Signy had felt her muscles turn to jelly and herself frozen, trapped like a fly in amber, as the Christian witch's divining wand had streaked toward her, and then it suddenly appeared to hit something and fall at her feet. It felt as if the cursed thing was drinking her! She was so exhausted she could barely stand, let alone face this!
The feasting hall blurred as she felt herself swaying. She fell, just as the bear pelts somehow became bears.
When she woke again, she was flying. Or that was what appeared to be happening. Actually she realized that a bear had her by each limb and they were carrying her facedown as they raced through the forest. Tree branches and dead brambles scratched at her. She might as well have struggled to free herself from quicksand—her limbs had no strength.
They raced through forest and meadows, swapping carriers, running on. When they came to the river, Signy thought that they'd have to slow down . . . but instead the bear-creature's leader gestured at the ice-rimmed water and began chanting in a guttural growling voice.
Ice grew as she watched. Splintery spars of it blurred the transparent water, and then hardened and firmed. Soon, amazingly soon, a creaking ice bridge appeared. The bears, claws shrieking on the new ice, scrambled across and ran on. And on.
She recognized Svartdal, and the narrow pass up to the high fells. She'd even been up there, once, with her father. In summer. Her teeth were chattering by the time the bears arrived at a small bautarstein in the high valley. They paused there. The lead bear took a pouch that was hung around his neck, sprinkled powder from it onto the stone, and growled some galdr words.
Signy watched incredulously as a huge rock slid aside and a cave mouth gaped into visibility above them. They picked her up again and went into the maw.
And down into the dark.
Occasionally she glimpsed light—ghostly marsh light—and heard shrieking and scampering. The bear-men paid it no mind. They just pressed on. Then, at length they emerged, on the side wall of a cliff-hung gorge. They bounded onto the stones of a huge bridge built of perfectly shaped interlocking stone blocks, each block the size of a bonder's cottage. The bridge shimmered as if in the heat, but it was bitterly cold here. In the glimpse she had over the edge the gorge they crossed seemed bottomless. The other side was a bleak place, full of stones and dry grasses. But they rushed on, on and on, eventually carrying her across the braided sandbanks of a river that must be a full quarter of a mile wide in spate. And to a huge bald knob of a hill. There was no sign of habitation, but they were on a definite broad footpath leading somewhere.
From behind a rock rose something that looked like a pile of rocks and scraps of animal fur. Misshapen rocks. With tufts of what could almost be hair . . . or coarse grass, growing from the rock top.
It was hair. She supposed it was, anyway, because now that it had turned to look at them she could see the misshapen rocks were the features of the troll's face. She screamed weakly. Everyone knew trolls existed. She had just never thought to meet one.
It looked at her. "Mistress says that it must be hooded before you take it into the castle." He held out a leather bag that they pulled over her head. They carried her onward. The smelly leather bag might have hidden the sights from her eyes, but the noises told their own story. There were a lot more people—or perhaps trolls—in this place than the barren landscape had suggested it could carry. A lot of noise, anyway.
Then the bag was plucked from her head, and she was bundled into a cage. It was like a vast birdcage, except for one thing. It was made of wood.
The door slammed shut behind her, and she watched as the bears became men, men in bearskins and not a lot else. One of them locked the cage. The others hauled on the rope attached to a hook on the top. Soon her wooden cage, with a wooden slatted floor, hung thirty feet from the floor.
Lying on the wooden slats, bruised, stretched, wrenched, scratched, and dazed, Signy felt as weak as a half-drowned kitten. The wood she lay on seemed to draw what little life she had out of her, so, somehow, she found the energy to sit up. That was . . . better. But even touching the wood with her hands or her skin made her feel ill. She struggled to her feet. The cage swayed. And she had to clutch the bars to stop herself from falling over. As soon as possible she pulled her hands away from the wood.
Just staying on her feet took every resource she had. But after a little while she felt better. Well enough to take stock of where she was, and to begin trying to work out what had happened to her.
