yet again, and she felt into snow as deep as her chest. Exhaustion pulled at her, and she forced her way through the snow until her heartbeat pounded in her ears louder than the howling wind.

Blinded by snow, she fought forward until her legs buckled and darkness threatened to overwhelm her entirely.

She could make no headway against the snow and ice.

The sweat of her exertion had turned to chills, and she shivered uncontrollably.

She was half-buried in the snow, and she sank down until her head was beneath the surface.

Her shivers subsided a little and she had a strange sense of warmth. Perhaps she would not die of cold after all. She would take a nap and resume her trek.

A warning sounded in her mind. She knew the cold was death.

But she was so tired.

Did it matter if she died?

Magni’s gray hand gripped the back of her jacket and hauled her up, so that she sprawled on the thin sheet of ice beneath the top layer of powdery snow. The wind blew right into her face, and she would have sobbed in frustration and despair if she’d had the energy.

Then the bear was in front of her, his great white body blocking the worst of the wind.

“Go away!” she screamed. “I want to go home! ”

But he did not leave. Instead he lowered himself until the wind was again in her face. She clambered atop him, clumsy and weak with cold and exhaustion, and she clung to his back as he set off.

“How do I know you’re not a liar?” she whispered into his fur. “How do I know they’re alive? You told me this would help you but it feels like death. I’m alone and cold, trapped underground in a stone prison, and I’ll never see anyone I love again. I want to go home.”

The bear’s steps did not falter, but there was a heaviness to them, and she thought there was a faint, low growl beneath her hands buried in his fur. She pressed her face into his fur and clung to him as she fell into an exhausted sleep.

For hours or perhaps days he ran, until the air grew warmer and his steps finally slowed.

Magni was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he had decided not to come so far south, or perhaps he had merely fallen behind.

Once Gytha realized he was not following them, she did not look up again.

She did not want to see the tundra or the trees passing by.

She did not want to know if Alexander was taking her home or if she would die somewhere out in the snow and ice.

She did not care what happened to her, as long as the trial would end.

But when he began to stumble, she finally raised her head.

She sat up in surprise, ignoring the fatigue that nearly crushed her.

They were at the hill just north of her village, and the houses were laid out before her just like in the painting.

The air was frigid, but the wind was not biting.

It was late autumn, not the dead of winter, and there was a hint of spruce and pine in the air, not only ice.

It was later in summer than she had realized; the first snows had come already, but patches of green still showed through where the sun kissed the ground from dawn to dusk.

Autumn would bring more frequent snow and shorter days.

The bear stumbled down the hill, his steps dragging as if he would fall on his face.

Finally she said, “Are you all right, Alexander?”

His voice was low and exhausted. “It does not matter. You are almost home.”

“I can walk from here.”

He did not stop to let her slide down, and instead carried her all the way to her family’s lodge. A few feet from the door he pitched forward.

Gytha slid down and fell to her knees before she caught herself.

She turned to the bear. “Thank you.”

His great face lay upon the ground with none of his usual dignity. The scarred side of his face was upturned.

Gytha’s heart twisted in sudden sympathy. “Alexander,” she said more softly. She scratched gently behind his ear, but he did not open his eyes. His breathing was labored.

“Alexander,” she said again. Still he did not react. Worry fluttered in her heart, but she pressed her ear to his side. His heartbeat thudded beneath her ear. He must be exhausted. He had run for many miles.

He was strong. He needed rest, but he would be all right.

She had come to see her family.

She did not knock before she entered, so she startled them all.

“Gytha!” Their voices overlapped, shock and delight and excitement. In a moment she was engulfed in their hugs, their questions, and the warmth of their love .

Soon she was sitting at the table with Brinja in her lap, Halvard clinging to one leg, Sigrid braiding her hair, Solveig holding her hand, and her mother putting food in front of her as if there was no shortage.

She laughed and exclaimed over how much the little ones had grown.

Ashild and Dagney were now nearly as tall as Solveig, Solveig had developed curves like the young lady she was, and Halvard was reading already.

Randulf shoved a wooden carving nearly up Gytha’s nose, begging her to admire the bear he had carved. “Look! See, it’s your bear!”

Her parents sat across from her, their eyes full of questions they would not ask until the little ones were in bed.

Dinner was long and slow and full of laughter.

