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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

My eyes took some time to adjust to the darkness. It was warm inside the hall, the air thick with the scent of what smelt to me like burning juniper berries, some sort of resin, and something else. I sniffed. Perhaps mugwort leaves or yew needles. Candles and lamps flickered at the end of the building, and I began to make out the features of the man who waited there. I don’t rightly know what I had expected. I was young, but I knew that the evil within a man’s soul cannot be seen on his face, and I have since learnt that oftentimes the most handsome of men have the most twisted and corrupted minds. And yet the figure in the dark hall was the infamous Ljósberari, the bearer of light. A man we had heard so much about; whose murderous deeds we had witnessed all too frequently. This man was feared by kings and jarls. He was the murderer of countless Norse men and women, liberator of thralls, and a man we had been told believed himself to be a god, and who was worshipped as such by those who followed him. I suppose I had thought he would possess a powerful physique, with the strength and size to see his will obeyed. I did not expect such a man to look like a scribe. But the figure who sat on the carved high-backed seat at the head of the hall, was slender and balding, with a sharp nose, a long, almost feminine neck, and graceful, delicate fingers that now reached for a jug. I watched his precise movements as he poured liquid into two cups, before gently returning the pitcher to the board. I could easily imagine him sitting at a desk in a scriptorium, bent over the vellum, quill in hand, much as I am now as I write this. It was hard to believe that such a seemingly weak man could do so much harm; that he could command killers like Chlotar to do his bidding.

We passed a censer that wafted out clouds of pungent-smelling smoke. Ljósberari rose from his seat, a cup in each hand. He walked into the puddle of light surrounding a guttering oil lamp and his blue eyes flashed. In that instant I understood. To stare into his eyes was to gaze into the abyss of madness. But this was no gibbering fool, that drools and raves at the world. Ljósberari’s eyes shone with a cool intelligence. He smiled, lips drawing back from a neat row of white teeth, but his eyes remained distant and as cold as a winter night. He did not blink as he moved forward, and his penetrating gaze unnerved me. He walked with a strange elegance, appearing to glide, his head and shoulders barely moving.