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  She stopped as if she had run into a wall, with the point touching his throat. Halldór’s heart pounded as if his blood wanted to leap out to join the sword. Why had she stopped? Her arm trembled. Her teeth bared in a grimace, but she did not move the sword any closer.

  Her face, half-hidden by her helm, was dark with rage. “Where am I?”

  Holding still, Halldór said, “We are on the border of the Parliament lands, Li Reiko.”

  Her dark eyes, slanted beneath angry lids, widened. She backed away from them and her armor rippled, vanishing into thought. Skin, tanned like the smoothest leather stretched over her wide cheekbones. Her hair hung in a heavy, black braid down her back. Halldór’s heart pounded.

  Only the gods in sagas had hair that did not gleam with shades of the All-Father’s sun. Had he needed proof that he had called the Chooser of the Slain, the inhuman black hair would have convinced him of that.

  He bowed his head. “All praise to you. Grant us your blessings.”

  Reiko’s breath hissed from her. He knew her name. She thought she had dropped through a flaming portal into hell. But this demon with bulging eyes knew her name.

  She had been ready to slay him as she had the others, but could not press her sword forward. As if a wall had protected him.

  And now he asked for blessings.

  “What blessings do you ask of me?” Reiko said. She controlled a shudder. What human had hair as pale as straw?

  Straw lowered his bulging eyes to the ground. “Grant us, O Gracious One, the life of our Duke Lárus.”

  His gaze rested, not on the ground, but on the demon lying in front of him. This one, Lárus, had a wound deep in his shoulder. His blood was as red as any human’s, but his face was pale as death.

  She turned from Straw and wiped her sword on the thick moss, cleaning the blood from it. As soon as her attention seemed turned from them, Straw attended Lárus, the fallen demon. She kept her awareness on the sounds of his movement as she sought balance in the familiar task of caring for her weapon. By the gods! How had he come to have her sword? It had been in her rooms not ten minutes before when she was playing hide and seek with her children.

  Panic almost took her. What had happened to her Aya and Nawi? She needed information, but to display ignorance to an enemy was a weakness which could kill surer than the sharpest blade. She considered. They wanted her aid. Could demons be bound by blood debt? She turned back to Straw.

  “What price do you offer for this life?”

  Straw raised his eyes; they were the color of the sky. “I offer my life to you, O Great One.”

  She set her lips. What good would vengeance do? Unless . . . “Do you offer blood or to serve me?”

  He lowered his head again. “I submit to your will.”

  She jerked her head once in agreement. “You will serve me then. Do you agree to be my bound man?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” She sheathed her sword. “What is your name?”

  “Halldór Arnarsson.”

  “I accept your pledge.” She dropped to her knees beside them and pushed the fabric from the wound on the fallen demon’s shoulder. His shoulder was warm and finely molded. Laying her hands upon it, she pulled upon the reserves within herself and began to heal him. As her mind dove into the healing ritual, she realized he was human. She pushed the thought aside; she could not spare the concentration.

  Halldór gasped as fire began to glow around Li Reiko’s hands. He had read of the gods healing in the sagas, but to bear witness was beyond his imagining.

  The glow faded. She lifted her hands from Lárus’s shoulder. The wound was gone. A narrow red line and the blood-soaked clothing remained. His breathing was slow and easy. Lárus opened his eyes as if he had only been sleeping.

  But her face was drawn. “I have paid the price for your service, bound man.” She lifted a hand to her temple. “The wound was deeper . . . ” Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground.

  Lárus grabbed Halldór by the shoulder. “What did you do?”

  He shook him off and crouched next to her. She was breathing. “I saved your life.”

  “By binding yourself to a woman? Are you mad?”

  “She just healed you. Healed! Look.” Halldór pointed at her hair. “Look at her. This is Li Reiko.”

  “Li Reiko was a warrior.”

  He wanted to throttle Lárus. “You saw her. How long did it take her to kill six men?” He pointed at the carnage behind them. “Name one man who could do that.”

