The Islands of the Blessed

“I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid to go down there,” said Thorgil. “Eventually, flying venom burns itself out like a fire, but until then we might easily catch it. Northmen who die such honorless deaths go to the icy halls of Hel. They are forever condemned to wander in darkness with thralls and oath-breakers.”

“Northman religion is so cheerful,” said Jack. “The best you can expect is Ragnarok. Odin was positively gleeful about Garm being let off his leash and the ship of death bringing destruction to the living.”

“What did you say?”

Too late Jack remembered he hadn’t told Thorgil about the encounter with the war god. “Oh, bedbugs,” he muttered. “I saw Odin on Grim’s Island. He was sitting on a huge throne with Olaf at his feet. We didn’t hit it off.”

“You saw Odin and I didn’t?”

“You wouldn’t have liked him. He would have made you fetch him a horn of mead.”

Thorgil looked ready to throw herself into a fight when she suddenly stopped. She began to laugh, a real, heartfelt laugh that Jack hadn’t heard from her in a long time. “Oh! Oh, that feels good! Of course he would have ordered me around. And I would have obeyed him. You don’t say no to a god. But I would have felt rotten afterward.” She laughed until the tears ran down her face, and Jack watched her with surprise and admiration.

When she had finished, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I feel all light inside,” she said, “as though someone had thrown open a window.”

Jack leaned over and took her hand. “You are Jill Allyson’s Daughter,” he said, using the name Thorgil’s dead mother had given her at birth. “You are not meant for Ragnarok.”

They gazed at each other seriously for a moment. A breeze rustled the branches of the pines and the smell of apples came to them from the orchards down below. Then Thorgil stood up. “We must go to rescue Ethne,” she said. “May the gods grant that we find her alive.”

Chapter Forty-three SISTER WULFHILDA

They dismounted close to the walls. The apple orchard had been deserted for some time, for the branches were heavy with ripe fruit. It seemed to Jack that he had never smelled apples so fine. He picked one and held it to his nose.

“This alone tells us the nuns haven’t prospered,” said Thorgil. She, too, plucked one and began to eat. She stuffed several into her backpack.

They walked around the monastery walls, wading through areas where the lake had invaded. All the doors were bolted and the windows bricked up, but unlike Din Guardi, no sounds came from inside. “Curse Father Severus for being thorough,” said Jack, trying to force his shoulder against a door. Even the lych-gate that led to the monks’ cemetery had been reinforced. The walls were very high, like those of a fortress, and plastered so well that there was not a single foothold.

They shouted repeatedly. No one answered. Jack tried to raise fire to burn open the main gate. Nothing happened. “Why can’t I get this thing to work?” he fumed. “I’ve drawn up fire before. Why not now?”

“Fate,” Thorgil said simply. “It seems our path has been laid out for us. We were shown the entrance to St. Columba’s cave, but you couldn’t find it a second time. When it was time to leave Grim’s Island, Seafarer appeared. When you needed the lorica, it came to your mind. But when we wished to enter Din Guardi, we were turned away. Also here. I think we should go on to the convent.”

They found the gate open. Dry leaves blew across a small courtyard lined with doors. These, too, were open, showing small nuns’ cells with little in them except bedding. At the far end was a chapel. A table was covered with a cloth and a pewter cross. A single window was made of small panes of glass fastened together by lead strips. The panes were milky white except for one in the middle, a triangular shard of ruby red. It hung in the middle like a drop of blood, and the sun shone through it with a glory that made Jack catch his breath.

“That must have come from the Holy Isle,” he said quietly. “When the window there was shattered, the surviving pieces were fitted together at St. Filian’s. One must have been left over.” He didn’t say—what was the use?—that berserkers had been responsible. Olaf One-Brow, Sven the Vengeful, Rune. Thorgil.

Someone groaned not far away. Jack and Thorgil ran from the chapel and looked into the cells they had believed empty. In the third one they found a woman lying in a heap of filthy straw. “Wulfie!” cried Thorgil.

Jack could hardly recognize the large, healthy nun he’d seen before. She had wasted away, and her skin was gray with illness and dirt. “Water,” whispered Sister Wulfhilda. Thorgil grabbed her cider bag and dribbled a few drops into the woman’s mouth.

Sister Wulfhilda coughed but managed to swallow. Thorgil gave her more. “We’ll build a fire and cook you something,” the shield maiden said. “All we have is dried fish, but if I can find a pot, I can make soup.”

“Pots,” croaked the nun. “Storeroom.”