The Golden Shrine

do as much to them as we did.”

“Good for you, by God,” Ulric said.

“Good for Liv,” Count Hamnet said. “She deserves the credit. If not for her, that snow dev il would have slaughtered the lot of us—starting with me.” He shuddered at the memory. Had those frozen arms closed on him . . . He didn’t know what would have happened. The only thing he knew was, it would have been about as bad as anything could be.

Ulric raised an amused eyebrow. “If you listen to her tell it, Your Grace, you’re the hero.”

“Me?” Hamnet snorted. “That’s ridiculous! All I did was stay alive, and I didn’t think I’d manage that.”

“Ridiculous, eh?” Ulric’s eyebrow climbed higher yet; Hamnet hadn’t thought it could. “Audun Gilli doesn’t think so. The way he’s moping around, he thinks Liv’s going back to you any minute now.”

“He may think so. I don’t,” Hamnet said.

“Yes. I know.” Ulric Skakki. “But then, you’ve always been blind to what women are really thinking, haven’t you?”

Hamnet opened his mouth to deny that indignantly. Then he closed it without saying anything. When he opened it again after some thought, what came out was, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“No, no. You’re always surprised—that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Ulric said. Count Hamnet made as if to hit him. Laughing, Ulric ducked.

“You know what I meant. You’re being difficult on purpose,” Hamnet Thyssen said. Ulric doffed his fur cap, as if at a compliment. Hamnet might have know he would, but continued anyhow: “Besides, not only is Liv not my woman any more, I’ve got another one.”

“Well, so you do,” Ulric allowed. “But does it still count when she’s gone into hibernation?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Hamnet said slowly. Then he told the adventurer what Trasamund had suggested.

Ulric never wasted time making up his mind. “You ought to try it,” he said at once. “Even if it doesn’t work, how are you worse off? How are any of us worse off, eh?”

“The idea’s disgusting,” Hamnet said.

“I don’t see how,” Ulric Skakki answered. “No more than bedding a woman after she’s had too much to drink. If you tell me you’ve never done that, I’ll call you a liar to your face. And if she cares for you to begin with, she won’t mind—not as long as you don’t make a habit of it, anyhow.”

“Mmpf,” Hamnet said. Ulric could be much more persuasive than Trasamund was. “I still don’t think it’d do us any good.”

“How are you worse off if it doesn’t?” Ulric repeated. “It won’t hurt you to try. I’ve heard some people even enjoy it.” Hamnet made as if to hit him again. Ulric had to duck faster this time. As he did, he added, “It won’t hurt Marcovefa, either, not unless you’re even clumsier than I think you—Ow!” Hamnet did hit him that time.

“You deserved it,” Hamnet said.

“That’s what you think,” Ulric said. “Did you ask Liv about this? What did she tell you?”

“She told me I should,” Hamnet answered reluctantly.

“Well, then, you ought to listen to her,” Ulric Skakki said.

Count Hamnet scowled. “It’s like forcing a woman. By God, it is forcing a woman. That’s never been my notion of a good time. Besides, any man who forces a woman who’s also a wizard will probably end up a eunuch. Or if he doesn’t, he’ll wish he did, because something worse will happen to him.”

“I could point out that you’re a stiff-necked idiot,” Ulric said.

“You don’t need to. I already know that,” Hamnet told him.

“I’m so glad. But that isn’t what I was going to say.” Ulric looked and sounded exasperated. “I was going to say that you force a woman you don’t know, or maybe a woman you hate. You and Gudrid, now . . .”

“Leave Gudrid out of this,” Hamnet said in a voice that might have blown straight off the Glacier. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of forcing her and then cutting her throat, or maybe his own. He had. One of the things that held him back was the conviction she’d be laughing at him even while one of them or the other gurgled toward death.

Ulric made placating motions. “I was, I was. Here’s what I was trying to tell you. You don’t hate Marcovefa, right?”

“You know I don’t. You’d better know I don’t,” Hamnet said.

“Yes, yes. Fine. Wonderful,” the adventurer said. “If you love her, if you do this with love—or with something as close to love as your wizened little soul has in it—you won’t be forcing her. If it works, if she wakes up, she’ll thank you.”

“And I thank you for your sweet and generous compliment,” Hamnet Thyssen said.

Ulric doffed his cap again. “I am your servant, Your Grace.”

“You’re the south end of a northbound horse, is what you are,” Hamnet said.

The cap came off once more. “You say the kindest things. But kindly let me finish. If it doesn’t work, if you don’t rouse her, the Rulers will kill all of us—you, her, me, everybody—pretty soon anyhow. It won’t matter. So either you’ll do some good or you won’t, but I don’t see you hurting anything much.”

That made much more sense than Hamnet wished it did. It made so much sense, he couldn’t think of a thing to say in reply. Instead of saying anything, he turned his back and walked away from Ulric Skakki. The adventurer called his name. Count Hamnet kept walking. If Ulric had laughed, Hamnet might have turned back . . . with murder in his heart. But Ulric, for a wonder, had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

Tramping along staring down at his own feet, his head full of unhappy thoughts, Hamnet almost bumped into someone. That made him look up—and wish he hadn’t. “You might say, ‘Excuse me,’ ” Gudrid told him.