  Would it be sacrilege to move her? He grimaced. He would beg forgiveness if that were the case. “Let’s move before the trolls come out.”

  Lárus nodded slowly, his eyes still on the bodies around them. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “How many of the other sagas are true, too?”

  Halldór frowned. “They’re all true. They’re our history.”

  The smell of mutton cooking invaded her dreamless sleep. Reiko pulled herself to consciousness. She lay under sheepskin, on a bed of straw ticking. The straw poked through the wool fabric to prick her bare skin. Straw. Her memory tickled her with an image of hair the color of straw. Halldór.

  Only long practice kept her breath even. She lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sounds around her. She needed to learn as much as possible, before changing the balance by letting them know she was awake. A small room. An open fire. Women murmuring.

  A hand placed a damp rag on her brow. The touch was light. The hand was small, likely a woman or a child.

  The sheepskin’s weight would telegraph her movement if she tried to grab the hand. Better to open her eyes and feign weakness, than to create an impression of threat. There was time for that later.

  Reiko let her eyes flutter open. A girl bent over her. She showed the signs of the same demonic sculptor as Halldór. Her hair was the color of honey, her wild blue eyes started from her head. She stilled slightly when Reiko opened her eyes, but did not pull away.

  Reiko forced herself to smile, and let a small crease of worry appear between her eyebrows. “Where am I?”

  “In the women’s quarters at the Parliament grounds.”

  Reiko sat up. The sheepskin fell away, letting the cool air caress her body. The girl averted her eyes. Conversation in the room stopped.

  Interesting. They had a nudity taboo. She reached for the sheepskin and pulled it over her torso. “What is your name?”

  “Mara Arnarsdottir.”

  Arnar’s daughter. So she was likely to be Halldór’s sister. “Where are my clothes, Mara?”

  The girl turned to a low bench next to the bed and picked up a folded bundle of cloth. “I washed them for you.”

  If Mara had time to wash and dry her clothes, Reiko must have been unconscious for several hours. The wound had been deeper than she thought. “Thank you for washing them.” She studied at the empty bench. “Where is my sword?”

  “My—my brother has it.”

  Rage swarmed up Reiko’s veins like the fire that had brought her here. She waited for the heat to pass, then smiled at Mara. “Thank you.” Standing, she began to dress.

  Behind Mara, the other women shifted nervously as if Reiko were about to cross a line. As Reiko pulled her boots on, she asked, “Where is he?”

  Mara looked behind her for support, then back at Reiko. “He’s at the Parliament.”

  “Which is where?” The eyes of the other women felt like heat on her skin. Ah. Parliament contained the line she should not cross, and they clearly would not answer her. She smiled at Mara. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  As she strode from the room she kept her senses fanned out, waiting for one of them to stop her. They hung back, almost as if they were afraid of her.

  The women’s quarters fronted on a narrow twisting path lined with low turf and stone houses. The end of the street opened onto a large raised circle. The circle was perhaps a hundred paces across and l
ined around its perimeter with stone benches.

  Men sat on the stone benches, but women stayed below. Lárus spoke in the middle of the circle. Halldór stood by his side, with her sword in his hands. Standing in the shadow by a house, Reiko watched them. They towered above her, but their movements were clumsy and oafish like a trained bear. Nawi had better training than any here.

  Her son. Sudden anxiety and rage filled her lungs, but to give into rage would invite rash decisions. She forced the anger away.

  With effort, she turned her focus to the men. They had no awareness of their mass, only of their size—and an imperfect grasp of that.

  As she watched, Halldór lifted his head as if he smelled something. His eyes narrowed and his grip tightened on the scabbard of her sword. As if it were guided by strings, his head turned slowly till he stared at her. Reiko stepped out of the shadows and his nostrils flared.

  Halldór dropped to his knees and held her sword out to her. In mid-sentence, Lárus looked at Halldór, then turned slowly to Reiko. Surprise crossed his face, but he bowed his head.