Whatever it was, it wasn't a rescue. The room her captors had hung this cage in was vast and dim. The walls were cut stone. And on a raised dais on the far side, set between carved pillars, was a large throne.The only light in the place came from lamps—stone bowls with wicks set in them—that burned in wall sconces. Still, Signy had never had any trouble seeing fine detail at a distance. It just blurred out when close at hand. The pillars were carved, appropriately enough, with bears. Snarling bears. The faces were not pleasant.
Signy inspected her closer quarters. The wooden slats were wide enough apart to let her put an arm through. She didn't want to touch the bars, though. The only furnishings were a rough wooden pallet. More of this cursed wood? It looked darker. And she was so tired. She couldn't stand forever. Perhaps she could curl up like a cat on her boots? Thank goodness she'd been out at the stable and had had no time to change. She stumbled as she stepped across the slats to the pallet, and had to put her hand down on it to save herself. It felt like . . . wood. Harmless. Gratefully she sat down on it, pulling her feet off the slatted cage floor.
It was as if she'd taken a heavy weight off her shoulders. Sighing with relief, she lay down on the narrow pallet and let exhaustion take her into sleep.
Bears and her stepmother chased her through narrow tunnels in her dreams.
She woke up with the cage swaying and being slowly lowered. A team of various-shaped thralls—certainly not all human—controlled the rope. And the throne was now occupied.
The occupant was large, square, and possibly female. The dress would suggest it. The wizened face was curled into a scowl of distaste. Hair, gray and lank, hung down in greasy locks.
"One of the effects of confining you in a rowan cage is that it will affect my magics, too, little half-blood." The last word was clearly an insult. "You see me now without my glamour. Be afraid."
In spite of her circumstances, as she stood on her pallet in the cage, Signy wasn't. It seemed as if she'd spent her life afraid, as if something dark had been stalking her, hanging in the shadows. Now, in a cage, in troll-realms, she was somehow not terrified. It was too late for fear now. "What do you want with me?" There was a haunting familiarity about the troll-wife.
"Your power. Your magic."
"I haven't got any. All I ever do is stop charms working. Every time. Without fail. I don't believe I could make milk go sour if I tried for a week—a week outdoors in summer," said Signy, calmly awaiting her fate.
The troll-wife snorted. "And it never struck you that that was magic, powerful magic? You Alfarblot are naturally stupid. Vanir blood mixes badly with human."
But Signy had been proofed against slights and insults by her stepmother. She simply judged distances. She still had her sleeve knife. The bears had not searched her, or robbed her—not that she had much for them to steal. She had her silver bracelets . . . But they'd have had to break those off. She'd been given them when she was a child. She'd grown, but they hadn't. They were charms of protection. If she ever needed them, it was now. "I'm not Alfar. My stepmother used to mock me saying I was Svartalfar. It's not true. I am of the house of Telemark. My bloodlines—"
"Your bloodlines are well known to me, Signy. Your ancestors dallied with Alfar not once, but twice. Your mother's mother was Alfarblot, and also your father's great-great-grandfather. In you the bloodlines have combined."
The troll-wife knew who she was, at any rate. The throw, aimed as it was through the bars, was not her best. Her best would have put the knife through the evil monster's left eye. The knife hit the troll-wife between the eyes instead.
She might as well have flung a river pebble. She was even more accurate with those, and would have done just as much harm.
The knife clattered to the flagstones.
The troll-wife rubbed the spot between her eyes thoughtfully. "I had forgotten about the knife for Hjorda," she said. "Well, no matter. We'll take care of him in another manner."
The troll-wife stood up. "Leave her without food and water for a day," she said to the troll at the door as she left. "She is too full of herself, yet. And see that she is hauled up again."
The troll bobbed his acknowledgment.
Signy's cage was pulled up again, and her knife remained, a small piece of silver, on the floor of the dim hall.
She was left alone again to ponder how this troll-wife knew so much about her, and about what she'd intended to do to Hjorda. She also wished that she hadn't thrown her knife. It was well known that a troll head was as hard as stone. And besides, she wasn't as good at throwing knives as she should be. It was an unladylike pastime she'd not been able to practice nearly enough. If she'd kept the knife she could have cut through the bars. The only other metal she had were her bracelets.
They hadn't protected her too well yet. But perhaps they had a sharp edge that she could rub away at the wood with. It looked as if she'd have plenty of time to do that.