The Star Mangrove

___________________

Volume I

F. T. Morgan — Paget, Bermuda

Twitter: @FrankTMorgan
www.morganpublishers.com
Copyright © 2019 Frank T. Morgan
All rights reserved.
FOR BADGER
FOREWORD

CONCERNING SMUDGE

THIS IS a story about a girl named Smudge.

All right: “Smudge” isn’t her real name—though it might as well be

her real name for all anyone ever calls her. The only person who ever
called her ‘Dana’ was Maev, Smudge’s old ma. Maev is a bit unhinged.
She smokes jurt and she calls herself a priestess of the goddess Branwen
“on account of I had a dream about a crow one time.”1 Maev and Smudge
belong to the downtrodden Ursky underclass on a planet called Nirevvy.2
Nirevvy is a sort of “planet Scandinavia,” where the medieval Viking
Dream has succeeded beyond history’s wildest expectations.
It started like this: long ago in ancient Nirevvy the Wanderer people
(think of them as viking cosmonauts) found a low-tech way to sail across
their solar system by means of the star mangrove tree. The marvelous star
mangrove can defy gravity. It scatters its seeds all across the universe, the
loneliest and the longest-living of trees. Cocooned inside the mangrove’s
hollow core, the Wanderers hibernate for decades as they drift through
space, drawn to the embrace of nearby worlds.

1 Maev’s words

2I.e., Norway
 Thus planets close to homeworld Nirevvy are successively found and
colonized. Orkev, Shaltain, Kuda, Innis Chila,3 Talaglas—on each new
world the Wanderers establish settlements before launching off again, into
the Unknown.

WE’LL MEET the bard Snorri Sturlsson. Snorri is a Wanderer poet

who lived long before Smudge was born. Snorri records how, last of all,
the blue planet Affelgard4 was discovered by Wanderers who set sail
from Talaglas. Snorri recounts the triumphs and the sorrows of Affelgard’s
first human colony: aliens in an untamed world.
But while the Affelgardians are struggling to build their new home,
ancestral Nirevvy has grown into a dreary technological5 juggernaut. By
the time Smudge enlists in her navy’s Bäden Warschool,6 star mangrove
trees are just a legend and the Near Worlds are under the yoke of Nirevvy
and its oppressive Norsk régime. Only distant Affelgard remains free, its
very existence unknown to the Norsk.
Then one day a message reaches Nirevvy’s decrepit old king Olaf: the
last Wanderer colony has been found! For the first time in centuries,
Nirevvy learns of a people living free from Norsk rule.
King Olaf doesn’t like people living free from Norsk rule.
In fact, King Olaf is quite proud of the massive frigate Dreki his navy
just finished building. The Dreki’s mission: to subdue Afflegard and bring
it into the Norsk fold.
So while Maev and Smudge are slogging along in peaceful squalor,
Smudge—rock-bottom of her class at Bäden—gets the shocking news
she’s been picked for the Affelgard expedition. It’s a case of pure genetic
happenstance: Smudge has a rare trait that makes her uniquely suited for
first-contact missions. Also, the Dreki’s got a lot of decks.
The decks need a lot of scrubbing.
Ergo:

3 I.e., Ireland, the Shetlands, the Faroes, Iceland, Greenland

4 I.e., America

5 Comparatively speaking

6 Mostly for the free meal

 Smudge.

MEANWHILE, in the now-thriving colony on Affelgard, a boy

named Broer runs free through the woodlands of his birth. Broer little
suspects that Dreki and subjugation loom. Broer is preoccupied with
problems of his own.

Problems of the heart.

Introduction

CONCERNING STAR MANGROVES

From: The Starvoyage of Snorri 7

“STARSAILING is simple. You just need the right sort of tree.

The star mangrove tree grows here and there in our galaxy. Of course
galaxies are mostly just empty space—so empty, in fact, that if you were
to say our galaxy contains absolutely nothing at all, you would be more
than 99.9999 percent correct—close enough for it to be deemed a fact (as
scholars say) that neither you nor I, nor the star mangrove, nor the galaxy
itself even exist.
And still, across the incomprehensible distance—distance so vast
thought fails and time and space collapse into one another—goes the
humble star mangrove seed in its search for the tiny folaworm.
I remember, when I was a boy, how the white, star-shaped blossoms of
the star mangrove had a rare sort of buoyancy about them. Most fell to the
ground when the wind shook the petals loose, but some few would hang
bobbing in the breeze, as if they were uncertain whether to fall or to fly
away, and a fair number simply floated up like bubbles and disappeared
into the sky. When I was a boy I imagined they flew straight to the stars
(though of course that was impossible). When we were children it was
great fun to collect the blossoms in a bag and let it drift through the air
above our heads. I remember I once worked all afternoon to gather the

7 Here begins Snorri Sturlsson’s record of the first Wanderer colony on Affelgard.
Snorri is writing in the year Ár. 3019, more than a century before Smudge was born.
most wayward petals into my cousin Affner’s hat and send it sailing up
the lane and over the hedge into the neighbor’s pigsty. That prank got me
a chuckle from my uncle and a slap from my aunt. It was Affner’s only
hat, and my aunt had made it herself with a wooden frame and a bone
hook.

I don’t know how the star mangrove fruit can escape the mighty grasp
of planets, who bend the very light of suns around them. When I asked my
uncle, he told me each starfruit has a cranshee—a tree-spirit—imprisoned
in it, and the tree-spirit is flying home to a mangrove forest in the stars.
In summer the starfruit grow straight upward; oblong and smooth with
a tough, gray-green hull. Then the tree must be firmly anchored in the
right sort of ground or the headstrong fruit can tear it up roots and all.
Dense clay soil is best, or a craggy place where the roots can dig into the
rock. A starfruit grows to about the size of a man’s head before it breaks
free with a sudden snap. Sometimes our mothertree would let go its fruit
all at once, making a terrible racket, and then we’d all run out to watch,
shading our eyes as the greenish specks went shooting up into the clouds.
No tree is more solitary than the star mangrove. Each starfruit wants to
find a planet of its own—a planet where the folaworms lie sleeping in the
ground.
A folaworm is not (rightly speaking) a worm at all, but rather an insect
like a sort of longish ant with a shiny black carapace and delicate brown
legs. Through eons of time the folaworm larvae lie curled up in the right
sort of ground, waiting for the starfruit to find them. We don’t know what
brings the fruit and the folaworm together. As a starfruit wanders the
cosmos it is inexorably drawn to the larvae, until a planet’s fiery kiss
burns away its hull and reveals the black, fist-shaped seed within. Like a
meteorite, the hissing seed drives itself into the ground. Then the
folaworms begin to stir, drawn to its heat.
The roots burrow into the soil; the folaworms burrow into the roots;
insect and tree begin the slow dance of growth and destruction that will
last for all the long ages of the star mangrove’s life.

I killed a folaworm once, and it was a wicked thing to do because the

folaworm is holy to us. I killed it because it was Midyear and I was angry
at my aunt for making me go with the men and boys to wash in the sacred
spring and be blessed by old Villumer the priest. Full of spite, I climbed
the ladder to the first deck of our mothertree, and then I circled the trunk
until I found a folaworm lying (as they often lie) motionless, deep inside a
crack.
I stuck my finger inside and cut the little insect in two. As my nail
went through it the folaworm made a tiny, unmistakable chirp like a cry,
and when I pulled my finger out it was stained with red blood. I felt vile
after that and I confess I wept in secret, for the folaworm is not like other
insects. It does no harm to any creature and it is warm-blooded like us. A
folaworm can live for years beyond count as it burrows slowly through
the star mangrove tree, so slowly that to human eyes it does not seem to
move at all.
When the folaworms are swarming, then we make a starship out of the
tree and sail it through the cold, airless void of space. In this way our
ancestor, the hero Herrick, sailed from Nirevvy—the motherworld—to
Orkev, the rainy planet;
—and Herrick’s descendant Madri sailed from Orkev to Shalthain, the
planet with the windy desert;
—and Madri’s descendant Padrig sailed from Shalthain to Kuda, the
moon of Shalthain, which was lush and green;
—and Padrig’s descendant Elli sailed from Kuda to Innis Chila, the
moon of Talaglas, which was barren and cold;
—and Elli’s descendant Deorsa sailed from Innis Chila to Talaglas
itself, where I was born.

Few of us will live to see the folaworms swarm. Seven generations

went by on Innis Chila before Deorsa set sail for mighty Talaglas, which
loomed so big in the sky that people said they could feel the pull in their
bones when it rolled overhead. Men will grow old and die, their sons will
grow old and die, and still the folaworms languidly feed on the star
mangrove; some in the bark but most at the core, which gets hollow with
the passing of time. As the tree grows, so grows the hollow space inside it,
each in perfect balance, until there comes a summer when a secret call
rouses the sleepy folaworms to furious activity.

When the folaworms are swarming, then we put sails on our

mothertree to carry us through space to new worlds. The folaworms only
swarm when the starfruit are ripe and ready to break free. All at once the
star mangrove starts to resonate like a giant drum. The hollow core—
wider than a man is tall—echoes and reëchoes with the beating of ten
million wings trapped inside— and there’s a softer sound too: the eerie
trickle-trickle of a million tiny jaws burrowing out of the tree.
The village all gather breathlessly; bumping shoulders for a better
look; children skipping around and around, little mouths open, little faces
turned up until their necks are sore. Everyone wants to be first to spot the
breach: the big hole the folaworms make when they finally pour out.
Then, Broet! Broet!— up goes the cry. The breach is spotted! The
children are hopping up and down, shrieking and pointing at a cleft
between the mighty lower limbs. At first it looks like nothing—only bark
—when all at once the bark shivers and rains down. A black hole opens.
For the first time we can see into the star mangrove’s empty core.
The folaworms gush out of the breach in a black fountain—six or
seven huge swarms of them, each swarm guarding a hopeful mother-to-
be. The queens, blacker and many times bigger than their guards, travel at
the heart of a billowing cloud.
Then up go the long ladders. Up go the planks. Up goes the
scaffolding. There is no time to waste. The star mangrove’s bark is as
deep as your arm and tougher than rawhide. The whole village works day
and night to widen the breach and keep it open. Most folaworms never
grow wings nor leave the tree. Those that stay behind gather in a black,
seething mass to fill the hole back up with their sticky yellow resin.
Folaworm resin is impenetrable once it hardens. For us, the resin seals the
breach during our journey through space, until the heat of a planet’s
atmosphere burns it open again.
The trunk must be cut through near the roots, until just a strand of
heartwood keeps the starship tethered to the ground. If the tree lets go its
fruit before the ship is ready, then all is lost: another seven generations
may live and die before the folaworms swarm again.
Most of the mothertree’s branches have to be cut off. We only leave
the fruit-bearing canopy and the lower limbs, which we trim for masts.
The Elders judge which limbs stand at the best angles, so the light of our
sun, Gríyan, will speed the ship toward the other Near Worlds. We can’t
be very precise, but the Elders are wise and the art of starsailing has been
handed down to us through many generations. On Innis Chila, Deorsa
studied the night skies. He set four sails at right angles to his starship’s
trunk, and he landed on Talaglas in just one hundred and fifteen years.

Making starsails is the work of generations—and the work of children.

We press the sails from the web of the liath spider. Liath-web is so fine it
can’t be seen, but in that delicacy lies its power to catch the light of stars.
When I was a boy it was the duty of every child to gather liath-web for
starsails. My aunt would send me out in the early morning with a little
wooden frame to search the brayberry bushes where the spiders liked to
spin. I remember going on tiptoe through the dewy grass, wincing at the
cold on my bare feet. I couldn’t see the web, of course; not even with my
‘young eyes’. I was looking for signs of the liath spider’s work: a row of
droplets seeming to hang in midair; a leaf oddly bent by some force
unseen. My spiderframe was about the size of a hat. I would slowly draw
it through the open spaces where I guessed the invisible web was strung.
At first the frame would look no different than before, but in time a faint,
silvery film would gather across its surface, strewn here and there with
tiny specks that were the spiders themselves. Sometimes the sun would be
well up, and I would still be forlornly circling the brayberry bushes. But it
was no good going back to my aunt. She wouldn’t call it done until she
could see the film herself, ‘with my old eyes’. She was strict, but she hid a
tender heart.
I miss her.
Liathweb is too fine to spin into thread, but that’s no matter. When I
came back from the brayberry bushes my aunt would carefully press the
film I’d collected onto a larger frame. We call this spider-felt, like wool.
The webs stick together until they make a gauzy fabric—silvery;
unbreakable. Each month my aunt would take our family’s spider felt to
the village great-hall, where the priestesses carried on the unending task
of pressing it into ropes and sails. Liathweb never burns. Starsails catch
the air like a bag to slow a starship’s descent. Starsails also speed the ship
on her way, for no one knows for certain how long the voyage will be, nor
whether any will survive it. Deorsa brought his mate Navi to Talaglas
with him, but their son Bran they left behind. It was an awful choice to
make, but Navi had other children on Talaglas and we thrived there. These
hardships are common to our people. For this we call ourselves
Ansthapani—Wanderers.
 Starsailing is full of danger. Masts can burn through. Sails can break
loose. Starships can be pulled away from the Near Worlds and drift
endlessly through the deep reaches of space. Some starsailors go to sleep
and never wake up again. Some wake up sick or maimed.
One man, Kollam Kili, woke up in the void.
One hundred and thirty years Kollam Kili lay awake while our ship
made its way from Talaglas to our new home on Affelgard. Kollam Kili is
a madman and a prophet.

I remember the day our starship left for Affelgard. It was on a rare
summertime. I’d never seen starfruit like that before—prodigiously round;
pulling up so hard that little hollows were starting to form where our
mothertree’s roots were lifted out of the ground. She was groaning—six
days overripe, we reckoned. We were all in commotion; we thought she
was going to slip8 her fruit with every breeze. Teams were working with
saws and axes to cut through the trunk. The first deck was lying in pieces
on the ground. I got into the core by climbing a ladder from the third
deck, high above the housetops.
Stowing was overseen by the Elders. It is of the greatest importance, to
cushion us when we land. Tools and weapons on bottom, then sacks of
seeds, then clothes and blankets, with rolls of wool-felt over them.
Next came animals: four just-weaned calves, four lambs, four piglets
—breeding pairs, male and female, bawling and thrashing in rope slings.
Then we starsailors were strung up like the animals. Only strong men and
women are chosen: thirteen of us. (Fourteen is unlucky.) We were mated
pairs too, except for Kollam Kíli. Children hardly ever sail—only if their
parents come with them, and they themselves are of age. Little ones must
stay behind. It is a time of both joy and loss. The village loses its very
heart: the sacred tree.
The cutters helped me climb inside. I still shudder to remember that
suffocation! The core was only just wide enough for a man to hang flat in
it. They hung me in a hammock. Then they hung my cousin Affner’s
mate, flax-haired Kariwyn, directly on top of me, with rolls of felt packed
in between us. Kariwyn’s weight pressed down on me. I had to put my
head on one side just to breathe. My arms were wrapped in my coat, as his

8 Norse, sleppa: to release (v.)

were. A half-smothered lamb was under me. I felt its spine wriggling, and
then I heard the Clear away! The cutters were abandoning the breach to
the folawoms. I saw Gudrun toss his trowel. His head dropped out of
sight. Instantly a boiling insect mass took its place: thousands upon
thousands of folaworms madly filling up the breach with resin. Greta, my
mate—smallest and last—barely squeezed through in time. She had to
climb into her hammock alone; no one inside could help her.
A wrinkled arm shot through the opening. Someone stuck a bundle
next to Greta’s head—Madri, the old priestess, I guessed. She pulled her
arm out quick, and then the folaworms closed in.
One beam of sunlight slanted through the hole, making a yellow circle
on Olev’s waist. Olev was already asleep. The light dimmed, and then it
was gone. The air was thick with the stench of resin. Affner was crushing
me. I started to panic. I tried to scream but my mouth was like wood. Dim
babble came through the trunk. Priests chanting. Children yelling. A dog.
Þheir fara!9
A mighty shout went up outside. Every throat in the village was crying
at once. A crack and shudder ran through the mothertree. I thought she’d
truly slipped her fruit—oh terror! ‘I’ll be trapped in here,’ I said to myself.
Þheir fara!
Instantly the babble died away.
I heard wind rushing in the sails. The mothertree swayed. The animals
were silent. Overhead I could hear Greta singing softly. Her song mingled
with the throbbing hum that filled my brain like a cup—

Cold, cold,
How cold is Lugh’s great plain this night.

Then came the deep water.

—From The Starvoyage of Snorri

Fion-Lis, Affelgard. Ár.10 3019

9 Pronounce “their fara.” (Norse: they leave; literally “they fare.”)

10 Norse: year
 CHAPTER ONE
_____________________________
AFFELGARD

The gray box on the wall was shouting Smudge’s name again.
It wasn’t shouting Smudge’s usual name; the name everyone called
her. The gray box was shouting ‘Private Dana Finn’. That was never a
good sign.
“You mean Private Smudge,” thought Smudge.
‘Private Dana Finn,’ the gray box shouted, ‘third Marine unit! Report
to lieutenant!’
“You mean Private Smudge report to Shaky Stieg,” thought Smudge.
Smudge got up from her usual chair with her usual nervous cough. She
smoothed down her shirtfront with her usual sick, fluttery feeling in her
usual knot of a stomach. Smudge walked down the long aisle between the
tables. The other marines pretended not to see her, heads bent over their
work, pink ears bristling over their stiff green collars. Behind the big
desk, corporal Tyr sat up and smirked at her as she went out.
“Good luck,” said corporal Tyr.

“Black-and-tartans dirty at assembly,” thought Smudge, as the lower-

hall windows filed past. “They must have noticed I was disorderly
yesterday. Or maybe I failed Old Norsk—that’s probably it! I’m sure I
failed Old Norsk.” Smudge buttoned her dull green káppa up to her chin.
It was always chilly inside the old burg. The lower-hall windows were set
in alcoves deep in the stone, like grim old eyes staring out on the fog.
Bäden Warschool was housed in the east wing of the Trondhjem burg: the
ancient fortress of the Norsk kings on planet Nirevvy. Centuries ago, the
Burg was nothing more than a crude tower on a rock overlooking the
Strand: the old harbor that once sheltered warships prowling the coasts of
Mythia-só, the middle sea. As the Norsk kings’ power grew, the burg grew
with them, tower upon tower, until the sprawling gray mass loomed over
the helter-skelter rooftops of Trondhjem town below. Marine cadets (like
Smudge) trained on the first two floors of the east wing (naval cadets
were on the third and fourth). Cadets were supposed to call the floors
‘decks’, like on a ship. Smudge called them ‘ducks’ (only to herself)
because the floors were always sticky and they made a quacking sound
under her boots. The quacking sound came from all the wax they smeared
on them— all the wax she smeared on them, in fact, because there was a
tacit agreement among Smudge’s officers that Smudge should be ranked
last in every measure; every measure besides scrubbing floors, that is.
Smudge was considered quite gifted at scrubbing floors.
“Hardiness unsatisfactory,” thought Smudge, “That’s what it is this
time. I couldn’t perform one dead-pull at Trials. And I’ve also got red
hair.”
At the end of the lower hall her lieutenant’s door was open. There was
the usual rat-nest of office debris inside. Lieutenant Stiegmund “shaky
Stieg” Brost was framed at his desk by two towers of paper; some loose,
some in gray jackets, everything dustier toward the bottom. Shaky Stieg’s
bald head reflected his ceiling light, which buzzed faintly. Smudge rapped
timidly on the doorframe. Shaky Stieg jerked his head up, and the
reflection on his scalp vanished. Smudge coughed.
“H-Herra lieutenant? I was told to report—”
“Dana-Finn-port-t-c’mander!” Shaky Stieg yawped mechanically. He
rubbed his bushy eyebrow left-to-right.

Smudge walked back down the lower hallway. It was almost dark
outside. A cold summer rain was starting to drum against the windows.
“Private Smudge report to Shiny Stieg,” thought Smudge, “They could
have just said that.”
Smudge plodded up the stairs.
“—could have just said that on the box. Why make me go to Shaky
Stieg first?”
Smudge slogged slowly down the second-floor hallway.
 “Why are so many nervies11 named ‘Stieg’?”

At the end of the hallway the commander’s door was open. Stiegmud
“Shiny Stieg” Goff looked just like Shaky Stieg, only older and balder.
Shiny Stieg’s huge shoulders sagged as he hunched over his desk. Stieg
wore an old-fashioned moustache which drooped at both ends. His shiny
head practically mirrored his ceiling light, which also buzzed faintly.
Smudge coughed.
“H-Herra commander? I was told to repor—”
“ ‘Ten-SHUN!” Shiny Stieg honked. Smudge went stiff.
“Ease,” Shiny Stieg grunted. He waved toward the one empty chair.
Smudge sat down.
Shiny Stieg stuck out his thick, pink tongue. He licked his thick, pink
thumb and forefinger with a wet noise. Then he pinched out a dossier
from somewhere and put his eyeglasses on. Shiny Stieg scowled into the
dossier.
Smudge squirmed.
Shiny Stieg made a rumbling noise in his throat.
Smudge squirmed.
“If it’s about Old Norsk—” Smudge blurted.
“ ‘Ten-SHUN!” Shiny Stieg honked. Smudge jerked up in the chair,
wondering if she was supposed to stand again. Shiny Stieg eyed her
sideways with a growl. He went back to glaring into the dossier.
“You’ve got the klotho,” Shiny Stieg said eventually.
“Sir?” said Smudge.
“You’ve got the KLOTHO!” Shiny Stieg yelled like she was deaf.
“You’ve got the KL-VS gene variant. The klotho. The one-eyes can tell
you all about it.”
“The scholars, sir?”
“Scholars?” Shiny Stieg snorted, “Scholars pah! Chicken-necks!” (He
puffed out his thick neck like a bullfrog.)
“Sir?” said Smudge.
Shiny Stieg sighed. “It’s your blood sample,” he said wearily. “Plus-
klotho means you belong out there in the bush, not up here in the
scriptorium. You don’t catch bush-disease.”

11 Slang for Norsk

 Smudge blushed.
Smudge knew she was blushing, and she knew the smudge across her
face was turning red, so she blushed even harder.
“Haw haw!” The commander shook in his chair, “That’s right! You
urskies12 take to the bush like pigs take to the mire. It’s that—that gitch of
yours, já? You can hear rainbows? And you talk to trees? Haw haw!”
Smudge got redder. Shiny Stieg took off his glasses and wiped them.
“Anyway,” he subsided, “I’m ordered to promote you.”
“Pr-promote me, sir?”
“Not my choice!” Shiny Stieg rumbled. “I’d sooner promote a corpse!
The gods up at Regimental,” (he waved his doughy hand above his head)
“decree one Dana Finn, private, is hereby—”
Shiny Stieg squinted at the dossier.
“ —hereby discharged, Bäden Warschool—hum de hum—
dishonorable—hum—unfit: all categories—hum hum—must hereby be
granted immediate promotion—
He looked up at Smudge,
“—Mariner class.”
“MARINER class?” Smudge gaped at Shiny Stieg, openmouthed.
“Já.”13 Shiny Stieg looked despondent. “Mariner class. Can’t send a
private, evidently. I’ll have to make you, I don’t know, a valkyria or a
skaldmer14 or some skít15—”
“Send a private? Send a private whe—”
“In my day,” Shiny Stieg folded his arms, “the navy wouldn’t let a
woman touch a knarr,16 not to mop the damn deck! In my day the navy
wouldn’t let a woman sail, much less let an ursky—”
“Sail? Sail where, sir?”
Shiny Stieg folded the dossier.

12 Slang for Gael. (Norse: Írska: Irish)

13 Norse: yes

14 Norse: skjaldmær: “shield-maiden”

15 Norse: shit (pronounce SKEE-it)

16 Probably the largest of medieval Scandinavian ships, built for transport.

 He tore the dossier in half. Then he put the two halves together, folded
them, and tore them in half again.
“Affelgard,” Shiny Stieg grunted. “You’re shipping out to Affelgard.
Dismissed.”

***

“YOU CAN’T go to Affelgard!” Maev wailed.

Maev was Smudge’s old ma; her only living parent. Just then Maev
was trying to reel Smudge in by her sleeve while Smudge struggled to
pull away from her.
“I have to go to Afflegard, Mama,” Smudge was protesting. “They
gave me my orders. I’m shipping out.”
“But I don’t even know where Affelgard is!” Maev wrung her hands.
“Is that a planet? How far from Nirevvy is it? Did they even tell you?”
Smudge bobbed her head. She was a young woman, about twenty-
four, with coppery hair and a permanently apologetic look in her freckled
face. Smudge had a birthmark like a splash of milk across her left
cheekbone and half her nose, wherein her freckles stood out even brighter.
She clasped her hands behind her back and struck a little pose. “Afflegard
is the fourth-largest object in our Gríyan system,” Smudge recited.
“Usually the most distant of the Near Worlds, Affelgard orbits midway
between Innis Chila and the Outer Ring. It crosses the path of planet
Talaglas only once every—”
“Talaglas?”
“Now Mama—”
“Talaglas?” Maev shouted, “that’s half a light-year away! I’ll never
see you again!”
“Now Mama,” Smudge soothed, “we don’t know that for certain.
We’ll be sailing on the Dreki, and that’s the fastest ship King Olaf ever—”
“Half a light year! You might as well be dead!”
Smudge sighed and took off her coat. Their room was shabby. Maev
had a fire burning, but it was still cold inside. She planted herself in front
of the stove, wrinkled hands on her hips. “Why you?” Maev demanded.
“Why now?”
Smudge rolled her eyes.
“Well it wasn’t my idea!”
 “Then whose idea?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Regimental’s idea, I guess. And would you
believe? They graduated me, Ma! They really did! And promoted me,
too! I’m not a private any more. I’m a—”
Smudge took a breath.
“I’m a Valkyria-mariner-contact-interpreter-fifth-class—”
“Congratulations,” Maev snorted, “And here I thought you were my
daughter. You haven’t told me why they’re sending you.”
“I’m plus-Klotho.”
Maev stared at Smudge.
Smudge stared at Maev.
Maev blinked.
Smudge sniffed.
Maev blinked again.
Smudge put her sleeve up to her nose.
“WHAT IN NERVY HELL—” Maev looked like she was winding up to
punch. Smudge yelped and took a hop backward. “B-blood test!” she
squawked. “It’s my blood test! Because we aren’t Norsk. Urskies don’t
get sick when we—”
“Gaels!” Maev barked. “Call us Gaels!”
“Gaels don’t get sick,” Smudge corrected, “when we meet strange
people. Geimverur, right?17 And speaking of strange people, you’ll never
guess—”
“I don’t want to guess.”
“—never guess what happened, Mama,” Smudge was bouncing on her
heels. “They found a Wanderer settlement! An honest-to-gods Wanderer
settlement right there on Affelgard! The marines aren’t supposed to know
about it, but we do know about it, and they say it’s small and it’s inside a
forest and it’s probably got minerals, and—”
Smudge stopped for breath.
“—you know what that means, don’t you Ma? New people! It’s been
hundreds of years since they found new people! And they’ve never seen a
starship or a gun or a—”
“Or a prison,” Maev sniffed. “Or a bread ration.”

