legs into the storyteller pose, she became calm and confident, almost regal.
She told the story of “The Pig and the Prophet.” It was a marvelous tale, one of swirling cloaks and ancient curses, of plumes of white smoke and tears of blood, of screams and chants and howls. Ink’s voice grew louder as she moved toward the climactic ending—both sorcerers wrestling in the mud until, filthy and exhausted, they began to laugh and the battle was called a draw.
Ink’s voice was husky, in contrast to Stefan’s and Madoc’s, which were bright and clear. But her words carried as well as their notes, and the throaty quality seemed to add depth to the story.
She next told the tale of Esca’s sword. Gyda drew near me as Ink began, and her eyes grew bright.
Esca was the son of a Vorse shepherd and a traveling mystic who had trained with the Orate Healers. He was born at high noon in high summer, and he bore a snakelike mark in his right eye—a slash of jade green slithering through deep brown.
When he was a boy of fourteen, Esca was running through the Ranger Hills, chasing sheep, when he chanced upon the mysterious Lake Monmouth, with its red sand and black waters. On the banks of the lake lay a beautiful female warrior, sword clutched to her chest. She died in his arms, bleeding out through a wound in her side. Esca built a pyre and sent the warrior to Holhalla. Before he placed her on the fire, he took her sword, Wrath. Later he would discover that it was one of three magical swords in Vorseland. With the sword strapped across his back, Esca left his sheep and set off to see the world.
Esca had many wonderful, dangerous adventures. One day, years later, after he’d won his northern jarldom, he threw a feast to celebrate the birth of his eleventh grandchild. The god Obin attended, dressed as a rangy beggar, a raven on his shoulder. At the end of the feast, Obin stole Esca’s sword and plunged it into the ancient ash tree in the center of the Hall. He announced that whoever could pull the sword would inherit the jarldom.
Obin discarded his beggar’s cloaks and called Esca to his side. Together they ascended into Holhalla, their bodies dissolving into smoke and rising into the sky.
Each of Esca’s sons and daughters tried to pull the sword, but none could budge it from the tree. Wars ensued. Sibling fought sibling until the jarldom lay in ruin, until all of Esca’s heirs had either died in battle or disappeared in the night. The jarldom was abandoned and soon forgotten. It lay hidden in the vast Green Wild Forest, patiently awaiting its next ruler.
The story of Esca stirred me—my skin prickled, and my blood throbbed. I thought of the night outside Viggo’s hut when Gyda revealed her quest to Morgunn and me, her desire to find Esca’s sword. We’d raised our fists to our hearts and cheered.
It suddenly felt possible—this quest, this sword, attaining this jarldom. It felt as real as the breath in my lungs, as real as the lilac-gray smoke from the nearby fire, as real as the pervasive, gentle witchy feeling that dominated the Night Wild.
The peaceful, easy life in Viggo’s hill hut—
That had been the dream.
The open road, Gyda’s quest, Uther, the wolves, my kidnapped sister … this was real.
“You would make a good jarl,” I whispered to my friend, my cheek next to hers. You deserve to pull Esca’s sword.”
“So do you.” Gyda pulled away from me and met my gaze. “Truly.”
I started to shake my head, but she held up her hand. “I know there is bad blood between you and your mother. She believed you were weak and un-Vorse. But heroes come in all shapes and sizes, Torvi. Vorseland would do well to have a jarl who is as softhearted as she is brave.”
I bowed my head and accepted her praise.
The audience placed coins on the edge of the stage as payment for the Bards’ entertainment, as was the practice. Stefan grinned as he deftly gathered the coins, dividing them equally among himself, Ink, and Madoc.
“If anyone wants to buy another whistle or see the Bone Woman, we have more than enough,” Stefan said with a laugh. He slipped the klines into the leather pouch he wore at his waist, and then he rose slowly to his feet, his eyes on something in the distance. The grin faded from his