  “Li Reiko, you honor us with your presence.”

  Reiko climbed onto the stone circle. As she crossed to Halldór, a shaggy bear of a man rose to his feet. “I will not sit here, while there is a woman in the Parliament’s circle.”

  Lárus spun to face the man. “Ingolfur, this is no mortal woman.”

  Reiko’s attention sprang forward. What did they think she was, if not mortal?

  “You have darkened a trollop’s hair with soot.” Ingolfur crossed his arms. “You expect me to believe she’s a god?”

  Her pulse quickened. What were they saying? Lárus flung his cloak back, showing the torn and blood-soaked cloth at his shoulder. “We were set upon by trolls. My arm was cut half off and she healed it.” He pointed at her. His pale face was flushed red. “I tell you this is Li Reiko, returned to the world.”

  She understood the words, but it was as if they had no meaning. Each sentence out of their mouths raised a thousand questions in her mind.

  “Ha.” Ingolfur spat on the ground. “Your quest sought a warrior to defeat the Troll King.”

  This she could understand.

  “And if I do, what price do you offer?”

  Lárus opened his mouth but Ingolfur crossed the circle and leaned toward Reiko. Beside her, Halldór tensed. Reiko waited.

  “You pretend to be the great warrior?” Ingolfur reached for her, as if she were a doll he could pick up. Before his hand touched her shoulder, she took his wrist in her hands, pulling on it as she twisted. She drove her shoulder into his belly and used his mass to flip him as she stood.

  She had thought these were demons, but by their actions, they were men, full of swagger and rash judgment. She waited. He would attack her again.

  Ingolfur bellowed behind her. Reiko focused on his sounds and the small changes in the air. As he reached for her, she twisted away from his hands and used his force to send him stumbling from the center of the circle. The circle of men broke into laughter.

  She waited again.

  It might take time but Ingolfur would learn his place.

  Halldór stepped in front of Reiko and faced Ingolfur. “Great Ingolfur, surely you can see no mortal woman could face our champion.”

  Reiko cocked her head slightly. Her bound man was clever to appeal to the oaf’s vanity.

  Lárus looked around the circle of men and pointed to her sword in Halldór’s hands. “Who here still doubts we have completed our quest?” They shifted on their benches uneasily. “We have fulfilled the first part of prophecy by returning Li Reiko to the world.”

  What prophecy had her name in it? There might be a bargaining chip here.

  “You promised us a mighty warrior, the Chooser of the Slain.” Ingolfur snarled, “Not a woman.”

  It was time to act. If they wanted a god, then they should have one. “Have no doubt. I can defeat the Troll King.” She let her armor flourish around her. Ingolfur took an involuntary step back. Around the circle she heard a collection of gasps and sharp cries.

  She cocked her head and drew her sword from Halldór’s hands. “Who here will test me?”

  Lárus dropped to his knees in front of her. “The Chooser of the Slain!”

  In almost the same breath, Halldór knelt and cried, “Li Reiko!”

  Around the circle, men followed suit. On the ground below, women and children knelt in the dirt. They cried her name. In the safety of her helm, Reiko scowled. Playing at godhood was a dangerous lie.

  She lowered her sword and looked around the circle. “But there is a price. You must return me to the heavens.”

  Halldór raised his head. His eyes wider than she thought possible. “How, my lady?”

  She shook her head. “You know the gods grant nothing easily. They say you must return me. You must learn how. Who here accepts that price for your freedom from the trolls?”

  She sheathed her sword and let her armor vanish back into thought. Turning on her heel, she strode off the Parliament’s circle. Behind her, the circle erupted into knots of discussion.

  Halldór watched Li Reiko leave the Parliament circle and clambered to his feet to follow her. Lárus grabbed him by the arm. “What does she mean, return her?”

  Ingolfur tossed up his hands. “If that is the price I will pay it gladly. To be rid of the Troll King and her at the same time would be a joy.”

  “Is it possible?”