17 Aliens
 “—and that’s why they’re sending me.” (Smudge wasn’t listening)
“Nirevvy needs ursk— hem!” she coughed. Maev growled and made a fist
again.
“—Nirevvy needs Gaelic interpreters.” (Smudge dropped a little
curtsy.) “They reckon we won’t get sick when we make contact. Just
imagine! I’m going to meet real-live new ancient starsailors from a
faraway planet just like in a story—”
“Harrumph!” Maev stared into the fire. Smudge undid her hair and
hung her coat up on the wall. “And besides,” Smudge pursued (as if Maev
were arguing) “no one knows exactly how long a reach it is. Could be six
years; could be less.” Smudge was trying to sound matter-of-fact although
suddenly there was an awkward lump in her throat. “But that’s alright,
Ma. They pay the wífgild18 before we go. Ten years’ salary! Think about
it! You’ll practically be rich. You could move out of the Hestad. Go back
to planet Orkev where we were born—”
“I don’t want to go back to Orkev!” Maev corralled Smudge in her
arms. Maev’s hair was an absolute nest. She smelled like she always
smelled: black tea and jurt-smoke. Maev’s shawl had at least six patches,
and needed at least six patches, each in a different color.
“I don’t want to go back to Orkev! I want my baby! Oh, my Dana, my
little innuving!”
“Now Mama,” Smudge chided, “no sense getting weepy.”
“But we have rights!” (Maev got weepy.) “They can’t do this!”
“The nervies can do whatever they want,” Smudge observed. “We lost
the war. They won.”
Maev let go of her and stomped over to the window. “We never lost
the war!” Maev retorted, “The war isn’t over! Our brave Gaelic separatists
are still bleeding for mother Orkev. They’re still raising Hel for the
nervies— oh, don’t you give me that look! Of course the nervies won’t
tell you about it. But it’s true, Dana. Our patriots are hiding in every forest
and fen. They strike when those fat nervies are sleeping. The Norsk may
have overrun Orkev,” Maev concluded, “but we fought with more spirit!”
“We fought with spears, Ma.”
Maev put her forehead on the dirty glass. It was dark now. Evening
lights hung in the sky where the Hestad—the ursky ghetto—crowded up

18 Anglo-saxon: wíf: woman; gild: gold

against sea cliffs encircling the Strand. To the east the Burg scowled down
on the Hestad, and, high above, Mount Völundr scowled down on the
burg, somewhere up in the black sky. From below Smudge could hear the
faint crush-crush of waves breaking over shoals.
“No,” Maev said quietly, “it wasn’t a question of spears or guns. The
nervies fought us. We fought each other. That’s why Branwen forsook
us.”
“Oh, Mother!” Smudge scoffed, “Branwen!” She tried to stand nearer
the stove but Maev caught her by the shoulders and spun her around. “No,
it’s true!” Maev cried, looking Smudge in the eyes. “The goddess
Branwen always protected us! When brothers kill brothers, that’s when
Branwen deserts you.”
“I don’t believe in Branwen.”
Maev let go Smudge’s shoulders. “Do you believe in truth?” she said
grandly. “Do you believe in beauty? In love?”
“I love you, Mama.”
“Oh, Dana!” Maev rushed back to Smudge’s arms. Suddenly she
pulled away. “No— it’s alright. It’s al—right,” Maev said thoughtfully.
She knitted her wrinkled forehead. “I feel better now,” Maev said
decidedly. “The goddess wills this. Your ghitcha will protect you.”
“Oh, mama!” Smudge turned her back and poked the fire. It gave off a
few stingy sparks and a generous amount of smoke. “Now you look here,”
cried Maev, “ain’tcha been listening? ‘First contact’ me arse! ‘t ain’t old
Olaf’s affair. ‘t ain’t even the nervies affair! Branwen is calling us.”
Smudge made a sort of gurgle.
“Us?”
“Yes! Of course us!” Maev trilled. “I’m coming with you! Aggle-fard
needs a—”
“Affelgard!”
“—fragglegard needs a priestess, don’t it? And I’m Branwen’s
priestess, ain’t I? Nervies shipping you out? heh heh! I’ll just get a berth
on your fancy new Dreki m’self. I’ll be a cook in the kitchen—galley—
whatever. Or I could mop floors. Decks I mean.”
Smudge laughed. Dear old Maev! Often in ecstasy. Often in despair.
Never in silence.
 Maev who smoked like a chimney. Maev, grown a bit podgy around
the middle. Maev who threw a fist (and took a fist, and almost got them
locked in the ‘Fang19 ) when the nervy boys called them thrælar20 ;
Maev who pretended to be a priestess of Branwen, the goddess of
birth. (‘We never had a priestess,’ Smudge insisted, ‘not even before the
war.’) Maev whose ghitcha—whose supernatural gift—was forever
“unveiling” things like when it was going to snow or where to deploy the
washtub when the roof leaked;
Maev who was so stubbornly, so embarrassingly ursky: wearing the
éddak,21 speaking ursky in public. Maev who at the ripe age of seventy
(she claimed she was fifty-five) just announced she was sailing to
Affelgard on Dreki, the greatest knarr ever built, the pride of king Olaf’s
fleet.
“What are you laughing at?” Maev demanded.
“Mother,” Smudge giggled, “they only just started letting women sail.
And not any women. You have to be Mariner class. They’ll never let an
ursky—”
“Gael!” Maev snapped.
“—they’ll never let a Gael just walk on. And besides—”
Smudge took Maev gently by the arm. She brushed the gray tangles
away from Maev’s eyes.
“—besides, you’re too old, Mama. Hibernation would kill you.”
“Hmm—” Maev wrinkled up her forehead again.
“Ah!” she said brightly. “Of course! We’ll ask Branwen! Come inside
the temple!”
“Oh, mama!” Smudge protested. Maev’s “temple” consisted of a
bedsheet (not very clean) folded over the clothesline like a tent with an
old board inside for an altar. The Sacred Fire (a smoky little oil lamp) was
always burning except for when Maev forgot to refill it. Smudge hated the
temple because it reeked of jurt and it took up half their room. Long ago
Maev had painted yellow stars and planets on the bedsheet and when the
sun came through the window these would glow faintly on the inside. But

19 Norse: fangelsi: prison

20 Norse: þrælar: slaves

21 Aodach; “cloth”
now it was dark. The bare floor was cold. Maev was using the Sacred Fire
to warm her tea.
“Oh, mama!” Smudge protested, but Maev already had her by the
wrist and was pulling her into the tent singing Esht shinya! Esht shinya!
like she always did. As she dragged her feet it occurred to Smudge that
this might be the last time she ever had to sit through one of Maev’s
Unveilings. So with a martyred sigh Smudge settled onto the floor—
“Ouch!” Smudge yelped, “It’s cold!” She frantically tucked her skirts
in under her legs. “Tsssst!” Maev hissed. “The goddess hears you!”
“Oh, Mother, really—”
“Tsssst!” Maev hissed. Maev took her tea away from the flame, then
she dropped a few lumps of scented wax where the wick was floating in
the oil. Smudge coughed.
“Tsssst!” Maev hissed. “Now. Throw the shells!”
Smudge held her hand out apprehensively. Maev put something in it.
“Ai! They’re wet!” Smudge dropped several eggshells on the board
and frantically wiped her hand on her skirt. Mm—hey? Maev mumbled
through her pipe. (She’d just lit it on the Sacred Flame.) Smudge coughed.
“Must you?”
“Aye. Must.”
“Were those duck eggs?”
“Aye,” Maev returned placidly, “any eggs’ll do. The goddess—she
foreseen I’d give ya’ duck eggs. AND she foreseen you’d throw ‘em down
just so. AND she foreseen how I, her only priestess, should unveil—”
“Can we get ON with it?” Smudge wailed, “I’m cold!”
“Alright, alright!” Maev scooted her knees up under the board. “Hush
ya’ now while I have a read of them.” Maev hovered her hands over the
eggshells, eyes closed, fingers outspread. She was mumbling out of one
corner of her mouth while her pipe-stem bobbed in the other.
“I SEE,” Maev intoned, “A TREE.”
Smudge yawned.
“You always see a tree.”
“I SEE,” Maev intoned, “A TALKING TREE.”
“You always see a talk—”
“Hush!” snapped Maev. “And I see two crows.”
Smudge heaved a weary sigh. “Mama you alway—
“MAMA!” Smudge screamed.
 Maev’s eyes were dead white.
The pipe fell out of Maev’s trembling lips. Sparks and ash scattered
across the board. MAMA! Smudge screamed as Maev fell backward,
clawing at her eyes.
“My ghitcha!” Maev shrieked, “It burns!” And then in a blink they
were both tangled up in the Temple. The lamp got knocked off the board.
Fire started up Maev’s shawl.
“The Sacred Fire!” Maev shrieked. “It burns!” Maev frantically
stripped off her shawl and flung it into the open stove. She squawked Oh
my, and then Smudge soaked her from behind with the entire contents of
the washtub.
“The washtub!” Maev shrieked. “It’s freezing!” Maev spun around.
“Damn it all!” she added. Maev and Smudge stood face-to-face, panting.
“Mama!”
“I saw—”
“Mama!”
“I saw—
“Mama!”
“I saw a tree!” Maev breathed.
“Mama, what—”
“No, I saw a tree, Dana! A talking tree! I really saw it! With my
ghitcha—oh!” Maev dug her knuckles into her eyes, “it’s like fire!”
“Mama, let me see!”
Maev fluttered her eyes open. Smudge lifted her chin. “I can’t tell.”
Smudge squinted at her. “It’s too dark. Your eyes look normal.”
“I saw a tree!” Maev chortled. She pulled away and went skipping
around the room. “I did I did I really did! She just—unveiled it to me.”
“Who?” Smudge demanded. “Who unveiled?”
“Branwen! Oh, Branwen! Branwen, of course!”
“Mother?” (Smudge was sincerely worried.) “You’re not well!”
“Well?” Maev gloated, “ho ho!” She rubbed her wrinkled hands
together. “Well, d’ya’ say? Why, I’ve never been better! Branwen finally
unveiled something to me. Come!” Maev cried, “We have to go.” She was
taking her heavy old éddak off the wall with a mad grin on her face.
“Go?” (Smudge was aghast.) “Go where?”
“Go to the talking tree of course! I know what it looks like now.
Hurry!”
 “MAW-ma!” Smudge wailed, “Have you lost your mind? It’s nearly
midnight! It’s black outside! It’s raining!”
“So dress warm!” Maev retorted. “We’re going now.”
“You don’t even know where this ‘tree’ is!”
“Yes-a-do!” Maev stuck her chin out obstinately.
“Then where is it?”
“Oh, up the mountain somewhere. Doesn’t matter. Branwen’s sending
two crows. Crows’ll show us the way.”
Smudge involuntarily choked. “You’re going out,” (Smudge almost
screamed) “to find crows,” (Smudge did scream) “in the DARK?”
But Maev was already inside her éddak, lashing her scarf around her
chin like it was the only thing keeping her head on. “You can stay if you
like,” Maev said in a curt, muffled voice.
“Fine!” Smudge stomped her foot. “I will stay.”
“Fine!” Maev snapped. “You just leave me to stumble around all alone
out there in the dark. Your own mother. Just a helpless old—”
“I’m not coming, Mother.”
“—helpless old woman with a bad hip. Just leave me for the wolves
—”
“There aren’t any wolves, Mother.”
“—just leave me for the wolves and the—er—the spiders—”
Smudge put her hands on her hips.
“Ha ha!” (Smudge couldn’t suppress it) “Spiders, Mother? Really?”
“Well,” Maev said innocently, “there might be spiders.”
“Hee hee,” Smudge tittered, “Spiders! They’d be drowned!”
“So you’re coming?” Maev asked hopefully.
“All right,” Smudge groaned. “Let me get my coat on.”

***

“YOU CAN’T go to Affelgard!” lady Elska wailed.

Lady Elska’s husband, Rafe, dashing young Thane 22 of Caladar, turned
smartly on his heel. Rafe’s fur-trimmed cape turned smartly too. He

22 Lord, chieftain (Old English þæġn. Also related to Dane.)

assumed a commanding posture: one boot on the window-seat; one hand
on his knee. Their chambers were small but luxurious. A marble
mantlepiece glittered with trophies and military bric-a-brac (Rafe’s). In
the next room Elska’s vanity was so crammed with bottles and brushes it
looked like a painter’s garret. Her gilt-framed mirror threw back the glow
of the lamps burning on either side.
“I must go, dearest,” said Rafe, gazing out on the rain. “My country
calls. You know— the burden of nobility and all that.”
“But I’ll never see you again!” lady Elska wailed. Elska was twenty-
two and people said she was rapturously beautiful. (Elska agreed.) “I’ll
never see you again!” Elska cried. “You might as well be dead!”
Rafe tugged at his moustache. Rafe’s moustache was very neat (and
slightly shiny). He twirled the tip with a brooding expression on his
handsome face—square jaw, square forehead, jet-black hair combed
backward in a perfect square.
“I am sorry, dearest.” Rafe turned to her. “I shall miss you terribly.
Strange life, this! Forever torn between the desires of the heart and the
demands of the Faðirland.”23 Rafe strode back to the bed. Sitting down,
he gently enfolded Elska’s small, white hand in his. He looked into her
eyes.
“We were born for this, Elska,” Rafe said fervently. “I, to carry the
lamp of civilization. You, to bear children for our race.”
“But I can’t bear children!” Elska wailed. “Why does it have to be
you? Why can’t somebody else carry the— the lamp of— race?”
Rafe frowned. “Now, Elska,” he said warningly, “we both know our
duty. It’s an honor I was picked for Affelgard. An honor for us both.
Remember: you belong to the house of Hador now.”
“I know—” Elska looked up at him with wet eyes—“but we’ve only
been married two years, Rafe. And now you’re just going to turn around
and leave me?”
Bending down Rafe kissed Elska gently on the cheek. “There, there—
I know it’s hard,” he soothed. “You must be missing the old plantation.
Would you like to go back to Orkev for a few days? Yes, why not? I think
you should. I’ll call Freya.”

23 Fatherland
 “I don’t want Freya!” (Elska started to cry again.) “I want my thane!
And my castchal!24 And a baby! Why must you go? Magnes ought to be
the one—”
“Magnes?” Rafe almost spat. “What’s Magnes going to do on
Affelgard? Ha ha,” he laughed maliciously, “they haven’t got fancy little
hedges there!”
“But Magnes is eldest!”
Rafe went white.
“Ye-esss—” (Rafe was trembling) “—keen observation, lady Caladar.
I’m told Magnes is eldest.” Rafe stood up abruptly. “And I’m cleverest!
I’m sorry if you don’t see the honor in it. If it’s Magnes you want, well,
you’re welcome to him; why not ask? He’s traditional. He might take an
extra wife while I’m off dying for Nirevvy.”
“No, no—” (Tears ran down Elska’s perfect face.) “I’m sorry, Rafe! I
can’t believe I’m already losing you!” She clutched Rafe’s hand. Rafe
gently lifted her chin.
“I need you to be brave for me,” Rafe said quietly. “Won’t you? Be my
brave little shieldmaiden?”
Elska closed her eyes. She took a breath, then she nodded.
“Good!” Rafe said crisply, letting go her chin. “Now I’ve got to go,
dearest. My father wants to see me.”
There was a knock outside. Elska snuffled and wiped her nose. Rafe
shouted Enter! The door swung open on a chilly parlor. A smartly-dressed
naval officer stalked in. He was older than Rafe—maybe forty—tall and
broad-shouldered. His wavy reddish hair was speckled with gray. A sabre
hung from his belt: not a ceremonial sword, a real one. Its hilt and
scabbard were tarnished from long use. The naval officer clicked his heels
and saluted.
“Ease, Herrick,” Rafe grunted.
Herrick bowed. “Admiral wants to see you, my thane.”
“I know,” Rafe sighed. “Tell the old man I’m on my way.”
Herrick bowed again. He turned to leave.
“No—Herrick—wait!” Rafe called, “I’m coming with you.”

24 Scots Gaelic: caisteal: “castle”

 They walked in silence, Rafe in front, their boots making a faint crush-
crush in the heavy carpet. High windows filed past; the usual peaked
windows of the burg, deep-set in gray stone. Outside, the long summer
day had turned into night. A north wind was rising. Raindrops rattled on
the panes.
“And how did my lady take it?” the tall officer asked at length.
Rafe didn’t answer. Their boots raised a clamor on the winding
staircase as they went down. The tall officer shouldered a heavy door
open. Together they huddled out into the rain.
“Not well, Herrick.”
“Sir?”
“Not well!” Rafe held his cape tight around him, head down against
the wind. “She didn’t take it well.”
“It must be very hard for her, sir.”
“Yes.” Rafe stopped. He looked down from the high battlement, across
the rooftops of Trondhjem. Gold-lit windows wavered through the rain.
The wind tossed Rafe’s hair. He gripped the edge of the parapet with both
hands.
“She said something, Herrick.”
“Sir?”
“She said something!” Rafe raised his voice. “She said she wants a
baby.”
“My lord? I don’t understa—”
Rafe turned abruptly and walked on. “She said it like she meant it,
Herrick!” he called back. “Oo—” (Rafe brogued) “I wants me thane an’ I
wants me castle an’ I wants me— me wee precious ungbarn!”25
“My lord?” Herrick trotted to catch up. Rafe stalked across the
flagstones, scattering the puddles. At the far end of the battlement Rafe
threw open another door. They clattered down another stairway (not an
elegant one; a dripping, unlit stairway with mossy walls) and into a dim
underground recess. Two arched passageways led up to the cobbled street;
their wet bricks glowed dully where the streetlamps shone through. The
city above was quiet, except for the general hum of Trondhjem-town
around suppertime.

25 Norse: baby
 Rafe strode past the arches, to where the bay ended in a stone wall. A
little wrought-iron gate was set deep in it. Water from some unseen gutter
trickled out underneath and chattered down a covered drain. Rafe stepped
over the drain. He took an intricate-looking key out of his pocket.
Distant footsteps echoed down the passageways, coming from the
street. Rafe paused and looked over his shoulder. When it was quiet again,
he pushed on the gate. It swung silently. Rafe locked it behind them, and
they went up a steep flight of steps carved into the stone. Beyond it, a
crack of friendly light betrayed a door.
Herrick gently raised the latch and stuck his head inside. He looked
right, then left, bathed in yellow light. Rafe motioned to Herrick.
Together they slipped through the discreet back-entrance of a tavern
known as The Valkyrie.

“She wouldn’t!”
Herrick leaned across the table. Rafe lowered his glass. “She
wouldn’t,” Herrick repeated. “Elska marry your brother? What gave you
that idea, sir?”
Rafe sagged against the table. They were sitting in a little nook beside
the fire (blazing merrily in spite of it being summer). The tavern was
dimly lit. Talk echoed from the vaulted ceiling, punctuated by the steady
clink of glasses. Rafe ran his fingers through his damp hair.
“She would marry my brother.”
“Magnes is already married, sir.”
“She’ll settle for sister-wife.”
“She will not, sir!”
“Oh yes she will!” Rafe showed his teeth. “Elska’s twenty-two. She’s
got ambition. She’ll marry Magnes while I’m—”
“Sirrr—” Herrick chided.
“—while I’m— how d’ya say— ‘hibernated-presumed-dead’.”
“Sirrr—” Herrick chided, “no she—”
“—and Elska thought she was getting a castle out of me, dear gods!”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Plus,” he added, “you know these colony girls
always remarry. They’re traditional. The instant we hit the three-year
mark—” Rafe shook his finger at Herrick—“you can bet your arse she’ll
have me officially presumed dead, if signals don’t find the Dreki. And
signals won’t find the Dreki.” Rafe stuck his face in his drink. Herrick
drew back in shock. “No,” Herrick insisted, “no she would never marry
Magnes! Elska is— I beg your pardon, my lord: your noble wife is Lady
Caladar now, whether you’re on Affelgard or not. She wouldn’t—”
“She WOULD!” Rafe gave the table a sluggish thump. “She thinks
about it, Herrick, and she would!”
Herrick folded his arms. “She thinks Magnes ought to be the one
going to Affelgard,” he observed. “You just told me that, sir.”
“Nofe,” Rafe slurred, “ ‘s not that. She said Magguh— Manguh— she
said his name, Herrick! I tell her I’ve been picked for Affelgard, longest
reach in history—great honor for us both—first thing pops into her head
is—hic!—my brother’s name! Oh, she’ll settle for sister-wife.” He gave
Herrick a sloppy smile. “That’s traditional too, if you’re norsk.”
Herrick nodded. Rafe slumped down on his elbows. “Husband sails
away,” he droned, “no word from him after three years? Snap!” (Rafe
snapped his fingers) “husband is officially presumed dead.”
Herrick smoothed his down moustache with his thumb and forefinger.
“Yes,” he said blandly, “that’s the chance we take, in our way of life.”
Rafe snorted.
“Our way of life?”
“Sir?” Herrick scraped his chair closer to the table. Rafe curled his lip.
“Our way of life?” Rafe repeated, “no, that’s the chance I take in MY way
of life. I’m norsk.”
“I meant the navy.”
“You’re ursky.” (Rafe was making horns out of his fingers and holding
them against his head.) “Your way of life is dancing around in a goat
mask.”
“My father was norsk, sir.” Herrick smiled wearily. “My father died on
the third Kuda reach. My mother was—”
“I know.”
“—was beautiful,” Herrick muttered into his mug. Rafe wasn’t
listening. “Eldest brother has first rights to his younger brother’s widow,”
he rambled, eyes wandering the room. “Widow has her sacred duty to
remarry. Got to make more little norskmen, haven’t we? Like I said, that’s
traditional.”
“That may be traditional,” Herrick grunted, “but that doesn’t mean
Elska will do it. Sister-wife to duchess Astrid? Never! And Magnes
wouldn’t stand for it either.”
 “Oh, Herrick,” Rafe waggled his head with a condescending smile.
“Poor, naïf Herrick! Of course Magnes would stand for it! Why, it’s
practically the only thing he would stand for. Magnes isn’t a navy man.
He has no honor-sense.”
Herrick scowled at the table. “Well he has common sense,” Herrick
countered. “What would Astrid say? Can you imagine that argument? And
Sven? And Elyen? And besides—” Herrick looked up at Rafe—“marrying
Elska wouldn’t get Magnes any more children. Elska can’t—”
Herrick stopped. He coughed into his fist. “Elska can’t what?” Rafe
demanded, with a venomous look. Herrick reddened. “I—I was under the
impression,” Herrick stammered, “I’d thought your lady wife can’t—”
“Can’t bear children!” Rafe cut him off, “yes, yes— Elska’s a
godsdamned iceberg! Everybody knows that!” Herrick dropped his gaze.
“Forgive me, m’lord,” he said humbly. “Of course your noble line will
always endure. There are many ways a thane can—”
“Já, já,” Rafe brushed him off, “stop fawning, Herrick. You think I
don’t know how to mend my luck? Oh, everything’s always easy for
Magnes.” He swirled his glass morosely. “Magnes already has Sven to
carry on his name.”
“Precisely!” Herrick nodded hard. “Magnes already has an heir, so
why would Elska want—”
Rafe banged the glass down. “Why would Elska want to marry
Magnes?” he crowed. “Because Magnes is rich, that’s why! Because
Magnes could be king, Herrick—after my father, I mean. Olaf’s barely
breathing. My father is Olaf’s half-brother; he’ll be next in line. How long
do you reckon his venerable arse will fill the throne? I swear to gods,”
Rafe growled, “I don’t care if I’m a light year away, I won’t live under the
reign of a king Maggots the First and—”
Rafe made a face like there was something stuck in his throat.
“—and queen Elska.”
Herrick frowned (which made the forks of his moustache jut down).
“But Elska could never be queen,” he countered, “not as any sister-wife to
Astrid! Sister-wives don’t take title; you know that. If Magnes were king,
then Astrid would be queen.”
“Oh, would she?” Rafe drawled.
“And Elska would still be Lady Caladar.”
 “Oh, would she?” Rafe drawled. “And what if Elska doesn’t like being
lonely Lady Caladar? Ever seen a widow with a body like that? You know
she’s decked like a— don’t shake your head like you don’t notice! She’s
decked like a gunship,” (Rafe hovered his hands over his chest) “she’s got
the estate on Orkev, she’s got the money her father left her. Elska isn’t
clever,” Rafe sneered, “but she knows what she’s worth. What d’you
reckon Magnes is going to say three years from now, when Olaf’s dead
and I’m drifting somewhere out in space? First time Elska shakes her
vyrts at him, I reckon Magnes says something on the order of ‘come
aboard’—just see if he doesn’t.” Rafe went back to his drink. “Sir—”
Herrick whispered cautioningly.
Rafe belched. “No, you listen to me, lieutenant!” he said louder. “Old
Astrid’s no gunship, that’s for sure. She must be at least forty-five.”
“Sir!” Herrick hissed. He glanced around the table. The tavern seemed
to have suddenly gone quiet. Rafe barreled on anyway. “Magnes already
got Astrid’s pups,” he babbled, “so what’s he keeping the old tík around
for? He’ll put her back in the kennels. Astrid’ll hate Elska for it; Elska
same. Maybe—” Rafe chuckled knowingly— “maybe little Elska gets
jealous, já? Sister-wives tend to get jealous, don’t they Herrick? Maybe—
I don’t know— maybe one day Astrid trips and falls down some stairs—
entirely by accident, of course!” Rafe winked. “Maybe she drowns in her
bath. Maybe somebody drops a pill in her soup. Maybe—poof!—young
Sven gets a pretty new mummy—my Elska—playing cork-th’-bottle with
Magnes while I’m off catching plagues on some godsforsaken—”
“Sir!” (Herrick was halfway out of his chair) “Don’t talk so loud!” He
managed to catch Rafe’s glassy eyes. Rafe growled and subsided. “And
besides,” (Herrick settled back again) “Elska’s just a girl anyway. She’s
barely out of her teens—”
“Shut up!” Rafe barked. Herrick froze.
“Shut up! You’re— forget your PLACE, lieutenant, ‘s my wife!”
“Pardon, pardon,” Herrick soothed, glancing around again. “I beg your
pardon, sir. I only meant: Lady Caladar isn’t a murderess. Nor unfaithful
either. She simply hasn’t got it in her.”
Rafe gave a patronizing laugh. “O—oh,” he drawled, “you might be
surprised what people got in ‘em, Herrick. You—might—be—surprised. I
have a plan.”
“M’lord?”
 “I have a plan!” Rafe hissed. “A plan for a funeral.”
“Well of course you can request a funeral,” Herrick said matter-of-
factly. “They’ll grant you a full navy funeral before the reach. And that’s
the other thing, sir: you’ll register your Will and Testament. You can keep
your rights to Elska’s estate.”
“Nofe—” Rafe shook his head—“not my funeral.”
“Then whose funeral?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I—” Herrick looked bewildered. He glanced down at the two empty
glasses on the table, standing next to Rafe’s half-full one.
“Old norsk funeral!” Rafe winked. “You know: burn—hic!—burning
ship?”26
Herrick stared at Rafe.
Rafe stared at Herrick.
“No-o!” Herrick drew back, aghast. Rafe grinned.
“No, my lord!” Herrick pushed his chair away from the table. “That
simply isn’t done!”
Rafe smiled cruelly. “It might not be the fashion,” he remarked, “but
it’s still the law. Elska is my property. I can have any sort of funeral I
choose, and I choose the mare-fire. I will win my fame on Affelgard.
Elska will wait for me in Valhalla.”27
“But—but the admiral!” Herrick spluttered—“Your father adores
Elska. He won’t stand for—”
“My father!” Rafe scoffed. “My decrepit father won’t know!”
He stopped.
“—unless you tell him, lieutenant.” Rafe looked Herrick in the eyes.
“Si-irrr!” Herrick pleaded, “M’lord, please, I daresay—” he shook his
head sadly—“daresay I’ve proven where my loyalty lies. I’ve never once
been untrue to the thane of Caladar. Not since Sigurd—”
“Good,” Rafe interrupted, “because I’m sending Elska home to Orkev
and I want you to pilot the old karvi.”
“The old karvi?” (Herrick looked uneasy.) “Why the old karvi?”

26 Some historical sources tell of viking funerals where a chieftain’s wife would be put
to sea in a burning ship along with the body of her husband.

27 Valhalla: the afterlife of the honorable warrior; a place of eternal feasting, combat,
and bliss.
 “Because it’s got the old lifeboat.”
They looked at each other, not speaking. The fireplace crackled louder
in the silence.
“Oh.” Herrick lowered his eyes. “I understand.”
Rafe sniggered. “Do you, my good vassal?” he said. “Já, the old karvis
weren’t built for space; not really. Climb her past the two-league mark—
heh! So let’s just say—” Rafe tipped back in his chair, hands behind his
head “—just hypothetically, you know: let’s say there happened to be
some emergency on the way to Orkev—some serious trouble, já? Why,
you’d be duty-bound to protect your lady Elska! Who’d blame you for
it?”
Herrick didn’t answer. His eyes were on the sticky table.
“So you launch Elska off in the old lifeboat,” Rafe pursued. “Standard
procedure, right? Orkev’s gravity will pull it in. Lifeboat touches
atmosphere—poof!” Rafe blossomed his fingers. “Old norsk funeral!
Clever, right?”
Herrick said nothing. Underneath the table his sword clinked slightly.
“And I’ll need you to leave for Orkev day after tomorrow.” Rafe
landed the front legs of his chair with a bang.
“Day after tomorrow?”
Herrick’s breath made a little whistle through his teeth.
“That soon, sir?”
“That soon!” Rafe slapped the table. “It’s imperative they leave in the
afternoon watch. Four bells at the latest.”
“Four—” Herrick’s face went white. Rafe hoisted his glass and
drained it. “I’ve already made arrangements,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“Don’t expect smooth sailing—heh!—there’s going to be a bit of fun on
the way.”
“I see.” Herrick’s voice was calm. Under the table his sword clinked
again. “Well?” Rafe demanded.
“Well what, sir?”
“Well you haven’t asked about yourself!”
“I wasn’t thinking about myself, sir.”
“Co-ome!” Rafe reached across the table and clapped Herrick on the
shoulder. “Of course I’m taking care of you, my good vassal! Don’t you—
hic!—worry about a godsdamn thing! Take Elska and that, that wench of
hers— wuzz’er name?— Frida?”
 “Freya.”
“Já, you just steer the karvi. Stop and refuel at Lünhofn. Press on
toward Orkev. First sign of any trouble, you stuff Elska and her wench in
the lifeboat and cut them loose. I’ll handle the rest. Didn’t I say I’m taking
care of you? Didn’t I, Herrick?”
“You did, m’lord.”
Rafe got up unsteadily. “Now I’m ready for the admiral,” he chuckled.
“Old man goes better with mead. Herrick?”
“My lord?” Herrick’s eyes were on the floor.
“Cape, Herrick!”
“Right, m’lord!” Herrick got out of his chair. He held up Rafe’s cape.
Rafe fastened its gold chain across his chest. “And how is Sigurd?” he
asked casually. Herrick reddened.
“My lord?”
Rafe laughed. “Skaal!” 28 he said. Then he went out.

***

HIGH ON the bristling burg of Trondhjem, the admiral of Nirevvy—

crown prince Stegvard Hador the fourth—was pacing his narrow floor.
The admiral’s quarters were chilly; sparsely furnished (Stegvard was a
soldier of the Old School). His nightly indulgence, a cup of tea, was
keeping warm on the marble beside the fireplace. The admiral’s silvery
tea-things might have bought a small farm, but the pot was all black and
dented. The Stegvard had it stuck in the coals, where soot blew down on it
every time the wind guttered in the chimney.
The admiral’s desk, like his teapot, was both very elegant and very
badly-used. Five decades of boots had chipped the lacquered legs down to
the screws. Stegvard’s books and papers were as orderly as an infantry
drill. The desk had only one decorative touch: an exquisite miniature
starship, crafted by the admiral himself years ago. The little starship
wasn’t a shapeless city-in-space like the Dreki; this was one of the pretty,

28 A Norse toast (“skoal”).

primitive crafts from centuries ago, when launch accelerators were hardly
more than catapults and mariners wore fur káppas to keep from freezing.
A dainty prow like a crow’s skull perched atop two massive thrusters,
each more than ten times its size. Alongside the hull, tiny round portholes
peered out.
Passing the high window Stegvard paused to scowl at the rain. He
looked a vigorous seventy: white hair; ramrod posture. Stegvard wore the
threadbare coat of a lieutenant commander, a rank he hadn’t held in half a
century. Where the admiral’s chest insignia might have been there was
pinned only a single star, the Norskarna,29 emblem of Nirevvy.
A knock came from the corridor. The admiral turned quickly. Enter! he
called. The door opened. A smartly-dressed orderly dodged out of the way
and then Rafe swept in. Rafe clicked his heels and saluted.
“Ease,” grunted the admiral.
“You wanted me, sir?”
“I wanted you an hour ago,” Stegvard snorted. The orderly stepped
outside and closed the door. Rafe bowed slightly.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“I smell mead.”
“Only a drop!” Rafe protested. “That ursky of mine, lieutenant Herrick
—heh! He always wants to— he’s quite attached to me, you know?
Broken up about me leaving—”
“You ought to be talking with your wife,” the admiral snapped, “not
drinking with your orderly.”
“With my wife?” (Rafe was genuinely surprised.) “Why should I be
talking with Elska?”
Stegvard stared at him in disbelief. “B-because she’s your wife!” he
sputtered. “You’re sailing half a light year away! What if you never saw
her again?”
“Sir?” Rafe cocked his head quizzically. The admiral heaved a sigh.
He sank into the tall chair behind his desk. Rafe sat down in front without
being invited. Stegvard took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. For a
moment neither spoke. The only sound was the click of the fire and the
rattle of wind in the chimney.
“I’m thinking of sending Elska,” Stegvard said at last.