She was the last person he wanted to have anything to do with then, which only proved God didn’t pay attention to what he wanted. As if I didn’t know, he thought sourly. Aloud, he said, “I might do all kinds of things. None of them has anything to do with you.”

“Oh, I know that. You might screw the blond savage, for instance, when she isn’t awake to tell you what a miserable—”

Count Hamnet knocked her down. It wasn’t quite a punch, but she landed in the snow suddenly enough to startle a squawk out of her. Breathing hard, Hamnet said, “I’ve listened to everyone else about that. I don’t have to listen to you—and I don’t intend to, either.”

Gudrid got to her feet. She was ready to say something more: Hamnet could read it in her eyes. But whatever she read in his eyes made her shut her mouth with a snap. After a cautious pause, all she did say was, “Well, if you’re going to be that way about it . . .”

“You’d best believe I am,” Hamnet growled. He strode away from her as he had from Ulric Skakki. Like Ulric, Gudrid realized her usual mockery wouldn’t be a good idea now.

This time, Hamnet tramped along with his head up. If he kept an eye out for trouble, maybe he could steer clear of it. He walked away from Runolf Skallagrim. Runolf hadn’t given him advice about Marcovefa, but that didn’t mean the other Raumsdalian wouldn’t.

And he walked away from Trasamund. The jarl had already told him what he thought. That wouldn’t stop Trasamund from doing it again. Trasamund liked to hear himself talk, and he was stubbornly convinced he was right all the time. A whole great swarm of mistakes he’d made weren’t enough to convince him otherwise.

But was he making a mistake this time?

“Whatever I do, it will be wrong. Everybody will blame me for it, whatever it turns out to be,” Hamnet muttered. But that wasn’t the worst. He knew what the worst was. “Whatever it turns out to be, I’ll blame myself for it.”

Did he want to blame himself for doing nothing or for doing something? Either one might be wrong. If he did nothing, things wouldn’t change. That seemed obvious. If he did something . . . his suspicion was that things wouldn’t change anyway. Then he would have done something he would much rather not have, and would have done it for no reason.

His mittened hands folded into fists. “It will be wrong,” he said again.

Marcovefa would have laughed at his dithering. He could hear her inside his mind. She never seemed to have doubts. Yes, and look what not having them got her, Hamnet thought.

Stamping along by himself didn’t do him any good. He went back to the camp. Liv was feeding Marcovefa bits of broiled hare and giving her sips of water melted from snow. If Marcovefa couldn’t chew and swallow, she would have starved by now. As things were, she’d lost flesh; her skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. They’d all done the best they could to give her enough, but feeding her as much as she would have eaten on her own wasn’t easy.

“Any change?” Hamnet asked.

Liv shook her head. “None I can find.” She might have said more—Hamnet could see that. She might have, but she sensibly didn’t. She understood Hamnet well enough to know that trying to push him toward something was more likely to make him go away from it.

Trasamund and Ulric Skakki had never figured that out. Actually, Hamnet wasn’t so sure about Ulric. Say what you would about the adventurer, but he was a clever fellow. Chances were he knew how Hamnet worked. Sometimes, though, he used what he knew for his own amusement, not for what others might think of as the general good.

Count Hamnet brought himself back to what lay before him. “Is she wet?” he asked.

“Let me see.” Liv reached under the waistband of Marcovefa’s trousers, as she might have with a toddler. She shook her head again. “No, she’s still dry. I changed her not long ago.” She paused. “She’s eaten about as much as it looks like she’s going to, too.”

“All right. I’ll take her to my tent for the night.” Hamnet bent and lifted Marcovefa. Yes, she’d lost weight since the mistletoe arrowhead struck her down. Her lips shaped a smile as Hamnet straightened with her in his arms. Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes didn’t open. Not for the first time, Hamnet wondered how much went on inside her head. And, not for the first time, he owned himself baffled—he had no way to know.

Keeping Marcovefa from freezing while the Breath of God blew was hardly easier than keeping her fed. They swaddled her in furs and blankets and hoped for the best. So far, the best had been good enough. She hadn’t even got frostbitten fingers or toes. Raumsdalians knew a lot about fighting cold. Bizogots knew even more.

Hamnet’s tent had thick mammoth-hide walls, with the long, dark hair still on the outside. It was crowded for two, but that was all right; it let their body heat warm the air inside faster.

No one but he would know what went on inside the tent. Well, Marcovefa might, but he didn’t really believe she would. That was what had held him back ever since Trasamund suggested . . . what he suggested. The idea reminded Hamnet too much of lying with a corpse.

But if he tried it once, after it failed he could tell Trasamund . . . and Ulric Skakki . . . and Liv . . . and Gudrid . . . and Runolf Skallagrim . . . and anyone else who asked him that it had failed. Then maybe people would leave him alone. He could hope so, anyhow. Of course, the odds were that after it failed the Rulers would overrun them pretty soon. In that case, he would be too dead to need to justify himself to anybody.

He looked at Marcovefa, there in the gloom barely pushed back by one sputtering, fat-stinking lamp. She might have lain peacefully asleep—but he knew too well she didn’t.

If it does some good, she’ll forgive you. If it doesn’t, she’ll never know, he thought. The same thing had occurred to him many times before. What had always stopped him was that, if it did no good, he would know.

Maybe it was worth one try, for the sake of the fight against the Rulers. He knew he wouldn’t be doing it for his own pleasure. And, a moment later, he knew he was talking