Snorri set the key back against his chest. “I am Snorri ver Snagason, warrior of the Undoreth. I have lived a Viking’s life, raw and simple, on the shore of the Uulisk. Battle and clan. Farm and family. I was as brave as it was in me to be. As good as I knew. I have been a pawn to powers greater than myself, launched as a weapon, manipulated, lied to. I cannot say that no hand rests on my shoulder even now—but on the sea, in the wild of the evening storm and the calm of morning, I have looked inside, and if this is not true then I know no true thing. I will take this key that I won through battle and blood and loss. I will open death’s door and I will save my children. And if the Dead King or his minions come against me I will sow their ruin with the axe of my fathers.”
Tuttugu came to stand at Snorri’s shoulder, saying nothing, his message clear.
“You have a friend here, Snorri of the Undoreth.” Skilfar appraised Tuttugu, her fingers moving as if playing a thread through her hands. “Such things are rare. The world is sweetness and pain—the north knows this. And we die knowing there is a final battle to come, greater than any before. Leave your dead to lie, Snorri. Sail for new horizons. Set the key aside. The Dead King is beyond you. Any of the hidden hands could take this thing from you. I could freeze the marrow in your bones and take it here and now.”
“And yet you won’t.” Snorri didn’t know if Skilfar’s magics could overwhelm him, but he knew that having sought his motivations and intent with such dedication the völva would not simply take the key.
“No.” She released a sigh, the coldness of it pluming in the air. “The world is better shaped by freedom. Even if it means giving foolish men their head. At the heart of all things, nestled among Yggdrasil’s roots, is the trick of creation that puts to shame all of Loki’s deceptions. What saves us all are the deeds of fools as often as the acts of the wise.
“Go if you must. I tell you plain, though—whatever you find, it will not be what you sought.”
“And the door?” Snorri spoke the words low, his resolve never weaker.
“Kara.” Skilfar turned to her companion. “The man seeks death’s door. Where will he find it?”
Kara looked up from the study of her fingers, frowning in surprise. “I don’t know, Mother. Such truths are beyond me.”
“Nonsense.” Skilfar clicked her fingers. “Answer the man.”
The frown deepened, hands rose, fingers knotted among the rune-hung braids, an unconscious gesture. “The door to death . . . I . . .”
“Where should it be?” Skilfar demanded.
“Well . . .” Kara tossed her head. “Why should it be anywhere? Why should death’s door be any place? If it were in Trond how would that be right? What of the desert men in Hamada? Should they be so far from—”
“And the world is fair?” Skilfar asked, a smile twitching on thin lips.
“It—No. But it has a beauty and a balance to it. A rightness.”
“So if there is a door but it isn’t anywhere—what then?” A pale finger spinning to hurry the young woman along.
“It must be everywhere.”
“Yes.” Skilfar turned her winter-blue eyes upon Snorri once more. “The door is everywhere. You just have to know how to see it.”
“And how do I see it?” Snorri looked about the cavern as if he might find the door had been standing in some shadowed nook all this time.
“I don’t know.” Skilfar raised a hand to stop his protest. “Must I know everything?” She sniffed the air, peering curiously at Snorri. “You’re wounded. Show me.”
Without complaint Snorri opened his jacket and drew up his shirt to show the red and encrusted line of the assassin’s knife. The two völvas rose from their seats for a closer inspection.
“Old Gróa in Trond said the venom on the blade was beyond her art.” Snorri winced as Skilfar jabbed a cold finger at his ribs.
“Warts are beyond Gróa’s art.” Skilfar snorted. “Useless girl. I could teach her nothing.” She pinched the wound and Snorri gasped at the salt sting of it. “This is rock-sworn work. A summons. Kelem is calling you.”
“Kelem?”
“Kelem the Tinker. Kelem, master of the emperor’s coin. Kelem the Gate-keeper. Kelem! You’ve heard of him!” An irritable snap.
“I have now.” Snorri shrugged. The name did ring a bell. Stories told to children around the fire in the long winter nights. Snorri thought of the assassins’ Florentine gold, remembering for a moment the fearsome swiftness of the men. Each coin stamped with the drowned bell of Venice. The ache of his wound built, along with his anger. “Tell me more about him . . . please.” A growl.