29 Norse: norðurstjarna, north star or polar star

 “Oh?” Rafe arched an eyebrow. “Sending Elska where?”
“Affelgard.”
Rafe looked at him blankly.
“I’m thinking of sending her to Affelgard,” the admiral said louder.
Rafe opened his mouth.
Rafe closed his mouth.
“To Affelgard?” Rafe eventually squeaked, “You can’t be serious,
Father!”
“I am serious.”
“But it’s impossible!”
“It is not impossible.”
“But why would anyone—”
“Quiet!” barked the admiral. “Do you think I want to, Rafe? It murders
me! I adore Elska. She’s like my daughter.”
“Then why—”
Stegvard got up from his chair. He turned and faced the window, hands
clasped behind his back in his usual way. It was raining hard now. Water
streamed off the eaves in torrents.
“This dismal old burg is no place for a girl,” the admiral said quietly.
“Elska is unhappy here. Orkev isn’t safe either. There’s trouble with the
Gaelic separatists.”
“With the ursky rebels,” Rafe said reflexively. His face still wore a
stunned expression.
“Rebels—” returned the admiral—“whatever. There’s trouble here on
Nirevvy too. Longbards want the throne. I won’t just sit and watch Elska
wilt. It feels like a knife in my heart.”
“B-but they never send families!” Rafe gibbered, “Not on a first
reach!”
“Who never sends families?”
“The navy!” cried Rafe. “The navy never sends families!”
“I AM the navy,” Stegvard said cooly. Rafe tried to swallow. “B-but
Elska?” he stammered, “Elska’s not fit for conquest! She’s barren! You
know that!”
Stegvard spun around. He eyed his son angrily.
“There’s more to a woman than a womb, Rafe.”
Rafe shook his head, not comprehending.
 Stegvard sighed and sat down again. He dusted off the starship’s
mahogany base with his cuff. “Marta would have done a better job,”
Stegvard said (mostly to himself). He looked up at Rafe, who was sitting
ash-faced on the edge of his chair. “We were bred to fight,” (Stegvard
smiled ironically) “you know that.”
“Of course I know that!” Rafe snorted. “Thralls die. Lords live. That’s
the way of it.”
Stegvard shook his head.
“You’re wrong.”
“Sir-r—” Rafe said wearily.
“You’re wrong!” The admiral raised his voice. “Thralls die. Lords die.
Everything dies. That’s the way of it.”
Rafe moaned faintly.
“Everything dies,” the admiral repeated. “At some point you’re going
to ask yourself what you’re living for.”
“Fame,” replied Rafe. “Honor.”
The admiral smiled, a touch derisively. “Well here’s an honor for you,”
he remarked, “I’m thinking of sending Magnes to Affelgard too.”
Rafe froze.
“Magnes?” Rafe wailed. “You can’t send Magnes! Magnes isn’t a
soldier! And what about Astrid? And Sven? And little— little—” (Rafe
had forgotten his niece’s name.)
“Elyen.”
“—and little Elyen? What’s to become of them in this ‘dismal old
burg’?”
“If Magnes goes,” (Stegvard spoke softly) “then they go too. A few
select officers can bring their families. I’ll be left here alone. I’m signing
my own death warrant, Rafe.”
Rafe folded his arms. “ ‘Select officers?’ ” he retorted, “Magnes isn’t
an officer. He’s never so much as worn a káppa. What good is Magnes—”
The admiral lifted his hand. Rafe instantly stopped speaking. Stegvard
leaned on his desk, bearded chin in hand. He pinned Rafe in his bright
blue eyes.
“How is an officer made?” Stegvard asked.
“He’s made with honor,” Rafe said decidedly. “He’s made with pure
Norsk blood.”
 Stegvard shook his head. Reaching down, he took a pen off his desk
and held it up. Its gold cap glinted in the lamplight.
“I make officers with this.”
Rafe looked at the pen. Rafe looked at Stegvard, anger rising in his
face. Reaching across the desk, Stegvard took a thick sheet of paper and
scribbled on it. “There!” he said, stamping the paper. “Magnes is now an
officer of the Marine Diplomatic Corps holding the rank of Captain.”
Rafe choked.
“He outranks me?”
“He’s eldest.”
Rafe jumped up. “That’s dishonorable!” he snarled. On the desk,
Stegvard’s knuckles were turning white. “No, my boy,” Stegvard said
evenly, “ ‘dishonorable’ is appearing before your admiral late and drunk.
‘Dishonorable’ is questioning your admiral’s judgement—”
Rafe knew that look from childhood. He shrank back into his chair.
“—‘dishonorable’ is being faithless to your family—your only brother
—as you have been these thirteen years since your mother Marta died. If I
have to—” (Stegvard rose from his chair.) “If I have to knock you down
to bare ensign, boy, I’ll do it, if it teaches you what ‘dishonorable’
means.”
The admiral stopped. For a moment Rafe met his eyes. Then he looked
down at the floor. “Forgive me,” Rafe mumbled. Stegvard sat down again.
“This orderly of yours,” he resumed, “why is Herrick still a
lieutenant?”
“He’s a half-ursky, sir.”
“I know that. Why is he still a lieutenant?”
“Because he’s a half-ursky, sir.”
“Gods!” Stegvard rubbed his temples. Picking up the pen again he said
“Herrick’s a lieutenant commander now, and I’m sending him to
Affelgard with the marines. Pick a new orderly. Tell Herrick to notify his
next of kin.”
Rafe hid a smirk.
“I’ll notify his next of kin myself, sir.”
“Good,” said the admiral. “That’s all. Dismissed.”
Rafe stood up. He saluted his father, then he turned to go. Rafe’s hand
was on the latch when Stegvard called to him.
“Rafe?”
 Rafe turned.
“Sir?”
The admiral smiled. It was a shy, honest smile.
“Gods protect you, my son.”
Rafe bowed slightly and went out.

***

ELSKA, LADY Caladar, was wallowing in an enormous copper

bathtub. The steam rising out of it smelled like honey. Water came up to
Elska’s exquisite shoulders. Her long golden hair was draped over the side
of the tub where Freya, Elska’s vikona,30 was dividing out four thick
strands with a pearl comb. Elska buried her shoulders in the foam with a
sigh.
“Don’t plait it,” said Elska.
“Yes, m’lady.”
Freya put the comb back on its tray next to a rolled piece of paper.
Elska glanced over at her irritably.
“What’s that note you’re hiding?” Elska demanded. (The paper had
been in plain view ever since she came in.)
“Bit of Gaelic poetry.” Freya bobbed her head. She unrolled the paper
and held it up. Elska looked away disdainfully.
“I don’t read ursky.”
“No, m’lady.”
Elska sank deeper in the tub.
“So what’s it say?”
“The poem, m’lady? It says—er—” Freya smiled sheepishly, “A
moment, m’lady. I don’t read Gaelic so well myself any more.” She held
the paper closer and squinted at it. “It’s— it’s from The Flight of
Diarmaid,” she said. “That’s an ancient song. It goes, er, cold, cold—

Cold is Lugh’s great plain this night,

30 Norse: vinnukona, “maid” (literally “work woman”)

 The snow is higher than the hills,
The buck finds no more food,
How cold is Lugh’s great—

“Who’s Loof?” Elska interrupted.

“Lugh,31 m’lady? He’s one of the gods. The Shining One.”
“There aren’t any gods,” Elska sniffed. “Oh?” Freya returned, “Maybe
not on Nirevvy. But on Orkev we—”
SLAP.
Elska struck like an adder. “Ursky tík!” Elska shrieked. “Irreverent
thrall!” She rubbed her stung hand. Freya’s lip was bleeding.
“Forgive me, my la—”
“Urskies worship pigs!” Elska screamed. “How dare you insult the
gods of Nirevvy?”
“Forgive me, my la—”
“Shall I send you back to the Hestad, then? So you can eat fish?”
“Pardon, my la—”
“So you can rent your kisa out by the half-hour? Shall I?”
“I beg your pardon, m’lady.”
“Get out!”
Freya stood stood and picked up the tray. Her bottom lip was swelling.
As she passed between the gilt screens, Freya could hear Elska starting to
cry.

***

MAGNES, NINTH duke of Hador, was trimming a fancy little hedge.

It was a complicated hedge: about chest-high and made to look like a
rooster growing out of an engraved stone pot. Magnes sat on a wooden
stool in front of the pot and snipped at the rooster with a pair of shears.
Morning hadn’t burned away the mist that lay secretive over everything.

31 Pronounce LOOgh (guttural ‘gh’)

Dew sparkled on the rooster’s tail. Dew hung heavy on the rooster’s leg,
wetting the duke’s hand as he worked.
“Do you know how old this topiary is?” Magnes asked Sigurd, his
servant.
“The rooster, Your Grace?”
“The rooster, yes—” Magnes turned the winged screw between his
shears. They were a venerable old tool: sharpened and re-sharpened until
the blades were worn down to daggers. Magnes angled them with a
studied air as he snipped, his soft white hands turning this way and that.
“The rooster—” Sigurd hesitated—“I believe you told me once, my
lord. More than a hundred years old, I should think?”
“More than two hundred years old!” The duke looked up at Sigurd
impressively. “Is he really?” Sigurd feigned surprise. (The duke had
already told him at least fifty times.) “That’s marvelous, Your Grace!”
Magnes handed the shears to Sigurd. “Yes it is marvelous,” he replied,
“isn’t it? Tyrsson third of Hador brought it back from Orkev, our humble
little boska-tree.” Magnes took out a handkerchief and dabbed his hands.
“In those days they thought a boska was exotic—heh heh!” he chuckled,
“it’s too delicate for Nirevvy, anyway. I never take little Hani32 out of the
glasshouse but for a week or two in summer.” He rapped the pot with his
knuckles. “I do love to see the sun on it when it blooms.”
Sigurd nodded. “It’s a gods-send, Your Grace,” he said, leaning in to
sniff the tiny white flowers on the rooster’s comb. “Smells like apple-
blossom.”
“No-o—” Magnes puffed, getting up from his stool—“it smells like
Order. Order is the very essence of this little potager33 of mine—”
He spread his arms wide and turned around.
“—a perfect haven amid life’s chaos!”
“Right you are, my lord!” Sigurd bowed briskly. It was an impressive
garden: a huge green rectangle spread out behind the duke’s summer villa
(called ‘Sumarhús’). Sumarhús was situated in a coomb between two hills
—the warmest nook there was between between Trondhjem and the Strait
of Longbard. The villa’s graceful porticos were a far cry from the stern

32 Norse: rooster

33 French: kitchen garden. Pronounce POH-tah-zhey.

lines of the Burg. (“Too Longbard-ish for my taste,” prince Stegvard once
remarked.) Wide green lawns flanked the grand avenue, sloping down to
an artificial lake where ducks paddled in and out among the reeds. The
gleaming façade was an absolute forest of columns and statues— but
Magnes hardly ever ventured out his front doors. He spent most of his day
in the garden behind, which he liked to call his ‘potager’ even though it
was worth more than the Hestad and it took ten minutes to walk from end
to end. Everything grew in perfect balance—plum trees cubed on steel
frames; flowerbeds divided into red and yellow grids. The white gravel
walks—laid out in the seven-point star of Nirevvy—were as straight and
sharp as bowstrings. In the center a tall fountain was bubbling: the marble
figure of Freyr, god of the harvest, endlessly pouring water out of his
giant horn.
“You take this boska-tree,” Magnes pursued, putting his handkerchief
away. “Out in the bush, why, it’s just a bush! Ha ha!” Magnes laughed at
his little joke. Sigurd smiled faintly.
“But in here—” Magnes spread his arms wide again, “—in here he’s
our orderly little Hani-bird! Order is what this house stands for, Sigurd.”
Sigurd bowed slightly.
“Right you are, my lord!”
“And order is what Nirevvy stands for.” (Magnes was warming to his
subject.) “And order is what Affel—”
He stopped. The eager light faded from Magnes’ eyes. Sitting down
again he ran his fingers through his bristly gray hair. Magnes looked like
Rafe, only older and fleshier, with hunched shoulders and a smooth round
face like a baby.
“Order is what Affelgard will stand for,” he finished, “I’d imagine.”
He kicked the stone pot with a sour expression. “I guess you’ve already
heard, Sigurd?”
Sigurd took a respectful stance, one foot in front of the other. “People
talk, my lord,” Sigurd said humbly. “I can’t believe everything I—”
“Oh stop, Sigurd!” Magnes growled, “I’ve never thought you such a
fool as that! You know I’m getting shipped off to Affelgard!” He
straightened his leather potting-apron. Underneath it Sigurd caught the
flash of new silver stars pinned on at a careless slant.
Sigurd bowed.
 “You do Nirevvy credit, my lord. Your mission is an honor to His
Majesty.”
“Pah!” Magnes snorted, “Don’t try to flatter me! I know I’m not a
soldier. You never thought ME such a fool as that!”
Sigurd bowed again. “Affelgard needs more than soldiers, Your
Grace,” he said primly. “One doesn’t graft roses with a sword.”
“Pah!” Magnes snorted, “ursky wisdom!” (He tried not to smile.)
“Keep it under that red mop of yours.”
Sigurd bowed.
“Anyway,” Magnes said glumly, “His Majesty’s got nothing to do with
it; it’s my father wants Rafe and me on Affelgard just so others don’t take
it first. Stegvard— heh!— Stegvard knows old Vítur Longbard would be
all too happy to— to plant that garish flag of theirs in Affelgard’s virgin
—”
“But,” Sigurd interrupted, “I heard Qarl Longbard will be
commanding the Drek—”
“You heard WHAT?” Magnes spun around. Sigurd coughed and
reddened.
“R-rumor has it, my lord. But I can’t believe everything I—”
“I can’t believe how deep you are in state secrets!” Magnes rumbled,
standing up again. “Watch yourself, húsman,34 or we’ll take you for a
spy!”
Sigurd bowed.
“Every servant is a spy, my lord.”
Magnes choked back a laugh. “The sauce!” he growled, slapping
Sigurd’s cheeks playfully. Sigurd smiled wanly. Magnes picked up the
shears again. “I suppose it’s good to know where the leaks are,” he
remarked, “in this our Ship of State. Main leak: my own húsman Sigurd.
Now at least we know who to hang!”
“I beg you not to, my lord.” (Sigurd didn’t sound terribly concerned.)
“As for properly ironing a shirt, Your Grace knows there’s not another
soul on Nirevvy—”
“Your soul—” (Magnes snipped off a miniscule twig) “—isn’t going to
BE on Nirevvy.”
He turned and looked at Sigurd.

34 Norse: houseman
 “Your Grace?”
Magnes nodded significantly.
“Y-your Grace?” Sigurd stared at the duke wide-eyed. “Your Grace,
surely you don’t mean—”
“Hah!” Magnes went back to snipping at the rooster. “So not
everything has leaked, now has it? Heh heh! Maybe we won’t hang you
after all. Yes, a courier came by this morning. New orders for (Do hand
me that brush, Sigurd!) for one húsman Sigurdsson. We’ll see if YOU turn
out to be— how did you put it?— a ‘credit to Nirevvy’.” The duke turned
to Sigurd again.
“You’re going to Affelgard.”
Sigurd took off his hat. His eyes were on the path, where the white
gravel cut through the green like a razor.
“My lord,” Sigurd said quietly, “I won’t be serving Your Grace then,
will I?”
“No, you—” Magnes stopped. “And why d’you ask?” he demanded
suspiciously.
“I saw the courier. Caladar livery.”
“Brav-O!” Magnes patted his plump hands together, “Shrewd guess,
Sigurd. Já, that footpad of Rafe’s— Garrick? That his name? Biggish
villain. Half-ursky—”
“Herrick, Your Grace.”
“—he just got promoted. Here.” Magnes dug into his apron pocket.
“I’m supposed to give you this.” The duke handed something to Sigurd.
Sigurd looked down at his palm. One copper star glinted in the sunlight.
“You’re an ensign,” Magnes grunted. “Consider yourself
commissioned. Rafe is your commanding officer; you’re his new orderly.
You’ll report to him at once.”
He turned back to the rooster.
“Welcome to the nervy navy.”
Sigurd didn’t answer. For a while the only sound was the snip snip of
Magnes’ shears. At last Magnes turn around with an annoyed look. “Well
go on!” He jerked his thumb at the villa. “You’re not in service any more.
Rafe’s your new thane. To the Burg with you!”
Sigurd didn’t stir.
“What IS the matter?” Magnes snapped, getting up.
 Sigurd’s hat made a nervous circle between his hands. A light breeze
stirred the waves of auburn hair that framed his pale forehead. Sigurd was
a young man—about twenty-five—slender and refined-looking except for
something vaguely hard-sprung about him. He lifted his eyes, so light
blue they were almost white.
“I don’t want to leave Sumarhús, my lord.”
“Gods!” Magnes groaned, “Rafe’s not so bad as all that! He’s no wet-
nurse, I’ll grant you. He’s no worse than I am, certainly. There’s nothing I
can do about it. My hands are tied.” He held his palms out resignedly.
Sigurd stared at the ground.
“I don’t want to leave Sven and Elyen.”
Magnes laughed. “So it’s not my charm holding you back,” he said
drily. “What are you acting so costive for, Sigurd? It’s not like you’ll
never see them again.”
“Six years’ hibernation, Your Grace.” Sigurd stared at the ground. “Six
years each way.”
“Oh, you’re young,” Magnes growled. “You’ll survive! It’s the
duchess and the ungbörn35 I’m worried about. Sven is strong enough, but
Elyen’s too little for hibernation, in my opinion.” The duke stuck his
hands in his trouser pockets. Sigurd looked up sharply.
“Elyen, Your Grace?”
“Of course Elyen!” Magnes brayed. “And Sven! And their mother!
Prince Stegvard’s exiled the lot of us! All this—” he kicked the pot—“this
godsdamned disorder, just to stop the Longbards getting another onion-
patch!” Magnes rattled Hani angrily, sending down a shower of tiny
leaves.
“I can’t imagine how Sven and Elyen will get on,” he pursued, “out
there in an untamed world.” Magnes bit his lip. “I suppose Dreki’s big
enough to keep them,” he said thoughtfully. “Safe enough, too—”
Sigurd was bobbing from foot to foot with a thrilled expression. “My
lord,” he cried, “this is wonderf—”
“Ha! Feel better, do you? Já, já— I’m sure you’ll get a chance to
berate young Sven about those harp lessons, hey? And little Elyen about
her fencing?—ha ha!—so long as Rafe doesn’t—”
The duke’s face fell.

35 Norse: infants, babies

 “So long as hibernation doesn’t kill us,” he finished quietly.
“We’ll make it through, Your Grace!” Sigurd clapped his hat back on.
“I’ll report to Rafe at once!” He bowed very low. “This is wonderful
news! I will be a credit to Nirevvy!” Seizing the duke’s hand, Sigurd
raised the heavy gold ring to his lips and kissed the seal of Hador. “E-
nough!” Magnes grinned awkwardly, wiping his finger on his sleeve.
“Save that for Rafe! He likes that sort of thing.”
“Yes, my lord!” Sigurd swept his hat off and made another low bow.
He turned to go, but suddenly Manges reached out and caught him by the
shoulder.
“Stay a moment!”
Sigurd turned around.
“Your Grace?”
Magnes, hands still in his pockets, kicked at the gravel with a boyish
air.
“Let’s not—waste this opportunity.”
“Waste what opportunity, my lord?”
“Oh,” the duke returned carelessly, “this opportunity to make a fresh
start, you know? Tell you the truth—heh!—I was relieved to hear Rafe
picked you for his orderly. Rafe’s in good hands, já?” (Magnes glanced
sideways at Sigurd.) “You know he can be a bit rash at times. He’s your
age, after all!”
Sigurd smiled. Magnes coughed into his handkerchief.
“Anyway—” (he wiped his nose) “—I’ll be expecting you to—er—
drop me a word, when possible. Just a word in private, so I know how
Rafe’s getting on. Or a note. If it’s entirely confidential.”
Sigurd bowed.
“I understand you perfectly, Your Grace.”
Magnes gave him a sly smile.
“Every servant is a spy.”
Sigurd stifled a laugh. He bowed as if to kiss the duke’s ring again, but
Magnes snatched his hand back. “Enough, I said!” Magnes growled. “I’ve
got enough on my hands already without your cod-lips!”
Sigurd stood up, blushing.
“Saying goodbye to Sumarhús,” the duke went on, “Packing off my
children to gods-know-where. Whole world in commotion. I don’t know
what they’ll do to my beautiful potager when I’m gone!” Magnes looked
around mournfully. “Turn it into a gunnery-range, no doubt. Poor little
Hani!” He patted the rooster. “I can’t take you to Affel—”
“But the húsfolk will care for the garden, Your Grace,” Sigurd
rejoined. “Your Grace will return some day and find everything just the
way it—”
“Poor little Hani!” Magnes crooned (ignoring Sigurd). “Oh, they’ll
murder you for sure, my Hani-barn, these lazy húsfolk of ours! Maybe I
should send you back home to Orkev, já? Plant you in your native bush
somewhere? Maybe I ought to send you with lady Elska on her trip
tomorrow.” He turned around. “I’ve half a mind to do it, Sigurd. Yes, I
think I will. Sigurd? One last thing: I’ll need you to stow Hani in the karvi
before you leave Sumarhús.”
Sigurd bowed. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he replied, “but I don’t
think Hani will grow on Orkev any more.”
“And why not?” Magnes was clearly irritated.
Sigurd looked down. His eyes roamed to the boska, then to the duke’s
white hands, then back to the boska again.
“Hani’s been in the glasshouse too long.” Sigurd looked up. “He can’t
survive in the bush.”
Magnes narrowed his eyes an instant, then he gasped. “Get out!”
Magnes snarled, showing his teeth. Sigurd took three steps backward,
bowing low at every step. He turned on his heel. The quick crunch of his
boots grew fainter down the gravel path. The duke’s face was toward the
rooster. Soon the only sound was the faint snip snip of the duke’s shears.

***

SMUDGE WAS WET everywhere; muddy almost everywhere.

Smudge and Maev were slogging up a trail like a black ribbon on the
side of mount Völundr. The sun was up now—up somewhere in the gray
sky.
But you’d hardly know it, thought Smudge.
Their path was equal parts shale and black mud. Smudge slid a bit
with every step. It was an hour since she’d given up asking Maev where
they were going. Worse than the aching in her legs—worse than the
ridiculousness of it all—was knowing she would have to leave her mother
soon. The Dreki was almost ready to sail.
How far IS Affelgard? thought Smudge.
No one knew precisely—because no one knew precisely how fast the
Dreki could sail. Some said it might be five years’ hibernation; some said
it might be six. Maev would be broken with age when Smudge saw her
again.
IF I see her again, thought Smudge.
Maev certainly wasn’t broken now. She was barreling up the trail so
fast Smudge had to jog just to keep up. “Hurry, child!” Maev trilled. “We
don’t keep our gods waiting!”
“You don’t keep a goddess anything.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Smudge tried to look around. It was beautiful, in a rugged
sort of way. They were high up on the mountainside. Far below, the nested
shanties of the Hestad winked in and out of drifting white clouds. The
vast, crumbling hulk of the ancient Amenháls accelerator brooded over
the lower fells, black with rain. Amenháls’ two giant pistons, bigger than
watchtowers, stared up like two dead eyes. Mighty driving-wheels which
once hurled ships half a league before their thrusters fired were now
inhabited by seabirds. Birds circled by the hundreds above their nests,
mewing and calling. Beneath them lay the sea, silent now, waves strung
like threads across the gray surface.
On every side the wildflowers poked out between the rocks: fell-
thistle, stonecrop, radiant buttercup. It was summer, after all.
For all of two weeks! Smudge smiled grimly to herself. Far above
them, Völundr’s white crown gave off its endless smoky plume. When
Völundr rumbled (and it often did) then the Norsk said the forge-god was
at work deep in the earth, beating on his mighty anvil.
Maev stopped and looked up. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing
toward the sky. Smudge squinted. One patch of blue showed through a
gap in the clouds. Against the blue hung a brownish speck, motionless,
like a misshapen moon.
“That?” Smudge answered (with a touch of pride), “That’s the Dreki,
Mother. We built it on Great Moon.”
“We built it?” Maev retorted. “I didn’t build it.”
 “Nirevvy built it, I mean.”
“And you can see it from here?” Maev stared up openmouthed. “I
thought it was in orbit!”
“It is in orbit,” said Smudge. “It’s just huge. Like an entire burg in
space. It’s too big to launch from Nirevvy, so they assembled it on the
moon. People said the Dreki was so big its gravity made the moon
wobble.”
“Pah!” Maev turned and trudged on again. “Be a piece of work to
sneak into that,” she muttered.
“Sneak into what?”
“Nothing! Godsdamn nervies!” said Maev. “A flying mountain of junk
just to oppress—how many people? Twenty, maybe thirty thousand by
now? Armed with spears! That’s Norsk courage for you. How did they
find that damned unlucky settlement anyway?”
“I don’t know, Ma,” said Smudge, “They don’t tell us things like that.
At warschool they were saying it could have been the outpost on Innis
Chila that found it.”
“So why not invade from Innis Chila?”
“It’s not an invasion, Ma. We’re colonizing.”
“Colonizing!” Maev snorted, “Is that what they told you?”
“Of course!” chirped Smudge. “It’s a colonizing mission! Innis Chila
hasn’t got enough men—” (Men! Maev snorted.)
“—hasn’t got enough men to do it. Talaglas neither. They say king
Olaf wants—”
“Old king nervy wants to play with his big new toy,” Maev
interrupted. “Branwen save us!
“For once,” she added.

The trail doubled back for the hundredth time. In the hollow of the
bend Smudge could see a patch of dirty snow, and, poking out of it, one
defiant little saxifrage blossom like a white star against the gray. Smudge
stopped to look at it. Maev turned around. “We have that on Orkev,”
Maev said diffidently. “Nervies brought it over. It runs rampant now.”
“It’s pretty.”
Smudge felt a little spark inside. On an impulse she plucked off the
saxifrage. Then she took Maev’s hand and held it tight. Together they
started off again, hand-in-hand, like children picking wildflowers.
 There was a whiff of smoke in the air. Off to their right a track, barely
visible, fell abruptly down the slope. At the bottom was a little dell, and in
the dell was a little squatter’s cabin with green turf growing on its roof.
Some poor ursky trying to escape the charms of the Hestad, Smudge
reckoned. Nervies never came up this high. Smudge could hear chickens
squawking in the dooryard.
Krá! A rooster crowed. Maev stopped. She turned her head to listen.
Krá! The rooster crowed again. Maev gazed into the distance. There
was a thoughtful look in her eyes.
“HA HA HA!” Maev exploded. (Smudge screamed Ai! and nearly
jumped off the trail.) “Ha ha! Two crows!36 Branwen sent two crows, just
like she said she would! Come on! We’ll look here.”
Smudge glanced around. “And we’re looking for a talking tree?” she
said loftily, “I don’t think they keep one here. Why don’t you climb down
and ask?—heh!— “Beg your pardon, felagi,” (she brogued) “we’re from
the goddess Branwen. Has your firewood been screaming at you?—hee
hee!” Smudge tittered. Maev only shook her head.
“Let’s go a bit higher.”
They tramped around another switchback. The toothy ridge that fenced
off their left-hand side began to taper down. Then another track, fainter
than the first, broke off the main trail and climbed up the ridge. Fog came
spilling over the rim. The air had a sulphurous smell.
“Here!” Maev announced.
The path was steep; just stepping-stones in the mud. A cold wind
flowed down from the snowy heights. Smudge shivered and tried not to
look at the fall behind her. Maev had already topped the ridge and
vanished into the fog.
Smudge heard Maev shout.
“Mother!” Smudge called, “Wait!”
“Hurry, child!”
Smudge sidled between two mossy boulders. Then over the crest. She
was picking her way down through fog that smelled like a burnt match

36 Norse: krákar: crow, i.e., the bird. Norse: krá: crow, i.e., the call of a bird, esp. the
call of a crow. The words are onomatopoetic in Norse as they are in English. Both the
English crow and the Norse krá are descended from the same Proto-Indo-European
source word.
and hung so heavy she could hardly see her feet in front of her. “Hurry!
Maev shouted again. “You have to come feel this!”
“Feel wha—”
Then all at once the path dropped beneath the layer of fog. Smudge
was in a ravine between sheer rock walls. And there was Maev, leaning
against a boulder with a smug expression on her face. Smudge came up
panting.
“Feel wha—o-oh!” Smudge said wonderingly. Maev grinned.
“Its warm!”
Maev chuckled. Her wet éddak and scarf were already draped over the
boulder. They were standing in a little dale that lay hidden under a fog
ceiling. Flat-topped rocks made a floor like flagstones. From between the
rocks, steam rose from a hundred cracks and fissures. Smudge could hear
the chatter of running water.
“A hot spring!”
“Aye! And something more!” Maev pointed. Up against the ravine, so
close that its roots bit into the cliff, there stood a thick, gray-green tree.

“A star what?”
“Mangrove! A star mangrove!”
Smudge yawned. “How is that a star-man grove?” she asked (not very
interested). Maev gaped at her in disbelief. “You really don’t know?”
Maev squawked. Smudge shook her head. She was sitting with her bare
feet and ankles in the bubbling water, a placid expression on her speckly
face.
“Gods!”
Maev sat down on the rocks next to Smudge. She stuck her own feet
into the water.
“What have the nervies been teaching you?”
“Well—” Smudge hesitated—“not much.”
Maev closed her eyes. “The star mangrove!” she said dreamily, “The
star mangrove! It’s Branwen’s own starship, Dana. A living, growing
aerbád.37 Star mangroves are what brought speaking peoples to the Near
Worlds.”
“Are they?” Smudge raised an eyebrow.

