Cover

WOLFSKIN

ALSO BY JULIET MARILLIER

THE SEVENWATERS TRILOGY

Daughter of the Forest

Son of the Shadows

Child of the Prophecy

WOLFSKIN

Juliet Marillier

Dedication

To Elly and Simon,
who set me on the path to Orkney

Acknowledgments

My special thanks go to Sigurd Towrie, historical and folkloric guru and creator of a Web site that is a treasure trove of Orcadian knowledge (www.orkneyjar.com). Sigurd’s patience in reading my huge manuscript and his perceptive comments and suggestions were of immeasurable assistance. I also thank Haukur Thorgeirsson, Anna Hansen, and Tarrin Wills for their work on the translation of Somerled’s graffiti into Old Norse and then into runes. Bronya Marillier managed, as usual, to convert my inscrutable pencil sketches into wonderful maps. My two editors, Brianne Tunnicliffe in Sydney and Claire Eddy in New York, were a joy to work with. My daughters and sons provided constructive criticism and sustaining cups of tea during the book’s gestation. Last but not least, my heartfelt thanks go to Cate Paterson at Pan Macmillan for her continuing support.

WOLFSKIN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HISTORICAL NOTE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ONE

Winter bites hard in Rogaland. Sodden thatch shudders under its blanket of snow. Within the earthen barns sheep shiver and huddle, their breath small clouds. A man can lose himself in the drifts between byre and longhouse, and not be found again until the spring thaw. The pristine shroud that covers him is deep, but his long sleep is deeper still. In such a season the ice forms black and hard on lake and stream. For some, it is a good time: merchants whip their horses fast along the gleaming surface of the waterways, sledges piled high with pelts of squirrel and winter hare, with sealskins and oil and walrus tusks, with salt fish and fine embroidery. Boys dart across the river on their bone skates, quick as swallows, voices echoing away to lose themselves among the pale twigs of the winter birches.

It was Yuletide, and today there was no skating. The wind screamed around the temple, demanding entry through any chink or cranny its piercing fingers might discover. The timbers creaked and groaned in response, but held firm. So far, the roof had not leaked. Just as well he’d climbed up and shifted some of the weight off the shingles, Eyvind thought. The place would be full to bursting for the midwinter sacrifice.

Folk were already streaming into the valley, coming by sledge and on foot, on skis or skates, old men carried on their sons’ backs, old women pulled on hurdles by red-faced children or panting dogs. The wind died down, as if holding its breath in honor of the occasion, but a new storm was coming. Dark clouds built in the west.