— Finn shouted up to the guards, asking what had happened.
'The great Prince is dead,' answered the guard, his voice stunned and hushed by the tragedy of it.
'Vladimir?' demanded Kvasir.
Finn hugged himself and shook his head with awe. 'I asked Odin for it,' he said, an awed voice in the dark. 'I called on him in the dark and he has answered me.'
'Ha!' snorted Martin with disgust.
'What did you call for?' demanded Kvasir angrily. 'Revenge? And what did you offer?'
Finn said nothing and yet spoke loudly.
I knew differently, all the same — there were too many bells for Vladimir to be dead and I felt the Odin- moment of it. Sviatoslav, his father, was the one who was dead — I learned later how he had been ambushed by his own Pechenegs, bribed by the Great City he had challenged and failed to beat. The ruler of all the Rus, gone at the hands of a hairy-arsed steppe warrior with a bow and an arrow you get by the dozen for a copper coin. His skull would end up set in silver as a drinking cup for a Pecheneg chief.
But in the pit, knowing only that Vladimir's father was dead, I felt the power of Odin and bowed my head to him.
With Sviatoslav gone, Vladimir was in trouble. He was the youngest of the three brothers and the one least considered, being born of a woman most thought little more than a thrall. Of the other two, Oleg was stupid and strong while the eldest, Jaropolk, was shrewd, cowardly and vicious.
They would fight, these brothers, sooner rather than later and the bells for Sviatoslav could be a knell for the least of his sons — unless that son had some clout in his fists.
Like a hoard of silver.
Now I had no way of avoiding a return to Atil's howe; Odin had strapped me to the prow beast of his ship and blew a wind that would not be avoided.
Finn and Kvasir were bewildered by the laughter that spilled out of the pit. It even sounded crazed to my own ear and me it was doing it.
8
When the starling fell from the roof beams, stone dead with cold, Olaf Crowbone stirred it with his toe and said it was the last one we would see this year, for they had all gone into hiding save for this one, who was clearly killed of stupidity.
'Hiding?' demanded Thorgunna, swathed in wool and fur so that only her eyes showed. 'Hiding from what?'
'The white raven,' Crowbone answered, his cheeks rosed in his pale face. A few of those within earshot looked uneasily at the boy and Thordis made a warding sign. Sunken-eyed, she was, from all she had suffered and Finn, standing close to her, moved closer still.
'You should not speak of such things,' Kvasir said, looking up from where he worried a piece of leather into a new strap for his helmet. Crowbone shrugged and pulled the white-furred cloak tighter round him, for snow had blown in under the door of the hall and spread across the floor. A pool of mead was frozen in an amber lump, stuck through with the floor-straw — even the spiders were dead and the nets they curled in trembled in the snell wind, thin and sharply cold as the edge of a shaving knife.
Onund Hnufa gave the grunt that led any speech he made.
'I don't need that bird to tell me it will be a bad winter,' he growled. 'The green wine is icing a month early.'
Jon Asanes leaned over, his breath smoking warmly in my ear. 'White raven?' he asked in a whisper.
I told him of the white raven, which the dwarves held in keeping with all the other secret things of the world — the sound of a cat's paw, the hairs of a maiden's beard, the roots of a mountain, the dreams of a bear, the breath of a fish, the spittle of a bird. All the things that should not be heard or seen, yet had to be kept somewhere.
The dwarves hid them and only revealed them once, when they used some to make Gleipnir, the chain that bound the devouring wolf, Fenris. He was tricked into being tied with it only because the god Tyr placed his hand in the beast's mouth as security that the gods would untie the wolf afterwards. Tyr lost it as a result, but his sacrifice allowed the world-eating wolf to be secured.
The only thing the dwarves made sure they did not use in making Gleipnir was a feather from the white raven, Odin's third pet.
Sometimes old One Eye sends that bird into the world, as he sends the other two, Thought and Memory — but the white one does not come back to whisper secrets in the god's ear. It flies over the world shaking out feathers as snow to make the worst winters; a warning that, one day, it will make Fimbulwinter, the great freeze that heralds Ragna Rok, the end of days.
'So Crowbone is telling us the end of the world is here?' demanded Jon.
Finn gave a sharp bark of laughter. 'Little Crowbone is telling us that the birds think so,' he corrected. 'Since birds have thought-cages so tiny they can only keep a few in them, I am not concerned about what birds think.'
Not all bird thoughts are of songs,' Crowbone said and that brought an echo of Sighvat, long dead in Serkland. I remembered Sighvat, hunkered down on the steppe, looking at the battered silver plate ripped out of the earth as we dug into Atil's tomb. It was the first sign that treasure was there at all, a blackened piece of a plate with pictures round the edges, which Sighvat said were the dreams of birds.
'I never heard of a white raven,' growled Gyrth and Finn told him this was because he was an ignorant outlander. Gyrth gave him a scowl — he was named Gyrth Albrechtsohn and was as big as Botolf, with a belly bigger than Skapti's had been, but solid as a barrel. When he had strolled up like some huge bear to join us in Kiev and claiming to be a Dane, Finn had laughed.
'Gyrth is an Englisc name,' he had chuckled, 'and your da was a Saxlander, which is plain to see. I don't see any Dane there.'
'My ma was,' Gyrth had rumbled back, frowning.
'Perhaps she had a horse, too,' Finn grinned, 'or a fast faering, to have got round so many men. You may not have any Dane in you, but she had, I am sure of it.'
Men laughed and Gyrth blinked and frowned.
'You are Finn,' he said slowly, 'who fears nothing. If you talk of my ma any longer, you will fear me, for I will fall on you.'
Finn held up placatory hands and admitted that having such a rock fall on him would be a fearful experience, right enough. Then he clasped Gyrth by the wrist.
'So Steinnbrodir it will be then — welcome aboard.'
And Gyrth, grinning lopsidely at his new by-name — Boulder Brother — lumbered into our midst like an amiable bear, one Finn was never done baiting, as now
'An ignorant outlander,' Finn repeated. 'Whose marvellously-travelled ma was too occupied to tell him such tales.'
'I saw a white crow once,' Gyrth admitted, frowning. 'All its black brothers stabbed it with their beaks and chased it off.'
'None is found so good that some fault attends him, or so ill that he is not of use for something, as my granny used to say,' Red Njal offered him.
'Never heard of a white raven,' Gyrth persisted stubbornly.
'But the green wine is icing,' Jon pointed out, shaking me back from where I still hunkered with Sighvat on the steppe, into the wither of Finn's frown. The iced wine was a sign you could not ignore.
Made from young wheat, the brew was filtered through seven layers of charcoal and seven of clean, fine river sand and the resulting liquid was as clear as tears and casked in oak, which was Perun's wood. It was then left outside most houses all winter and people passing tried to guess when such a casking would grow the first ice crystals.