37 Air-boat (Irish)
 “They are,” said Maev.
“I thought the Norsk just kept building bigger and bigger ships.”
“They did,” said Maev, “but they weren’t the first. First came our
ancestors, the Wanderers, birthed onto each new world by the sacred tree.
Orkev, Shalthain, Kuda, Innis Chila, Talaglas. On every world Branwen
planted her star mangrove. When the time was right, she called her people
onward again.
“But on Nirevvy, the old country,” (Maev rubbed her ankles) “the
Norsk got rich and forgot the old ways. When the first fireship landed on
Orkev we Gaels welcomed it with singing. We’d always kept the memory
of our motherworld alive.”
Maev sighed and put her feet back in the water. “But after a thousand
years,” she said, “our motherworld had changed. The nervies landed on
Orkev with their guns and their diseases. Half the Gaels died from nervy
plagues. Our chiefs fell to fighting amongst themselves. By the time the
nervies started taking our farms we were already a broken people. When
we fought back they enslaved us. They did the same thing on Shaltain.
Then on Kuda. Then on the rest.
“And now—” Maev looked hard at Smudge—“you tell me the nervies
sniffed out a new settlement on Affelgard, eh, child? So you’re off to help
them enslave another world while Gaels beg nervies for the food they
took from us.”
Smudge squirmed uneasily. “But we aren’t slaves now,” she
countered. Maev snorted.
“Why did you enlist?”
“So we could eat.”
“And who tells you what to do?”
“Sergeant Stieg.”
“Who decided you must go Affelgard?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you refuse?”
For a moment Smudge met her mother’s gaze. Then she lowered her
eyes.
“No,” Smudge said quietly.
Maev rubbed her knees. “Then how are we not slaves?” she asked.
“They call us thralls because we are.”
Smudge and Maev fell silent, listening to the voice of the water.
 “And— that’s a talking tree?” (Smudge said it somewhat respectfully.
She’d never taken her mother seriously before, but now Maev seemed so
purposeful and calm.)
“Aye.” Maev got up wearily. “Aye, that’s a talking tree. Come—ugh!
My aching bones!” Maev clumped over to the cliff wall. Smudge
followed, stepping from rock to rock. They stopped in front of the twisted
tree. Smudge studied it a while.
“It doesn’t look like a starship.”
“Well it IS one.”
Smudge shaded her eyes. The trunk was about four feet wide—rather
too thick for the canopy. It looked bottom-heavy, like a fat old woman
with scraggly hair. Roots like claws split the rock, groping away from the
slimy water. Coming closer, Smudge could see the tree was bent out
crescent-shaped from the cliff.
“Funny how the fruit grow straight up.”
“Funny how the fruit grow at all!” Maev retorted. “A thousand years
ago Nirevvy was warmer.” She glanced back at the steaming spring.
Smudge touched the tree. “Yow!” Smudge yelped. “There’s bugs on it!”
“ARE there?” Maev shoved Smudge aside. She stuck her nose next to
the bark and stood there a while, screwing up her eyes.
“Folaworms!” Maev practically shrieked. (Smudge gave a squawk.)
“Folaworms! It’s amazing!”
“What?” cried Smudge, “What’s amazing?”
“Holy gods, the blood-worms!” Maev shouted. “They’re swarming!
Oh, this is miraculous!” Maev skipped sideways around the tree, glancing
frantically up and down. “Folaworms!” she sang, “Folaworms! They’re
everywhere! And look: it’s got an open core!” Maev was hopping up and
down, pointing at a cleft where the trunk almost parted. Inside the cleft
was a big oblong hole. Smudge shaded her eyes.
“That’s a hole?”
“Yes that’s hole!”
“Is that unusual?”
“Unusual?” Maev screamed, “It’s incredible! Folaworms seal the
breach when they’re swarming. Gods only know why they haven’t done.”
“Swarming?” (Smudge sounded dubious.) “But they’re hardly
moving.”
 “That’s because it’s cold!” snapped Maev. “This tree is barely hanging
on to life—see!” (she pointed) “the folaworms are on the breach. They
just aren’t moving very fast.”
“It smells awful!”
“That’s resin. Hush! I can hear her talking.”
“Hear who talking?”
“The tree!” cried Maev. “It’s— she’s singing something.”
Maev pressed her ear against the trunk. She stood there quivering, bits
of bark in her tangled gray hair. Several minutes passed. The hot spring
gurgled drowsily. Smudge yawned.
“I don’t hear anything,” said Smudge. “What’s she singing?”
“I— don’t know—”
Maev pulled away from the tree. “She isn’t singing to me,” Maev said.
“To someone else, maybe— wait!” She touched the trunk. “Do you hear
that?”
Smudge shook her head. Everything was quiet.
“Hear wha—”
Crack.
“Ai!” Smudge screamed. She jumped backward. Small stones were
spilling off the cliff, piling up between the mangrove’s roots.
Crack.
“Mama!” Smudge screamed. She stared up in horror. A fissure was
racing sideways across the cliff wall. Rocks yawned apart, then crumbled.
An avalanche of dirt flowed down. “Careful, Mama!” Smudge screamed,
“It’s coming—”
BOOM.
Water and steam exploded out of the fissure. Hot spray covered
Smudge; covered Maev; covered the star mangrove too, running off its
leathery leaves like rain. Instantly a throbbing hum echoed through the
ravine. Thousands upon thousands of folaworms were beating the air with
damp wings.
“Mama?”
Smudge spun around. Old Maev had just thrown her soggy arms
around Smudge’s neck. Foul-smelling water ran off her sleeves. “Mama,”
Smudge tremored, “why are you hugging me?”
“Goodbye, Dana.”
 Maev’s dripping hair was pressed against Smudge’s cheek. “Goodbye,
my love,” she said.
“Goodbye?” Smudge quailed, “What do you mea—”
Maev leaped.
Smudge rubbed her wet eyes. Old Maev had jumped so high it was
like she was a girl again. She caught the bottom lip of the breach and
scrambled up, hoisting herself inside.
“A-ah!” Maev pulled her knees in. The folaworms made a fuzzy fringe
around the opening. Yellowish resin was swelling inward on all sides like
mushrooms coming up.
“Mama?” Smudge choked. She watched in horror as the backside of
Maev—baggy underwear and all—disappeared inside the tree
“No, Mama!” Smudge shrieked, “No!”
The breach was closing fast. Maev’s wrinkled arm shot through the
opening.
“Goodbye, innuving—”
Maev fluttered her hand. Her muffled voice came through the trunk.
“Goodbye, my Dana! Gods protect you, my love. I’ll see you on
Affelgard.”
Maev pulled her arm back quick. The folaworms were closing in.
Smudge screamed Mama! one last time, and then Crack!—a big root
popped out of the rocks and knocked her over. Smudge lay on her back,
shielding her eyes and weeping. Like a giant weed, the star mangrove tore
itself free from ground. It rose up into the air, dirt and rocks pouring off
its roots. The tree banged once against the cliff, then it disappeared into
the fog.
Esht shinya!
Esht shinya!
For a moment, Dana Finn thought she could hear her mother singing.
 CHAPTER TWO
_____________________________
THE WHITE LADY

From: The Starvoyage of Snorri

“COMING OUT of hibernation is like coming out of the grave.

Heart beats slow. Blood is thick like honey.
Half blind. Wasted limbs. Wasted lungs. Bruised everywhere. Barely
breathing.
And cold. So cold! Like you were a dead thing.

We’d have all been dead things if not for Greta. We landed hard. A
starsail sheet38 came loose on entry. Our ship spun and dragged air. I was
just beginning to wake up, too feeble to move. The first thing I can
remember thinking was ‘there’s ice in my beard.’ Then I heard Kollam
Kíli suck in a lungful of air.
The dragon! Kollam shrieked, The dragon cometh!
Then Kollam passed out and we struck ground. Affner’s hammock
broke. He rolled over me and tumbled down into the bottom of the hold.
The ship was like an oven. I couldn’t feel the heat, but I could smell it.
Above me Greta was saying something. I heard fear in her voice. Greta’s
hammock creaked. It creaked again. Then I heard a steady creak-creak,
like Greta swinging herself forward and back.
Forward.

38 A rope or cable keeping a sail taut.

 (Creak.)
Back
(Creak.)
Forward.
(Creak.)
Back.
(Creak.)
Forward—
Ah! Greta screamed, and then thud went Greta’s boots against the hull.
Another thud. Greta was ramming her gaunt little body against the
scorched wood. I could feel the heat on my face now. Trapped air burned
inside my nostrils. Greta screamed Ai!
Thud.
There was a grainy crunch, like dead coals in a fireplace. Instantly the
air inside changed. It felt like my ears were bursting out of my head. I
gagged on smoke, and then I heard Greta’s voice— heard her voice
outside the ship. She’d kicked a hole through the charred wood and
wriggled out: the first Wanderer ever to set foot on Affelgard.
It will always be a wonder to me, how Greta had the strength to do it. I
couldn’t so much as feel my legs when the folaworm fumes wore off. My
feet were getting seared against the hull and I didn’t even know it. Outside
the ship hard rain was falling. Somewhere in my cloudy brain I heard
Greta calling wildly to us. She was worming through the mud alongside
the trunk, listening for the snarl of rain falling on coals. Greta chose the
hottest place, then she punched her fist deep into the crumbling wood. I
heard her scream as she pulled her arm back out. Then she punched again.
And again.
And then, inside the tree with us, I heard Olev shout. Greta’s little fist
had come through the hull by his head. Olev—strongest of us all—kicked
with both his big feet, and the hull broke open. I felt the blast of cold air
sucked in. Greta grabbed Olev’s ankles and began to pull. Affner was
awake now, crumpled up and choking. Olev took hold of Greta’s shaking
hand. They both pulled. Olev’s forehead scraped on hot bark. He bellowed
and thrashed. I heard Greta cry kæri Baldr, hjálpa okkur!39
Suddenly everything went quiet.

39 Sweet Baldr, help us!

 And then I heard Olev—big Olev—weeping in the mud like a child.

One by one we pulled each other out. Kariwyn was still asleep. One
calf was dead and one lamb, crushed under Affner when he fell. But the
women and men all survived. We lay the dead animals on the smouldering
trunk and ate them half raw. Eydís had two broken ribs and she could
barely breathe. She was too cold to move, so we dragged her back inside
the tree and gave her what water we could soak up in a blanket. The
waterskins we’d brought with us were solid ice.
I was near blind, but I thought Affelgard might be a good land. It
smelled fertile. I could hear the wind rushing through many trees. I lay on
the wet ground and listened to the rain fall; listened to Eydís moaning
faintly inside the tree.
Greta crawled into the tree next to Eydís. She put a bundle in Eydís’
lap. The bundle squirmed.
Eydís stopped crying and opened her eyes.
Two beautiful little puppies wriggled out and began to lick her sooty
face. It was old Madri’s bundle, laid on Greta’s lap just before we slipped
Talaglas. Eydís laughed—the first laugh there ever was on Affelgard. The
little dogs were as fresh as if they’d just had a nap.

—The Starvoyage of Snorri

Fion-Lis, Affelgard. Ár. 3019
 ***

IN AFFELGARD, in a tree at the edge of the forest, young Broer

Rathurskegg was composing a love song.

“O Meri, my love,
Your eyes are like starlight,
Like wheat in the summer
Your wavering hair.

Broer sang in a thin, reedy voice as he plunked on a small harp.

Beneath him the summer woodland lay drowsy. Trees upon endless trees
rolled like a rumpled blanket toward the bent horizon. Plunk-plunk went
Broer’s harp, while the insects droned in chorus.

Oh Meri! Oh Meri! (Broer sang) Your feet are like—

He stopped abruptly and looked down. From underneath the tree came
the crunch of breaking twigs.
“—feet are like—” Broer trailed off. He leaned out cautiously, trying
to look between his knees without falling.
“Feet are like what?” asked a voice.
Broer’s face went red. He quickly put down the harp. “Who’s that?”
Broer demanded.
An old bearded face looked up.
“It is I,” said the face, “Kollam Kíli, the prophet.”
“Oh!” Broer sighed. “It’s just you, Herra Kíli. You startled me!”
Another crunch, and then Kollam Kíli came puffing up the ladder.
Wide steps, smooth and shiny with age, had been cut directly into the
deep bark of the tree. Broer was looking down on Kollam’s grey top-knot
as it bobbed closer.
“A-ah—!”
Kollam hauled himself out onto the limb, wheezing a bit as he settled
in beside Broer. “I don’t remember it being so high!” He took off his
patchwork coat. The first mighty fork of Yost—the Fathertree—was big
enough to comfortably hold them both. Kollam patted the trunk. “Seems
like yesterday I was helping Snorri and Olev carve out those steps!” he
remarked. “Snorri Sturluson was your great-great-great-great grandfather,
Broer. He was the first skald40 on Affelgard—dear gods—has it already
been two hundred years?” Kollam twisted his beard with his odd inward
gaze. “They did good work,” (he peered over the edge admiringly). “Old
Yost was always happy to hide a boy.”
“I’m not a boy!” Broer said testily. He picked up the harp and started
plucking at it again.
“So what are her feet like?”
Broer stopped playing. “Whose feet?” he demanded.
“Meri’s feet!” cried Kollam. “You were praising bits of her just now.
So what about her feet?”
Broer blushed furiously.
“How did you know that song was about Meri?”
“Because I’m a prophet,” Kollam answered matter-of-factly. “And
also,” he added, “you were singing oh-Meri-oh-Meri. ”
Broer smiled sheepishly. “Well I guess I don’t mind you knowing,” he
said (with a touch of pride). Broer heaved a sigh. “I love Meri Vínber,” he
said with emotion. “I’ve loved Meri Vínber since—since—”
“Since Midsummer,” Kollam interrupted. “That was a month ago.
Meri had herself a wash and a comb and suddenly you fell in love with
her.”
“Ye-es—” Broer said dreamily, “I’ve loved Meri since Midsummer.
How did you—”
“Prophet!” Kollam interrupted. “And also, everyone in the village
knows you’re in love with her.”
“What?” Broer gaped at him. “What makes you say—”
“Prophet!” Kollam interrupted, “And also Bròc told me. And Bròc is
deaf. And he lives alone. In a cave. So if Bròc knows—”
Kollam settled back against the tree and clasped his hands together
primly. “Alright, alright!” Broer smirked. “Well at least Meri knows, then.
Or she ought to know. That’s fine. I’m glad about that. I’m getting ready
to disclose my heart to her, Herra Kíli, before any of the other boys do.”

40 Bard, storyteller
 “Are you!” Kollam cried warmly. “Disclose your heart! Why, I did the
same myself once, centuries ago. Back then we called it hjartað er gefið
—‘the heart is given’—heh heh!” Kollam chuckled, “Funny how some
things never change! I gave Hjelgi my heart. Hjelgi gave me her fist—”
Broer yawned. “Yes,” he said, “I’m going to do it with a song.” (Like
most people in Fion-lis, Broer thought Kollam Kíli was insane. Kollam
claimed to have sailed on the ancestral mangrove störnskip41 that first
brought people to Affelgard. Kollam maintained he was hundreds of years
old, and he’d been awake and conscious for the entire seven-score reach
from Talaglas to Affelgard.)
“I’m going to do it with a song,” Broer said. He plucked a big leaf and
fanned himself with it. “That’s what I was working on just now.”
Kollam tugged his beard.
“Does Meri like songs?”
“I don’t know,” said Broer. “I hope so.”
“Well don’t sing about her feet, at any rate,” Kollam advised. “Men
who love feet tend to be— strange.”
(Broer wasn’t listening.) “Oh Meri!” Broer sighed, “my Meri! My
heart is yours alone.

Like wheat in the summer

Your wavering hair—

Broer plucked the harp and started singing again. Kollam wadded up
his cloak and stuffed it between the tree trunk and his back. “Ahem!” he
cleared his throat, “Yes. Fine young ungfrú, that Meri! Why do you love
her so?”
“Why do I—”
Broer stopped plucking the harp. He stared at Kollam wide-eyed.
“I love her because she’s beautiful, of course!” Broer cried. “She’s tall
and, and wavy-shaped, and she’s got golden hair and her face is—”
“True, true,” Kollam interrupted. “A remarkable beauty I’m sure. And
if she weren’t beautiful?” (he glanced sideways at Broer) “Would you still
love her then?”

41 Norse: stjörnurskip: “starship”

 Broer frowned. He looked down at the tree limb and squirmed a bit.
Kollam Kíli was always asking awkward questions like that. Broer
scratched the back of his neck.
“No,” he answered truthfully.
“So you wouldn’t love her?”
“Well— not if she were ugly.”
“Everyone’s ugly!” Kollam snapped. “What if she were just average-
looking, then?”
Broer knit his brows. He had a pensive expression on his face—the
face of a boy of about seventeen. Like Kollam, Broer’s dark hair was
shaved around the ears and knotted tight behind. A wispy, reddish beard
was doing its best to be visible alongside his thin jaw. Broer bit his
knuckle thoughtfully.
“No,” he said at last.
Kollam sighed and rubbed his eyes. (Boys! he said to himself.) “But
she is beautiful!” Broer countered, “And I do love her!” Kollam looked at
him severely.
“Do you love hunting?” Kollam demanded.
“No,” said Broer.
“Do you love cooking?”
“No,” said Broer.
“Do you love the way a goat smells?”
“No, said Broer.”
“Do you love sleeping outside in the forest?”
Broer smiled.
“No,” said Broer.
“Then how—” Kollam grabbed Broer by his shoulder and shook him
so hard Broer had to hold onto the tree to keep from falling off “—how
are you going to be lovers with Meri Vínber, young Broer? Meri Vínber,
the wildest girl on Affelgard? A possessed huntress who eats like a pig
and smells like a goat and spends nights on end sleeping outside in the
rain? What stars will bless this match, young Broer? Have you considered
it?” Kollam let go Broer’s shoulder with an exasperated look.
Broer cocked his head to one side. He gazed out across the steaming
treetops.
“No, wait,” Broer said, “I have it now:
 Your feet are like pearrrrrrls,

Broer picked up his harp and started singing again.

Your lips are like blossooooms—

“Gods!” Kollam muttered, “Truly was it said: young men love with
their eyes, not with their hearts.” He rubbed his eyes with a chuckle.
Broer stopped singing.
“I do love Meri with my heart,” Broer protested. “I love Meri with all
my heart!”
“Of course, of course.” Kollam patted Broer’s shoulder soothingly. “I
wish you joy. Now where’s our chief—our Lafdi?42 That’s what I came to
ask you in the first place.”
“Where’s my mother?” (Broer narrowed his eyes suspiciously.) “Why
are you looking for my mother, Herra Kíli?”
“Because I have something important to tell her.” Kollam said
seriously. “The folaworms are swarming and they’re coming to kill us.”
They stared at each other.
“The folaworms?” Broer said eventually.
Kollam nodded.
“The magic termites?”
Kollam nodded.
“That no one’s ever seen before?”
“I’ve seen them before!” Kollam declared. “I lay in a cloud of their
stench for a hundred and thirty years, Broer Rathurskegg!”
“Right. And you say,” Broer pursued, “you say they’re coming to kill
us?”
“That’s right!” Kollam nodded vigorously. “And soon! We haven’t got
much time.”
Broer picked up his harp again. “I think mother’s in Great-Hall,” Broer
said. He plunked the strings. Kollam Kíli got up carefully, holding onto
the trunk.

42 Anglo-Saxon: hlafdig, “loaf-kneader,” typically a chieftain’s wife. The English word

lady is derived from hlafdig.
 Your feet are like pearls,
Your lips are like blossoms—

As he made his way down the ladder, Kollam could hear Broer
singing.

***

“KING OLAF is mad?”

Rear admiral Qarl Longbard raised one eyebrow. He picked a hothouse
cherry out of a bowl and popped it in his mouth. Old baron Vítur
Longbard put his skinny finger to his lips. “Sssst!” Vítur hissed, making a
little dent in his white moustache. “That’s treason!”
“Mmm—”
Qarl worked the cherry around inside his cheek.
“Pah!” He turned his head and spat the pit over his shoulder, where it
plopped into the artificial sand. One of Vítur's peacocks sauntered over to
peck at it in an aimless way. Qarl and Vítur were sitting in the shade of a
blooming trellis. It was warm outside. Longbardy—Vítur's barony—was
blessed with the most temperate climate on mostly-desolate Nirevvy. The
Longbard fortress of Lanskeg, ancient seat of thanes, was encircled by
seas that never froze. From Castle Lanskeg the Longbards taxed every
farm and village on a fertile peninsula. Trondhjem and the North
depended on Longbardy for food. Every day the baron’s ships criss-
crossed the strait loaded with wheat and wine and cattle. Plants and
flowers from all the Near Worlds bloomed in Vítur's glasshouses. Each of
Vítur's cherries was worth more than a pig.
Qarl popped another cherry in his mouth.
“King Olaf is mad, you say? What makes you say?”
“Hush!” Vítur glanced around furtively. He looked about eighty years
old, but his blue eyes were crafty and keen. “Oh yes!” Vítur whispered,
“Olaf is worse than mad. He’s obsessed. Obsessed with Affelgard.”
Qarl yawned. “Well that’s madness for sure,” he remarked. “Why
would His Majesty care? There won’t be one fig finds its way home from
Affelgard for another thirteen, maybe fourteen years. Afflegard orbits past
the—”
“I know,” Vítur interrupted.
“—past the Third Reach, you know?” Qarl smiled blandly. “That’s
even farther than Talaglas— pah!” Qarl spit out another cherry pit. He
grinned.
“Olaf will be in Valhalla by then.”
“Hush! That’s precisely it!” Vítur leaned over the dainty wicker table.
He looked like an old turtle, with his wrinkly neck snaking out of a black
silk smoking-jacket. Vítur's jacket clearly wasn’t made for smoking. Vítur
clearly had been smoking in it, judging by the ash on his lapels. He
brushed himself off with a blue-veined hand. Qarl’s hairy hand was
locked around a beer mug so big an otter could have swum in it. Brown
drops clung to Qarl’s beard. He hoisted the mug.
“That’s precisely it!” Vítur whispered. “Olaf knows he’s dying, but
he’s afraid. He wants to live forever.”
“Haw haw!” (Qarl sprayed bits of cherry.) “Olaf’s practically lived
forever already! How long can they keep patching him up? He’s been in
dry-dock, what, six times?”
“Nine times.”
“Heh! Does he still have any of the parts he came with?” Qarl wiped
his beard. Vítur hid a smile behind his hand.
“He’s got an ursky heart.”
“What?”
“He’s got an ursky heart!” Vítur hissed. “That reginhart43 they built for
him didn’t take, so they had to put a live one in. Ursky bricklayer. He was
the only match they could come up with in the ‘Fang.”
“HA HA!” Qarl thumped the table. The peacock yelped and fled. “HA
HA!” Qarl roared, “An ursky heart! I don’t believe you, uncle!”
“Quiet!” Vítur snapped. “Young fool! Keep your voice down! And
don’t you speak a WORD of this, Qarl Longbard. I’m only telling you
because you ought to know.”
Qarl subsided, wiping his eyes.

43 Norse: Hjarta Regins. Regin is one of the dwarven smiths in the legends of Sigurd
the Volsung, capable of crafting marvelous devices.
 “Ursky bricklayer—hee hee!” Qarl’s vast shoulders jiggled. “What
was he in the ‘Fang for anyway?” Vítur took his spectacles off with a
smug look. “Ursky Separatist,” he answered, polishing the lenses on his
sleeve. “Sneaky little Hestad rat trying to play the spy. Of course we
intercepted him. Deluded thralls! It’s madness we let them read
nowadays. In my day,” Vítur puffed out his bony chest, “that ursky would
have been chained up to a grist-mill, not running sedition back and forth
on a mineral barge.”
“So now Olaf’s got his heart?” Qarl looked gleeful. “Will it last him
fourteen years? So he can taste that first fig from Affelgard, hey?”
Vítur sank back into his cushioned chair. “I spoke with the healers just
yesterday.” (He folded his papery hands together.) “They advise me that
all of His Majesty’s artifice is failing— lung, liver, kidneys. Yes, even his
new heart.”
Qarl sniggered.
“Then why— skaal, Uncle.” Qarl sloshed his mug at Vítur. Vítur
raised a tiny crystal glass with the ghost of a nod.
“—then why is Olaf obsessed with Afflegard? I mean, he can’t exactly
sail there.”
“He thinks he can sail there.”
“What?” Qarl looked stupefied. “But Olaf wouldn’t live through one
day in hibernation! And that’s a damned unlucky thing to have on board, a
dead king.” Qarl stared off into the sky. Seabirds were circling like paper
kites against the blue. “I suppose we could rig up a special hibernation
locker,” Qarl said musingly. “Make it shoot him out a porthole once his
blood freezes.”
“He’s not that senile!” Vítur returned sourly. “Olaf wouldn’t set foot in
your ugly knarr anyway. He wants to follow the Dreki on his yacht. The
ursky witch has him convinced—”
“Ursky witch? You mean Marabreith?”
“Marabreith!” Vítur scoffed. “Her real name is Helgi and she used to
sell codfish on the Strand. Nowadays she sells delusion to our thane-of-
thanes. She’s convinced Olaf there’s a star mangrove somewhere on
Orkev that—”
“A star mangrove?” Qarl raised both eyebrows. Qarl’s bull neck made
his face look smaller than it really was. His black stubble hair, shaved all
over, bristled low on his low forehead.
 “A star mangrove?” Qarl repeated. “Like in a fairy tale?”
“Já.” Vítur sank his chin on his hand with a gloomy expression. “Já,
fairy tales are what Olaf believes in now. The witch says there’s one
ancestral star mangrove growing on each of the near worlds. Each world
the Wanderers found.”
“Wanderers?” Qarl was beginning to look bored. Vítur noticed Qarl
was beginning to look bored. “Yes! Wanderers!” he said tartly. “The
Ansthapani. First speaking peoples in the Gríyan system. Nirevvy,
Orkev,” (Vítur counted on his bony fingers) “Kuda, Shalthain, Innis Chila
—one star mangrove tree growing on each habitable world. That’s what
the witch whispers to Olaf. She says there’s a star mangrove tree growing
on Orkev and she says it can—I don’t know—prolong his life or
somesuch nonsense. Long enough for him to get to Affelgard, or so he
fancies, anyway.”
“But—heh heh,” Qarl chuckled, “weren’t the Firstfolk supposed to be
flying around inside their magic trees? Shouldn’t that star mangrove be
drifting through the whale nebula by now?”
Vítur took a miniscule sip from his glass. “The Wanderers didn’t sail
the entire tree,” he retorted. “They only sailed the canopy and the trunk.
The roots could still be alive somewhere.”
“And what would Olaf even do on Affelgard?” Qarl pursued. “Other
than die, I mean? He’s barely alive as it is.”
“Hu-uush!” Vítur growled, “Listen to me! Evidently there’s a whole
forest of star mangroves—thus saith the witch—growing on Afflegard,
and all His Majesty has to do is waltz lirrah lirrah lee—” (Vítur fluttered
his fingers) “—to and fro among the magical trees, getting younger and
younger with every step.”
“Younger?” Qarl interrupted. “Hibernation never made me any
younger.”
“No, you heimskur!” 44 snapped Vítur, “that’s not the—”
“I woke up from Kuda,” (Qarl folded his thick arms) “looking like a
godsdamn corpse. I just hope I’m fit for command after they ice me for
six and a half—”
“Forget it!” Vítur waved his hand dismissively. “You’ll be fit enough,”
he added, “If you don’t do anything stupid.”

44 Norse: fool
 “Ho hum!” (Qarl ignored him.) “How could Olaf possibly believe her
anyway, this Marabreith, if she’s just some mooney old hag from the
Strand?”
Vítur rubbed his eyebrow left to right. “Oh, I don’t know,” he sighed,
“She’s not entirely stupid. She claims to be a priestess of the bandia-an-
bháis: the White Lady of the Gaels.”45
“Eh-h?” Qarl stuck his hand in the fruit bowl and fished around.
“What’s a white lady of the Gaels?”
“I don’t know,” Vítur shrugged, “Some sort of ursky death-goddess. A
white dryad46 guarding a black tree.”
Qarl came up with another cherry. “A dryad?” he said, “That’s not so
bad. Heh heh!—she might be good-looking. Better than Hel,47 anyway.”
“Better than Marabreith!” Vítur sniffed. “That crone’s not a day less
than seventy. I suppose she might seem young to His Majest—”
“Haw haw!” Qarl guffawed, “So it’s as simple as that, eh? Just go to
Orkev. Find a magic tree stump. Let me call Björn, Uncle. I’ll have him
send a squadron out looking.”
“Olaf’s already looking.”
“Is he really?” Qarl raised his eyebrows, looking amused. Vítur
nodded hard. “His Majesty has urskies out combing the bush. Quietly, you
know? The witch prophesies Olaf will survive the long reach, but only if
he’s ventilating on resin fumes.”
“Ventilating on what fumes?”
“On resin fumes!” cried Vítur. “Resin from the folaworms!”
Qarl gave him a blank stare.
“Oh, gods give me patience!” Vítur pressed his knuckles into his eyes.
“The blood-worms. You know? Little termites that burrow in the sacred
tree? Supposedly their resin has marvelous properties. It’s how the
Wanderers survived—”
“But Uncle,” Qarl interrupted, “surely you don’t believe—”

45 Irish: “goddess of death”

46 Tree spirit

47 Loki’s daughter Hel. Norse goddess of the underworld, and of the ignoble dead. Hel
was described as half beautiful woman, half rotting corpse.
 “Of course I don’t!” Vítur snapped. He stared down at his glass,
swirling it a bit. “Still,” he added thoughtfully, “truth is the mother of
legend; that’s what the scholars say. Centuries ago we Norsk learned how
to extract spíramar from the common spruce-beetle. Spíramar is what
keeps the beetle’s blood from freezing in the long winter.”
“I know,” Qarl grunted.
“Our alchemists replicate it. We breathe it during reach-hibernation.
The heart beats slow, but it doesn’t stop. The blood gets thick, but it
doesn’t freeze.”
“I know,” Qarl grunted.
“Maybe—who knows?—another insect could do the same thing.
Preserve life.” Vítur trailed off, a detached look on his face. Qarl’s face
was back in his mug. “Mmm—” Qarl slurped—“well he’d better find his
magic termites quick. We’re ready to sail in ten days. Maybe less.”
Vítur's face fell. “Yes, and I’m beside myself, Qarl. Our Dreki needs to
embark; our thane-of-thanes needs to make a public appearance at the
Embarking. Olaf hasn’t seen sunlight in two years; he looks like
something you’d find in a cave. People whisper, you know. ‘Olaf’s lost
his wits,’ or ‘Olaf’s died and the Hadors are secretly running the
kingdom.’ Rule navy, rule Nirevvy—that’s the way people see things. I’ve
got to put Olaf on display at the Embarking, which means moving him
from Kattering to Trondhjem without him coming apart— kæru guðir!”48
Vítur sighed, “When Olaf does come apart, the Hadors will have the run
of the Gríyan system. Did you know Prince Stegvard is next in line for the
throne?”
“I knew,” Qarl grunted.
“A king Stegvard will have us tossed out on our ear before Olaf’s
ashes are cold!” Vítur wrung his hands.
“But we’ve got the treasury,” returned Qarl. “And I’m commanding
the Afflegard mission. Longest reach in— ever.”
“Yes, and what will I do,” Vítur whined, “while you’re asleep amongst
the stars? I fattened purses for you, Qarl. I threatened dukes to get you the
mission. Dukes Qarl!” Vítur tugged his sparse white beard. “Maybe I wish
I hadn’t.”

