The Chronicle:

We sailed on in consort with the Revensj, swinging far to the south and east of the archipelago that some would call Vendel and some still claim as Vestenmannavnjar, making our way northward and around until we reached the northernmost island of Grimstadd.  The island was entirely locked in sheets of solid ice except for, as we discovered, one narrow passage left open by the ice.  We followed the Vesten raiders into a long and narrow fjord, sheer slabs of mountain dropping sharply to either side.  Then the lookout cried out in alarm, uncharacteristically incoherent.  We looked up, but the man pointed behind us with a string of curses.  Astern of us, an ice floe rose from the sea and moved, seemingly under its own power, to lock the fjord.  After a second of gasping horror, I turned to Gris Hallisdottir, who was on deck for the arrival.  She explained in a matter-of-fact tone that this was the work of rune sorcerers to protect the fjord and the rest of the island from Vendel ships.  I restored calm among the crew as best I could.

A village was nested in the crook of the fjord, and several more dotted the mountain sides.  The Revensj glided to its berth with smooth stateliness, and we followed more cautiously.  A small crowd of Vesten had gathered near the docks to greet their brethren.  I noticed the sailors on the Revensj had started taking off their furs and wools again.  When I asked Gris about it, she said it was customary for the sailors to demonstrate that they did not feel the cold.  The villagers, for their part, were safely bundled up.  I silently agreed with the mumblings of my crew to the effect that Vesten are crazy.  Many sailors jumped from the raider ship to be warmly greeted by the villagers, and walked off.  But I noticed that many stayed on board their ship, including Captain Olafsdottir, Red Thorfild, and Hoskuld Hardrada.  Gris Hallisdottir and Orm Greybeard were also staying on the Maris Stella, but I assumed they were still on duty anyway.  I asked Gris why the captain and her officers were not meeting family and friends, and she answered gravely that they had none.

There was an issue that had been stinging my conscience for the past few days.  After the excitement of my duel with Red Thorfild had died off, I had begun to feel shame at the way I had taunted him.  Of course, I would not have felt so if he had won (and by some chance I had lived), but I feel very uneasy about mocking a vanquished foe; it seems like a dishonourable thing to do.  I told Gris I wished to speak to Hoskuld Hardrada and Red Thorfild; when she asked why, with some surprise, I said only that I wished to correct a past mistake.  She looked dubious but asked Orm Greybeard to escort me there.  I smirked privately.  The Vesten were willing to take my word, but made sure I was accompanied at all times...

Orm took me to the Revensj, where I found the captain, the bosun, and the first mate in conversation.  I waited for them to be done, unwilling to interrupt.  They finally turned towards me.  I explained that I felt I had given unreasonable insult to Red Thorfild before our duel, and I wished to offer my apologies.  They looked at me like I was insane – an expression I am growing used to.

"The exchange of insult before duel is... customary," said bosun Hardrada, puzzled.

"I feel I gave insults that went beyond that, because I thought I might not survive the fight and I wished to go down defiantly," I explained.  "I apologize for these exaggerations."  I bowed to Thorfild.  He rolled his eyes and growled in exasperation, waving me away.

I then took the opportunity to ask what to expect now that we were in Vesten territory.  Captain Olafsdottir answered that there would be a feast that night, and I would then be taken to see the shipwright Rannulf in the morning.  The choice of who would take me to see the Oracle had yet to be made.  I thanked her and followed Orm back to the Maris Stella.  Gris had been busy dressing up for the feast; she wore large quantities of heavy gold jewellery, in a way that would have looked dreadfully gaudy in Castille but which she carried off with style here.  She helped me dress for the occasion, although I had little enough suitable jewellery.  My men took pride in decking themselves up, their tastes generally running to the flamboyant anyway – though they were still underdressed compared to the Vesten.

As evening fell, the Vesten took us to the most important building in the village, the longhouse.  It was shaped like an upside-down longship, which I was told was a very old and sacred custom.  Around the longhouse, some men were engrossed in various athletic competitions: wrestling, races, throwing stones.  We even saw some swimming in the ice-cold waters of the fjord!  Again, we all thought that the Vesten are crazy.

Inside the longhouse, however, it was steamingly hot.  The large room was halfway dug into the earth for insulation, and several fires were blazing.  The stench of so many unwashed Vesten bodies was gagging until one's nose got completely numbed by it.  There were several long tables laid out, and the most prominent one had a middle-aged bearded man at one end.  I learned that guests at his table were seated according to drawn lots; I ended up somewhere down the middle, while Captain Olafsdottir was near the head of the table.  My men were all seated together at a different table.  The entertainment consisted of much singing and storytelling, all in the Vesten language of course.

