Wolfskin by Juliet Marillier Page A

stared at Ragna as if to burn her image into his mind. If he had been angry before, now there was a darkness on his face that boded ill for the future.
    An accident: that was what they said. But Eyvind heard Eirik and Oksana talking, late at night, when the household had at last settled into an exhausted sleep. They were in the hallway, and they were whispering, but he could hear parts of it, for Oksana’s voice was harsh with weeping.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” she sobbed. “It’s all my fault, your mother trusted me! How could I let such a thing happen? And now Ragna’s dead!”
    â€œHush.” Eirik’s voice was soft; there was a note in it Eyvind had never heard before. “Hush, now. Nobody blames you; you did your best to watch over them.”
    â€œShe was only little, a child herself. I’m guilty, Eirik.”
    â€œIt was a man did this evil,” Eirik said heavily, “and a man who should bear the blame, and suffer the punishment.”
    â€œHe will escape both,” said Oksana. “Ragna takes that secret to her grave. She would not tell who it was; even her mother could not discover it. This man has threatened her, I think; why else keep silent?”
    â€œIn time, the truth might have been plain to see. But this sad accident has removed any chance of proof,” Eirik said.
    â€œAccident?” Oksana echoed, and Eyvind felt his heart grow cold.
    â€œYou don’t think…?” began Eirik.
    â€œThat child went out today with no intention of coming home again. She was terrified: so small and so hurt, too young for what was to come. Oh, Eirik, I should have stopped her, I should have—”
    â€œHush, sweetheart. There now, there now. Come, it’s late; you must sleep. Don’t weep so.”
    And they moved away down the passage, until Eyvind could hear them no longer. His astonishment at hearing his brother, a man of such high standing, speaking to a thrall-woman as if she were not only his intimate companion but also his equal, was brief enough. It was what they had said that really shocked him. Their words forced him to recognize a truth he had tried hard not to see. What had happened up at the shieling had been a sentence of death for Ragna. It had snatched away all chance of the life Sigurd had predicted with blithe confidence in the days of their childhood. And so she had stepped off the bridge and let the storm decide the future for her. A man had done that; a man had started it. But Ragna was the only witness, and Ragna could never tell now. Her short tale was over. Andalthough Eyvind had done nothing wrong, nothing at all, still he felt guilty, as if he were somehow responsible for what had happened.
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    Not long after, Sigurd went away. He took an axe and a bow and a few provisions, but he did not say where he was going, and nobody asked. Truth to tell, things were much easier on the farm without him, for his behavior had grown quite odd, swinging between sudden bursts of rage and long periods of moody silence. Indeed, he had seemed a different person entirely after what happened, and some said that in itself was a sure sign of guilt.
    In the time of the first frost, Eyvind dreamed of blood and of fire. He saw bright eyes in the darkness, watching; he heard the whisper of the god. The next day they came for him.
    It is not a sight granted to many, to watch a full team of Wolfskins ride by. A lesser nobleman such as Ulf, brother of Somerled, might hope to assemble a force of six to spearhead his sea battles and protect him against treachery on land. Jarl Magnus had eleven. Eirik led them; Hakon was by his side, and following grim and silent rode an assembly of warriors who seemed the stuff of some fantastic dream. Their hair was long and wild, or cut to mere stubble on the naked scalp. Their faces were fierce and scarred. Each wore the short cloak of shaggy wolf pelt, fastened at the shoulder with a clasp of bronze or