48 Dear gods!
 Qarl’s round eyes went rounder. “Wish you hadn’t?” he crowed,
“What would you wish that for? Affelgard strengthens our hand, Uncle!
The Hadors can’t take it away.”
Vítur made a sort of whimper. “But I can’t carry the shield once you’re
gone,” he said. “You’re taking all our best allies with you, Qarl. Oh, how I
wish I weren’t Olaf’s only cousin! I’m old, Qarl. I’m knocking on Odin’s
doors myself.”
Qarl sniggered into his mug.
“We’ll just have to get you an ursky heart, Uncle!”
Vítur coughed to hide a laugh. “I’m not afraid to die!” he retorted.
“You’ll forgive me, Qarl. Maybe I’m just Olaf’s glorified húsman, but I
still fancy myself a Norsk!”
“SKAAL!” Qarl boomed. He pounded his mug on the dainty table.
“Stop that!” cried Vítur, catching his glass before it toppled over. Ale was
dripping through the wicker onto his slippers. “Stop that, you svín!49
“And skaal,” Vítur added. “I’m proud of you, sister-son.” 50 He clinked
Qarl’s mug. For once his smile looked sincere.
“Proud of me?” Qarl eyed his uncle suspiciously. “Why?”
“Wh— because you’re my nephew!” Vítur spluttered. “Because
you’re my heir, you ignorant—”
“U-uncle—” soothed Qarl.
“—because you’re leading the greatest mission in Norsk history!
Because I’ll be long dead by the time you—”
“U-uncle—” soothed Qarl.
“Because you’re like a son to me.”
Swarthy, barrel-chested Qarl Longbard blushed like a schoolboy.
Surging over the table he gathered up old Vítur and crushed the skinny
baron in his arms.
“Northstar!” Qarl bellowed. “Skaal!”
“Skaal,” said Vítur quietly. He was wiping his eyes.

***

49 Swine

50 Nephew by way of one’s sister (i.e., of undisputable blood relationship). A traditional

candidate for fosterage.
 “THROW THE BONES,” whispered Marabreith.
King Olaf’s hand trembled. They were in a small dark room. Shadows
flickered across the low ceiling. Marabreith the witch was sitting behind a
table with candles burning on it. In front of her a tarnished copper pot
glinted dully in the candlelight.
King Olaf touched his halter.
ARE THOSE FISHBONES?
Wormy metal pipes encrusted Olaf’s shoulders—tangled clumps like
chicken guts. Brass pins bored through his pulpy skin and deep into his
neck. When Olaf’s lips moved his voice came out of the halter.
ARE THOSE FISHBONES?
“Aye,” said Marabreith. “Any bones’ll do.”
King Olaf’s hand trembled. Marabreith dropped the wet fishbones
onto his palm. “Now, thane-of-thanes!” she hissed. “Throw them into the
sacred pool!”
Olaf touched the halter.
IT SMELLS OF DEATH.
Marabreith leaned over the pot. Steam rose from a white liquid inside.
She stirred it with her finger. A dead crow blobbed up to the surface.
Marabreith took her finger out and stuck it in her mouth.
“Death,” Marabreith chirred, “aye, that’s as should be, my king. The
White Lady foresaw that I, her only priestess, should unveil—”
CAN WE GET ON WITH IT? I’M DYING.
Marabreith closed her eyes. She plunged her hands in and groped
around.
“I see,” Marabreith intoned, “a tree.”
Olaf wobbled his head. Scattered clumps of hair poked through his
scalp like weeds. He touched the halter.
YOU ALWAYS SEE A TREE.
“I see,” Marabreith intoned, “a star mangrove tree on Orkev.”

***
 “RAFE, I’M SO HAPPY!”
Elska stuck her blonde head out the karvi’s portside window, smiling
radiantly. Rafe put his boot on the running board. It was Wodensday
afternoon. The hangar at Skýhöfn Station was abuzz with byrdings and
karvis and other small vessels queuing up for acceleration toward
Lunhöfn Station on Great Moon. Four magnetic tracks cut through the
platform. Four towering lifts squatted over the tracks, loading and
unloading ships. Rafe’s karvi hung in the departure queue, looking like a
gnat skewered on a pin. High overhead, gray clouds brooded above the
glass ceiling, cut up into squares by the roofbeams.
Rafe leaned an elbow on the window. “I’m so happy too!” he called
over the screech of the cranes. “I’m just thrilled, Elska!”
“Can you believe it?” (Elska dabbed her eyes.) “Can you believe we’re
going to Affelgard together?”
“I can’t.” Rafe gave her a tense smile. “In the whole history of
Nirevvy they’ve never allowed—”
“Oh, I simply adore your father just now!” (Elska fanned her face
with her hat.) “Dear old Stegvard! Did I tell you I saw him in the Burg?”
“You told me.”
“Did I tell you I saw him in his—”
“You told me.”
“—saw him in his bureau, and he called me ‘my child’—can you
imagine? Stegvard called me ‘my child’ and he said we’re getting silver-
star quarters on the eighth deck. The eighth deck, Rafe! That’s as good as
Magnes!”
Elska stopped for breath. Rafe grunted ‘very generous’, and kicked the
running board.
“Oh, I’m going to be so proud!” Elska gushed. “And you’re going to
be so handsome, in your new fighting-káppa! I’ve never seen you in blues
before. My own commander Rae-rae!” (She patted Rafe’s cheek. Rafe
winced.) “—commander Rae-rae on deck! I know duchess Astrid is
jealous of me. Can you imagine fat old Magnes next to you? Tee hee! I’m
sure Astrid wants to die just now.”
Rafe nodded and tried to say something. Elska burbled on.
“I know you’ll be busy, Rae-rae, but I do mean to peek in on you every
now and then. JUST to make sure you’re— not— getting— in— to—
mischief!” Elska made a pretty little pout. Rafe doggedly clung to his
smile.
“I can’t wait to see you commanding drills,” Elska chirped. “Oh,
you’ll make those sailors jump! (She bounced her yellow curls.) “You’ll
be positively brutal, won’t you Rae-rae? And you’ll never have to spend a
night alone, and you’ll never have to eat dinner with anyone but me, and
you’ll never have to—”
“Hah,” Rafe laughed stiffly, “já, it’ll be marvelous. Just marvelous.
My father loves you—”
“Dear old Stegvard!” (Elska clasped her hands.) “Dear old prince
Steggie! But I can’t stand all these goodbyes, Rae-rae. I just can’t stand
them.”
“Indeed,” Rafe said through clenched teeth. “So many goodbyes.”
“Oh, I’ll miss Steggie so!” Tears gathered in Elska’s baby eyes. “Do
signals even go all the way to Affelgard? Oh, I’ll die for sadness, Rae-rae;
I know I will. I’m going to be in such a state, when we have to tell prince
Steggie goodbye at last.”
“Já,” Rafe croaked, “Last. Last assembly. Last review. Last
everything.” With a sort of twitch Rafe pulled Elska’s hand through the
window and pressed it to his lips.
“Last—trip—to—Orkev—” (Rafe pouted at Elska over her hand.
Elska tittered.)
“Rafe, that tickles!”
Rafe let go. Elska squinted at her reflection in the karvi’s fin. “Are you
sure this trip is really necessary?” she fretted, poking at her hair. “I mean,
I hardly know anyone on Orkev anymore.”
“My dear!” (Rafe pretended to be shocked.) “What about your
relatives? We could be gone forever! What about your nephew
Moorhen?”
“Maewyn. My nephew Maewyn.”
“And your old home, Gliffin?”
“Glasvain.”
“And your old home Glasvain? Don’t you want to see your father’s
house one last time before we sail off into— into the starry Unknown?”
Elska looked at the ground. “I don’t know if I want to see my father’s
house again,” she said quietly.
 “Good girl!” (Rafe wasn’t listening.) “Then it’s settled! You spend a
day or two saying goodbye to Orkev; I’ll keep an eye on those urskies
packing up our rooms. Don’t be away too long.” Rafe playfully pinched
Elska’s nose. “Ai!” Elska squeaked, “Stop it, Rafe— Freya?” she called
into the cabin, “Freya, fetch my fiothur-brush!”51
Rafe stiffened up. “I beg your pardon,” he said woodenly, “I thought
your vikona hadn’t come yet.”
“Yes,” Elska heaved a martyred sigh, “Freya was all I could find to
carry my things. When does Herrick get here?”
Rafe looked at his watch.
“I’m expecting him any minute.”
“Couldn’t we—” (Elska blinked up timidly at Rafe) “—couldn’t we
maybe wait a bit before we go? We could say goodbye this evening, Rae-
rae, or—”
She hesitated.
“—or you might come with me.”
“I am sorry, my love.” Rafe kissed her gallantly on the cheek. “I’m
afraid I’m an active commander now. They’ve assigned me a destroyer
already—” he smirked—“Snekke52 class. But one of the newer ones!”
Rafe added quickly. Elska beamed.
“I’m so proud of you, Rae—”
“And high time, too!” Rafe cut her off. “I must have flown forty
missions against those ursky rebels. The urskies even have a name for me
—did I tell you? They call me “The Bowman”—ha ha! It’s because I can
hit a rabbit from two leagues off the ground—”
“You did tell me—”
“—and the navy would have given me a command long ago,” Rafe
said airily, “if only the admiral wasn’t my father. We officers can’t have a
whiff of favoritism. ‘Men rise by bravery, not by birth’— that’s our code
in the navy. Dreadful responsibility, though.” Rafe sighed. “I wish to gods
I didn’t have to review sixty men just now. And a woman! Heh! Would
you believe? They’re putting an ursky girl in my squad.” Rafe laughed
incredulously. “She can’t get sick, apparently.”

51 Norse: fjöður, “feather”

52 Snake
 “That one gets sick!” Elska pointed at Freya. “Hah!” said Rafe,
“Indeed? Oh, and here comes Herrick. Herrick old boy!” Rafe waved his
hat above his head. Herrick was walking slowly down the platform, eyes
on the ground. As soon as he was near enough Rafe lunged forward a step
and gripped Herrick’s arm. He looked Herrick in the eyes.
“Skaal, húsman!” Rafe jerked his head toward the back of the karvi.
“Come to the stern53 with me. I want you to check the rudders.” Rafe
strode off and Herrick followed. As soon as they were out of earshot Rafe
grabbed Herrick’s arm and pulled him in close.”
“Why the long face?”
“M’lord?” said Herrick.
“Why the long face?” Rafe snapped. “You weren’t about to lose your
nerve, were you Herrick?”
“M—my lord?” Herrick laughed nervously, “Of course you’ve
changed your mind, my lord? I mean, what with your lady wife coming
—”
“I haven’t!”
“My lord?”
“I haven’t changed my mind!”
“But— but Regimental,” (Herrick looked sick) “Regimental just
announced— they just said select officers were permitted to bring—”
“Shut up!” Rafe snapped. “That’s even worse! I am NOT taking that
idiot child,” (he jabbed his finger at the cabin) “halfway across the Gríyan
system just so she can dog after me and ruin everything. I have plans,
Herrick. Here!” Rafe slapped a letter into Herrick’s hand. Herrick
unfolded it. His face fell as he began to read.
“I see,” Herrick said softly. He handed the letter back.
“DO you see?” Rafe stuck his finger on the paper. “Look, Sigurd says
— he says ‘I am honored to accept my commision as Ensign, and I will
honor Nirevvy with my service as Your Lordship’s new orderly,’ signed S.
Sigurdsson— hah!” (Rafe stuffed it back in his pocket) “Sigurd’s my new
orderly, Herrick!”
“I see,” Herrick said softly.
“Just thought I’d keep the job in the family.”
“I see,” Herrick said softly.

53 The rear of a vessel is the stern. The front is the bow. (Pronounce bough)
 “Be a bloody shame if S. Sigurdsson and I didn’t get along. I’d hate
for something—unnecessary to happen.”
“I see,” Herrick said softly.
“You see?” Rafe mimicked, “You see? Then see it through, Herrick!
Get the karvi above the atmosphere. First sign of anything strange, you
stuff Elska and that thrall of hers inside the lifeboat and you launch them
straight back down. Leave the rest to me. Take care of your thane,
Herrick, and your thane will take care of—”
Rafe smiled.
“—will take care of your Sigurd.”
He stalked off, not waiting for an answer.

The five-minute bell rang. Rafe and Elska bade each other goodbye.
Elska’s tears were on the glass when the window sealed with a hiss and
click. Freya sat facing Elska, holding Elska’s purse. Bumps and clangs
came from the gangplank outside. Then Herrick’s tall frame came
shuffling backward through the mainhatch. Freya heard an unexpected
rustle like branches scraping on a stanchion. She turned and saw Herrick
in the gangway, lugging Magnes’ beloved boska tree. The prancing green
rooster looked a bit disheveled now, replanted in a big brass tub. Herrick
carefully lowered it to the floor. Elska wrinkled up her nose.
“A present from His Grace the duke,” Herrick panted, bowing to
Elska.
“I’m not blind,” said Elska.
“No, my lady.” Herrick bowed to her again. He brushed a shower of
tiny leaves off his coat, then he pulled out a yellow courier-card. “I have a
message from His Grace,” Herrick announced. “He writes—um
—” (Herrick squinted at the card) ‘To our noble sister Elska, I entrust my
precious Háni. May he bloom forever in your ancestral halls at Glasvain,
as a symbol of our house and of the royal order for which it—’
“I’m not illiterate either!” Elska snatched the card out of Herrick’s
hand. “Gods!” she groaned, scanning the card, “He says he wants it in a
glasshouse. We haven’t got a glasshouse.”
“No trouble at all, my lady,” Herrick said urbanely. “I’ll take care of it
when we—”
Herrick hesitated. Suddenly his face looked grave. Elska glanced up at
him sharply. “What are you smirking about?” she demanded.
 Herrick shook his head slightly. “Just thinking about a glasshouse, my
lady.” Herrick forced a smile. “Not to worry. I’ll take care of it when we
— when we arrive on Orkev.”
Elska snorted. “Get that bush off the gangway.” She tore up the yellow
card and threw the scraps onto Freya’s lap. “You’re spilling dirt
everywhere.”
Herrick bowed briskly. Crossing the gangway, Herrick took a key out
of his coat and opened up a big locker which stood bolted to the
bulkhead.54 It was a monster of a locker; solid steel, with airtight double
doors taller than Herrick’s head. Inside the locker’s dim recess Freya
could see deep velvet padding: a relic of times past, when bringing a ship
down to land was a bumpier affair. Herrick came back and sidled around
the brass tub, trying not to come into contact with Elska (who had stuck
her foot into the gangway). Bending down, Herrick wrapped his arms
around the tub and lifted it with a grimace. “Don’t drop it!” Elska barked.
She was in a particularly foul mood, having just parted with Rafe and not
expecting to see him again for a few days. “Don’t drop it! It’s worth more
than—”
Elska pursed her pretty lips, trying to think up an insult.
“—than all the thræll-huts on Orkev put together!”
Freya flushed angrily. Thræll was a gross insult, even by Elska’s
standards. The nobles didn’t use the norsk word for ‘slave’ any more—not
ostensibly, at least. Certainly not to an officer of Herrick’s rank. Freya
couldn’t see Herrick’s face as he shuffled forward with the tub. “Please
don’t worry,” Herrick called back, “This strongbox was made for the most
precious cargo.” Setting down the tub, Herrick pulled out the two ends of
a wide leather strap and buckled them firmly. He stood up and banged the
heavy doors shut. Then he slowly climbed the ladder up to the bridge.
From where she sat, all Freya could see of Herrick was his feet
underneath the pilot’s chair. There was a click of switches. A gurgling
noise answered from the hull—Herrick was distributing the water in the
ballast tanks. Elska snuffled and wiped her nose.
“Restraints, my lady!” Herrick called down from the bridge. A heavy
harness like a cage folded out of the ceiling and locked itself over Elska’s
body. “Agh!” she wailed, “It’s too tight! Take it off!”

54 The interior walls on a ship are called “bulkheads.”

 “I’m sorry, Elska,” Herrick called. “It’s only for a little while. If we
shift around they’ll make us decelerate inside the tube, and you don’t
want to know what that feels—”
“Shut up!” Elska shrieked, “How dare—”
She choked and started to cough.
“—dare you—”
(Cough.)
“—filthy thrall—”
(Cough.)
“—will address me as YOUR Ladyship—”
(Cough. Cough.)
“Forgive me, Your Ladyship!” Herrick called, “That was the two-
minute bell. We’re going into the airlock.”
“Lord Caladar and I will be discussing this!” Elska trilled. She glanced
at Freya, who was squirming miserably in her own harness. Knowing she
was no better off than her vikona made Elska even angrier. “Well at least
you’re happy,” Elska hissed, “you get to see your native bush again. Don’t
think you’re on holiday! You won’t be visiting your fifty greasy cousins
while I’m—”
“Brace!” called Herrick. The karvi trembled slightly. Freya heard the
keel make a little squeak, and then the karvi glided forward into the
airlock.
“Gate coming down!” called Herrick.
The airlock sealed behind them, shutting out the noisy platform. At
once everything went quiet. Freya held her breath, listening to the weird
moan of the air pumps. It’s almost like a song, she thought.

Cold, cold,
How cold is Lugh’s great plain—

Just then the pumps idled. The airlock opened with a screech. They
were dangling over the mouth of Skýhöfn Accelerator: a vacuum tube
fifty miles long that bored under the Hestad, under the Strand, under the
mainland plate, and thirty miles out under the surface of Mythia-só, the
middle sea. A red light shone down on the rails. Red lights, equally
spaced, faded like heartbeats into the distance.
“Brace!” called Herrick.
 Freya didn’t feel any movement. The red light grew bigger, coming
toward them. It slid silently past. Then the next light, a bit faster.
The next light a bit faster.
The next light a bit faster—
And then with a shriek the karvi’s fins lifted off the rails and Freya felt
the blood drain out of her head as the red lights melted into one
continuous smear. Her stomach was creeping back against her spine.
Elska’s face was a white mask. I hate it! Elska screamed, to no one in
particular.
“Just one more minute, Your Ladyship!” called Herrick. They’d
covered more than half the distance already, faster than a bullet through
the frictionless void. The last ten miles of tube were a rising curve, as the
magnetic track gradually came back to the sea surface. Freya could tell
from the drag in her guts that now they were going up.
And up. (Freya dug her fingers into her harness.)
And up. The track was almost vertical now. “Brace!” Herrick shouted.
“Air!”
BOOM. The windows lit up as the karvi shot out of the tube, hitting
the atmosphere with a shock that flattened the waves. A flash of gray; then
they were hanging motionless while the cloud-roof of Middle Sea fell
away beneath them. All the world was silent. The karvi was a silver speck
in a perfect sky. Herrick looked down.
It’s always sunny up here, thought Herrick.
Then he flicked a switch. The thruster fired. Elska screamed Eee! and
squeezed her eyes shut. In a few moments the blue faded to black.
Nirevvy’s bent horizon rolled beneath them. In front of them, Gríyan
burned white as torment in trackless space.
Herrick switched off the thruster. “Restraints up!” Herrick called.
“No, leave mine on!” squeaked Elska, who was starting to float.
“Freya,” she ordered, “come pin down my hair.” In zero gravity, Elska’s
hair—painstakingly arranged for Rafe—was slithering off her head like
wood shavings. Freya bobbed obediently out of her seat with Elska’s
purse under her arm. “Ungfrú55 Freya?” Herrick called down, “Would you
come sit with me in the bridge?”
“Why?” demanded Elska.

55 Miss
 “Balance,” Herrick replied, as if that explained everything. Elska
snorted derisively.
“No.”
“We’ll get to Lunhöfn quicker that way,” Herrick coaxed.
“Oh, all right!” Elska puffed. “Freya smells like fish anyway,” she
muttered, not quite under her breath. Freya pushed off her chair and sailed
toward the bridge; body in a neat sitting posture, smoothing down her
dress as she went. Elska was frantically sticking pins into her hair. Freya
swam up through the hatch and strapped in next to Herrick. She looked
out through the canopy.
“It’s beautiful!” There was a trace of wonder in Freya’s voice. “I
haven’t seen space in so long.” Freya glanced down at the karvi’s old-
fashioned instruments with a skeptical look. “How can you tell if we’re
even moving?” she asked. Herrick gave a nervous laugh. “I can’t!” he
said, “speaking of which: could you help me keep watch, ungfrú Freya?”
“Watch?” Freya looked doubtful. “What are we watching for?”
“Oh—” Herrick was fumbling around overhead “—anything that
moves.” He cranked down an old periscope on a fat brass pipe. Wooden
handles stuck out like a pair of ears. Freya put her forehead against the
eyepiece. “Anything that moves?” she asked.
“Anything.”
“Well, there’s Great Moon.” Freya clicked back and forth between
lenses. “That moves.”
“Good, good.” (Herrick sounded distracted.) “Have a look behind us,
will you?” Freya turned a silver dial with compass points engraved on it.
From the cabin she could hear Elska snarling as she tried to keep
everything inside her purse. “What are you two whispering about?” Elska
shouted. “If you’re talking ursky up there, swear to gods I’ll tell Lord
Caladar, and he’ll find a pig-whip and—”
“Debris, my lady!” Herrick called down. “Sometimes there’s debris
orbiting around the—”
“Fascinating!” Elska burrowed into her pink pillow and pretended to
sleep. For a moment the karvi was silent.
Click. Click.
Freya cycled through the lenses on the periscope.
Click.
“I see something.”
 “What?” Herrick jumped and grabbed the periscope. Freya grabbed it
right back again. “You let go!” she snapped, “My eyes are better than
yours!”
“Fine!” Herrick snared his hat, which had floated off his head.
“Enlighten us,” he said, “What do you see?”
“Er—”
Click.
“Well?” Herrick demanded.
Click.
“Well it’s not debris—”
“Come ON!” Herrick moaned, “How do you know it’s not debris?”
Click.
“Because it just tacked.”56
“Oh dear gods,” Herrick rubbed his eyes, “already?”
“Why ‘already’?” demanded Freya.
“What’s that?” Elska came to life in the cabin. “Freya, what did he just
say?”
“It definitely tacked.” (Freya ignored her) “It’s green—”
Click.
“—looks like an old merchant brig. Maybe a cutter.”
“Will you let me have a look?” Herrick implored. “Look all you want,”
Freya said tartly. She swivelled the eyepiece around to him. Herrick
nudged the dial.
Herrick nudged the dial again.
“Are they ursk— are they Gaelic, I mean?” Freya asked (a bit
hopefully). Herrick shook his head.
“They’re norsk.”
“Tá? And how do you know that?”
Click.
Herrick squinted into the periscope. “I know that,” Herrick said
through his teeth, “because they just opened their gunport. I’m looking at
a norsk fálki57 drone.”

56 In water, a sailing vessel tacks when it turns across a headwind. A vessel jibes
when it turns across a tailwind.

57 Norse: falcon
 Freya shrugged. “Lots of brigs carry drones,” she returned. “What’s so
special about that?”
“I said falki drone. One single falki costs more than that brig. I think
the navy built less than a hundred of them.”
“Then I think you’re probably just looking at an old cargo tug.”
“I certainly hope so— kæri Baldr!”58 Herrick breathed, “the wing
stays are off! They’re getting ready to launch.”
“Can I look?” Freya asked. “They must be doing a drill. I’ve never
seen a drone take off.”
Herrick didn’t move. Something about his manner made Freya uneasy.
The cockpit seemed to have gone eerily quiet. In the stillness Freya could
hear Herrick breathing hard.
“Herrick?” Freya asked uncertainly.
Herrick jerked his face off the eyepiece. “Chilly Hel!” he cried, “there
it goes! They’ve launched it.”
“Oh please!” Freya scoffed, “What are you yelling about? We’re in a
flagged Hador vessel. It’s got to be a drill.”
Herrick turned to Freya. Freya started and drew back. Herrick’s face
was dead white.
“It’s not a drill,” said Herrick.
“Yes it must—”
“It’s not a drill!”
“So why are they doing that?” Freya shrilled.
“They’re doing that, ungfrú Freya, because they mean to shoot us
down.”
Freya opened her mouth.
Freya closed her mouth.
“So hail them!” Freya cried. She was bouncing in her seat, trying to
see out the cockpit window. “Light up the semaphores!59 Tell them we’re
Hador!”
“Freya?”
“They’d never dare—”
“Freya?”

58 Norse: “sweet Baldr.” Baldr (Balder) was a Germanic god associated with bravery
and light; identified as a “shining one” much like the celtic Lugh.

59 Visual signal language; communicated by flags, rods, oars, etc.

 “Tell them Lord Caladar—”
“Freya?”
“What!” Freya screamed. She whirled on Herrick. Herrick looked her
in the eyes.
“Freya,” Herrick said softy, “they already know who we are. Rafe sent
them to kill us.”
Freya stared at him.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“No-o,” Freya shook her head like she didn’t believe him. Herrick
smiled grimly, like he knew she did.
Freya hesitated a moment—
“Lifeboat!” Freya shouted.
“What’s happening?” Elska wailed from the cabin.
“Lifeboat!” Freya shouted down the hatch. “Go aft,60 Elska!”
“Pig!” Elska screamed. Freya was already reaching for Elska’s harness
release, but Herrick grabbed her wrist. “Wait!” he hissed, “Don’t touch
that!”
“Y-you let go!” Freya spluttered. “What are you—”
“The life— wait for godssakes, Freya!— the lifeboat’s a trap. He
means it to burn up in atmosphere!” Herrick was shaking Freya by the
shoulder. “That’s his plan—Rafe told me. He wants the lifeboat to kill you
and Elska; then I get the drone, would be my guess.” Herrick let go of
Freya. “Then do something!” Freya screamed. “Evade!”
Herrick shook his head. “Homing.” He tapped the canopy. “Look.”
Freya pressed her nose to the glass and shaded her eyes. A tiny orange
dot was crawling sideways across the stars, level with the karvi’s prow. It
stopped. It seemed to stand there motionless, only now it was steadily
growing bigger. Freya sucked in a breath.
“Move!”
Freya was wriggling out of her harness.
“Let me steer!” She grabbed the back of the pilot seat and swung her
body horizontal over Herrick’s shoulder. Herrick let go of the wheel. “Suit
yourself,” he said resignedly. “Cold, cold,”
Herrick was singing softly.

60 I.e., toward the stern.

 “Cold is Lugh’s great plain—”
“No it is not!” Freya snarled. “It is not cold!” Her hand was on the
starboard drive. Freya gave the wheel a slight turn and nudged up the
throttle. The karvi's tail whipped smartly around its nose. A crash in the
cabin meant Elska’s purse had just flown against the wall. “Don’t let her
steer!” screamed Elska. “Don’t you let my thrall steer the karvi!”
“Give me a sight!” Freya ordered.
“A what?”
“Give me a sight!” Freya shouted. “Give me a scope! Something I can
aim with!”
Herrick looked dubious. “The karvi isn’t armed,” he said. “We’ve got
—”
Herrick reached overhead. There was a ratcheting noise.
“—we’ve got an old docking sight, but I don’t know if it even works.”
He pulled down a dented black cylinder on a retractable arm. It creaked
when Freya grabbed it from him. “Get ready to fire the thruster,” Freya
ordered.
Herrick put his boot on the big accelerator bar underneath the wheel.
“Now when I say burn,” (Freya stuck her chin out) “you burn.”
“We’ll just black out,” Herrick countered.
“As fast as we can go without blacking out, then. We’re killing that
godsdamned brig even if it means we crash into it.”
Herrick gave Freya a patronizing chuckle. “Death and glory, eh?
That’s the Gaelic way, isn’t it?”
“You shut up!” snapped Freya. “You might have said something before
you sent us off to get murdered! Have you gone and lost your mind?”
“I might have said something,” Herrick returned calmly, “and you
know it wouldn’t have made any difference. Rafe only told me about his
scheme Mánuday61 night. Of course he’s had a watch on me ever since.
Some weasley little Kutz62 rat has been following me everywhere.”
“So Rafe just announced he was going to kill you?” Freya said
viciously. “And what did you say—yes, m’lord? I hope you were polite.”