  Men crowded around him, asking him theological questions, and questions of the sagas which he found difficult to answer. He had not cast a rune-stone or read an entrail since they started for the elf-house a week ago. “She would not ask if it were impossible.” He swallowed. “I will study the problem and return to you.”

  Lárus clapped him on the back. “Good man.” When he turned back to the throng surrounding them, Halldór slipped away.

  He found Li Reiko surrounded by children. The women hung back, watching her, too shy to come closer. But the children crowded up close. Halldór could hardly believe she had killed six men as easily as carding wool. He had the space of a breath to watch her playing peek-a-boo with a small child before she saw him. Her face had been open with delight and pain; the shutters closed when she saw him.

  She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “I want to read the prophecy.”

  He blinked in surprise. Then his heart lifted; maybe she was going to show him how to pay her price. “It is stored in the church.”

  Reiko looked back at the child and brushed its hair away from its eyes, then fell into step beside him. Halldór forced himself to walk at a sedate pace to the church. He led her into the nave of the church, and then into the room where the holy books were stored. His palms were damp with sweat as he pulled the drawing off the shelf and unrolled it on the table.

  He did not look at the careful rendering of entrails. He watched her. Her face was impassive; she turned to him and said, “I want to hear your explanation of this.”

  He pointed at the arc of sclera. “This represents the heavens, and the overlap here,” he pointed at the bulge of the lower intestine, “means time of conflict. I interpreted the opening in the bulge to mean specifically the Troll King. This pattern of blood means—”

  She crossed her arms. “You clearly understand your discipline. Tell me the prophecy in plain language.”

  “Oh.” He looked at the drawing of the entrails again. “Well, in a time of conflict—which is now—the only thing that can overcome the Troll King is a legendary warrior. The Chooser of the Slain.” He pointed at shining knot around the lower intestine. “See how this chokes off the Troll King. That means you win the battle.”

  “And how did you know the legendary warrior was—is—me?”

  “I cross-referenced with our histories and you were the one that fit all the criteria.”

  She shivered. “Show me the history. I want to understand how you deciphered this.”

  Halldór pulled the volume of hi
story from the shelves. He placed it in front of Li Reiko and opened the heavy pages.

  In the autumn before the Collapse, Li Reiko, greatest of the warriors, trained Li Nawi and his sister Aya in the ways of Death. In the midst of the training, a curtain of fire split Nawi from Aya and when they came together again, Li Reiko was gone. Though they were frightened they understood that the Chooser of the Slain had taken a rightful place in heaven.

  Reiko trembled, her control gone. “What is this?”

  “It is our history.” Halldór knelt beside her and traced the letters. “Since the gods left the Earth, we have kept records of histories and prophecies.” He nodded at the bookshelves behind them. Reiko turned to look at the ranks of stone shelves lined with thick leather bindings. “The sagas are our heritage and charge.”

  Reiko turned her eyes blindly from the page. “I am your history?”

  “You are a legend. See? Your son Li Nawi recorded your triumphs in battle.”

  He flipped the pages forward. “Here. This is how we knew where to look for your sword.” He paused with his hand over the letters. “I deciphered the clues to find it.”

  Reiko pushed away from the table. “You caused the curtain of fire?” She wanted to vomit her fear at his feet.

  Halldór shook his head, his face drained of color. “No. The prophecy foretold that you would return in our time of need.”

  “I dropped through fire this morning.” And when they came together again, Li Reiko was no more. What had it been like for Aya and Nawi to see their mother disappear in the curtain of fire?

  “You were in the heavens with the gods.”

  “That’s something you tell a grieving child! I was playing hide and seek with my children and you took me from them.”

  “I-I didn’t, I—” His face turned gray. “Forgive me, Great One.”

  “I am not a god!” She pushed him, all control gone. He tripped over a bench and dropped to the floor. “Send me back.”

  “I cannot.”

  Her sword flew from its sheath before she realized she held it. “Send me back!” She held it to his neck. Her arms trembled with the desire to run it through him. But it would not move.