The Liar's Key

“You! You were trying to steal the key off him in the cave that morning! He swapped it onto a chain because of you, not me! He’s been wise to you all along!” I realized I was pointing at her and lowered my hand.

“Taking the key would save his life!” She looked at me, exasperated. “Changing his mind would too.”

“It can’t be done, Kara. You should know that by now. You would know it if you’d seen him heading north. He can’t be stopped. He’s a grown man. It’s his life and if he wants—”

“It’s not just his life he’s throwing away, Jal.” Soft-voiced again. She set her hand to my arm. It gave me thrills, I’ll admit it. She had something about her, perhaps just built up after all those months of anticipation, but more than that I think. “Snorri could do untold damage. If Loki’s key falls into the Dead King’s hands . . .”

“It will be a bloody mess.” Suddenly the moment had passed, the mood soured, the darkness around us full of undead threat instead of romantic possibility. “But I still can’t do anything about it.” And besides, I’d be safe in the palace in the heart of Vermillion, in the heart of Red March, and if the Dead King’s evil could reach me there then we were all fucked. But I felt safer putting my trust in Grandmother’s walls and her armies than in my ability to part Snorri from that key. I shook Kara off and stood abruptly, bidding her good night. I was so close to home I could taste it, practically reach out and set my fingers to it and I wasn’t messing things up now, not for anything, not even the promise in Kara’s touch. No man likes to be a last resort in any event, and on top of that, despite the wide eyes, the promise, the hint of desperation, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow the woman was playing me.

That was a long night. My room hot, airless, and refusing to let me sleep.

Another day, more endless stretches of the Appan Way, another inn. And then one glorious summer morning, after trailing through mile upon mile of cultivated fields golden with wheat and green with squash, we crested a ridge and there on the horizon beneath a faint haze stood Vermillion, walls glowing with the early light. I’ll admit to a manly tear in my eye at the sight of it.

We made an early lunch at one of the many farmhouses close to the Appan Way that open their doors to passing travellers. We sat outside around a table in the shade of a huge cork tree. Chickens pecked their way about the dusty yard, watched by an old yellow dog too lazy to twitch when the flies landed on him. The farmer’s wife brought out fresh bread, butter, black olives, Milano cheese, and wine in a large earthenware amphora.

I had a cup or three of that good red before I gathered up the resolve to try one last time to talk Snorri out of his plan. Not for Kara, well, perhaps a little in the hope of Kara’s good opinion, but mostly just to save the big ox from his own stupidity.

“Snorri . . .” I said it with enough seriousness that he put down his clay cup and gave me his attention. “I, uh.” Kara looked up at me from her bread and olives, encouraging me with the slightest of nods.

Even with a loosened tongue I found it hard to say. “This taking Loki’s key to death’s door business . . .” Tuttugu shot me a warning look, gesturing down with the flat of his hand. “How about not doing it instead.” Tuttugu rolled his eyes. I scowled at him. Dammit, I was trying to help the man! “Give this up. It’s madness. You know it. I know it. Dead is dead. Except when it’s not. And we’ve seen how ugly that is. Even if the Dead King’s creatures don’t catch you on the road and take the key. Even if you reach Kelem and he doesn’t just kill you and take the key . . . Even then . . . you can’t win.”

Snorri stared at me, unspeaking, unreadable, unnerving. I drank deeply from my cup and, finding I’d reached the bottom, tried again.

“You’re not the first man to lose his wife . . .”

Snorri didn’t explode to his feet as I thought he might with me touching his rawest nerve, in fact for the best part of a minute he said nothing, just looked out at the road and the people passing by.

“The years ahead scare me.” Snorri didn’t turn to face me. He spoke his words into distance. “I’m not scared of the pain, though in truth the ache inside is more than I can bear. Much more.

“She lit me up. My wife, Freja. Like I was one of those windows I’ve seen in the house of the White Christ. Dull and without meaning by night and then the light comes and they’re aglow with colour and story. Have you known that, Prince of the Red March? Not a woman you would die for, but a woman you’d live for?