61 Monday

62 I.e., a native of planet Kuda.

 Herrick shook his head. “Rafe lied. He said he was ‘taking care’ of me
—that was the worst insult. He literally thinks I’m that stupid.”
“I think you’re that stupid,” Freya retorted. “You were just going to let
him kill us? No, herra captain,” she shook her head, “the worst insult
would be giving Rafe the satisfaction.”
“I’m sorry, Freya,” Herrick said gently, “truly I am. I’d no time to
prepare. Rafe said there wouldn’t be any trouble ‘til after Lünhofn. I
thought I could at least shoot the lifeboat toward Great Moon. But what
then? Rafe won’t just let you both live.”
“Baldr!” Freya spat. “Madman! Why did he even tell you?”
“He was drunk, as usual.”
“I’m sure you were both drunk.” Freya was squinting through the
docking sight. Herrick sighed noisily. “It’s no good,” he said. “That drone
could fly to Great Moon and back before we even get up to speed.” Freya
spun around. “So what’s your plan,” she said, her voice rising in anger.
“Just sit there and repeat your nervy-vows? ‘I give my life in service to
my thane,’ (Freya sing-songed) ‘until my lord release me or until—’ or
until the bastard inbred nervy blows me up in space?”
“I heard that!” Elska howled. “Shut your filthy pig kisa! You’ll die
slow in the ‘Fang for— for profaning—”
“All right,” Herrick answered (over Elska’s screams). “Do what you
can do.” He was still humming cold cold under his breath. Freya planted
her feet resolutely behind the pilot seat, her body at right angles to
Herrick’s.
“Ten degrees south—” Freya nudged the throttle, trying hard to
concentrate while Elska shrieked in the cabin.
“Five degrees port—”
The karvi’s tail swung like a hinge. Herrick closed his eyes. Elska
gradually began to subside. Soon the bridge was quiet, except for the
gentle tick tick of the chronometer.
“Two degrees north—why isn’t it moving?” Freya demanded. Herrick
opened his eyes.
“Why isn’t what moving?”
“The drone! It’s just sitting there. What in Hel are they waiting for?”
Herrick laughed darkly. “They are waiting, madame,” he said, “for me
to launch you and Her Ladyship in the lifeboat. Then you will burn up
over Nirevvy and I will be blown to cinders by the drone—hah!” he
laughed, “I guess that brig is supposed to look like a Separatist vessel.
Nervies seem to think they’re all green.” Herrick leaned back and closed
his eyes again.
“One degree south— well I guess they’re tired of waiting,” Freya
observed. The spark, no brighter than a star at first, now cast a little
orange flare on the canopy. Out of the darkness beside it there glinted a
single green dot—that was the brig—just visible to the naked eye.
“One degree starboard—”
Freya nudged the throttle. The drone didn’t seem to move; it just grew.
Now it looked as big as Gríyan: an orange halo around a black center.
Herrick opened one eye. “Well,” he remarked, “at least I’ll die in good
company. Captaen Freya? A pleasure.”
Freya took her eye off the sight. She looked down. Herrick was
holding out his hand to her.
“Fada beo Orkev!”63
Slap!
Freya knocked Herrick’s hand aside. “Lock bearrr-ing,64 sailor,” she
growled. “Set drives and get ready to burn.”
Herrick chuckled.
“I was ready to burn.”
“Well, shut up and hold course then!” Freya put her eye back on the
sight. The fálki steadily grew, now bigger than Great Moon in the black
sky. Its body stood out hard against the afterburn. Stubby little wings cut
the fiery halo into two equal crescents.
Fálki! Freya thought to herself, Looks more like a puffin.
“Ho-oold!” called Freya. The fálki’s exhaust glared through the
canopy, level with Freya’s head, coming straight at them. Freya shaded
her eyes.
“Ho-oold!” called Freya.
Evil orange light filtered across the instruments. The drone was so
close Freya could see the glint on its fuselage. It ballooned up in the
window. Herrick gripped the wheel, knuckles white. The drone’s little
puffin wings folded in for the strike.

63 “Long live Orkev”

64 E.g., direction of travel, according to a compass bearing.

 “BURN!” screamed Freya.
And then Freya thought her spine was going to crack. The karvi’s
thrust crumpled her against the bulkhead. A hot kiss on her cheek—that
was the drone’s exhaust, close enough to scorch the canopy. Herrick’s big
arms shook as he fought to put his eyes on the periscope.
“Iss cirf—”
(Herrick couldn’t move his tongue.)
“—it’s circling back!” He put more weight on the thruster. In the cabin
Elska got out one little squeak and then she was silent. Freya would have
laughed.
Snivelling nervy cowards!
After all Elska had put her through! Now they were going to die
together, Elska and she, and all Freya had for consolation was wrecking
one mangy brig full of thieves who didn’t know they were working for
Rafe. Now the brig mushroomed up in front of them: a random jumble of
green cubes. Freya could see its norsk-made sunsails sticking out
everywhere. She raised her eyes to the canopy. The fálki was blazing
down on them like a comet.
“Burn!” Freya screamed.
So not even one mangy brig. The drone would catch them first. Freya
could see the battered cowl on the brig’s signal deck; close, but too far
away. Freya closed her eyes, composing her mind for one last thought:
Freeze in Hel you godsdamned nervy swine-sons of—
The karvi stopped.
The karvi simply stopped.
There was Herrick, teeth clenched;
There were Herrick’s teeth, a yard from Freya’s ear;
There was the fálki, frozen in space; there was the fálki’s exhaust, like
a fiery egg stuck to its tail; there was the big lifeboat lever—
There was a tall young woman.
Freya gasped.
There was a tall young woman! She was slouched across the other
pilot seat: a woman with deathly white skin. Jet-black hair fell to her
waist. She wore a simple white frock, and a rather bored expression. Her
bare feet were kicking idly against Herrick’s old chart box.
Her eyes! thought Freya.
 The woman’s pupils were white, yes, entirely white. Her iris was just a
black ring with nothing inside it. The effect was startling. Freya closed her
mouth.
What in Hel is wrong with you?
The woman had spoken. Her voice was low and musical; you rather
felt it than heard it. Freya couldn’t be sure if her lips had moved at all.
“Wh-h—” Freya croaked.
The woman gave an irritated sigh. She reached out, and her white hand
closed on the lifeboat release. She looked Freya in the eyes.
I shouldn’t have to do this, you ginger halfwit!
She woman pulled the lifeboat release. The stars above the canopy
went spinning.
Then the stars went out.
 CHAPTER THREE
_____________________________
MERI

From: The Starvoyage of Snorri

“THE FIRST YEAR on Affelgard was cruel.

We’d landed near the shore of the inland sea. We named the sea
Melass, because the water was fresh and not salty. A river fed into the
Melass; we named it Kaltstraum, because it was fed by snow from the
heights.
Wulf’s eyes and Heddi’s eyes were the first to come clear after we
landed. We sent Wulf and Heddi looking for somewhere for us to plant.
They explored the uplands above the river gorge and they found good
grass, but the slopes were rocky and couldn’t be farmed. We had to carve
out a little strip of field alongside the Kaltstraum. Most of the trees were
too big to fell; we needed to spare the axes. So Olev, Kollam and I cut
down a willow thicket on the riverbank and we burned the undergrowth.
We planted in between the smoking stumps while the rain fell and turned
the ashes into slime.
 My cousin Affner said we ought to plant vít65 and gorst66 like we’d
grown on Talaglas, but my mate Greta watched the night skies, and she
said the summer wouldn’t last. So we planted hardy root crops and
begged the gods they didn’t rot in the wet ground.
Affner hated field work. He was a big man, my cousin, and he liked to
have his way. Olev was even bigger—biggest of us all—but Affner was
more fierce. As soon as we could see, we men all cut our beards short—
all except Affner. Affner shaved his head clean and braided his red beard
straight down his chest. Affner had Wulf scar his chest and his shoulders
all over with a red-hot needle, to celebrate our landing. Wulf burned
pictures into Affner’s skin—stars and animals and god-signs—wonderful
pictures!—Wulf has a ghitcha67—but the scarring took hours. We could
smell Affner’s burning skin everywhere in the camp. Through it all,
Affner never winced. He never even make a sound.

Affner and Olev left the farming to the rest of us. They took our felled
saplings and made lavvu huts for everyone to sleep in, and then Affner
and Olev and Égil Smithursson started building a great-hall. The three of
them worked at it for weeks, Affner in charge. They bored timber-holes
and stacked up drystane68 walls, but in the meanwhile the lavvus leaked
rain and the nights started getting colder.
Our crops shot out leaves. Heddi, Kollam Kíli and I dug a root cellar,
thinking of harvest. It wasn’t easy. We had to cut a path up into the woods
above the water line, where the cellar wouldn’t flood. We chose a cleft
between two boulders and we made a cutting back into the hillside— and
if ever there wasn’t a tree root under our shovels, it was only because
there were rocks in the mould.69 We were racing against the weather. On
the first morning of harvest I went out to our field and I saw frost on the
kál greens.

65 I.e., wheat

66 I.e., barley

67 Gift

68 Scots, “dry stone”: walls made of interlaid stones without mortar.

69 Accumulated layers of rotting leaves and branches.

 We worked all that first day, and on through the night under torches.
We had to get the crop out of the ground before it froze. So we dug for six
days and nights, sleeping in shifts. Heddi took fever from the night air.
She lay by the fire shaking and sweating while Olev’s mate Varda—our
priestess—prayed and tended her. Kollam Kíli said Two souls will leave
us before springtime, but not Heddi’s soul. Kollam didn’t speak much, and
when he spoke he often said strange things like that.
Greta got so tired she almost cried. Greta said Winter is knocking at
our door, and our great-hall doesn’t have a roof. So Greta called everyone
together and she said If we try to live like kings, we’ll all end up freezing
like rats; and also Those lavvus couldn’t keep a squirrel alive.
Greta said we’d have to winter in our root cellar with the animals.
Affner got angry, and he said he wouldn’t live in his pigsty along with his
pigs, but I told him to let Greta alone, and I said Sixty people couldn’t
finish the great-hall before winter, and will you die out in the lavvus,
then?
Then everyone except Affner set to work, widening the root cellar and
tunneling deeper into the hill. We roofed the open end with turf and we
stacked up a stone hearth and a chimney. Olev and Égil Smithursson
raised a platform for us to sleep on, with the hearth underneath us and the
animals penned up behind hurdles.70 Affner wouldn’t speak to Greta. He
left his great-hall unfinished and took to the forest, hunting elgs71 and
harts. Égil Smithursson didn’t like the cellar either. He always took
Affner’s side—and Wulf did too—but after the first snow fell it got so
cold the Melass froze solid around the banks. Only then did Affner leave
his lavvu and move into the cellar with us.
The snow kept falling. The wind shrieked outside for days. Kollam
Kíli nailed a felt over over the planks of the door and he said we were
lucky to have the animals with us, making it warmer. Kollam took care of
the animals, especially the pups we’d given Eydís. We named the dog

70 Sections of moveable wooden fence.

71 Elks
Róm and the bitch72 we named Norn,73 because she understood Kollam’s
voice and knew what he was thinking. They were fine, strong animals—
mottled brown; heavy in the shoulder. Kollam slanted the loft-ladder and
taught Róm and Norn to climb up and down on it. The dogs slept with
Kollam at night. (We have three dogs, Affner said, and they all have
fleas.) But I don’t think they had any fleas. Kollam spent hours talking
softly to them and grooming their fur with a fine-tooth comb.
It was never day nor night inside the cellar; just endless, smoky dark
and the sour stench of animals. Outside the door we shoveled a channel
through the snow and we took the animals outside when we could. The
animals suffered from the confinement—we all did. One of the grown
sows birthed a litter. Varda said it was a blessing from Branwen, the birth-
goddess, and she said she would burn her precious liathweb scarf as a
sacrifice. It was an exquisite scarf, woven nine generations ago on Innis
Chila. That scarf won’t burn! I told Varda. You couldn’t burn liathweb if
you dragged it from a mast on entry! Varda only smiled (she was sitting
on a stool next to the hearth). She looked down at her beautiful scarf—
shimmering gray with the edges broidered in gold wire. Then with a laugh
she threw it into the fire. The flames leapt up, blue and scarlet. In a
moment the spider-cloth was gone. Only the gold lay melting on the coals.
Branwen hears us, Varda said.

Storms raged outside. Our food and our firewood began to run out.
Needles of icy wind crept in everywhere. We burned the hurdles and let
the animals cluster around the hearth. The cellar floor was a stinking mire.
When there was daylight we trudged out into the gale and stripped pettu74
and dry branches from the pines. We mixed pettu with the animals’
silage,75 but we knew it couldn’t last. The creatures were starving.

72 Male and female dogs are called dog and bitch respectively, when not used for
breeding.

73 Witch

74 Finnish: edible treebark phloem, usually stripped from pines. Phloem has low
nutritional value. It was used to supplement flour in times of famine.

75 Fermented crop waste

 We ate as little as we could and tried to stay warm. Affner put himself
in charge of food-rationing. Somehow he never looked as thin as the rest
of us.
Too often we fell to quarreling with each other, so I took my harp and
sang the old eddas to pass the weary time. I sang the sagas of Talaglas, the
sagas of Innis Chila, the long songs of the gods and heroes. Varda started
teaching Eydís how to read out of the five sacred books. Eydís took to it
easily and it made her happier. Wulf and Greta did fine weaving on the
looms—even some liathweb. I asked Greta how long the winter would
last. She only shook her head. I can’t see the stars, Greta said.

Then one day the silage ran out and the sow stopped giving milk. Two
piglets sickened and died—we ate them from nose to tail. The animals
were living on grass hay. Their ribs stood out like frames76 in a shipyard.
Then at last the wind fell and the sky cleared. We let the animals out, to
paw for branches under the snow. I was sick from starving. All my joints
were swollen. I said How are you so hardy, Affner?
It’s lucky for you I am, Affner retorted, I’m going out hunting for us.
Affner took his bow and his spearthrower77 and he floundered off through
the deep snow, into the woods.
Night fell. The sky was clear as glass. Greta and I stood outside,
looking up at the blazing stars. I leaned on Greta.
How long, ástin mín?78 I asked.
I can’t make winter go away! Greta snapped. She was as hungry as I
was, holding me up with her shoulder. Kæli the Reaper was just starting to
rise in the east. His burning sickle came up first, arching over the horizon.
Then tígli and rós came up: the bright stars on Kæli’s crown, and
suddenly I let go of Greta and I stood up straight. I gazed up at the black
sky in wonder.
Talaglas? I asked.

76 The ribs of a ship’s hull

77 A short rod, notched at one end, which gives a thrower considerable leverage in
hurling a spear. Inuit spearthrowers (sometimes called nuqaq) have been known to
skewer a caribou from tail to mouth.

78 Norse: my love
 Talaglas, Greta answered.
There, in the middle of Kæli’s crown, a green jewel glittered: it was
our old home, one hundred and thirty years away. Then it came over me,
the thought which I had been trying to push out: that everyone I’d ever
known on Talaglas was dead.
I felt Greta’s shoulder against mine, thin like a whetstone. Tears
streamed down her hollow cheeks. I took Greta in my arms and held her.
It’s so cold, was all Greta would say.
We held each other and cried; we didn’t care if anyone heard us. Then
Varda came outside. Then Wulf came out, and Olev. Then Heddi and
Kollam and all the rest. We stood there, the twelve of us, and we watched
that green teardrop sail through heaven. Varda took Kollam’s bony right
hand with her left hand, and she took Heddi’s bony left hand with her
right hand. The three of them stood side by side. Then Wulf took Heddi’s
hand.
Then Olev took Kollam’s hand (with a bit of a chuckle).
Then Greta took Olev’s hand, and I took Greta’s, and then we were all
holding hands in one great circle, singing Esht Shinya! Esht Shinya! in
praise of Branwen and the high gods. We remembered how we were all
friends, and how we’d survived the long reach together.
Skaal! There was a shout in the forest. We stopped singing.
Skaal!
Kollam bowed his head. You’d have starved, kind sister, Kollam said,
We praise thy life. (I don’t know what he meant.)
Skaal!
Affner! I shouted. Affner had returned. He’d killed a hart.

—From The Starvoyage of Snorri

Fion-Lis, Affelgard. Ár. 3019
 ***

SOMETHING WAS MOVING in the forest. Meri Vínber thought it

was a hart.
When she wasn’t hunting in the forest, Meri Vínber lived in the
village of Fion-Lís. Fion-Lís was one of the five human settlements on
planet Affelgard. That midsummer Meri had come to the age when girls in
Fion-Lís were expected to marry. Around midsummer many of the girls
became quite particular about their clothes.
Young Meri Vínber was quite particular about her clothes.
Meri desperately needed new fringed hart-skin leggings. She needed
new fringed hartskin leggings because she could tear the fringes off and
eat them if she was starving. The hartskin leggings Meri was wearing at
that particular moment had no fringes; Meri had already eaten them. She
was starving.
That wasn’t a shadow moving, thought Meri.
Meri desperately needed the hart inside the hartskin, too. She would
flay the hart and eat its liver, then sleep, then pack the skin and the
haunches back to Fion-Lís. Also the brain, stuffed inside the hart’s
bladder. In Fion-Lís she would start to make the leggings. Meri’s mother,
Zina Vínber, would scold her and would say Where have you been for
four days? and I thought you’d died, and You smell like a goat. Meri’s
father would growl and try not to look proud of her, and he’d say I’ll
never marry you out of this house, you know? and then he’d roast the
haunches.
Meri could have almost made the leggings right there in the forest.
She’d brought her razor, her awl, and her scraper, and the brain would do
to treat the hide. But she needed a bucket—that was the thing. She’d need
to soak the hartskin two days before the hair would come off. She’d have
to use water mixed with wood ashes (for the lye) but Meri’s mother would
say You’re not putting a dead animal in my washtub again, so Meri would
have to borrow a bucket from old Kollam Kíli. Meri liked Kollam.
Everyone said Kollam was mad, but Meri liked him.
That HAS to be a hart, thought Meri.
 It was perfect weather for stalking. Whatever the something was,
Meri was downwind from it. The undergrowth was sparse. Sunlight
through the shifting leaves would hide her movement. The eik79 trees
grew wide here like a parkland. Meri held the vantage point, crouched up
on a little bluff. A creature would have the late afternoon sun directly in
its eyes.
The bundle of sticks at Meri’s back were really weapons. A
hardwood bow. Three feathered arrows. The long, hollow tube was for
blowing poisoned darts. Darts would make an easy kill, but the something
was too far away. Meri was exhausted. She knew her hands would shake
on her bow. It was powerful and hard to draw. Meri wormed cautiously
out on her stomach, bracing her arms against the rock. She waited for the
something to show itself. It would have to come out either on the north
side or on the south side of a big eik tree.
Something was moving again. Meri tensed. She notched an arrow on
the bowstring. A flicker on the south side. The little sucker-saplings bent
at the base of the tree.
Meri’s heart stopped.
What IS that?
Meri Vínber knew every creature in the forest. The animals were her
sisters and brothers. Dwarf bear. Climbing ópossum, who swung by his
tail. The giant ground sloth who lived on vallah-nuts, and the furry
mammút who dragged the branches down to its mouth with its snaky
trunk. Breeding and nesting, hunting and dying—Meri knew and loved
each one.
Meri had never seen this one.
The eyes! thought Meri.
Meri shrank back. The creature glided out into the open. Its eyes
must have been six feet off the ground. All the animals in the forest were
wary—always watching for trouble—but this creature moved with an
assurance that bespoke no enemy. More than the creature’s height, more
than the scissored hinges of its limbs, Meri sensed a terrifying intelligence
—as intelligent as she was; maybe more.
The birds stopped singing.

79 Norse: oak
 The creature’s face slowly revolved left. Then right. Then its face
turned toward Meri. Meri’s throat went shut. The creature was looking for
something, though its dead eyes didn’t move. For the first time, Meri
knew the fright of a hunted thing. She didn’t want the creature to find her.
Bit by tiny bit Meri settled her head down, clawing her fingertips into the
rock.
The creature’s face tilted slowly, deliberately up. Eyes like spears
slid across the saplings, across the little thicket of ferns in between, rising
steadily to the bottom of the bluff. Then up the bluff. Meri gently let her
breath out and held it. She knew her heartbeat was making her shoulders
pulse. The creature’s eyes crossed Meri’s; huge; pure black like a bird’s.
And something else, too—something in the center. It stopped. Meri heard
a crik and a faint chirr, like an insect.
For a moment the creature seemed to hesitate. Then the eyes moved
on again, over the bluff and into the treetops beyond. The creature bent its
limbs. It’s head revolved back again, then it glided silently off toward the
south. In a few seconds it was gone.
Meri lay there for a long while, shaking. When at last she got the
courage to stand, Meri ran. Stumbling, careless flight; north toward the
village.
Mother Makka guard my life, Mother Makka guard my life, Meri
repeated over and over in her mind.

***

“HOW DID he look?”

“Eh?” Rear admiral Qarl Longbard jerked his head up from a leather
dossier. He hadn’t heard commander Björn Geldring come in. Qarl had
only just settled into his new captain’s quarters, up on the ninth deck of
the Dreki. Qarl didn’t like his quarters. They were a vast, chilly suite of
rooms. (Qarl called it ‘the captain’s crypt.’) Heavy carpets with the
norskarna embroidered on them were supposed to make it look
impressive. Qarl didn’t like the carpets either: they made it hard to hear
people coming in. He’d picked the smallest room and dumped his trunks
(both of them) in it, and then he promptly took to sleeping on the floor.
The only decoration in his adjoining office was a Gaelic chieftain’s skull:
upside down on the window ledge, half full of walnuts.
Qarl whipped off a pair of flimsy, round-rimmed spectacles and
stuffed them in his breast pocket. Qarl was fifty-two (minus hibernation
years) and he didn’t like people to see him wearing spectacles. Björn,
Qarl’s cousin, came up to Qarl’s desk with an inky stack of papers, and,
balanced on top of the papers, a wooden bowl with something steaming in
it. Qarl snatched the bowl and glared at the papers.
“How did who look?” Qarl grabbed the spoon Björn was holding out
to him.
“Olaf!” cried Björn, “Our thane-of-thanes! How did he look at the
Embarking? I wasn’t there.”
“Mm—why wurnff you there?” (Qarl’s mushroom-shaped nose was
already in the bowl. Hot liquid clung to his beard—a short black beard
with flecks of gray.)
“I was on Orkev.” Björn plopped the papers down. Qarl’s desk was so
deep in papers it looked like a pile of leaves. Behind the table a long, low
bookcase stretched out. Sets of books made a crisp checkerboard with
their matching spines—all of them in pristine condition; all of them
covered in dust. A towering, peaked window loomed over everything.
Outside the window lay the perfect black of space, pierced by fiery white
stars.
“You were on Orkev?” Qarl slurped, “What the Hel were you doing on
Orkev?”
Björn winked.
“State secret.”
Qarl rolled his eyes up over the rim of the bowl. He was an ugly man,
and he didn’t seem to mind it. Everyone respected Qarl—admiral
Stegvard Hador, most importantly. Qarl was a leader. Dukes and
documents were good enough for Stegvard; Qarl liked ships and guns.
One book lay open on Qarl’s desk: Rules of First Contact. The book was
soaked with gun oil. Qarl had disassembled a pistol on top of it, plus a
cleaning rod and a rag.
“Hurf! ‘State Secret’!” Qarl wiped his beard with his sleeve.
“Anything to do with a magic tree?”
Björn grinned.
“Since you ask.”
 “Find it?”
“Failed, sir.” Björn chuckled. “No magic tree. We found a nest of
Separatist rats, though. Had to clean it out.”
“With what?” Qarl stuck his face back in the bowl.
“With the twelve-fifty skinners.” Björn yawned. “Penetrating. There
was a tree—ha ha—” (he revolved his thumbs) “—I watched it flip over
in the air.”
Qarl frowned.
“No boots on the ground? We always need boots on the ground.”
“Couldn’t, sir. Nowhere to land. I sent Sven around for another pass
and then they called us back. Lit up some huts—” Björn yawned again
and flipped the edges on the stack of papers. Qarl put down the empty
bowl.
“So how did Olaf look, you ask?” Qarl interlaced his fingers behind
his head. “Well he looked a damn sight better than I expected. They put
some paint on his face. To make it look like he’s got a pulse, já? And—
har har!— and a wig.”
“A wig?”
“Just the fringe o’ one.” Qarl grinned. “I was standing right behind
him on the dais. They had this little blonde scruff stitched into the front
his beret.” (Qarl pointed at his own beret.) “But his voice?” said Björn,
“What did they do about his voice? He talks like a badger.”
“Wa-aatch yourself,” Qarl said menacingly. He narrowed his little
eyes. “That’s your king, Commander! And my great-great uncle— by
marriage— I think—” Qarl took off his beret and scratched his stubble
hair. Björn stiffened up.
“I beg your pardon, my thane. I didn’t mean to say—”
“Já, já—” Qarl waved him off, “Just watch your tongue, will you? The
bulkheads have ears.” Qarl smiled mischievously. “I was planning on
shooting you out a porthole anyway, once you’re iced. Rafe Hador wants
your job.”
Björn laughed merrily.
“Yes, I’ll bet—”
Björn’s face fell a bit.
“—yes I’ll bet he does,” Björn finished thoughtfully. “I guess you
heard about Elska Hador?”
 “I heard. I heard.” Qarl almost sounded sympathetic. “Her karvi never
turned up at Lunhöfn. Nor any lifeboats, neither. That’s been, what, two
days ago?”
“Three days.”
Qarl shook his head. “There’s no chance she survived,” he said darkly.
“You can’t hibernate in those old karvis. Fancy little caskets. They’d have
run out of air by now. Damn shame! You know I trust a Hador like I trust
a bilge rat, Cousin, but I’d nothing against little Elska. Sweet young ‘un—
very pretty—” Qarl trailed off. Björn coughed into his fist. “They’re
saying ursky Separatists did it,” he remarked. “They’re saying her vikona
was a spy.”
“They’re saying, they’re saying,” Qarl growled. “Who’s saying?”
“Oh,” Björn said vaguely, “the Orkevian Watch, maybe. Somebody
saw a green brig—”
“We are the Orkevian Watch,” Qarl cut him off. “Bran Fölkner reports
to me. If a rebel ship so much as hops over a dunghill that’s my
responsibility.”
“And you asked Colonel Fölkner?”
“Of course I asked Colonel Fölkner! We had Fölkner on the box the
same day it happened.”
“And?”
“And, and Fölkner said some squad leader said some lieutenant said
some louse-bitten ensign said in Hestad brothel—”
Björn chuckled. “So there’s no official report?”
“No report.” Qarl swiveled his chair around to face the window. A
snekke destroyer was gliding silently past, green portside lights giving
their monotonous blink-blink. “No report,” Qarl repeated. “An admiral’s
daughter-in-law disappears on her way to the hat shop and nobody’s got a
damn thing to say about it. Never in all my days—”
Björn leaned against the desk and crossed his legs. “This sort of thing
has happened before,” he countered. “When the Redbards were on the
throne, yes? Little lords Etvard and Rikkard disappearing from that jail—
what was it— Svartfoot Tower or something?”
“Já, and it wasn’t some urskies in an ore-barge did that! We did that,
most likely—house Longbard. It’s like the old feuding times again, back
when I was a pup. Little lady Caladar won’t even be at her own funeral.
Of course Rafe Hador is prancing around the Burg braying about
slaughtering urskies—he don’t care which urskies. Fölkner’s got a stack
of Rafe’s swagger on his desk; five Hador crests on every paper. Hasn’t
read any of ‘em. Rafe’s shipping out anyway.”
“Shipping out a richer man.” Björn smirked. “He’s already sold
Elska’s estate on Orkev.”
“You’re lying!” Qarl spun his chair back around. “He’s already sold
Glaschen?”
“Glasvain.” Björn corrected. “He sold it yesterday.”
“That’s a damn lie!”
“It’s no lie.”
“And how the Hel do you know that?”
“You-know-who told me.” Björn smiled knowingly. Qarl scowled at
him. “Geh-h,” he growled, “your little rat-spy. What’s he know?”
“He or she—” Björn returned tartly—“has never been wrong before.”
“Do-oon’t you get cocky with me!” Qarl wrinkled up his eyebrows.
“Don’t you get smart! You think I won’t make an example of you? You
just try me!”
“Begg’r pardon my thane, begg’r pardon,” Björn said hurriedly,
looking genuinely nervous. Qarl glared at him a moment. Then he hurf-
hurfed his usual belly laugh.
“So your rat told you?”
“Aye. My rat.” Björn relaxed a bit. Qarl tugged his beard. “I hate rats,”
Qarl grunted, “even when they’re ratting for us.” Björn nodded
respectfully.
“They’re a necessary evil, my tha—”
“Oh, drop that ‘my thane’ horse-skít,” Qarl interrupted. “I can’t
porthole you, Cousin. You’re too useful. How the Hel did Rafe sell
Glasvain so quick?”
“That part is a mystery.” Björn bit his thumbnail. “The rat doesn’t
know. ‘Anonymous buyer.’ A guild, possibly.”
“Anonymous—feh! I can’t imagine who’d want it. I’ve flown over
Glasvain myself; flew over in an A-1 Valkyrie. It’s nothing but twenty
leagues of festering swamp. Well, Rafe can’t spend her estate on
Affelgard, not unless the natives take krónur.”80

80 Crowns (currency)
 “And our king?” (Björn changed the subject.) “You said he was
presentable at the Embarking?”
Aye.” Qarl put his beret back on. “Uncle Vítur covered up that neck
gadget Olaf wears—the one that keeps his head on.” He shot Björn a
sideways glance. Björn tried not to smile.
“You mean the tubes, Cousin?”
“Right! Uncle Vítur had ‘em under Olaf’s cape. Big furry collar.” Qarl
waved his hands over his massive shoulders.
“But his voice—”
“Oh, Vítur fixed that too. Gods, how I’ll miss uncle Vítur!” Qarl
rubbed his eyes. “There’s none like old Vítur. Olaf didn’t have to say
much anyway. Boxes were all squeaky. You could ‘a thought it was just a
bad mouthpiece. Sons of Nirevvy—that was half his speech right there. Of
course he had the witch standing up next to him.”
“Really?” Björn raised his eyebrows. Björn was a man of about forty.
He looked like Qarl, only slimmer and less troll-ish. Björn’s black hair
went a bit coppery around the ears, a thing he tried to hide by cutting it
high. Björn took a chair in front of Qarl and crossed his ankle over his
knee.
“Já,” Qarl sighed, “Really. Godsdamn disgrace—an ursky witch up on
the royal dais! I couldn’t believe it. She never lets Olaf out of her sight
anymore. Practically chews his food for him. It gets worse, Cousin. She
went and boarded the Svanur81 with him.”
“No! She didn’t! The royal yacht?”
Qarl nodded. “The royal yacht! With the crowd all singing Hail, hail
the Northstar and everything. Olaf takes his carriage down the gangplank
—I don’t know if he can walk, Cousin—and he’s got the Ringlord Guard
in parade blues all around him, and then there’s the ursky witch right in
the middle, all smug. They raise anchor and cast off the lines. the Svanur’s
a seaship too, you know?”
“I know.”
“—so they shove out into the harbor, shooting off the guns and all.
Traditional Norsk send-off. Svanur was supposed to represent the Dreki or
some customary skít. They sailed her out to the Middle-Sea tube like Olaf
was going to join the mission.”

