“Hennan’s grandfather, the grandson of Lotar Vale.”

“Who could forget Lotar Vale? The hero you’d never heard of until the moment that old man said his name!”

“Doesn’t matter.” Snorri raised his head to fix me with that steady blue gaze of his. “What matters is that Arran Vale had a history, roots, something to live for, something to make a stand over.”

“All I remember is that you and Tuttugu were about to throw your lives away beside some old farmer you’d met only moments before, and all to defend his hut and its worthless contents from Vikings who probably wouldn’t have even bothered taking it anyway.” The ground is trembling now, the dust starting to dance. My sister is close and coming fast.

“A life lived well is one you’re not prepared to compromise just in order to draw it out for another day.”

“Well . . .” Reading out the list of things I would do to live another day would consume all of the extra day in question.

“The point is that there are things I’m prepared to die for. Times when it is right to make a stand, whatever the odds. And if Tuttugu and I would do what we did for Hennan’s grandfather—an old man we didn’t, as you rightly say, know. Then what do you think I’m prepared to do for my children? For my wife? Whether I can win is not a factor.”

We have had this conversation before. I didn’t expect him to have changed, but sometimes you owe it to a friend to try.

“Good luck!” I slap a hand to Snorri’s shoulder and I’m off. The dark behind him looks thicker as if a storm is rolling down on us. She’s there at the heart of it, the one whose mouth knows my name—my nameless sister and the lichkin who wears her soul.

I’m five yards away when he says, “Show me the key.”

I stretch out my hands, one toward Snorri, the other toward the door into the judges’ hall. “I’ve got to go!” The hell-night is boiling blackness behind him, the howl coming again so loud it drowns out my objections. Every hair I own tries to stand on end.

Even so, I pull the key from my shirt on the thong about my neck and run back to him. Snorri takes the knife from his belt and puts the blade to his palm.

“Jesus, no!” I wave my hand in what I hope is a negative pattern. “What is it with you northmen and cutting yourselves? I remember what happened last time you tried this Viking shit on me. How about we just shake hands?”

Snorri grins. “The key will be our link. You back in the world. Me here. Blood will bind us.” He cuts his palm and I wince to see it done, the blood welling up where the point of the knife passed.

“How do you know any of this?” I’m still hoping there’s a way out of this without having to slice myself open. A dark mist is rising now, pushing back the light. The souls scatter. They know a bad thing is coming. Suddenly I find myself ready to cut my damn hand off if it means I can leave. Even so, I stay, Snorri’s friendship holding me just the same way it very nearly pulled me through the door into Hell. “Blood will bind us? You’re just making it up as you go, aren’t you?”

Snorri meets my gaze, a slight shrug in his shoulders. “If I learned anything from Kara it’s that in magic it is will that counts. The words, the spells, scrolls, ingredients . . . it’s for show, or perhaps better to say they’re like a warrior’s weapons, but it’s the strength of the warrior’s arm that is what truly matters. He can kill you with his hands, weapon or no weapon.” He reaches out and folds his bloody hand about the key. “This will be our link. When you open the door you’ll find me.”

The dark has grown thick about us, and cold. It’s as if Snorri doesn’t see it, though: there’s no fear in him. Me, I have enough for both of us. A howling rises with the midnight, the sort a thousand wolves might make . . . if you set fire to them. Close now. Close and closing fast.

“How will I even find the door? How will I know you’re ready to return? Christ, look, I’ve got to go—”

“You need to will it to be so.” Snorri takes his hand back. There’s no blood on the key though it drips scarlet from his clenched fist. “It will work—or it won’t. Kara was to open the way for my return. Kara, or Skilfar, if she had taken the key back to her grandmother as she promised her. Now all I have is you, Jal. So keep the key safe and listen for my call.”

I tuck the key away. “I’ll listen.” It’s not much of a lie. I don’t even know what “listen” means. On my chest the key grows warmer as if falsehoods please it. I try to think of some last words for Snorri. “Farewell” sounds pompous. “Stay safe” is obviously not going to happen.