Their faces were full, with her mother’s high cheekbones soft and lovely rather than sharp, and her father’s shoulders thick with muscle from his work rather than mere bone and sinew.

“How far did you go? Where were you?” asked Halvard in his small, innocent voice.

“Where the land meets the sea to the north, at the very edge of the land. Beyond it, I think there is nothing but sea ice.”

Halvard, Randulf, and Brinja looked at her with awe.

Everyone had questions. She showed them her embroidery and gave the collars to her mother to sell; they would fetch a great deal of money, for her work was very fine and the thread was exceptionally vibrant.

Hildr had been repaid for her generosity with a great deal of elk venison, but Hlif and Gytha agreed that she should also be given two of the skeins of thread which Gytha had brought.

When the little ones were put to bed, the older girls plied Gytha with more questions, and she assured them she was well. Finally Hlif and Ivarr sent them to bed too, sat Gytha in a chair by the stove with a cup of tea, and drew their own chairs close .

“You look well,” Gytha said, her eyes searching their faces. “Are you?”

“Your bear brought us another elk and enough fish to feed the village,” Ivarr said. “But it all means little if you’ve been badly treated. How are you , Honeycake?”

Gytha flushed and looked down at her hands in her lap. “I am well.” But her voice caught, and she glanced at the door. She had hardly thought of Alexander in hours.

“Did he…did anyone hurt you?” Ivarr said. There was a tension in his voice, and she knew he did not want to pry, but he wanted to know if she needed him to avenge her. He would protect her against anything.

“No one hurt me.” She bit her lip. “I was so lonely, I felt I was going mad. I wanted to come home.”

“It hasn’t been a year yet,” said her father quietly. “He didn’t touch you at all?”

“Not a touch or even a word.” She looked down. “I wonder if Alexander is hungry. He was tired when he got here.” Guilt twisted inside her, and she stood reluctantly.

“Is he outside?” Her father stood too. He caught up his axe, just in case, and followed her to the door.

The full moon smiled down on them, the light soft and bright, so the shadows seemed friendly and the snow glowed and glittered. The bear was a vast white bulk not far from the door. He had not moved in the hours since Gytha had gone inside.

She approached him cautiously, feeling that he had every right to be annoyed. “Alexander.”

He gave no sign of having heard her.

Ivarr hefted his axe in one hand and edged closer. “Bear?”

A sudden twinge of worry sent Gytha to her knees beside the bear’s great head. “Alexander,” she said again. She ran her hand between his eyes, over the top of his head, and then around his ear, where she stopped and rubbed gently. “Are you all right? ”

Still he did not move, and her worry grew. “Alexander!” she said more sharply. “Wake up, please. You’re scaring me.”

He gave a soft, almost inaudible grumble, and then twitched his ear. “What?” His deep, rumbly voice was so faint she bent closer to hear him.

“I was worried about you.” Gytha sat back and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

There was only silence for several breaths, until Gytha almost thought he had fallen asleep again. Finally he said, his voice low and hopeless, “I would rather die here with you than in that dark hole.”

Gytha’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

Her father knelt beside her and studied the bear. “Are you dying now?”

The bear took a deep, rattling breath. “Soon.”

Gytha looked at her father. “Can you understand him now?”

“Yes.” Her father had a strange, cautious tone. He put the axe aside and shifted to see the bear’s face from another angle. “Can I touch your face?”

The bear answered without opening his eyes. “Do whatever you want.”

Cautiously Ivarr touched the bear’s muzzle.

When the beast did not react, Ivarr stroked his fur gently and then, with careful fingers, examined the deep scar that ran down the bear’s muzzle.

The livid red had faded to dark pink, puckered a little at the edge of the bear’s eye.

Ivarr hesitated, and then moved his head closer to listen to the bear’s breathing.

“You’re sick, aren’t you?” he said at last.

The bear was apparently lost in sleep and gave no more response, even when Gytha gripped his fur and shook his shoulder .

“There is nothing I know to do for him,” said Ivarr at last. “I don’t know what kind of sicknesses bears suffer, but we can feed him a little if he wakes.”

Gytha wrapped her arms around the bear’s great head and buried her face in his fur. “I’m sorry,” she said into his neck. “I’ll go back, if that’s what it takes. I don’t want you to die.”

But he did not wake.