“Egil’s about as tuneful as Freya’s cats,” said her husband resignedly.

Jack straightened up. He was a skald from across the sea. He was Dragon Tongue’s heir. Giant spiders swooned when he played.

The inside of King Ivar’s hall was a shock. Filthy straw covered the floor. Bones from old feasts lay everywhere, and someone had vomited in a corner. No one had bothered to clean it up. Fleas pattered against Jack’s legs as he walked, and over all hung a dank, sour smell. Bold Heart gripped Thorgil’s shoulder a little tighter.

At the far end the king sat on his throne, looking bloated and sick. His beard was matted, and his clothes were speckled with grease. Next to him Queen Frith glowered at the visitors. She looked worse than last time—lumpier and less wholesome. She didn’t even have the honest ugliness of a troll.

Good heavens. Have they been sitting here the whole time?Jack thought. It seemed they’d been perched there for weeks, waiting for his return. The priests of Freya and Odin stood at their side. They looked as though they couldn’t wait to flee the room.

“The quest has been fulfilled,” said Rune.

Ivar looked up. His eyes were almost buried in puffy flesh. “Really? That’s nice. Did you hear that, my troll-flower? The boy has returned. Now you can have your pretty hair back.”

“About time,” said the queen in a nasty, whining voice. “Get up here and fix me!”

“Remember the conditions we agreed on,” said Rune.

“Yes, yes. The bribe. The boy and his sister go free.”

“And must be returned home,” said Rune.

“I knowwhat we agreed on. You took your sweet time in Jotunheim. Now get off your backside and work magic.”

Jack stepped forward, staff in hand. He felt a faint warmth in the blackened wood. “Where’s Lucy?” he said.

“Who? I don’t know any Lucy.” The queen sagged over her chair like a steamed pudding in its bag.

“The thrall I gave you,” said Thorgil, moving to stand by Jack. She had her hand on her sword. Jack hoped she wouldn’t draw it, or at least not yet.

“Oh, that. She was such a disappointment. Wouldn’t talk or look at me. All she did was moan.”

“Where is she?”cried Jack. He felt the staff thrum with power. He knew he could draw fire from the earth without any effort now. Rage drew it forth.

Thorgil put her hand on his arm. “Great Queen, the child was part of the conditions. Without her, there will be no healing.” That was an exceedingly brave thing for Thorgil to do. You didn’t say no to a half-troll shape-shifter if you wanted to stay healthy. Frith loomed out of her chair with the shadows boiling up behind her.

“She’s in Freya’s cart,” Freya’s priest said quickly. “She’s been there a long time, waiting for the sacrifice.”

“Then I must go to her,” said Heide. For the first time Frith noticed the wise woman’s presence.

“You! Hel hag!”she spat out. “What are you doing in my fine hall with your nasty spells and witchcraft?”

“Trying to keep my skirts clean,” said Heide. The birds and fish on her robe glowed, and her eyes were dark and dangerous.

“Get out! And take that croaking spy of Odin’s with you!”

“Gladly,” said Heide, holding out her arm for Bold Heart. “You should pray the girl is well,” she added in her smoky voice. “I would not wishhh to be youuu if she isn’t.”

“Get out! Get out!”shrieked Frith. She began throwing things around—a goblet, plates, a footstool.

“Now, now, my little troll-flower,” said King Ivar.

“Where’s your old hair?” said Jack, feeling he should take charge of the situation. “I’ll need it if I’m going to undo the charm.”

“There!” screamed Frith. She kicked a basket at him. It rolled, and a disgusting sludge dribbled out the side.

“That doesn’t look like hair,” Thorgil said.

“It isn’t! It went bad after you left! My mother made it, and it’s turned to slime. Typical of her stupid enchantments!” Frith was so beside herself, she could hardly breathe.

“Then I’ll—I’ll have to find a substitute,” Jack said. He’d had some idea of singing her old hair back, but that was clearly impossible now. What to do? What to do?he thought. Panic threatened to swamp his mind. Tonight was the harvest moon and tomorrow was the sacrifice to Freya.

Lucy would be drawn to Freya’s Meadow, the site of the sacrificial ceremony, by the cats. There she would be garlanded and presented with a little image of the goddess. Then her hands would be tied to the cart. The priest would push it into the mist-shrouded fen to float, but ultimately to sink beneath its dark waters.

Jack took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye he saw the sacred meadow with the full moon overhead. And then he knew what to say.

“Thisis how your beauty will be restored,” he cried. Rune, Skakki, and Thorgil flinched. They turned to him in amazement. Jack knew he sounded different. His voice filled the hall, and he could see fear in the eyes of his friends and King Ivar. He was no longer a mere boy, but an agent of the Norns. Theyspoke through him from their haunt by Mimir’s Well.

“You will cut hair from Freya’s cats—not too much. Take a third and leave the rest for the cats to keep themselves warm. Go to Freya’s Meadow and lay out a white cloth to catch the moonlight. Over this you must place the hair and lie down upon it. When the moon is at zenith, your beauty will be restored.”

Jack gazed at Frith in the smoky light of the fish-oil lamps. He felt no fear. He felt no hate, only a calm assurance of the truth of what he had said. Frith had turned pale.

“You look like—” She stopped, seeming to gather her thoughts. “My mother used to host a chess game with someone like you.” She shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll try your little trick. If it doesn’t work, I can still sacrifice your sister.” She strode over to King Ivar, who was watching Jack with his mouth open. “Wake up, you weakling!” Frith screamed. “Call your warriors! Tell them to bring me my cats!”

Moments later Ivar’s warriors dragged in the cats on leashes. They had bound their feet and mouths, but the cats managed to get free. They bit and scratched and yowled and hissed. The men yelled and swore and shaved.Under Frith’s orders, they shaved off every bit of the beautiful red-gold hair from the beasts until they had a bag bulging with fur and nine absolutely maddened and naked cats.

“Now I know where those things come from,” Jack remarked to Thorgil, who was relishing every minute of the animals’ humiliation. “Jotunheim. They’re troll-cats.”

“Troll- rats, from the look of them,” said Thorgil.

“Oh, my, my, my,” groaned Freya’s priest. “She’s taken all their fur. They’ll never forgive me.”

“I want him and her with me at the meadow,” commanded Frith, pointing at Jack and Thorgil. “And bring Freya’s cart. If anything goes wrong, I want the boy to see his sister die!”

“No wonder the Mountain Queen threw her out,” muttered Thorgil as she and Jack were herded through the forest by Ivar’s warriors. Skakki and Rune had been forced to stay behind.

“I wish she’d married Frith to an ogre,” Jack said.

“Even ogres are picky.”

Behind them the cart rumbled along the forest road. Jack badly wanted to see how Lucy was, but the warriors stopped him. He caught only a glimpse of her in Heide’s arms. The cats pulling the cart were pale in the moonlight. They were in a towering rage and raked their claws at anyone who got near.

Behind them came Frith with a group of house-thralls and King Ivar. He was so infirm, he could barely walk and had to lean on two of his men.

Wuh-huh-huhwent the little brown owls in the trees. A lynx screamed in the distance. The cool, green smells of the forest filled the night, and the road was brilliant with the full moon.

They came to a clearing covered in white flowers—Freya’s Meadow. It was like a mass of stars fallen to earth, and beyond, where the meadow ended, stunted trees rose over peat bog and black water. That was Freya’s Fen.