Skíei sighted down the shaft of his arrow. With a loosened breath, he released it. It flew straight and true, embedding itself into the eye of a young buck. At the same time, Brother Pawe? let loose his own arrow. This one also flew home into the neck of another buck. A spray of blood stained the melting snow. Both bucks staggered a few feet, keened lowly, and then died.

  Brother Pawe? let out a hearty chuckle, clapped Skíei on the shoulder, and stood as the deer that still lived bounded away. “Well done, young Skíei! How many hunters can claim a hit like that?”

  Skíei only shrugged. “I was aiming for his neck. It was a lucky shot.”

  “Nonsense! Svanbj?rn and Yrsa will be very pleased.” He helped Skíei to his feet. “Let’s go dress them and take them home.

  They made their way over to the fallen deer. With swift hands and calm assurance, Brother Pawe? dressed his buck. With somewhat less swift hands and a considerable amount of clumsiness, Skíei dressed his buck also. To his acute embarrassment, Brother Pawe? finished with his buck with plenty of time left over to critique his work.

  When they had finished with the grisly task, they each hoisted their own buck onto their shoulders and began the long walk home. They had walked two leagues from town to find the deer. For a while, they walked in companionable silence. This Skíei preferred. Other times Brother Pawe? would talk to him, sometimes more at him, about the Christian God. Skíei hadn’t, on the whole, decided who or what he believed in yet.

  Svanbj?rn, Skíei’s other mentor, was a devotee of Bragi. Yrsa followed the goddess Frigg. Together with Brother Pawe?, the two siblings had raised Skíei. He felt as though he should choose a side, a god, but he truly did not know who he believed in. All he knew was that they were his family, the only family he had ever known.

  He was Skíei Magdassen. Magda’s son. He did not know his father. He doubted anyone did. Magda had died without telling anyone. In fact, she had died shortly after he had been born. He didn’t remember her. He knew he had family somewhere. His mother had been the daughter of a merchant from far to the south. But they had abandoned his mother. If they even knew Skíei existed, he did not know.

  “What are you thinking about over there Skíei? You’re too quiet for this old monk,” Brother Pawe? said, puffing slightly from the weight of his buck.

  “Nothing,” Skíei lied easily.”Venison, mostly.”

  Brother Pawe? roared a laugh. “Always thinking with your stomach, eh? Well, you may still have some growing in you.” The old monk stroked his beard contemplatively. “You’re what, now, sixteen?”

  “Seventeen,” Skíei corrected absently. Brother Pawe? had been trying to make him younger than he really was since he was ten years old.

  “No! Already?”

  “During Yule, Svanbj?rn and Yrsa said.”

  Brother Pawe? harrumphed. “Well, I suppose they’d know. You were already toddling when I came to save your soul from their heathen ways.”

  Skíei smothered a groan. “Yes, Brother Pawe?.”

  “You must accept Jesu Christo as you Lord and Savior, boy. Hmm?” Brother Pawe? squinted ahead of them. “Who’s this, then?”

  Skíei peered forward, grateful for the reprieve. Ahead of them by a bend in the road sat an old man, a beggar by his worn clothing, seated by a small fire. The old beggar waved to them. Skíei waved back. Brother Pawe? did not.

  “Hail, great hunters,” the old man croaked at them. “You must be very skilled indeed, to have brought down two fine bucks with your bows.”

  “Indeed,” Brother Pawe? muttered. “Come, Skíei.” He motioned for Skíei to follow him.

  “A moment, good hunters,” the old beggar said. “You have two fine bucks there. Surely you have need of only one...”

  “We have four mouths to feed,” Brother Pawe? snapped. “Venison is lean. It does not go far. We need what we have. Come along, Skíei!”

  But Skíei had stopped. “No. No, Brother Pawe?, he is right. Perhaps we may hunt another deer tomorrow, but him? Forgive me, old father, but you are too long in the tooth to hunt else but rabbits. We can spare a buck.”

  “Skíei...”

  Ignoring him, Skíei slung his buck down beside the old man. “Here, old father. Have you a knife? I will do the butchering if you have none.”

  The old beggar eyed Skíei carefully with his one good eye and nodded once, decisively. “Very good, Skíei Madgassen. I want you to have this.” He passed Skíei a rolled piece of parchment. “This map will lead you to your heart’s desire, whatever that may be.”

  Then the old man turned to Brother Pawe?. “As for you, Brother Pawe? Sowa… You would be wise to be more charitable, old Jesuit. Your God looks down on men of the cloth who care only for their own affairs. As good as it was for you to care for young Skíei, your lack of charity puts your soul in a dangerous place. Take care.”