81 Norse: swan
 Björn folded his arms. “But how could Olaf even survive
acceleration?” he demanded. “Able-bodied mariners pass out in the
Middle-Sea tube!”
“I don’t know—” Qarl turned back to the window “—I don’t know
how Olaf made it through acceleration. But I reckon he did. Haven’t heard
another word about him.”
Björn shook his head mournfully.
“Godsdamn disgrace.”
“My guess—uff!” Qarl got up heavily “—my guess is they’re lurking
around Orkev somewhere, Olaf and his witch, looking for your—”
Qarl grinned through his stubby gray teeth.
“—looking for your ‘state secret.’ ”
“Olaf still thinks he can follow us?” Björn tipped back his chair. “How
fast can the Svanur even go?”
“It don’t matter.” Qarl was fiddling with the pistol. “If Olaf shows up a
few years behind us—alive, presumably—and we’ve already got the
planet all sorted out for him, all the natives wearing pants, plowing Olaf’s
new farms—suits him just fine.”
Björn sighed and stood up. “So we’re getting iced day after tomorrow?
I’ve got a million things to do. Make sure you digest that!” He pointed at
the empty bowl.”
“Bah! Tastes like maggots.”
“Ha ha! It might be maggots. It’s nutritious. You’ll be needing it.”
“I’ll be needing this!” Qarl turned and stooped down. He pulled a
clutch of dusty books out of the bookcase and thumped them down on
top.
“You’ll be needing books? Ah!” Björn laughed. Behind the books Qarl
had hidden a brown bottle. He took it out and sat down again.
“Have a drop?” Qarl held out the bottle. Björn laughed and shook his
head.
“Not ‘til the sun is over the yardarm.” 82
“Goo’ man!” Qarl gurgled, bottle on his lips. A pad-pad of footsteps
came from the corridor outside. Qarl hastily stuffed the bottle back into
the bookcase and spun around. A navy lieutenant walked in.

82 In times past, navies had strict rules as to when sailors could drink, sometimes
according to the position of the sun in the sky.
 “Rear Admiral, sir! The lieutenant saluted. Qarl frowned. “What now,
Brönur?” he barked, irritated.
“Er, sir, we have a report, sir.”
“We have two thousand reports!” Qarl thumped his desk. “What’s so
godsdamn special about this one?”
“It’s—ah—” the lieutenant shifted from foot to foot “—this one’s from
stowage, sir. Fourth deck. They— they say—”
“Spit it out, sailor!” Qarl snapped the pistol back together without
even looking at it. “We’re busy! Commander Geldring here is drunk on
his watch and we have men to ice!”
The lieutenant reddened.
“It’s a tree, sir.”
Silence.
“What in the chilly teats of Hel—” Qarl bellowed. The lieutenant took
a brisk step backward. “In—in the loading bay!” he squeaked. “Stowage
sergeant says there’s a tree stuck outside the hull. Just stuck there in
space. Big frozen tree.” He glanced up and down from his report. “Roots
caught in the exterior manifold— ah— hatches already sealed— don’t
know what to do about it— please advise—”
Silence.
“A TREE?”
The lieutenant nodded hard. “An entire tree, sir,” he said earnestly.
“Roots, branches and all. They can’t imagine how it got out there.
Might’ve been the urskies up to mischief. Might’ve been debris pulled in
by our gravity—” the lieutenant trailed off. He glanced up at Qarl
apprehensively. Björn, was leaning back in his chair with an amused look.
“Well—” Björn straightened up “—I’ve got six thousand men to ice.” He
picked up his beret from off the desk. Qarl stuck his fat finger at the
lieutenant’s face. “Get ooout—” he rumbled. The lieutenant saluted,
obviously relieved. He turned on his heel and was almost out the door
when Qarl said halt! The lieutenant spun around with a dismayed look.
“Ice that sergeant.”
“Sir?”
“Ice that stowage sergeant. The one who wrote the report. Give it
here.” Qarl snatched the paper out of the lieutenant’s hand.
“Sir?” The lieutenant looked mystified, “We haven’t issued
hibernation cloaks, sir.”
 “Don’t bother with his hibernation cloak! Just stuff him in his locker
and ice him.”
The lieutenant saluted, looking pale. He clicked his heels and
vanished. Qarl chuckled. He nodded at Björn.
“Dismissed.”
Björn saluted, and went out.

***

SMUDGE WAS HANGING in a harness. The harness was hanging

in a stanchion. The stanchion was hanging in the semi-darkness five
hundred yards up the inside of a navy shuttle.
It looks like a rotten honeycomb, thought Smudge.
The shuttle was a decrepit old transport knarr—essentially a giant
pipe stuffed with people. Stanchions formed stacked rings around the
inside of the hull. Mariners formed stacked rings around the inside of the
stanchions, locked in heavy restraints. They were all packed shoulder to
shoulder, twenty to a ring. Smudge tilted her chin up as far as her chin
could go, openmouthed, peering into the gloom. Overhead, hundreds of
other mariners were hung—ring upon ring—until they faded into the
shadows. Somewhere up there was the shuttle’s cone, and somewhere up
above the shuttle’s cone were Great Moon and the Dreki.
It looks like an ant hive, thought Smudge.
Smudge squirmed. Each harness enclosed a fold-out jumpseat about
as big as a logbook. The leather padding was worn all the way through;
Smudge could feel the cold steel underneath. She tried not to look past her
feet. They’d hung her somewhere in the middle. Down, down went the ant
hive, until it too faded into the shadows. Most of the stanchions were
equipped with a buzzing yellow light. Most of the buzzing yellow lights
didn’t work. Smudge squinted across the hold, trying to see the mariner
facing her. Two massive cables blocked her view. The lift came grinding
up the cables every now and then, hoisting people. People in blue: those
were sailors of the royal navy. People in dull green: those were marines,
like Smudge. Smudge’s marine unit was now under the command of
sergeant Tyr (Tyr had been promoted from corporal a week ago). The new
star on Tyr’s chest had been polished so many times the copper paint was
starting to wear off and the tin was showing through underneath. Sergeant
Tyr hung on Smudge’s left, kicking his boots against the hull with an
aimless clang clang. They’d called the Helmets on! half an hour ago, but
everyone had promptly taken them off again. Corporal Tyr’s boot collided
with Smudge’s, knocking her leg out in front of her. Tyr grunted Sorry
and went on kicking. The lift ground past again, going down. A thousand
echoes blended into one unbroken hiss. The dead air smelled like sweat
and thruster fuel.
I wonder what happened to Maev, thought Smudge.
Someone from a navy unit was hanging on Smudge’s right, still
wearing a helmet. Smudge heard a muffled Oof! as the sailor pulled it off.
Smudge stared.
The sailor stared back.
“You’re a girl,” said Smudge.
“Congratulations,” said the girl. “You ought to get a medal.”
“You’re a girl,” said Smudge. “What are you doing here?”
“What in Hel are you doing here?” the girl retorted. “Were you
looking for the canteen?” Smudge saw the faded insignia on the girl’s
coat. “Valkyria,” Smudge observed. “Are you a healer?”
The girl stuck her chin out. “I stitch people up,” she said, “when
people need stitching up.”
“Can’t a man do that?”
“Not like I can. I’ve got the magic hands.” The girl held her hands
up demonstratively; then she said Agh! and caught her helmet before it
fell into the abyss. “Quiet!” barked Tyr. “Helmet on!” (Tyr’s helmet was
off.) He glared at them as best he could, not being able to turn his head.
“My name’s Smudge,” said Smudge. The girl looked at her
suspiciously.
“You’re joking me.”
“No I’m not.”
“Why is your name ‘Smudge’?”
“Because I’ve got a Smudge,” said Smudge. She pointed at her face.
The girl squinted.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Well it looks like milk and freckles.”
 The girl squinted. “I’m Nandini,” said the girl. People call me
Dinny.”
“Dinny? You’ve got a funny name!”
“You say I’VE got a—” The girl puffed up. She looked like she was
about to say something, but then she only laughed.
“I’m from Kuda,” said Dinny. “Where are you from?”
“The Hestad.”
“What’s the Hestad?”
Tyr laughed. “It’s by the Strand,” he called, “Couldn’t you smell it?”
“So why are they sending you to Affelgard?” asked Dinny (ignoring
Tyr). “I’m plus-Klotho,” said Smudge.
“What’s plus-Klotho?”
“Something in my blood. I don’t get contact disease. They told me I
won’t get sick when I meet the Wanderers.”
“Pah! You get to meet the Wanderers?” Dinny eyed her enviously.
Smudge nodded hard. “That’s the only reason I’m here,” said Smudge.
“Plus-Klotho is rarer than— well I might be the only one on Nirevvy.”
“You might be the saddest excuse for a marine on Nirevvy,” Tyr
remarked. “The only reason you’re here is to scrub decks.”
Dinny sighed. “You’re lucky,” she said. “They’ll never let me off the
Dreki. I might get to see Affelgard through a window. Why’s your hair
red?”
“I was born on Orkev,” said Smudge. “A lot of us have red hair.”
“Underneath their goat masks,” Tyr put in.
“On Kuda we all look like this.” Dinny pointed at her wiry black
curls. “Nandini means ‘princess’ in Kutz.”
“What’s Kutz?”
“The language on Kuda. Ah!—such a beautiful language! And now
I’m forgetting it. I hardly ever meet anyone who speaks Kutz.”
“Because a little snowflake kills them,” Tyr put in.
Smudge looked down. “It makes me dizzy,” she said. “I wish we
were on bottom.”
“Oh, you don’t want to be on bottom,” Dinny said knowingly. “It
gets hot down there. Sometimes people pass out.”
“Why?” asked Smudge.
“From the steam! Haven’t you sailed before?”
 “Once when I was a baby,” said Smudge, “to get to Nirevvy. But I
can’t remember it.”
Dinny nodded. “This launcher is really clever,” she said. “They call
it Fadba. The Cannon.”
“Why do they call it The Cannon?” (Smudge looked uneasy.)
“Well,” said Dinny, “the launch tube is a lot like the barrel of a cannon.
We’re underground, actually.”
“Underground?” Smudge looked skeptical. Dinny nodded hard.
“Yes!” she said, “Deep underground! The navy dug the launch tube all the
way straight down to the fire under Mount Völundr. They just pump an
absolute river of water in at the bottom, and bang! the steam gets the
knarr moving. That’s the hardest part: just getting us moving. Once we’re
out of the tube, then they’ll fire the thrusters. You might pass out no
matter where you are. Gets hot on bottom, though—” Dinny trailed off.
She pulled a necklace out of her coat and looked at it wistfully, turning its
yellow pendant across the faint light. “Why not just take the Lunhöfn
tube?” Smudge asked. Dinny looked incredulous.
“Because this knarr is huge! You might get a Byrding out the tube.
Not a knarr.”
“Oh,” said Smudge.
“Well just the same,” Smudge added, “I wouldn’t mind being lower
down.”
“There’s no up or down in space,” Dinny retorted, “ Besides, it’s not
so bad being closer to the exit hatch. Last time I sailed, when we docked
on Great Moon, they just upped restraints and we had to float out all at
once. Careful you don’t get crushed.” Dinny patted a dent in her helmet.
“Float?” asked Smudge.
“Oh m’gods—yes, float! There’s hardly any gravity on Great Moon.
What have the nervies been teaching you?”
“Not mu—”
“Shut up!” howled Tyr. “Offworld tíks! Did you just say nervies? I’ll
have you flogged for that! I’ll have you locked in the brig!” Smudge
turned pale. “Sergeant Tyr—” she quailed.
“I’m reporting both of you to Mission Command!” (Tyr tried to kick
Dinny, but he connected with Smudge’s shin instead.) “That’s a gross
insult!”
 “I said ‘Norsk,’ ” Dinny returned tartly. “I don’t know what you
heard. And besides,” she added, “you’re not my officer. I’m with the
navy.”
“I outrank you!” howled Tyr. “Obey the uniform!” He thumped his
little copper star.
“Sincerest apologies, Herra sergeant.” (Dinny tried not to laugh.) It
was all a misunderstanding.”
“Filthy geimvera!”83
Dinny sat back in her harness, still grinning. Smudge was weaving
her fingers together despairingly. She glanced at Tyr. Tyr was swinging
his boots and cursing the two of them in Old Norsk. Dinny jabbed
Smudge with her elbow. “Relax!” Dinny whispered. “You think he’ll go
yodeling to Command while they’re trying to get us all in the hibernation
lockers? They’d shoot him out a porthole!”
Smudge smiled faintly.
“Have you eaten?”
“What?”
“Have you eaten? Did you eat before you came?”
“A little,” said Smudge. “I was too nervous.”
“I wish you hadn’t.”
“Why?”
Dinny wrinkled up her nose. “If you’re going to get sick,” she said,
“then get sick inside your coat.”
“Why would I get sick?”
“Gods!” Dinny rolled her big brown eyes, “You’ve never been in
space. Your stomach tries to crawl out your throat.”
Smudge whimpered faintly.
“Oh, you’re not the only one,” Dinny sniffed. “Everyone’s going to
be covered in everyone’s puke. The air filters never work. They hose you
off when you get out. It’s disgusting.
“And it’s cold,” Dinny added.
“Branwen!” breathed Smudge.
“Who?”
“Bran—”

83 Aliens
 “Do I hear TALKING?” Tyr squealed. “Do I truly hear talking? Hey,
Kutz-rat,” he jabbed his finger at Dinny, “you’ve sailed before, já? Do
you know what a brig is?”
Dinny smiled. “Já, herra liðþjálfi minn,”84 she answered sweetly.
Dinny’s Old Norsk was flawless. Her accent could have shamed a
valkyrie. “Já, herra liðþjálfi minn, I know what a brig is.”
Tyr’s face went white. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish
on a line. “And do you know what they’re going to do to you in the brig?”
Tyr eventually shrieked. “Oh, they don’t see many girls down there!” he
smiled evilly, “Or anywhere. You’ll be a bit of fun, you tíks. I’ll tell them
I’m sending you as a gift.”
“You can tell them I was giving a helpful word to a geimvera,”
Dinny trilled. “How’s your stomach, Herra sergeant,” she added
recklessly. Tyr started to scream something, but just then there came a
racket from down below. Hundreds of voices shouted Northstar! all at
once, and then the cables started grinding again. Dinny poked Smudge.
“Helmet on! For real this time!”
There was a long screech, then up came shaky Stieg and shiny Stieg,
each with an arm hooked around the cable (as the lift had no guardrail).
Shiny Stieg looked even bigger on his feet than he did behind his desk. He
puffed out his chest and tried not to look terrified as the little platform
swayed over the void. Shaky Stieg hung on with one hand and rubbed his
bushy eyebrow left to right with the other.
“Sons of Nirevvy!” Shiny Stieg shouted into a trumpet-shaped
mouthpiece. His voice rang out from the walls, after a squawk and a slight
delay. “Sons of Nirevvy!”
“And daughters,” Dinny whispered.
“And daughters of Kuda and Orkev,” Dinny whispered. Smudge
smiled weakly.
“Sons of Nirevvy! Hail the Northstar!”
Northstar! everyone shouted reflexively.
Shiny Stieg paused. He glanced at Shaky Stieg, then with a massive
shrug he banged his fist twice on the cable. A distant shout answered from
down below. There was a long screech, and then the platform went
grinding up again. The Stiegs disappeared into the gloom. There was a

84 Yes, my sergeant, sir.

short silence, then another cry of Northstar! from up above. Dinny
laughed quietly.
“I guess that’s all the speech we’re getting.”
Smudge squirmed a few times, and then the Stiegs rattled past,
going down. Shiny Stieg looked green when he went by, one big paw
clapped over his mouth. Dinny pulled out her necklace again. “It’s pretty,”
said Smudge. “What’s that picture on it?”
“That’s the goddess Makka. Makka protects women and children.”
“Protects women and children from what?”
“From men, mostly.” Dinny smirked. “My mother gave—”
BRACE! Somewhere on bottom someone blew a long blast on a
horn. The echo chattered up and down the hold. There was a tremendous
shudder. The stanchions clanged like pots and pans. Smudge’s harness
started swinging. She grabbed Dinny’s hand, realized what she’d done,
blushed herself purple, and let go. Dinny didn’t laugh.
“You’re going to be alright.”
Dinny put Makka back inside her coat. She gripped her harness.
Boom.

That’s the nervy way, thought Smudge.

They were out of the cannon. The knarr shook like it was coming
apart. Bursting heat. Smudge could feel the hull radiate against her back.
She closed her eyes.
Boom.
Thruster two. The shock thundered in Smudge’s head. She clenched
her jaw. That’s the nervy way, thought Smudge. If something doesn’t do
what you want, then bang on it—
Boom. Thruster three.
If something still doesn’t do what you want, bang on it harder.
Boom. Thruster four.
If something STILL doesn’t do what you want, find your cousin
Knute and both of you bang on it together—
Boom.
Smudge blacked out.
 CHAPTER TWO
_____________________________
THE WHITE LADY

From: The Starvoyage of Snorri

“OUR LAST PIGLET died. I came down the ladder and found the
boar eating it whole. I let him eat.
The big strip of wool-felt that Kollam Kíli had nailed to our cellar
door came loose on bottom. Kollam was too sick to get out of his bed in
the loft, so Affner and I went down to nail up another felt on the outside
of the door. An awful gale was clawing the forest. The ground trembled.
Do you feel that? I asked Affner.
Já, said Affner.
Do you know what it is?
Já, said Affner, it’s the tree roots getting pulled up.
Then we’re lucky to be underground, I said.
Affner turned on me. Lucky? Affner shouted, with a red face. You think
we’re lucky to be starving like rabbits down inside this skít-hole? The roof
is going to tear off!
Varda poked her head out over the edge of the loft. What’s happening?
Varda croaked. Her throat was so swollen she could barely swallow.
Affner snapped It’s nothing! Men are talking! He grabbed my collar with
both fists and he pulled me under the loft, where Varda couldn’t see us.
Let go, Affner, I said, you’ll tear my coat!
Call us lucky again, Affner whispered, and I’ll tear off your beard.
 Affner? I said, what’s the matter with you? His face looked strange. I
hardly recognized him. I tried to unhook his hands, but Affner was strong;
he wasn’t sick like the rest of us. Affner called me a heimskur and let go,
but I was angry at him. We’d be worse off up there, I said, and I pointed at
the roof.
Affner stopped short. I saw his lip curl back under his shaggy red
moustache. You shut your ugly kúttgat,85 Snorri, Affner chirred, soft and
low so the others wouldn’t hear it. His eyes were like a snake. It startled
me. I said Come on, cousin, and I tried to walk around him, but Affner
took a step backward and blocked my way.
You never wanted Great-hall, did you? Affner whispered. Why,
cousin? Did you think Greta might scold you? Was she keeping you out of
bed?
At that I got too angry to think (thinking was hard enough in those
black days). I shook my fist under Affner’s nose. Do you DARE insult— I
began. Affner looked down at my bony fist. He laughed. I guess you and
your tík are happy here, Affner said. Wolves love the hunt, dogs love the
kennel.
There was a rustle in the straw. Snorri? Greta called down to me,
Snorri, what are you about?
We’re opening the door, Greta! I called back, cover up! I turned to
Affner. If you’re a wolf, I said, then go hunt in the forest. You eat too
much. Then I walked around him and went to the door. It was guttering
hard against the bar. New cracks showed between the planks where
Kollam’s felt—black from all the smoke—was billowing in like a sail.
Affner and I both put our shoulders to the door and we pushed it open
against the wind. Affner carried the new felt rolled up under his arm. He
tried to hold it flat against the door while I nailed it in place, but the felt
whipped and lashed in the storm. Bits of sleet got in my eyes. I couldn’t
stop my hands from shaking. Then I dropped the hammer. Affner cursed
me and finished the job himself. By the time we went back inside, my
right thumb was dead white.
The next day my thumb turned purple. Varda, Greta and I were
huddled beside our tiny fire. I don’t know how many days it was since
we’d started burning the hurdles. Now they were gone. There was nothing

85 Vulgar
to keep the animals from crowding around the hearth. The animals made a
ghostly circle around us, silent, their dead eyes giving back the flames.
We were burning dung and pine bark mixed together. It made more smoke
than fire. My eyes stung. Greta coughed weakly.
Show us your hand, said Greta.
I took my hand out of my cloak and slowly unwound the strip of cloth
I’d put around it. I showed Greta my purple thumb. Greta cried Ach! and
covered her eyes. Varda took my hand in hers and gently turned it over.
What’s to be done? I asked. You’re the healer.
Varda looked up. She made a wry smile. What’s to be done with an
apple tree, Varda asked, if it has a dead limb on it?
I thought a moment. Then I said Ah! and I laughed bitterly. Varda let
go of my hand. Olev? she called up to her mate.
Já?
The loft creaked as Olev slowly got up.
Get your knife, Varda called, and come down.

Olev bent low over the fire. His knees were on the hearthstones; they
stuck straight out through the holes in his breeches. How thin Olev’s legs
are, I thought absently. He laid his knife on the coals. The coals turned
from red to black under the blade. More smoke spouted up. It’s a beautiful
knife, I thought. The blade was a foot long, three inches broad by the hilt,
sharp as a razor. Olev turned it over. What are you doing, Olev? I asked.
Olev didn’t answer. His right hand shook, so he braced his arm against the
hearthstones. After a long time the blade began to glow dull red.
Bring me your hand, said Olev.
I edged closer. Olev sat down beside me. He clamped his arm over
mine.
Don’t move, said Olev.
Then Olev cut through my thumb on the inside, where the knuckle
meets the hand. The blade sizzled. I could smell my own skin burning.
Greta closed her eyes. Olev made one clean slice, downward, toward his
chest. The blade split my knuckle bones through and through. Something
dropped onto the hearthstones. Greta snatched it up. Olev pressed the
blade hard against my wound. My blood was thick like sap. It sputtered
and popped.
 Then Olev let go of my hand. Greta and Varda sat down. Greta was
breathing hard. There was an odd little creak in her lungs. For a long time
no one spoke. Then,
Thank gods the blade was hot enough, said Olev. He laid his knife on
the hearth and slowly got up.

Outside, trees were breaking in the storm. One tree fell across our
roof. A branch came through the turf and broke our chimney. We lay in
the gathering smoke and watched thick icicles grow slowly down from a
new hole. Olev put our wooden washbucket underneath the drips to
collect water. Affner sat hunched up next to our tiny fire, muttering to
himself. I lay under a blanket in the loft with Norn beside me. Norn
whimpered and licked the stump of my thumb. Hearing her whimper,
Affner looked up sharply. He paused a moment, as if he was considering
something.
It’s time we ate the bitch, Affner announced.
Égil Smithursson was sitting up in the loft. He dropped his whetstone
and the spear he’d been sharpening. Yes! Égil cried excitedly, let’s eat her!
Eydís wailed No! and started crying. Kollam Kíli was sitting with his
back against the dirt wall. He jumped up and threw off his blanket. Ekki
gera það! Kollam screamed, You’ll do no such thing! That creature is
holy!
Affner only smiled. He took up Olev’s knife from where it was still
lying on the hearthstone, brown from my burnt blood. No? Affner
answered, not eat the bitch? Then what about YOU, Kollam, you helvíti
lunatic? You’re not a breeder! Maybe there’s some fat left in your liver,
aye?
Kollam didn’t answer. Then he made a strange sound. It took me a
moment to realize Kollam was laughing—his old, cheerful laugh.
Truth be told, Kollam said pleasantly, that’s not a half bad idea.
Greta? Kollam turned to Greta. Greta was propped up on her arm, next to
Eydís. She winced as she sat up, but she smiled.
No, Kollam, our prophet, Greta said. We forbid it.
And who made YOU chief? Affner snarled. Bitches are no chiefs! We
could all be feasting in Great-Hall, if it weren’t for you. We could have
been hunting all summer, curing hart-flesh. YOU made us grub after
roots! Affner waved his hand around the stinking cellar. Witch! he
shouted, I won’t starve here in my own skít!
Affner stuck Olev’s knife between his teeth. Slowly he began climbing
up the ladder. Sometimes in my dreams I hear the creak creak of the pine
rungs under Affner’s boots.
Affner’s face and arms came over the edge. His face wore a crazed,
greedy look. The knife rattled in his teeth. He started panting and
fumbling with my blanket, pulling it off Norn and me. Affner’s scalp had
grown back; I saw his red hair bristling in the gloom as I clutched the
blanket. Affner took the knife out from between his teeth. He grinned at
Kollam.
We have three dogs, said Affner. That’s ten legs all together. We can
eat them one at a time.
Then big Olev got up. He had to bend his head to stand under the low
ceiling. Olev was shaking all over, but not from the cold. Why can’t you
die like a man, Affner? Olev boomed. What are you scared of? We don’t
keep our gods waiting!
Affner spat at Olev and sprang to the wall. I think he was afraid Olev
would knock him off the platform. He moved fast. Affner’s gone mad—
those were the words in my mind. Affner gripped the knife in his right
hand, watching Olev’s eyes.
Olev looked around desperately. Reaching into the washbucket, he
grabbed the big wooden ladle he’d been using to help us drink. Olev and
Affner faced each other. The dull ladle faced the razor knife: cold edges
glinting in the firelight.
Then YOU’LL do! Affner shouted. Why not? If you only mean to die
anyway! Why waste you?
Olev coughed. Women eat first, he said thickly. We don’t need six
studs86 on Affelgard.
Kariwyn, Affner’s mate, cried Put down the knife, Affner, and we’ll
talk!
Shut your snout! Affner snarled at her. I fed you on elgs. Now I’ll feed
you on worthless dogs.
Olev’s mate Varda screamed Sit down, you idiots! Olev didn’t hear her.
He took a step forward. He started to say The gods forbid— but Affner

86 A stud is a stallion reserved for breeding.

lunged at him. Olev swung the ladle. He hit Affner’s hand. Affner’s knife
slashed Olev’s arm. Blood fell on the blanket. Then Olev swung at Affner
with his fist, but Affner hopped back quick to the wall.
Don’t tire yourself, Affner sneered. You’re spoiling the meat.
Olev bellowed Freeze you with Hel! and he came at Affner with the
ladle. Affner made a wild slash. Olev ducked the knife, but he tripped
over my blanket and came down hard on his knees. Affner’s hand shot
out. The steel flashed, and the knife went hilt-deep between Olev’s ribs.
Affner tried to pull it out again, but Olev grabbed the hilt. He gave a cry,
and with a mighty kick he knocked Affner’s legs out from under him.
Affner clawed at the straw, then he tumbled off the platform.
My head swam. Everyone was shouting and screaming. The ladder!
Greta cried, The ladder! Without knowing it, I’d gotten on my feet.
Kollam and I grabbed the topmost rung and we hauled the ladder up into
the loft with us. Varda bent over Olev. She put her lips to Olev’s ear and
softly she began to sing: the velkom-hymn—death song. Olev coughed
once, twice. His mouth was covered in blood.
Olev looked into Varda’s eyes. He died with a faint smile on his lips,
his big hand still closed around the knife.

We covered Olev’s body with my bloodstained blanket. Everyone was

quiet now. Róm and Norn were keening low, muzzles turned up toward
the sky. Down below, Affner was lumbering around and around like an
animal.
Give me the knife! Affner shrieked. I’ll butcher the sheep! I’ll butcher
the kine! He jumped up and tried to catch the edge of the platform, but his
hands slipped and he fell back up again. At last Affner sank into the icy
muck, shivering and whispering to himself.
Then Kariwyn came forward. Her golden hair was like a mat. Straw
stuck to her dress. Kariwyn stood at the edge of the loft, looking down on
Affner.
Go! Kariwyn screamed. You are no mate of mine! Go away!
Varda stood up next to Kariwyn. Her cheek had Olev’s blood smeared
on it. She put her arm around Kariwyn’s waist, to steady her. Yes, said
Varda, our law commands. You have to leave us, Affner.
 Affner looked up at them. His lips were trembling. Kariwyn? he
quavered. I could be chief, Kariwyn! You could be our hlafdig!87 We don’t
have to die before the spring comes! We don’t all have to die, Kariwyn!
Kariwyn sobbed and didn’t answer him. Varda said Go. Her tears were
leaving dirty trails down her cheeks but she stood tall, raven-haired, head
high.
Go, Varda said. I can hear the White Lady calling you.
Affner stood there a moment. He looked at Kariwyn; then he looked at
Varda. Varda stretched out her shrunken arm. She pointed at the door.
Affner slowly turned away. His breeches were slimy from the mire.
Affner’s peaked cap was lying on the ground. He picked it up and put it
on.
Something shot down from the loft. It stuck quivering in the ground:
Égil’s spear. Égil had throw it down. Bring us a hart! Égil called. Bring us
a hart and we’ll make you chief!
Affner picked up the spear. He weighed it in his hand. He looked up at
Varda. Their eyes met. Then Affner spat and turned away. Pigs! he
screamed, and he tore the dirty felt off the cellar door. Wrapping it around
his shoulders, Affner pushed the door open and went outside. There was a
blast of icy cold. The door closed, and we heard the bar fall into place;
then the crunch of Affner’s boots fading into the snow.
Suddenly everything was quiet.
Kollam tugged on Varda’s sleeve. She turned.
Listen! said Kollam.
I listened. Something was different.
Listen! said Kollam again. The wind has stopped.

—From The Starvoyage of Snorri

Fion-Lis, Affelgard. Ár. 3019

87 Lady
 ***

ELSKA’S FUNERAL was a quiet affair. Norsk tradition held that a

woman of Elska’s rank ought to be cremated at sea: her ashes returned to
the earth-goddess, Jörð, mother of waters. In primitive times, the lordly
houses observed the barbaric rite of risbál, the mare-fire, when a dead jarl
and his lady were put to sea together in a burning ship. This ghoulish
custom was still lawful in Nirevvy, strictly speaking, but in fact no one
had held a risbál in centuries. Nowadays the jarls and the petty nobles
who still retained the privilege would burn a seaship carrying any of their
dead (if they could afford it) from an elegant yacht down to a little sailing
sloop. Elska deserved no less than a frigate, but there was no time for that,
and there wasn’t Elska’s body to burn.

