“Is that so?” the priestess said.

“By God, it is!” Gudrid’s eyes got wider and more innocent-seeming than ever.

Beside Hamnet, Marcovefa stirred. He thought he knew why. He wouldn’t have used God’s name in this place, not if there was the slightest chance he might be forsworn. With Gudrid, as heartache had taught him, there was always that chance.

Gudrid’s right hand went to one of the pouches on her belt. Her expression changed from innocent to horrified—she didn’t want that hand doing any such thing. It opened the pouch even so. What her hand took from it was a jewel on a chain. The chain was of some silvery metal, but Hamnet didn’t think it was silver. The jewel might have been an opal, but was more brilliant and shed more coruscating rainbows of light than any opal he’d ever imagined. He could see why Gudrid would have admired it. That she’d been rash enough to take it appalled him.

“Did you bring this into the Golden Shrine?” the priestess asked, surely knowing the answer already.

Gudrid made a ghastly attempt to smile as she shook her head. “N-No,” she said; not even she, with all her gall, could keep her voice from wobbling.

“How did it end up in your belt pouch, then?”

“I . . .” Gudrid paused. I just grabbed it because I liked the way it looked wouldn’t do. She did manage to put a better face on it than that: “I wanted a little something to remember the Golden Shrine by.”

“A little something?” The priestess raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea what you stole?” She gestured. The jewel in Gudrid’s hand flared bright as the sun. Gudrid squawked. Hamnet wondered if it burned her. Evidently not. She showed no pain. “Do you?” the priestess repeated.

Hamnet noticed the woman didn’t say what it was or how important it was. In a place like this, even such a marvel might be no more than a toy. He wondered whether Gudrid was too flustered to see that.

He suspected she might be. “I—I meant no harm,” she quavered. He would have pitied her. Even knowing what he knew, he would have. He disliked himself because that was true, which didn’t mean he could help it.

The look the priestess gave her made the Glacier seem warm. “Do you recall what you heard when you came in here?” the gold-robed woman asked.

“Nobody told me not to go looking at things.” Even now, Gudrid tried to rally. She said something obviously true, something which also pulled attention away from the sorry truth that she hadn’t just looked.

It didn’t work. Hamnet hadn’t thought it would. Maybe Gudrid hadn’t, either, but she’d tried. The priestess’ voice, though, remained implacable: “No. That is not what I meant. No one leaves the Golden Shrine with more than he—or she—brings to it. Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t think you were talking about things.” Gudrid tossed her head. “I thought you people meant spiritual silliness.”

“Spiritual? Material? Under the One Stone, what is the difference?” the priestess said. Count Hamnet had never heard that name for God before. The priestess went on, “We meant what we said. We commonly do. And so you will take no more away than you brought.”

A priest strode up to Gudrid. She handed him the jewel and the chain. He made them disappear; Hamnet couldn’t quite see how.

The priestess pointed her forefinger at Gudrid. She murmured something in a tongue Hamnet didn’t understand. Gudrid’s eyes went blank. A look of idiocy spread across her face. Eyvind Torfinn cried out in anguish. In his own way, he had to love her.

“She will never remember anything of her time here,” the priestess said. “Never. Nor may she ever return. That is her punishment.” Face softening slightly, she spoke to Earl Eyvind: “She will regain her wits, such as they are, when she leaves this place. Be thankful the Golden Shrine knows mercy, even for those who may not deserve it.”

Eyvind bowed—creakily, as an old man would. “I am thankful, priestess. Gudrid would be, too . . . if she knew.”

“She will not.” The woman in gold sounded altogether sure. Eyvind Torfinn sighed and bowed again.

Taking his courage in both hands, Hamnet Thyssen said, “May I ask you something, priestess?”

“Not about that woman. I know you were also connected to her once. The judgment is made, and will only grow harsher if you push me.”

“I was wed to her once, yes, but I will not say anything about that,” Hamnet replied. “I want to know what to tell Emperor Sigvat about the Golden Shrine—and everything else that’s happened.”

Slightly but unmistakably, the priestess’ lip curled. “Oh. Him. Tell him this.” She spoke four words in another language Hamnet didn’t know. He repeated them after her till she nodded, satisfied. “They are truly ancient: from the time before the time before the Glacier last advanced,” she said.

Hamnet repeated them once more. “But what do they mean?” he asked.

“When this Emperor Sigvat hears them, he will know,” the priestess promised. “And so will you.” With that, Count Hamnet had to be content.

XXI

NOT EVERYONE WHO’D gone into the Golden Shrine wanted to leave so soon. Liv and Audun Gilli seemed to be learning things. So did Marcovefa. Trasamund and Runolf Skallagrim looked as if they were enjoying a safety they hadn’t known for too long. Ulric Skakki might have been a sponge; he was soaking up as much as he could. He might not be able to take away more than he’d brought, but he seemed ready to try.

Eyvind Torfinn, though, kept twisting like a man in pain. And Hamnet noted that the priests and priestesses seemed steadily less welcoming. The men and women in gold steered the strangers toward the doorway by which they’d come in. Gudrid came along with everyone else. She could walk, but not much more. Her eyes stayed blank. A thin, shiny line of spittle ran from the corner of her mouth down to her chin.

“May God keep you safe,” said the priestess who’d ensorcelled her.

“What is God?” Yes, Ulric was still doing his best to come away with something.

The priestess smiled at him as she opened the door. “Why, exactly what you think he is.”

That might have been true, but it wasn’t helpful. “Thank you so much,” Ulric said with a bow. His grin was wry.

“Happy to help,” the priestess answered sweetly. The adventurer laughed and spread his hands, owning himself beaten.

As soon as Gudrid walked outside, her face cleared. She looked around behind her. “Oh! The Golden Shrine!” she said. Then she went on toward her horse. Her interest in the place seemed to end right there. Hamnet Thyssen decided that the priestess had been merciful after all.

“Where do we go now?” Trasamund asked.

“Wherever we please. The Rulers are beaten,” Marcovefa said.

That was true . . . now. Would it stay true? How many more invaders would come through the Gap? What would happen when they did? Hamnet decided to worry about that when it happened . . . if it did.

For now, he had other things to worry about. “The priestess gave me a message to take to Sigvat. I don’t understand it, but she said he would. And so I need to go south. Anyone who wants to come with me is welcome—I’d be glad of the company. But I’ll go alone if I have to.”

“I’ll come,” Ulric said. “I want to see him get this message from the Golden Shrine. I don’t know how these people can be so sure he’ll understand it. He doesn’t understand much.”

“I will come with you, too,” Marcovefa said. “I have my reasons.” She didn’t explain what they were.

Hamnet didn’t press her about them. Instead, he asked, “Did you understand what the priestess told me?”