  Brother Pawe? reddened. “How do you know our names, old man? And who are you to lecture a monk?”

  The old man laughed. “You may call me ü?üncü. And I know enough of your religion to fear it and your ilk. You mean a world of harm to me and my kind.”

  “What do you mean?” Skíei asked, both curious and bemused.

  “I suspect you will find out soon enough,” said ü?üncü. “Take care of that map, Skíei Magdassen.”

  The wind abruptly blew hard and fast, kicking up the dust and blowing it into Skíei and Brother Pawe?’s faces. They each brought up an arm to shield their eyes. As suddenly as the wind rose, it fell away. Skíei lowered his arm, blinking away the grit, and stared.

  ü?üncü, the buck, and the fire… they had all disappeared! Skíei and Brother Pawe? peered around the faint, lifting, early morning fog, but there was no one in sight. When Skíei looked closer, there was no sign there had ever been a fire there at all.

  Brother Pawe? grunted. “What kind of devilish sorcery…? Well, no matter. We’ve lost half our hunt, traded for that so-called map. We’ll burn it when we get home. Who knows where it may lead?

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  Skíei looked down at the rolled scrap of parchment in his hand. “No,” he said.

  Brother Pawe? stared at him as though he had grown a second head. “No? Skíei, that map might lead you to the very fires of Hell for all you know!”

  “I do not desire the fires of Hell, Brother Pawe?,” Skíei said evenly. “I do not know where this map may lead me to… but I wish to find out.”

  Brother Pawe? reddened again, and then took a deep breath. “I… I am not your only guardian, Skíei. And you are a man grown. Let us speak with Svanbj?rn and Yrsa. Perhaps they will have some kind of insight into this… map.”

  “Very well.”

  They began to walk again. Brother Pawe? was somehow even quieter the rest of the way back to town. The expression on his face told Skíei that he was deep in thought. His usually dour face looked positively grim. Skíei thought about trying to say something to reassure him, but what could he say? He wanted to follow the map, and Brother Pawe? wanted him to burn it. There was nothing left to say.

  After nearly a candle’s mark of grim, silent marching, the building appeared in the distance. They paused for a moment at a nearby stream. Skíei tried to take the buck from Brother Pawe?, but the old monk only scowled and hoisted the dead animal higher onto his shoulder. Skíei only sighed.

  Sometimes Brother Pawe? was stubborn…

  The buildings in the distance grew larger. On the outskirts were small huts, ramshackle buildings belonging to very poor freemen. Further in were neat cottages with small gardens. In the town center were large buildings of stone. These belonged to the Lord and the rich merchants. Past these were more cottages and, down at the shore, storehouses and more ramshackle buildings belonging to poor fishermen.

  It was the town of Visby, in Gotland. It was a trading town, more than it was anything else. Even the Lord was more interested in trade than raiding, unlike the Lords on the mainland. Skíei had one thought every time they passed into town.

  It is not much, but it is home.

  Most men his age were either off trading or off raiding. But Skíei didn’t know what he wanted. He enjoyed hunting. He enjoyed fishing. He enjoyed bartering. He didn’t enjoy the prospect of doing any of them until… until what? Until he, too, was so infirm that he needed to beg at the roadside? Perhaps ü?üncü had been a warning for him and much as for Brother Pawe?…

  They walked to one of the small cottages nearer the forest, and Skíei opened the door for Brother Pawe?. Yrsa turned from where she was kneading bread on the counter and smiled at them.

  “Ah, the great huntsmen return? And with a fine buck! Well done,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Yrsa was a warm faced older woman. She and her twin brother Svanbj?rn were nearing their sixties and were well respected in the town of Visby.

  “There were two, but Skíei decided to make a deal with some demon at the turn in the road,” Brother Pawe? bit out sourly as he flung the buck onto the table.

  Yrsa raised an eyebrow at this. “A demon? What exactly happened, Skíei?”

  “I’d rather wait until Svanbj?rn is here if you don’t mind waiting, Yrsa?” Skíei asked plaintively. “I’d rather only tell it the once.”

  She sighed and gave him a stern look — the same one she’d given him to make him eat his vegetables as a child — but said only, “As you like it. My brother has gone to visit an old traveling companion who is in Visby for the year. One of his crewmen broke his leg, and his brothers will not leave him here to be tended. Svanbj?rn should be back soon enough…” She turned decisively back to her breadmaking. “And slaughter that animal off my table, thank you, Brother Pawe?!”

