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mirth faded. “If you go to Gliru-hals, you might never
    come back again,” he said worriedly. “I remember how it was before.
    Sorkvir was the grandest thing you ever saw. You were lucky to have
    escaped from him once. Are you sure he’ll let you go a second time?”
    “I have a good sword, Snagi, made of Scipling steel,” Leifr
    assured him, sensing his fond concern. “Sorkvir’s alog hasn’t touched
    it. As long as I have it in my hand, I’ll have a fighting chance of getting
    away from Sorkvir again.”
    Snagi wagged his head in solemn agreement. “I’ll have the mare
    saddled for you. This isn’t like before, when you didn’t want to be one
    of us.”
    Leifr stared after his patient brown backside, stumping across the
    overgrown courtyard toward the stable, and wondered if he would ever
    understand Fridmarr completely. An uneasy sense that he was
    treading blithely over cavernous depths began to plague him,
    especially when he considered what he was about to do. Over the past
    three days he had at least learned in which direction Gliru-hals lay, but
    everyone seemed to expect Fridmarr to know what awaited him within.
    Snagi accompanied him as far as the first gate, which he
    ceremoniously opened for Leifr. At that moment, a flock of sheep
    pattered across their path and Leifr stopped to let them pass. As the
    shepherd went by, Leifr caught a glimpse of a woman’s face beneath the
    closely drawn, ragged hood. Twice she looked over her shoulder with a
    frown and would have hurried on with her blattering sheep if Snagi had
    not called out to her.
    “Halloa! Ljosa! Stop a moment!” He hobbled after her, anxious
    to impart his news of Fridmarr’s return.
    “I’ve heard it already,” she said, with an unfriendly toss of
    her head in Leifr’s direction. “Everyone is anxious for me to know that
    Fridmarr is back, although I fail to see where the honor lies in returning
    forty-odd years after he’s caused his brother to be killed.”
    “No! Ljosa!” Leifr gasped, caught completely off balance by an
    overwhelmingly poignant surge of recognition sparked by the
    carbuncle. With a wave of revulsion, he wished he were posing as
    almost anyone else but Fridmarr. The hatred in Ljosa’s eyes struck
    deep. Her anger lent a soft blush to her pale and delicate cheek and
    added brilliance to her large and alluring eyes. Tendrils of fair hair
    escaped from her hood like wisps of mist, agitated by her deep, quick
    breathing as she looked at him. The ragged cloak enveloping her
    form failed to conceal her regal bearing, made even more haughty by
    her indignation.
    Ljosa gripped her shepherd’s staff resolutely. “I don’t know what
    you’re thinking of to come back here,” she said in a low, forceful tone.
    “You can’t possible do more harm than you’ve already done. Or are you
    dissatisfied with your handiwork? Is there someone else besides
    Bodmarr you’d like to sacrifice? At least my father is out of your
    reach now. He died last spring in Sorkvir’s dungeon.” Angrily she
    dabbed at a tear with a tatter from her cloak, turning away to hide
    her emotion.
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” Leifr said unsteadily, flogging
    his wits for something appropriate to say. “I know I’m guilty of many
    things, but I want to make amends.”
    “Amends! Do you think that’s the way to find peace of mind,
    Fridmarr?” she retorted. “Can you ever ease your conscience after what
    happened to Bodmarr? A lifetime of good deeds will not bring him
    back. Amends are futile and vain when lives have been blasted and
    shattered.“ She whistled to her dogs to gather the scattered sheep and
    strode away.
    Leifr gazed at her haughty back, but she did not favor him
    with a second glance. He expelled a weary sigh, totally baffled by
    Ljosa’s hatred of Fridmarr.
    “You almost wouldn’t know her now in those ordinary
    observed. “A far cry from what she once was, when
    clothes,” Snagi
    Hroald was chieftain. Still as