Why would they have been granted the vision of the phoenix if God had meant for them to die in such a pointless manner?
Baldwin was waiting for him where the tunnel floor sloped upward and out of the water.
“Come see,” said Baldwin sharply. “Gerulf got a fire going.”
“Gerulf?”
“That’s the old Lion.” Baldwin tugged him onward, steadying him when he stumbled. Weariness settled over Ivar’s shoulders. He shivered convulsively, soaked through. He wanted nothing more than to drop right where he stood and sleep until death, or the phoenix, came for him. Or maybe one would bring the other, it was hard to think with the walls wavering around him.
Strange sigils had been carved into the pale stone, broad rocks set upright and incised with the symbols of demons and ancient gods who plagued the people of elder days: four-sided lozenges, spirals that had neither beginning nor end, broad expanses of hatching cut into the rock as though straw had been pressed crisscross into the stone.
Yet how could he see at all, deep in the heart of a tomb?
With Baldwin’s help, he staggered forward until the tunnel opened into a smoky chamber lit by fire. He stared past his companions, who were huddled around a torch. The chamber was a black pit made eerie by flickering light. He could not see the ceiling, and the walls were lost to shadow. He sneezed.
Just beyond the smoking torch, a stone slab marked the center of the chamber. A queen had been laid to rest here long ago: there lay her bones, a pale skeleton asleep in the torchlight, its hollow-eyed frame woven with strands of rotting fabric and gleaming with precious gold that had fallen around the skull and into the ribs. Gold antlers sprang into sight as Gerulf shifted the torch to better investigate his comrade’s wound.
“You shouldn’t have lit a fire in a barrow!” cried Ivar, horrified. “Everyone knows a fire will wake the unholy dead!”
Frail Sigfrid sat at the unconscious Lion’s head, nearest to the burial altar. He looked up with the calm eyes of one who has felt God’s miraculous hands heal his body. “Don’t fear, Ivar.” The voice itself, restored to him by a miracle, was a reproof to Ivar’s fear. “God will protect us. This poor dead woman bears us no ill will.” He indicated the half-uncovered skeleton, then bent forward as the old Lion spoke to him in a low voice.
But how could Sigfrid tell? Ivar had grown up in the north, where the old gods still swarmed, jealous that the faith of the Unities had stolen so many ripe souls from their grasp. There was no telling what malice lay asleep here, or when it might wake.
Ermanrich and Hathumod sat together, hands clasped in a cousinly embrace. Both had lost a great deal of flesh. How long ago it seemed when the four youths and Hathumod had served together as novices at Quedlinhame, yet truly it wasn’t more than a year ago that they had all been cast out of the convent for committing the unforgivable sin of heresy.
Baldwin circled the stone altar and its dead queen, crouching to grasp one of the gold antlers. The light touch jostled the skeleton. Precious amber beads scattered down among the bones, falling in a rush.
“Don’t disturb the dead!” hissed Ivar. But Baldwin, eyes wide, reached right in to where strands of desiccated wool rope, whose ends were banded with small greenish-metal rods, curled around the pelvis. His hand closed over a small object, a glint of blue.
“Look!” he cried, with his other hand lifting a stone mirror out of the basin made by her pelvic bones. The polished black surface still gleamed. As Ivar took a panicked step forward to stop Baldwin from further desecration, he saw his movement reflected in that mirror.
“Ai, God, I fear my poor nephew is dead,” murmured Gerulf. “I swore to my sister I’d bring him home safely.”
Other shadows moved in the depths of the mirror, figures obscured by darkness. They walked out of the alcoves, ancient queens whose eyes had the glint of knives. The first was young, robed in a splendor as bright as burning arrows, but her mouth was cut in a cruel smile. The second had a matron’s girth, the generous bulk of a noble lady who never wants for food, and in her arms she carried a basket spilling over with fruit. The third wore her silver hair braided with bones, and the wrinkles in her aged face seemed as deep as clefts in a mountainside. Her raised hands had the texture of cobwebs. Her gaze caught him as in a vise. He could not speak to warn the others, who saw nothing and felt no danger.
Hathumod gasped. “What lies there?” Her words sent ripples through the ghosts as a hand clears away algae from an overgrown pond.
Ivar found his voice. “Baldwin! Put that down, you idiot!”