While the others grew horrified at their own thoughts, Ulfr stepped forward and wrenched his spear free. A dreadful hiss sounded - could Jarl be alive? - but it was gases from the corpse, no more. His shade was already gone.

With his knife, Ulfr cut the body down and laid it straight upon the ground. Poor Jarl.

‘So where has Eira got to?’

‘She, um . . . Folkvar ordered Ári to watch over her.’ Thórvarr shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘He wanted to keep her safe.’

Thórvarr’s gaze kept sliding away from Jarl’s corpse, then slowly returning.

‘In the volvas’ hut?’

‘Uh, yes.’

Unwiped spear in hand, Brandr at his side, Ulfr walked away. Let the others deal with the body. How was he going to explain that his weapon had ended her brother’s life? Inside himself, he searched for any feeling of blood-thrill as he remembered the throwing of the spear, any sign of the same ensorcelment that had affected the others. But all he could find was a deep, desperate sorrow and a need to end Jarl’s suffering, nothing more. Surely Eira would accept that.

Then he was at the entrance to the hut, once shared by Eira and her teacher; but old Nessa had died last summer, leaving Eira the only volva - priestess and seeress - in this or the neighbouring valleys. The man standing guard, Ári, looked blank-faced, and his eyes were making continuous rapid blinks. Ulfr had a good idea what that meant.

‘Is Eira inside?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Never mind. I’ll look anyhow.’

Inside, the hut smelled of herbs and incense. Runes, both painted and carved, formed lines along the ashwood beams. Of course there was no Eira. Poor Ári was entranced, and there could be just one reason; but Eira was too late to prevent Jarl’s death.

At my hand.

But Chief Folkvar had given the orders. What an angry volva might do to a miscreant warrior-chief was unthinkable. If she blamed him—

‘Sorry.’ He brushed past Ári, exiting fast. ‘Relax.’

Ári had gone for his sword - he’d probably forgotten Ulfr was inside - but stopped, perhaps because it was Ulfr and not Eira running from the hut.

Inside the main hall, Folkvar was frozen in his wooden chair, one arm upraised and stiff, while Eira - her copper hair incandescent in the torchlight - stood with tightened fists, tears shining on her suffering face. In a rage she could make Folkvar forget his name or experience paralysis in arms or legs. Once, old Nessa had caused Folkvar’s predecessor to go blind for nine days, as punishment for letting a young cattle-thief go free. The chief had not known the thief was a rapist too.

All of the tribe’s women were fierce, but the volvas, seeress-priestesses, were something more.

‘Don’t do it,’ said Ulfr.

‘Jarl is dead.’

‘I know.’

‘By Freyja . . .’ She stared at his spear’s bloodied point. ‘You.’

‘He was suffering when I found him.’

‘Truth.’

‘Yes.’

She turned back to Folkvar, slipped her fingertips down his eyelids, then touched the back of his upraised wrist.

‘As your spirit lowers your hand, good Folkvar, you slip deeper and deeper into normal sleep, and when you awaken later you will remember all the visiting poet said and did, and be able to tell me free of any ensorcelling effects he left behind as you sink deeper now.’

Folkvar’s hand touched his thigh and his chin lowered, his breathing grew easy, and the softest of snores arose.

‘He was ensorcelled,’ she said, ‘but you were not. I’m sorry, Ulfr.’

‘But Jarl’s pain was—’

‘You told the truth. Let me do the same.’

‘So you see me as your brother’s killer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

There was more to it than that, or she would have struck him down with whatever punishment she’d had in mind for Folkvar. But however much she knew that he had granted Jarl a kind of mercy, she also saw the killing thrust inside her mind, and could not forgive him for it.

At least that was how he understood her words.

When he came to - he hadn’t realized he was drifting into sleep - he and Folkvar were still in the hall, and Brandr was sitting on the rushes beside him, but Eira was gone.

Stígr wept for the beautiful boy he had killed. Seated on a hard rock, staff in hand, he sobbed, while his ravens circled in the darkness above. If only they would leave him alone.

But he knew, by the burning of his left eye - the eye that was missing, that did not exist - that however the darkness chose to manifest, however far it sometimes seemed to drift away, it was bound to him, and he to it, forever.

Sweet Jarl, with lips so soft.

On a mouth that was cold and hardened now, soon to be food for worms, unless the villagers chose an honourable burning.

As he stood, though it was already night, shadows seemed to curl around him, swirling and embracing. Pulling his hat low, gathering his cape, he took a step forward, then another and another, moving as if in dream - call it nightmare - and when his mind cleared, he was at the top of a moonlit slope, looking down upon a village. This would be several days removed by normal walking from the place where Jarl had lived beneath Chief Folkvar’s rule.

One less poet in the world could never be a good thing, but the shadows had spoken and Stígr could only hear and do what they commanded.

It had been so long since things were otherwise.

Another village. Perhaps I can stay longer this time.

Sometimes there were periods of ease, of silence from the voices. He was due another sojourn, a time to recuperate.

Here, someone had posted night-time sentinels - he could sense their hiding-places - and even with his protection, descending to the village would be a risk. In the morning, he would make himself known.

And take advantage once more.

He forced that thought behind him, then sank down to the ground, curled up inside his rough cloak, and pulled down his hat to cover his face, denying the sight of the ravens that circled still, high above in the night.

THREE

FULGOR, 2603 AD

Sumptuous in cream and gold, the hollow sphere was decorated in the neo-baroque mode, and it could accommodate three hundred floating people for a dance or choral evening. At the centre, Rashella Stargonier floated, her skin sparkling with mag-gel, her gown and cape fluttering in a simulated breeze, while symphonic music played, composed on the fly by a part of her mind, performed by the house system, reflecting and elaborating her mood, intensifying her focus during meditation.

Her Lupus Festival celebrations would be complex, taking her guests through subtle changes in emotional state as they passed along the rooms and halls of Mansion Stargonier, the dinner and cognitive entertainments a statement of expertise to surpass even last year’s success. It was taking considerable time to plan, for while - as a Luculenta - she could form in-Skein corporate empires in a matter of seconds, her guests would be Luculenti too. That meant an evening’s extravaganza required coordination on a timescale of deciseconds, backed by femtoscopic technology.

She was having fun.

From a peripheral channel of awareness, a cascading wind-chime sounded.

‘Hello,’ she said, slowing to ordinary human speech.

The holo sharpened into rich colours, real-image rather than virtual, depicting a bearded man’s head and shoulders some five times life-size. The communication channel was in Skein, but only in what Luculenti called Periphery among themselves: simple protocols for simple folk, unenhanced Fulgidi and other humans.

‘Please excuse the interruption,’ said Greg Ranulph in magnification.

Had she wanted, Rashella could have read every emotion from the degree of tumescence in his lips, the lividity of his facial skin, the dilation and saccades - flickering search patterns - of his eyes. But Ranulph was only her gardener, and whatever he thought of his part-time position here - with his doctorates in biomath and ecoform engineering - she considered him a temporary adjunct to the house system’s expertise in landscaping and garden management.