The Islands of the Blessed

But Father Severus didn’t believe in the old gods. He would surely ignore any voices he heard on his walks.

“Not only that, someone died in the infirmary and Father Severus ordered the monk who cared for him flogged. That’s his cure for everything.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it. We’d better go on to Din Guardi,” Jack said.

The Bard was sitting in the Swan Room, writing on a wax-coated tablet of wood with a metal stylus. It was a method Brother Aiden had shown him for organizing tasks. When the Bard had finished the list of chores, he smoothed out the wax so he could make another list.

King Brutus had been correct. The walls and curtains of the Swan Room were so white, the old man’s robes almost disappeared against them. Only his ruddy face and hands were clearly visible. He looked up expectantly.

“It’s as bad as you thought,” Thorgil told him. “Filthy, depressing, and dark. But Ethne still refuses to leave. I was able to smuggle everything in.”

“Smuggle?” said Jack.

The shield maiden grinned. “You’d be surprised by how much you can hide under a skirt—packets of dried meat, cheeses, the rest of Pega’s special scones, a knife, a small mirror, a comb. With all the buckets of water Ethne has stored at the back of her cell, she could withstand a siege. The nun Wulfhilda has promised to check up on her.”

“Excellent work!” the Bard complimented her. “Ethne may not want to leave now, but by the time we return from Notland, she’ll be ready. And if we don’t survive Notland, Skakki has promised to free her. I don’t think Father Severus will enjoy how he does it, and I don’t much care.”

Jack looked from one to the other, annoyed that they hadn’t included him in the plan. “How do you know Ethne will be ready?”

“We Northmen have much experience with hunger, especially during winter,” Thorgil explained. “At first you crave food all the time. You can’t think of anything else. But after a while you fall into a kind of trance and feel nothing at all. At the end of winter Olaf used to go around to the farms and wake people up. That’s what’s wrong with Ethne. She’s been eating that wretched monastery food for so long, her spirits are in a deep sleep.”

“The comb and mirror?”

“Those were my idea,” said the Bard. “My daughter isn’t the most imaginative creature alive, and I’m fairly certain she has no idea how much her beauty has faded. When she looks into the mirror, she’s going to get the shock of her life.”

“She already has.” Thorgil chuckled. “She was running her fingers through that rat’s nest of hair when I left.”

That evening King Brutus threw one of his parties. The central courtyard was filled with lanterns, and musicians played sweet music from bowers around the edge. Tables were set with roast salmon, suckling pig, green peas flavored with mint, apples cooked with honey, and many other delights. Jack thought of Ethne and wished he could send something to her.

Much of the entertainment was provided by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, whose tall figure sent a memory of pain down Jack’s spine. She had paralyzed him with elf-shot at their first meeting. The Lady danced with her nymphs around a fountain, she in shimmering white robes with her pale gold hair floating like a mist, the nymphs in glittering scales. Afterward they twined around the king’s throne, and Nimue insisted on feeding bits of marzipan “to her dear Brutie-Wootie”.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” said Thorgil.

“If she keeps feeding Brutie-Wootie that gooey stuff, he’s going to throw up,” Jack said. They both laughed.

The air was soft and warm. Unseen flowers wafted perfume over the courtyard, knights danced with ladies, pages went around with trays of sweets, and as the daylight faded in the west, a full yellow moon rose over the fortress wall. Jack suddenly came alert.

“The moon was only half full last night,” he said.

“That means this courtyard is full of glamour,” said Thorgil, wrinkling her nose. “I told you those floors were unsafe. All Nimue has to do is turn the glamour off, and everything falls into the cellar.”

“I think—hope—most of this is real.” Jack looked around for the Bard and found him sitting against a far wall, observing the festivities. He was shadowy, as though he were sitting under a half-moon rather than a full one. The old man wouldn’t be taken in by glamour, the boy thought. He’d know what was real and what wasn’t.

“I hated this place when it was in the grip of Unlife,” Jack said, “but I don’t like it much now, either. Why can’t people enjoy things as they are?”

“We’ll soon have a ship under our feet and a wind at our backs. You can’t get realer than that,” said Thorgil. For the first time Jack felt a stir of interest in the adventure they were about to have. Up till then he’d been eaten up with chores—selling potions, bartering, packing, feeding horses, running errands. Now they were about to turn their backs on the safe, predictable world and go off into the blue. Who wouldn’t be happy about that?