The meal was astounding in the quantities that were served, although it lacked almost any spice or herb.  Compared to what we had known in Eisen, it was sumptuous.  Although the normal Vesten diet consists mainly of fish, there was only meat at this feast.  Vegetables were, as might be expected in this season, practically non-existent except for a few pickles.  Instead of wine or beer they drank mead, a beverage made from fermented honey and water.  It was horribly strong and did not taste very good.  Unfortunately, they do not seem to consider it acceptable for guests to stay sober.  I have little tolerance for alcohol, and although I tried my best to avoid this loathsome drink, it took little enough to knock me out.  Little in comparison with Vesten drinking, of course, but compared to my normal habits it was a monstrous amount.

I woke up hours later, in the darkened longhouse.  Under the table.  Most of the revellers were either sleeping or gone.  I was mortified, painfully humiliated to see Johann standing over me solicitously.  He offered me his help to return to the ship and after splashing some water on my face I accepted; I feared I could not get back without assistance.  I saw most of my men passed out along the way.  On board the Maris Stella, I found a couple of the smarter or more alcohol-tolerant hands had returned and were keeping watch, including Jemy.  I went to bed, wishing no one had seen me.

I was still feeling awful in the morning when Gris came to wake me up to go see Rannulf.  She was clear-eyed and I wished a pox on her.  I dressed and got on deck, where Captain Olafsdottir and Bosun Hardrada were waiting for me.  Yngveld Olafsdottir was also looking perfectly good, although I took bleak satisfaction in noting Hardrada's greenish tinge.  I brought the ship's carpenter along, and we all trooped out to go see shipwright Rannulf.  He too was hungover and I was pleased again.  If the Vesten make guests drink this horrible liquid, they ought to be the first to suffer for it.

Despite his hangover, Rannulf still seemed quite cheerful.  I explained what supplies were needed and the nature of the damage taken, and he nodded while Hardrada translated the finer points.  I asked Yngveld how such transactions were normally conducted, how I should repay the shipwright; I was wary of offering coin in case they thought it too Vendel.

Rannulf heard and said: "You go see the Oracle?  I will do this for you."  I hesitated, cautiously asking whether there was some service or barter I could offer.  Rannulf repeated: "You go to the Oracle.  I will do this for you."

I was trying to gauge the intricacies of foreign etiquette; I asked Yngveld whether I should insist, or whether it was customary to bring some present.  "You will owe him a favour," she said in her quiet, guarded way.  I was not certain I liked owing unnamed favours to Vesten, but there was no help for it.  We shook on it and I thanked Rannulf.
 

Yngveld then announced that two had been chosen to take me to the Oracle: Gris Hallisdottir, and one Rognvald Brandson.  I had seen the latter on the Revensj, and he had been most prominent in the singing and storytelling of the night before; he was a Vesten minstrel or bard, a "skald".  Unlike most of the other men, he was close-shaven and rather friendly.  I asked how long the trip would take, but all I could get out of Captain Olafsdottir was that it would take however long was needed.  I resisted the temptation to try to strangle her.

I went back to the Maris Stella to prepare my travel bags, bringing my warmest clothes purchased in Eisen.  Since we were so close to the end of the year, I did not think it likely that I would return before Año Nuevo, so I gave the men a bonus as an early present.  Then I met with Gris and Rognvald, and we left on a small fishing boat of the type commonly seen in both Vendel and Vesten waters, because the Oracle dwelt on a different island.  During the trip, Rognvald told me many legends and stories of Vestenmannavnjar; he had to translate them in Théan, our only common language, but his command of the language was quite good although he assured me the stories lost some flavour in the translation.

I asked my travel companions about the nature and origin of Vesten rune magic.  I was puzzled my it, because in the story of the Bargainers, nothing resembling this sorcery is mentioned.  In response, Rognvald recited a lengthy ode describing the battle of twenty-five warriors against a "Great Wyrm", how they had eventually each stolen a scale of the Great Wyrm and become living embodiments of the various runes.  It seems each rune is not only a letter of the Vesten alphabet, but also represents a concept.  I did not point out some of the inconsistencies in the story, putting them down to a combination of long oral tradition, artistic license, and translation discrepancies.  I was not sure at all what to make of the story, except that it is radically different from that of the Bargain.  I must do some research on this if I ever get the chance.

