“I’ve been there,” said the old man. “Rune has visited it several times in search of sea ivory. But this mountain has a fire inside. Rune says it contains a dragon, but I’m more inclined to think there’s a crack leading down to Muspelheim, the world of fire.”

A seagull floated idly past, did a double take, and turned back to land by the Bard. It settled down as tame as you please, and the old man stroked its feathers. Just like St. Cuthbert, thought Jack.

“At any rate, the fire occasionally breaks through,” the Bard continued. “It melts the ice from below until suddenly the whole side of the mountain comes loose and roars down in one glorious, gigantic avalanche. That’s what the Northmen call a schlaup. And that, apparently, is what our friend looks like when he falls into a snit. I’d like time alone now to think, lad. We’re getting close to Bebba’s Town.”

On the way to the stern, Jack passed the Tanners, who were huddled in a tight group with their many bags around them like a fortress. They reminded him of a flock of ravens guarding the carcass of a deer.

Chapter Seventeen

THE PINK PALACE

The first thing Jack saw on land was the fortress of Din Guardi rising from a shelf of rock. He had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. A year ago the fortress had been so utterly destroyed that not one stone had been left standing on another. Yet here it was again, grander than before. The old walls had been gray and pockmarked as though they were suffering from some disease. Now they were a delicate pink. The battlements, once so forbidding, were decorated by green stonework so cleverly made that it looked like vines scrolling along the top. At each corner was a pink tower with the prettiest flags imaginable fluttering in the breeze.

Perhaps it had looked so in the days of Lancelot, King Brutus’ ancestor, Jack thought. In those days it had been called Joyous Garde and had been the home of music and laughter. But when it fell into Unlife, all joy fled. The halls became icy all year round, and not even weeds could grow in Din Guardi’s grim, gray courtyards.

“How in Middle Earth did Brutus do it?” said Thorgil, standing beside Jack.

“He was helped by the Lady of the Lake,” said Jack. “She must have used magic.”

“Then I wouldn’t trust the floors in that place. I saw the magic of Elfland fall apart,” the shield maiden said.

“He had the monks of St. Filian’s to do the heaviest work, and they don’t have any magic at all.”

The ship turned toward the port of Bebba’s Town and Egil’s crew guided it in. The men had been carefully picked. There wasn’t a berserker among them, for such warriors were impossible to control, and they had exchanged their leather armor for tunics. Each of them knew enough Saxon to pose as someone from another part of the country. There were differences. Egil’s crewmen were taller than the local people and their blue eyes sometimes had a wolfish gleam. An observant man would have noticed the calluses that indicated the use of weapons, but most people weren’t observant.

The broad knorr edged its way to the dock and was soon tied up. Many people watched to see what sort of cargo this unusual ship carried. Egil brought out only a few trade items—soapstone bowls, frying pans, and copper cauldrons—for he had already done the bulk of his trading. The Bard’s goods would be kept on board until market day.

“You can sleep here until you find a place to stay,” Egil told Mrs. Tanner.

“I’ve had enough of ships,” she spat at him. “Death traps, that’s what I call them. Besides, I have a brother in this town and it’s his duty to do right by us.” Without a thank-you or even a good-bye, Mrs. Tanner started off with Ymma and Ythla in her wake. They dragged the bulky bags behind them.

“Good riddance,” muttered Jack.

His spirits rose as they walked along the road to Din Guardi, even though he had to carry Fair Lamenting. The bell was wrapped in many layers of cloth and the resulting bundle was too large to tuck under his arm. Townspeople stood aside, impressed by Jack’s and Thorgil’s clothes and even more so by the Bard in his spotless white robe. The old man had added a wreath of oak leaves. That, along with the blackened ash wood staff, told everyone that he was an important wizard.

There was no longer a border of hedges around Din Guardi, for which Jack was grateful. It had formed a barrier between the fortress and the outside world, but its purpose had not been for protection. The Hedge had been like a silent army of closely massed trees, ever watchful at the boundaries of Unlife. When you passed through the tunnel linking the fortress with the outside world, branches reached out to catch your feet or scratch your face. When Unlife failed, the Hedge had torn apart the old Din Guardi and the men who were caught within had not been seen again.

Now the new building was open to the sea and sky. Jack thought it made an impressive sight, but he was surprised to see no sentries. The front gate stood open. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he said.

“Hall built of stone, sword close to hand, yet all fails when vigilance wanders,” quoted Thorgil.

“Quite right, shield maiden,” said the Bard. “Brutus is a weak king, more suited to singing love ditties, but he’s all we have to work with.” They went inside and wandered around until they encountered a servant carrying a tray of meat pies. “Announce our arrival,” the old man ordered. “Tell King Brutus that Dragon Tongue has arrived with two friends. We request lodging.” The servant didn’t question the Bard’s authority and hurried off to obey.

