“You’re trying to tell me you’re not hearing a voice?” Snorri leaned around in the saddle to scowl at me. He could manage the sort of scowl that reminded you he named his axes.

I could hardly deny it. The voice that had whispered beyond the edge of hearing in Compere had grown more distinct day by day, and its directives more frequent. It grew loudest each dawn. At first I had imagined that this was what people like Cousin Serah meant when urging me to listen to my conscience. I thought perhaps that too much fresh air and a lack of alcohol had opened me up to the nagging monologue of conscience for once in my life. Morning after morning of pious lecturing had me doubting my theory, though. Surely everyone couldn’t go around with some sickeningly moral voyeur hectoring them each moment of their life? How would they stay even vaguely sane? Or have fun?

“And what does this voice say to you?” I asked, still not admitting to anything.

Snorri returned his gaze to the road ahead, showing me broad shoulders. “I’m dark-sworn, Jal. Cracked through with it. What kind of secrets do you think the night whispers?”

“Hmm.” That didn’t sound good, though frankly I wouldn’t have minded swapping. Unsavoury suggestions bubbled out of the darkness at the back of my mind all the time. Most I ignored easily enough. Being upbraided on my own moral shortcomings at every turn, on the other hand, was proving most annoying. “Does your voice have a name?”

“She’s called Aslaug.”

“She? You got a woman?” I couldn’t keep the complaint from my voice. Nor did I try.

“Loki lay with a jötnar, a beauty with a spider’s shadow.” Snorri sounded self-conscious, no hint of the storyteller now, hesitating as he repeated unfamiliar details. “She birthed a hundred daughters in the dark places of the world, and none of them ever stepped out into the light. Old Elida used to tell us that tale. Now one of those daughters walks in my shadow.”

“So you got a beauty with a dirty mind, and I got a pious killjoy. Where’s the justice in that?”

“Called?” Snorri glanced back at me.

“Baraqel. I expect my father used to drone on about him from the pulpit. Damned if I know the name, though.” I was sure Baraqel would be eager to burden me with his lineage if I gave him the chance. He seemed to be a disembodied voice who liked the sound of his own pronouncements. Fortunately his visitations were limited to the few minutes between the sun cresting the horizon and clearing it—the rest of the time I could pretty much ignore him. And what with me being almost entirely made of sins that needed to be vilified, it didn’t leave much time for other matters.

“Well,” said Snorri. “It’s pretty clear we need to make haste, before Baraqel makes a decent man of you. And before Aslaug makes a bad one of me. She’s not fond of you, Jal, you should know that.”