It was a gray morning, threatening rain. Mist hung heavy on the

artificial lake at Sumarhús. Boughs hung heavy on the ancient willows
beside the lake; leafy curtains bending down to the water. Dawn was long
past, but the tall lamp posts were still burning along the lakefront
promenade. One by one their yellow smears faded back into the
indifferent fog.
A graceful arcade led down the terraced lawns, from the villa of
Sumarhús to the lake. Woven tendrils on vysteria vines that roofed the
arcade were in flower. Their purple riot fringed an arch where the Hadors’
ornamental pier (virtually never used) jutted out from the arcade. A pair of
dainty gondolas (virtually never used either) jutted out from the pier; twin
sterns moored to ornate brass bollards. Their upswept prows, curled like
seashells, drifted in monotonous little circles, looking out across the
water.
Nine people were clustered on the pier: a little knot of black hats
dwarfed by the gaudy marble columns. Magnes and Astrid had their heads
down; Astrid was whispering something to Magnes. Magnes was
fumbling with a creased sheet of paper that evidently had just been folded
up his pocket. Astrid held a pair of flowered wreaths, one in each hand. A
light breeze stirred the flowers. Magnes sneezed into his handkerchief and
said something about pollen and lilies.
Rafe, Sven, and little Elyen were ranged behind Magnes. Four of the
Hadors’ oldest húsfolk had been brought out to serve the funeral; these
stood a respectful pace toward the rear. Rafe hadn’t invited any nobles. A
small mountain of Rafe’s trunks were still being loaded into his private
steam-lorry, which stood puffing and shuddering in the drive. Sigurd had
already reported to the Burg at Trondhjem. Stegvard had locked himself in
his study that morning, and he hadn’t been seen all day.
This left Magnes in charge of the proceeding. Magnes looked solemn
and a bit awkward, with a black mourning-cape over his stiff new marine
kápa. Magnes hated capes (they made him look like a coat rack) but Rafe
looked striking in black, as he looked striking in almost anything. Rafe
had set his beret on with the utmost care: brim cocked slightly over his
left ear, to better compliment his face. Sven and Elyen were squabbling in
a practiced way, but their hearts clearly weren’t in it. Everyone was
waiting for Magnes to speak.
Magnes cleared his throat and looked appealingly at Astrid. Astrid—
prim and matronly in black lace—shifted the wreaths to one hand so she
could tuck a stray wisp behind her ear. She stared down at the marble
tiles. The old húsfolk (who’d seen far better sepultures than this) stood
stoney-faced, holding up traditional Norsk funeral torches. The torch
flames burned in little glass chimneys (so the wind wouldn’t blow them
out). They made a low sputter. Magnes wiped his nose.
“Ahem.” said Magnes.
Everyone stopped shuffling and looked at him. Magnes glanced
around the pier.
“So it doesn’t look like Steg—hem!—that is, we regret that our noble
Prince Hador is too indisposed at the moment to join us. Entirely
understandable. We might as well get started.” Magnes drew himself up
and took a breath. “We—ah—we now commit our sister,” Magnes began,
“our beloved lady Elska Caladar, to the—er—”
Magnes reached into his coat pocket and took out a pair of spectacles.
He stuck one of the earpieces between his teeth, to open them; then he put
them on and spread the paper out between his hands. One wrinkled corner
fluttered in the breeze.
 “We now commit our sister,” (Magnes read in a louder voice) “to the
eternal sea, and to the company of her foremothers. We bid Elska
welcome to the jarldom of the gods. Skaal.”
Everyone said skaal, in a perfunctory way. Elyen, age ten, was trying
to pick one of the flowers on her mother’s wreath. Astrid jerked the
wreath away and said Stop it! in a louder whisper than she’d intended.
Looking embarrassed, Astrid pulled up her black scarf and dabbed at her
eye.
Magnes shot Elyen a severe look. “Skaal,” he repeated. He looked
down at the paper. ‘In death,’ Magnes read, ‘you are valkyria to the
eternal gods. In life, you were Elska Caelinsdóttir Glasvain fer Hador.’
Rafe had been standing with his head down and his hands clasped
behind his back. At the name Caelinsdóttir he looked up sharply. In the
two years Rafe and Elska had been married, the Hadors had never once
spoken the name of Caelin, Elska’s mother. Elska hadn’t spoken it either,
and it was generally assumed Elska had no family. Her father—old Oddo
Glasvain—died on Orkev when Elska was quite small. With no brothers
nor sisters, Elska was sole heiress to Oddo’s vast, mostly swampy estate.
Rafe looked slightly irritated as Magnes read off Elska’s various titles.
‘Elska Caylinsdóttir Glasvain fer Hador, baroness of Glasvain, lady of
Cael, shieldmaiden of the Norskarna, crown princess third degree,
handmaid of Sif, jarlwife—’ (Elska had rather a lot of titles.)
‘—duchess of Brennolt, lady of the Calad-Burg, priestess-équitane of
the High Temple—’
Rafe coughed impatiently and looked over his shoulder. The porters
loading his lorry had just dropped a trunk. They were scuffling in the
gravel drive, trying to slide one end of it up onto the tailboard. “Yes,”
Rafe interrupted, “Elska was the noblest of ladies. Let’s not worsen our
grief at her memory, já?”
“Eh?” Magnes glanced up at Rafe. He turned the paper over, looking a
bit relieved. “Well then—ah— let me see— ‘Valhala for the
mighty,’ (Magnes read) ‘Hel for the mean. A noble flower plucked too
soon will bloom forever—’
“They’ll pay for this,” Rafe snarled softly (but loud enough for
everyone to hear). “Whether I’m near or far, I’ll wash her memory in
ursky blood. The traitors will—”
 “Yes, yes, I’m sure they will,” Magnes cut him off. “We assure you,
noble brother, that the Crown will carry on their investigation while we’re
gone. Matter’fact—” (Magnes rocked back on his heels with a pedagogic
expression) “—Bran Fölkner’s office wrote just yesterday. Some new
intelligence. Really quite interes—”
Astrid kicked Magnes’ foot. Magnes coughed and squinted down at his
paper. “Ahem,” he resumed, ‘a noble flower plucked—’
“I think Aunt Elska is still alive!” piped little Elyen. Elyen was
tugging at one of her auburn ringlets (an annoyance to her mother. Curly
hair wasn’t considered beautiful.) “I think the karvi’s still sailing to
Orkev.”
“It is not!” Sven retorted. Sven was fourteen; eagerly awaiting his
fifteenth birthday and his riddarvis, when he would officially be
proclaimed a man. Sven had thick black hair like Rafe (who he
worshipped). Elyen’s precociousness irritated him.
“It is not! That karvi doesn’t hold enough fuel to get all the way to
Orkev. They always have to stop and fill it up at Lunhöfn. What does a
ten-year-old know about—”
“It is so!” Elyen fired back. “I’ll bet they’re drifting it. I’ll bet Herrick
couldn’t dock at Lunhöfn for some reason—‘cause the rail-hooks fell off
or something—so Herrick shut off the thrusters—”
“And what’s Herrick breathing, then?” Sven scoffed. “It’s already
been three—”
Sven stopped and turned red. Rafe whirled on him. “How dare you?”
Rafe snapped. Then, realizing he agreed with Sven, Rafe added “Er, I
mean to say, we must keep our hope ever burning, my young kappi.”88
Rafe patted Sven’s shoulder. Sven muttered Forgive me, thane-uncle.
Magnes started to say “will you children ever,” but just then someone’s
footsteps echoed off the columns: boots walking heavily on the marble
tile. The old húsfolk gave a murmur. Everyone turned.
Stegvard Hador was coming down the pier. He’d come from the north
side, where a high square hedge met the lakeshore. Elyen gave a little
scream and clapped her hand over her mouth. Even through the fog they
could see Stegvard’s face looked strange, stained all over with something.

88 Warrior
 Stegvard came nearer. His military bearing was gone—back bent,
shoulders sagging. He raised his head. Dried blood made dark lines down
Stegvard’s face. The lines parted over the bridge of Stegvard’s nose and
ran down the corners of his mouth. Blood was matted in his white beard.
Astrid gasped and said oh my gods! Magnes only nodded
understandingly. As he approached, they could see Stegvard had slashed
his own forehead: the old-fashioned Norsk emblem of grief. He’d cut
himself deep, as though he meant the scars to remain. For the first time,
Stegvard looked very old. He was holding something in his hands.
Everyone stood silent. Stegvard walked past them. He took a torch
from one of the húsmen, and, without looking at anyone, walked to the
edge of the pier. They knew what he was carrying now: the precious little
sailship he’d crafted when he was young; the one that had always stood
on his tidy desk in the Burg. There was an acrid smell on Stegvard’s
hands. The little ship was soaked in lamp oil, sails dripping.
Coming to the edge of the pier, Stegvard dropped to his knees. The
family had never seen him wearing his full dress kápa before. Stegvard’s
chest was a rainbow of medals and insignia from ribs to collar. Three
medallions, emblems of royal blood, clanked together as they swung from
his bowed neck: the high norskarna, the navy star, the crest of Hador, with
its prancing black rooster.
Reaching down, Stegvard set the little boat tenderly onto the water. It
floated with perfect balance, just like a real ship under weigh.89 Jeweled
drops of oil clung to its web of rigging, fine as thread. Elyen let go of her
ringlet. She wrinkled up her eyebrows, looking thoughtful. Rafe looked
uneasy. He took off his beret and held it in both hands.
The little ship rolled gently in the light swells. Stegvard gave it a push.
The breeze caught the sails; the sails dipped slightly. Then the ship began
to move away from the pier.
Stegvard held out his torch. With a quiet puff, the little ship wreathed
itself in flames. In a moment its masts and sails were gone. Still it moved
away from them. The ancient wood, dry as dust, popped and scattered
sparks. Now the miniature foredeck was ash. A spire of white smoke
billowed up and spread out on the wind.

89 I.e., with raised anchor.

 The ship slowed. There was a sharp hiss as coals touched the
waterline. It listed to one side. Then it stopped and bobbed there a
moment, as steam rose up from the water.
The stern went down first. Water rose; past the mainshrouds, past the
tiny wheel at the helm. With a final hiss, the ship’s delicate little
disappeared under the surface.
No one spoke. There was another clank from the medallions as
Stegvard got up slowly from his knees. He turned. Rafe and Magnes
stepped back to let him pass.
They heard a stifled sob as Stegvard’s form grew smaller, going up the
arcade toward Sumarhús.
***

COMING OUT OF A SPIN is like coming out of a vise.

The heart beats wildly. The blood pounds, suddenly released from the
force that pulled it back against the skull. When Freya opened her eyes,
the sudden rush made her feel like they were going to burst. She closed
her eyes, immediately vomited, sucked in air from what smelled like a
leather bag, then vomited again.
The dizzy feeling stuck to Freya’s head even though the karvi was
sailing level again. Something was strapped over her mouth; Freya
guessed she was going to regret finding out what it was. Then a wet glob
touched her ear. She yelped and opened her eyes. To Freya it looked like
the cockpit was rolling around in a barrel. The instrument panel was jerk-
jerking in monotonous little quarter turns. Freya squinted down her nose.
A blurry brown smear was wagging steadily back and forth. In front of
her, a Herrick-shaped blob was out of the pilot seat, doing something that
looked like catching flies with a net.
Freya’s eyes cleared a bit. There was a leather bag strapped over her
mouth. Freya could smell what was in it. She spat once (Can’t make it any
worse, Freya thought) and squeezed the bag shut as near to her lips as she
could. She reached behind her neck and took off the strap.
“Had yourself a nap?” the Herrick-shaped blob asked tartly.
“Hélviti—”90

90 A Norse curse.
 Freya clapped her hand over her mouth and gagged. Herrick was, in
fact, waving a cloth net on a frame. He was catching little globes of
Freya’s vomit, which were drifting around the cockpit like bubbles. Freya
heaved a few times.
“Godsdamn,” Freya observed.
Freya tied off her sick-bag with the strap. “Where are we— oh!” Freya
pressed her palms over her ears, half-deaf from the incessant ringing.
Herrick said something unintelligible.
“What?” Freya shouted.
Herrick said something else unintelligible.
“What?” Freya shouted.
Herrick said something else unintelligible, only considerably louder
this time. Freya took her hands off her ears and stared at him.
“What’s a wipe-ass grape moon?” Freya demanded.
“I said we’re past Great Moon.
“Oh.”
“We’re past Minna-Moon, too,” said Herrick. “We’re halfway to
Orkev.”
“Half—” Freya dug her knuckles into her eyes. Then she looked out
the cockpit window. “So where’s Orkev now?” Freya asked. Herrick
tapped on the glass. Far off, a blurry green disk was drifting slightly
sideways.
“There’s Orkev now.”
Freya coughed. “And Elska?” She wiped her sleeve across her mouth.
Herrick smirked. “Elska’s still in her restraint. She came around before
you did, matter’fact. Don’t go back there!” Herrick warned, seeing Freya
start to turn. “I haven’t— er— tidied things up yet.” He held up the cloth
net, which was quite slimy. The cockpit reeked of vomit. Freya made a
face. “Why are you so fresh?” Freya demanded. Herrick looked smug. “I
never passed out,” said Herrick. He gingerly stowed the net in a drawer
and closed it. “In pilot training they called me herra Kylfa—The Bat.”
“Charming.” Freya eased her body off the bulkhead. “Why the bat?”
“Bats don’t get dizzy.” Herrick grinned. “I’ve got the magic ears.” He
pointed at his ears. Freya muttered they’re as BIG as bat ears, and gods,
it’s like a hammer inside my skull. She squeezed her head between her
hands. Freya felt like she was going to get sick again, and now Herrick
had stowed away her sick-bag too. “Why are we even alive?” Freya asked
piteously.
Herrick grinned even wider.
“Because you killed it.”
“I whuh?”
“You killed it! You killed the brig! Ho ho!” Herrick rubbed his palms
together. “Pirates! Reavers! A whole shipful of ‘em, armed up to their
armpits. You just exploded them in space! And with this?” Herrick
thumped the wheel jubilantly—“with this old canoe? Oh, you were
brilliant Freya, just—”
“I was brilliant?”
“How did you even get your hand on the lifeboat lever?” Herrick
crowed. “You were ten feet away!” He waved at the big brass handle on
the panel, now in the launch position. Freya stuck a finger in each ear and
worked her jaw up and down. “I can’t remember anything,” she said.
“What happened?”
Herrick’s eyebrows went up halfway to his hat. “You can’t— you
deployed our lifeboat!” Herrick squawked. “Right at the perfect instant! It
scrambled their drone. That fálki—”
“I remember that.”
“—and it lost us! It locked onto the lifeboat. Lifeboat shoots straight
into their signal deck—boom!” Herrick mimed the explosion with his
fingers. He gave a little whoop and commenced turning somersaults in the
air, knees against his chest. Freya was starting to smile weakly. “Really?”
Freya asked.
“Really!” Herrick uncurled himself. “Ha ha!—blown up by their own
drone! Oh, Rafe’s going to be—”
“Kæri Baldr!” Freya breathed. She’d already forgotten about her head.
“That’s— that’s just miraculous!”
“Miraculous? No! That’s just instinct. Pure instinct. You’re a wolf,
captaen Freya.” Herrick sighed happily. “I only wish I could have
watched them burn. I caught a few seconds of it. Their fuel tanks ignited.
I think it blew their generator right through their hull.”
“And the explosion spun us?”
“No,” Herrick shook his head, “not them exploding. Things are
different in space. It was actually our lifeboat firing off that spun us.”
Herrick revolved his fingers demonstratively. “It shoots out like a
torpedo.”
Freya nodded.
“So it launches, what, over the portside thruster?”
“Oh, Rafe’s got to be frantic right now!” (Herrick wasn’t interested in
the lifeboat.) “Rafe’s running scared, if he’s got any brains at all.”
“He hasn’t got any brains at all. Hélviti murderer.”
“Já, he’s a devil,” Herrick sighed. “I’ve known him since his riddarvis,
when he turned fifteen. He never had any sense of honor, much as he
blathers on about it. Ha ha—he’s sweating now, I promise you! This sort
of thing is hard to cover up. Harder than he imagines.”
“So how did you stop us spinning?”
“Oh, that’s an old pilot trick.” Herrick leaned back and put his hands
behind his head, obviously pleased with himself. “But I had to vent all our
water ballast to do it—see,” Herrick touched a switch on the instrument
panel—“you just extend the fins all the way out, and then you give the
ballast tanks a little jet on port, little jet on starboard, little jet on port—
like that.” (He flicked the switch back and forth.) “But the ballast’s all
gone now,” Herrick finished. “Fuel’s almost gone too. We’re drifting.”
“Drifting,” Freya sniffed. “And breathing. What shall we breathe
whilst we’re drifting, herra captain?”
“Oh,” said Herrick diffidently, “Nothing. We’re going to die. For a
million different reasons.”
“Hmph!” Freya grunted. “Well at least we took out the brig.”
“Damned right!” (Herrick pounded the wheel again.) “And it’s not a
bad way to go, considering. We could try moving around less, but it won’t
make any difference.” He shrugged. “We don’t keep our gods waiting.”
“Our gods—” Freya said thoughtfully “—no. No we don’t keep our
gods waiting.”
“Why are you staring at that chair?” Herrick demanded.
“Wha?” Freya looked up blankly. She’d been studying the empty
copilot seat, with the old wooden chart box next to it.
“The copilot chair! Did it sprout antlers?”
Freya looked down at the chair again. An odd memory was coming
back to her: a tall, pale woman with strange eyes. “Gods!” said Freya, “I
think she called me a halfwit!”
 “She called?” Herrick stared at Freya dumbfoundedly. Freya looked
confused.
“So you didn’t see—”
Silence. Then Herrick shook his head with a concerned expression. “I
guess we’re low on air already,” he observed, looking narrowly at Freya.
“I’ve seen this before. Are you pale? Maybe you ought to get back in your
restraint, já? Just to make yourself comfortable?” Herrick reached out as
if to steady her. “No, no,” said Freya, “I’m alright. It’s nothing. You
know,” Freya brightened, “I don’t think we are going to die. Not one bit.”
“And why’s that?” Herrick folded his arms with a scowl. “You aren’t
deluding yourself? You know the proverb: ‘hope is slow poison’.”
Freya looked up at Herrick. Her lips wore a bit of a smile.
“Our gods will protect us.”
“Our gods!” Herrick snorted, “Now I know the air’s gone. Suddenly
you're a priestess, eh? Well, priestess, you’ve got a lot of velkom-hymns
to sing. That was at least forty souls you unceremoniously departed.”
Freya ignored him. “Let’s talk about how we survive,” she said
seriously. “How long is the air going to last?”
“A few more hours.” (Herrick swiped a stray globe of vomit out of the
air with a rag. Freya looked embarrassed.) “Four hours, possibly. I was
thinking maybe we could seal off the bridge and pump all the air through
to our side. Everything in the hold, I mean.”
“Would that work?”
Herrick shrugged. “It might make a small difference,” he said, “but it
would take every last drop of our fuel to run the pumps.” He glanced
around the antiquated cockpit. “We got badly shaken up. We’re leaking air
from a dozen places, probably. ”
“Yes, probably.” Freya pushed herself off the bulkhead. Nautical bric-
a-brac was drifting everywhere. Herrick brushed an old relic of a sextant
away from his shoulder, where it was gently revolving. “But we can run
the pumps?” Freya asked.
Herrick nodded.
“Then we’ll have to try.”
“Alright,” Herrick sighed. He bobbed off the pilot seat. “Ack!” he
winced, “I got badly shaken up. You’re not the only one.”
 “We’ll have to turn Elska loose now,” Freya said. “Let’s move her up
here to the bridge.” She punched Elska’s harness release without
bothering to ask. Herrick watched her indifferently.
“Elska!” Freya shouted down the hatch.
They waited. No sound came from the cabin. “What’s she doing?”
Freya demanded. “I don’t hear anything.”
“No idea,” said Herrick. “I already stuck my head down there a while
ago and she was just sitting. Don’t expect her to be clean. It looks like she
ate a big meal before she came.”
“Idiot!”
“Já, I’m not keen on touching her.”
“I’m not keen on sharing air with her,” Freya rejoined. “Rafe’s her vile
husband. In fact—” Freya raised one eyebrow, like she’d just had an idea.
“In fact what?” Herrick demanded. Freya smiled sheepishly. “Could we
maybe just—you know—shoot her into space? I mean, she’s dead
anyway, right? If Rafe wants her dead. And it would mean more air for us
—”
“No!” Herrick exclaimed, looking shocked, “That’s barbaric!— well—
that’s tempting—” He smiled reluctantly. “But no!” Herrick shook his
head. “Elska might be an idiot, I grant you, but she’s not to blame for this.
Rafe kept her like a pet.”
“Pets die,” Freya said icily.
“And air’s only half the problem,” Herrick pursued. “This ship is a
tinderbox. Orkev has a deeper atmosphere than Nirevvy. We’ll be fifty
leagues high when the hull plate burns through—hah!—and then we’ve
got to stick the landing. No tube, no rails, no steering— ”
“So how do you land it ordinarily?” Freya demanded. “Don’t you
reverse thrusters?”
“Ordinarily I would. That’s how you do it: long orbital descent and
reverse thrusters, but—”
“But we’re out of fuel.”
“Yes. No fuel. No ballast. Orbital descent is just more time on less air.
Like I said,” Herrick held his palms out resignedly, “a million different
reasons we’re going to die.”
Freya twisted her long hair into a knot. She pinned the knot behind her
head with a decided expression. “We’re not going to die,” Freya said. “We
just have to do our best and see what happens—so! Talk less, breathe less,
sail on!”
“Before you sail on,” Herrick put in, “I do have this.” He unlatched a
cabinet and took out a little green bottle with a cork in it. “What’s that?”
asked Freya.
“Spíramar spirits. It’s practically ancient. I don’t know if it still
works.”
“What’s it do?”
“Not much. It slows your body down a bit. Slows your brain down as
well—that’s the problem. We won’t be worth much if we take it.”
“But we’ll breath less?”
Herrick nodded. “Somewhat less. It might add up to another half-hour.
It’s nothing like ventilating in an ice locker.”
Freya sighed. “Well, I’d better check on Elska,” she said distastefully.
“I wish I could put her in an ice—”
Freya stopped. She turned around and looked at Herrick.
“—locker.”
“What’s that now?” Herrick eyed her suspiciously.
“Locker!” cried Freya.
Herrick gave her a puzzled look, then:
“Ah!” said Herrick.
“Do you think?” cried Freya.
Herrick chuckled. “Captaen Freya,” said Herrick, “you are a marvel.
I’ll get the umbrellas.”
“Umbrellas? Whatever for?”
Herrick laughed grimly.
“You’ll see.”

Elska was weeping hysterically. “Don’t touch that!” Elska screamed,

“don’t you touch that! That’s ours, you bastardborn fisheating
swinewhored skít-sons of—”
Elska delivered a sort of profane oratory, long and artful. Freya raised
her eyebrows, genuinely impressed. “I wonder if she can teach that,”
Freya said, with perfect sincerity. Freya was using her umbrella to fend
off Elska’s floating vomit. Elska’s hair was sticking up in flat strands like
a slimy crown. She clearly had eaten before she came, and with a good
appetite. Herrick and Freya were bobbing around in front of the big cargo
locker. Herrick had his head down inside the locker and his feet pointing
up at the ceiling. He was trying to unstrap the Hador’s ancestral boska tree
without flipping himself into the locker along with it. “Got it!” Herrick
puffed. He anchored his elbow against one of the thick door seals and
gave the brass tub a gentle pull. It slid out easily, now weightless. Elska
gurgled something that sounded like either heresy or Herrick-skít. Herrick
tried to give the boska a balanced push toward the stern— so of course the
bolska rolled over completely, leaving a spiral swirl of dirt in the air like a
galaxy. The boska met the rear bulkhead with a gentle thud. It was hard to
see through all the filth. The ceiling lamps beamed down like yellow
searchlights. Freya started coughing. She tied her scarf over her mouth
and grabbed Elska by the shoulders. “In you go, Your Ladyship!” Freya
sang. She planted her feet on Elska’s armrests and pulled hard. Elska
fought back, snarling and biting like an animal. Freya grabbed Elska’s
neck (to avoid Elska’s teeth) and the two of them struggled in midair like
they were drowning.
Herrick had managed to get his feet on the ceiling. He crouched there,
waiting for an opportunity. When Elska’s body came in line with the open
locker, Herrick sprang. He hit Elska full on her back with both hands.
Elska rolled head over heels and disappeared inside the locker. She tried
to flounder out again, but Herrick wrapped his legs around a stanchion
and swung the doors shut with a bang.
The cabin went quiet. Herrick and Freya bobbed there a moment,
wheezing. Elska’s faint screams leaked out through the locker’s padding.
“Well,” Freya panted, “there goes half our air.” Freya was feeling
lightheaded. The cabin looked like it was full of dirty water. Five feet
away, Herrick’s face was fading into the murk. “Move slow,” Herrick
warned. “We have to get up to the bridge and fix our bearing. I can’t steer
this tub from inside a locker.” He turned and vanished into the murk. A
clang and a dammit! meant Herrick had hit his head on the ladder. Freya
followed after. She swam up through the hatch. The air inside the cockpit
was clearer. Herrick was brooding over the compass: a glass globe with
two hair-thin rings fixed inside, the one ring inside the other. Herrick was
juggling the sextant and something that looked like a wooden tablet with
several sliding rulers on it. Freya gaped at him in horror.
“You can’t be serious!”
“Dead serious.”
 “You navigate with this?”
“Of course I navigate with this! It’s called rough-plot. I haven’t
forgotten how to use a compass. See—” Herrick tapped the globe—“it’s a
vünterlave. “It’s got an X ring and a Y ring. The X axis is at right angles
to the Y axis, and that needle right there is the pitch gauge, and that other
needle there is the yaw gauge—”
“You land this with a slide rule?” Freya practically screamed, waving
the wooden tablet under Herrick’s nose.
“I land this thing,” Herrick sniffed, “by sight, madame. I know
Orkev’s continents like one two three. Glasvain has an open docking rail.”
“And it’s visible from space, is it?” Freya wailed.
“Do be calm!” snapped Herrick. “And it doesn’t matter anyway,” he
added, “we can’t catch the rail. We have to crash and pray—that’s the
plan, no?” He smiled ironically. “Our gods will protect us?”
“Well you’re trying their patience!” Freya returned indignantly. “So
this is what they teach you in the nervy navy? Sailboat lore?”
“I’m not a combat pilot, madame,” Herrick returned stiffly. He gave
Freya a sarcastic bow. “Am but your humble chauffeur, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that!” Freya snapped. Then she grinned slowly. “You
must call us Your Ladyship,” (Freya mimicked Elska) “We are Elska
Glasvain ver Hador. We partake of the royal blood.”
“Ha ha! Do you?” Herrick laughed knowingly. “I could tell you a
funny story about that, Your Ladyship.”
“What? What story?” Freya was obviously curious.
“I’ll tell—ith t’ you—in Valhalla.” Herrick lisped through the pencil
he’d stuck between his teeth. Herrick was pecking around the helm like a
chicken—squinting into the periscope, squinting into the vünterlave,
turning switches and dials. He caught the wooden slate (which was
floating placidly down the hatch) and began scribbling on it, sliding the
rulers here and there.
“Lock pitch 91,” Herrick commanded. “Forty-eight degrees north.”
“Aye.” Freya stuck her head down by the pitch-bar, trying to read the
numbers engraved on its cylinder. The bar gave a sharp clickety-click as

91 Pitch and yaw describe the up-and-down and side-to-side movements of a

watercraft or an aircraft.
she pulled it down. “Done!” Freya called, when a black arrow pointed to
N48 on a brass ring.
“Lock yaw, one hundred and two degrees east.”
“Done!” Freya popped the yaw dial out from the instrument panel,
spun it, and pushed it back in with a snap.
“Good,” said Herrick, “now I’ll set the fin thrusters. They’re all
the propulsion we’ve got left.” Herrick bent over a glass gauge with
a needle inside it. The needle pointed squarely at a big red ᛞ.
“What’s the D for?” asked Freya.
“D for ‘dead’.”
Freya sighed. Herrick turned a knob. Then he got up. “Well,” said
Herrick, with a wan smile, “that’s the best I can do. Steering disengaged.”
He gave the rudder wheel an aimless spin. “All we can do now is drift and
pray. Oof! I’m dizzy.”
Freya looked out at the stars, blurry now through the sticky window.
“And we have to get inside that locker with Her Ladyship,” Freya sighed.
“Herrick: have you ever landed a karvi from inside a box that has a
wildcat in it?”
Herrick laughed. “One wildcat, aye, and one esteemed lady.” Herrick
bowed gallantly (which gave him a funny bob). He took the little green
spíramar bottle out of his coat and pulled the cork with his teeth, popping
his thumb over the opening before the liquid could float out.
“Bottoms up!”
Freya looked at the miniature bottle. “Are we—giving any to Elska?”
she asked apprehensively. Herrick grinned as he tilted his head back.
“Nofe,” he said, bottle between his teeth. He handed the bottle to Freya
with a cough. “Elska’s gods will protect her. You know—Tyr and Baldr
and Jörð and so forth.” Freya smiled and drank down the rest of the bottle.
“Ack!” she spluttered, “it tastes like death.”
“Aye,” Herrick returned smoothly, “that’s as should be. There’s a little
bit of death in it.” He shivered and wiped his sleeve across his mouth.
Then Herrick reached inside his coat again. He pulled out another bottle
—a flat brown bottle this time—and held it up. Freya looked at the bottle
dubiously.
“More spíramar?” Freya asked.
 Herrick laughed and shook his head. He took a long pull. “No,” said
Herrick, handing the bottle to Freya. “Skaal!”
Freya grinned and took a nip. “Skaal,” said Freya. “Come on. Let’s get
inside that locker.”

To be continued.

Stay tuned for The Star Mangrove part II, coming Christmas 2020.
Stay safe and carry on!

Twitter.com/franktmorgan
www.morganpublishers.com
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

F. T. Morgan is a failed lawyer living in Bermuda. Morgan spends a

considerable amount of time biting his nails and staring moodily out to
sea.
 ABOUT HARKER MCNAIR

TK.