“The floor plan is different from what I remember,” complained the old man. “It’s not intelligently laid out for defense. I believe Brutus has forgotten that this building is meant to house an army ready for battle. I ask you, who ever heard of pink as a proper color for a fortress?”

Presently, the servant returned and led them to the throne room. Brutus was lounging on a couch, and all around him, on floor cushions or standing by his side, were ladies in long, flowing gowns. Some held musical instruments and others held trays of food. All of them were vying for the king’s attention. He lazily accepted their tribute—a honey cake, a morsel of chicken—and waved languidly at whichever musician he wished to hear.

“Wasting your time as usual, I see,” said the Bard, rapping his staff smartly on the floor.

“Dragon Tongue!” cried Brutus, rising to his feet. “What a pleasure to see you! And you, too, Jack. Thorgil, you’ve turned out to be quite a charmer.”

Thorgil blushed and Jack felt annoyed. The shield maiden always ignored his compliments, but she was smiling now.

“I must disagree, dear Dragon Tongue. Ladies are never a waste of time,” said Brutus. The court women giggled and fluffed their hair.

“Try to remember you’re a king. Your business is to rule,” the Bard snapped, but Brutus wasn’t the slightest bit embarrassed.

“Father Severus attends to the ruling,” he said. “He’s much better at keeping order, and he positively enjoys hearing dreary old court cases. He’s the abbot of the monastery now, you know. My job is to inspire.”

The old man shook his head. “You’re hopeless, like all the rest of the Lancelot family. But I’ve come here on business. Our village has been devastated by a Wild Hunt, and I must trade for grain. Is there a corner in this pink monstrosity where an old man and a couple of children can rest their heads?”

“Of course!” Brutus said. “Let’s see… the Amethyst Suite is available, or you might like the Swan Room. It’s all in white. My goodness, you’d melt right into the background!” The king was overcome with mirth.

“Any place with beds will do,” the Bard said.

“We must have a feast to celebrate your arrival. I have the most inventive cook. Last night he served roast pig stuffed with lamb stuffed with goose stuffed with pigeon stuffed with lark. We were all placing bets on what we would find in the next layer.” Brutus sent ladies off with various orders. Servants dragged in chairs.

“I’d hoped to see Ethne here,” the Bard said. “She’s completely unsuitable for a convent, and in my opinion, you couldn’t ask for a lovelier queen. Do you ever look in on her?”

For the first time Brutus seemed uneasy. “You haven’t heard?”

“I live in a tiny village. I have trouble hearing anything. Is she ill?”

“Not exactly,” the king said.

“Well, where is she? I’ll go at once to help her.”

Brutus nervously laced his fingers together and nibbled his lower lip. It would have looked silly in most men, but it only made him more adorable. One of the lady musicians sighed. “It isn’t allowed—I mean, Father Severus wouldn’t allow it,” stammered the king. “It has something to do with church rules. I did tell him it was a bad idea. I meant to send you a message, but…” He spread his hands helplessly.

“But you couldn’t be bothered!” roared the Bard. “By Odin’s eyebrows, you’re a king. You give the orders to Father Severus, not the other way around. Now where’s my daughter?”

“It’s awkward…”

“If you don’t tell me what happened this instant, you’re going to be hopping around a marsh full of hungry herons!”

The air crackled with electricity and the tapestries on the walls billowed out. A court lady fainted into the arms of her companions. Brutus quickly laid out the tale with many a glance at the old man to see how he was taking it. It seemed that Ethne had gone mad—well, not mad exactly. She heard voices. Hearing voices might be insane, except when you really did hear them. And Ethne did. It was her elvish relatives trying to get her to return.

They came to Ethne’s room every night. They filled her ears with the glories of Elfland and offered to take her home, if only she would give up her quest to gain a soul. “Father Severus couldn’t hear them, but I could,” said Brutus. “The elves have never hidden from me, and the queen has always fancied me.”

“I know,” said the Bard, disgusted. “This is what I feared from the beginning. My poor child is caught between two worlds, and she’s chosen a path too difficult for her. I wanted to immerse her in the life force, and that rascally priest has walled her off from it. Wait till I get my hands on him! Where is she?”

“That’s the problem,” the king said miserably. “He really did wall her up. I mean, she’s alive, but he put her into the one place the elves dared not approach. There’s a tiny room next to the chapel. It’s full of Christian magic, and the Fair Folk can’t endure it. Father Severus put her there and the monks bricked up the door. The only opening is a narrow window.”

“You mean she can’t get out?” Jack cried. He’d seen the room. It was hardly wider than a bed and not much longer.

“Death would be better than such an existence,” said Thorgil.

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