  Brother Pawe?, who had just unsheathed a large knife and was walking back to the buck, stopped. He sheathed the knife with a grumble, picked up the buck again with a scowl, and hauled it out the back door. Skíei followed after him with a smaller knife. As Brother Pawe? began to hack at the larger joints, Skíei started skinning the animal. In minutes, practiced as they both were, they had the hide stretched and curing. The meat they had salted and then put in the smoking shed.

  They were washing their bloody hands and knives when Svanbj?rn came out of the house. Svanbj?rn looked much like his sister Yrsa, but a tad grayer and with a thick, robust beard. Like Yrsa, his eyes were kind, but stern.

  “A buck?” Svanbj?rn asked as he approached. “Yrsa says there were two, but one was traded to a demon of some kind? And something about Skíei having a tale to tell?”

  “Inside,” Skíei said decisively. They went back into the cottage. Yrsa was just putting the bread into the oven as they entered, and the four of them sat at the table together.

  “So?” Yrsa asked impatiently.

  Skíei took a deep breath and told them of the encounter with ü?üncü. Brother Pawe? interjected once or twice with overlooked details, like the dead eye in ü?üncü’s left socket or the pair of ravens Skíei hadn’t seen circling overhead. These had apparently also disappeared when ü?üncü had vanished. When they finished speaking, Svanbj?rn exchanged a significant look with Yrsa.

  “The Allfather?” Svanbj?rn asked his sister.

  “I fear so,” Yrsa confirmed.

  “You don’t mean óe-” Skíei started.

  “DON’T!!” they stopped him together, hands outstretched.

  “If you have caught his eye — and clearly you have — do not say his name needlessly,” Svanbj?rn explained. “The Allfather’s attention is a capricious thing, better to be avoided when possible.” Skíei nodded and they both relaxed a little. “Now. Let us see this map.”

  Skíei hesitated a moment, then nodded and drew the rolled parchment ou of his pouch, He rolled it open on the table. He, Svanbj?rn, and Yrsa leaned forward to look, while Brother Pawe? leaned away, crossing himself.

  There was no rain of fire or death, only a map of Visby, a line pointing the way to the sea. On the map was a small arrow labeled “Skíei”. The map itself was labeled “Kalbin Arzusu”.

  Yrsa raised an eyebrow at Brother Pawe?, who was muttering in Latin and crossing himself fervently. “So? It is only a map.”

  “And the map leads to where, hmmm?” asked Svanbj?rn. “That line goes off the map.”

  “—per auxilium gratiae tuae dici: ut confortemini, Per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum. Amen.” Brother Pawe? finished crossing himself and leaned over the map. “At least Svanbj?rn is talking some sense. Well, Skíei? Do you still wish to follow this demon map?”

  “Yes,” Skíei said simply.

  “And what, exactly, are you seeking?” Svanbj?rn asked quietly. “What is the young Skíei’s heart’s desire?”

  “That’s a very personal question!” Yrsa objected. “Skíei, you don’t need to answer that.”

  “He does if he thinks to follow this map!” Svanbj?rn snapped. “I am not leaving my s—… my foster… to follow óe— the Allfather’s unkind graces alone! Either I go with him, or he does not go at all!”

  “If Svanbj?rn is going, I am going,” Brother Pawe? interjected. “And I think we would both like to know what we are seeking before we go haring off.”

  “And what, I am expected to mind the cottage while you three blunder along?” Yrsa asked, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Skíei is my foster too, brother!” She turned back to Skíei. “Tell us or no. I will go with you."

  “He is not going anywhere without me!” Brother Pawe? objected. “And I go nowhere without first knowing on what errand we go!”

  “He is my foster, not yours!” Svanbj?rn reminded the monk forcefully. He turned to Skíei. “Boy, if you wish to return to this cottage with your heart’s desire, out with it. What do you seek?”

  Skíei turned to Yrsa, who waved a disgusted hand. “Men. Tell them or lie. I care not.”

  He nodded and thought for a moment, looking down at the map on the table. His heart’s desire? The simplest, hardest question. What did he seek? What had he always wanted, more than anything? He looked from Yrsa to Svanbj?rn to Brother Pawe? and back to Yrsa, before looking back down at the map.

  Of course… But how could they ever understand?

  “Well, boy?” Brother Pawe? demanded. “What devil’s errand are you on?”

  Skíei looked at each of his foster parents in turn before saying clearly, for each of them to hear, “I seek the Mead of Poetry.”