Read Online Snow-Walker by Catherine Fisher - Free Book Online Page A

you?”
    Brochael took down a candle and lit it. “I was told,” he said. There was something in his voice that puzzled her, but she was too tired to think about it now.
    She took the letter out of her inner pocket and held it out.
    â€œWere you told about this?”
    He took it, looked at her a moment, then put the candle down and tugged open the knots that held the sealskin. A square of parchment fell out; he unfolded it on the table, spreading it flat with his big hands.
    They all leaned over it. Spindly brown letters were marked on the rough vellum. Brochael fingered them. “It’s brief enough.”
    He read it aloud. “‘From Ragnar, Jarl, to Brochael Gunnarsson, this warning. When I die she will come for the creature. It may be to kill, or it may be for some reason of her own. Take him south, out of these lands. I would not have him suffer as I have suffered.’”
    There was silence. Then Brochael folded the parchment. “Does he think I don’t know?” he said roughly. He picked up the candle.
    â€œCome with me,” he said. “All this gossip can wait until morning.”
    He led them to a thick curtain in one corner and pulled it back. Beyond it was the usual sleeping booth—it was well paneled in wood, the blankets patched and coarse. “The other is next to it.” Brochael put the candle down. “Not the silks of the Jarlshold, but just as warm. Sleep well, for as long as you like. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    â€œWhere do you sleep?” Thorkil asked, looking at the damp blanket with obvious distaste.
    â€œElsewhere.” Suddenly the big man turned, his shadow huge in the flame light. “The door will be locked—don’t let that alarm you. If you hear anything—voices, movements—far off in the building, ignore it. You are safe here. No one can get in.”
    There was a cold silence.
    â€œGood night,” Brochael said calmly.
    The curtain rustled. A moment later the key grated in the lock. “Well,” Thorkil muttered after a moment. “It’s almost as bad as I thought. Dust, fleas, rats.” He rubbed at the soiled red cloth of his jerkin and went off to find his own sleeping place.
    Wearily Jessa lay down in her clothes and wrapped herself in the rough, damp-smelling blankets. “But I didn’t expect Brochael,” she muttered quietly.
    â€œWhat?”
    There was no answer. When Thorkil came back and opened the curtain she was already asleep. He watched her for a moment, then reached out and snuffed the candle, and the flames in the eyes of the serpent on his wrist went out.
    Jessa threw two crumbling squares of peat on the fire and chewed the stale bannock that seemed to be breakfast. She watched Thorkil stagger in with the empty bucket and drop it with a clang.
    â€œThat water froze as I threw it out.” He sat down and looked at her. “We didn’t get many answers last night. No one could have got here before us, could they?”
    She was thinking of the peddler. “I don’t know. Who would?”
    â€œAnd have you seen this?” He tapped the slab of goat’s cheese they had found.
    â€œCheese,” Jessa said drily.
    â€œYes, but where did it come from? Where are the goats?”
    That surprised her. She shook her head, thinking of the empty outbuildings and the untrodden snow. “Perhaps in some building at the back—”
    â€œThey’d freeze. And Kari. Where’s he?”
    Jessa swallowed some crumbs. “I don’t want to know that.” She wiped her hand in her skirt. “Locked in some room, I suppose.”
    A scrape interrupted them; the key turned and Brochael ducked in under the low doorway. He had snow in his hair. He grinned at them cheerfully. “Awake! Sleep well?”
    â€œYes, thank you.”
    They watched him stand in front of the fire, his clothes steaming.
    Thorkil glanced at Jessa. “Look,”