As we approached the island of Oddiswulf, Gris and Rognvald changed into clothing of the Vendel style.  They announced that we would be going into the city of Kirkjubæjarklauster – known in the rest of Théah as Kirk, capital of the Vendel League.  Now I understood better the choice of Gris and Rognvald for escort duty, since they could more easily pass themselves off for Vendel due to their very moderate capillosity.  And of course a rune sorcerer and a living repository of folklore were appropriate for a visit to an oracle.  But I was very perplexed by this trip into the heart of their enemy's stronghold.  Apparently, the Oracle had lived in the mountains of Oddiswulf for over one hundred years and simply refused to budge; the Vendel had been unable to remove her.

We landed in Kirk and I got my first look at this famous city.  Built on the site of an older Vesten settlement, this city was entirely planned from before its construction, instead of growing haphazard like other cities.  Its streets are wider than is common, and all of them are entirely paved in cobbles so that carts can circulate more easily.  It is kept extremely clean by hordes of street sweepers, matched only by the most numerous city guard I have ever seen anywhere.  The guard is omnipresent, here directing cart traffic, there moving loiterers away, always keeping an eye on the numerous merchants so that they will stay unmolested.  If the street sweepers are mostly Vesten, the city guard seems very motley, largely made up of Eisen but also of people of every nation, even Castillans, except Vesten.

In the centre of the city, there is a large clock tower that chimes on the half-hour, reminding me of poor Eisenfürst Reinhard von Wische.  We passed a site where an anthill of workers were busy with the construction of a cathedral, despite the chill weather.  Once it is finished, I suspect it shall be larger than any I have ever seen, even the Catedral de los Profetas in Ciudad Vaticine or the Heart of Drachen Cathedral in Freiburg.

Gris and Rognvald directed their steps towards the less glamorous sections of town.  It would have been an exaggeration to call them seedy, but they were clearly much less patrolled by the city guard and the inhabitants were predominantly Vesten.  As we walked through the city, Rognvald asked me what I thought of it.  I said I thought it was very nice, new, and clean, but felt cold to me.  I did not mean because of the climate.  Rognvald had a small smile.

"You have money," he said.  "You would grow to like the city if you lived here – everyone does.  It is a very good place to live for those who have money."

I shrugged.  "Many cities are good to live in if you have money," I said.  "Charouse, for example."

I was thinking on this.  Of course money made a big difference between them and I.  It made me feel self-conscious, yet I did not think I should apologize for it.  I was born fortunate, but what matters is what I do with this privilege.  If I wished to simply enjoy its comforts, then yes, Kirk would do but so would San Cristobal.  Yet I sailed.

I noticed that there were many, many drunks on the street in this neighbourhood, Vesten with a defeated look.  Gris pointed at one.  "That was me," she said.  "Five years I drank."

I looked at her closely.  She is in her forties, and life has left its mark on her face, although she is still fair.  I phrased my question with care, thinking of the things that may cause someone to crawl into a bottle.  "You... lost someone?" I asked.

She nodded.  "My husband and my child.  Our farm.  Everything."  She gestured at our surroundings.  "Many people lose everything to the Vendel."

"I'm sorry," I murmured.  "I have seen the aftermath of war in Castille, Ussura, and Eisen.  I know about the destruction left behind.  I am sure that people who sail on a ship called 'revenge' must have a lot of stories to live with."

Gris and Rognvald then told me stories of several of the people I had met: Captain Olafsdottir, whose father had been killed by a Vendel merchant's thugs so that he could buy the farm cheaply; Red Thorfild who, with eight cousins, had then killed the merchant, stolen his money, and bought the Revensj for Yngveld; Orm Greybeard, whose daughter had been coveted by a Vendel and killed in the fight that ensued; and many more.

We stayed at a quiet little inn, that night.  While in Kirk, my travel escort insisted that I get new winter clothes and boots, better than those I had obtained in Eisen.  It was clear we were to face rough weather in order to get to this Oracle.
 

The next day, we walked out of Kirk and started our journey into the mountains.  Rognvald explained that the islands were full of sites held sacred by those who held to the ancient ways, and the Vendel were 'desecrating them' by buying them and converting them to mundane uses.  For example, sacred hot springs were now used as spas for the wealthy.  Adding insult to injury, the Vendel renamed the sites, generally to ease the tongue-twisting challenge they presented but also as a deliberate ploy to remove the old Vesten meaning attached to them.  The Vesten believe, if I understood correctly, that their ancestors go to a sort of paradise called 'Valhalla' after they die, but only live on there as long as they are remembered and honoured.  Once they are forgotten, they disappear for good, I think.  So renaming sacred sites is to condemn them to slip from memory and send them into oblivion.  This is why, for example, renaming Kirkjubæjarklauster to Kirk so upset my companions.

Along the way, Rognvald told more stories.  I asked him what he knew of the Oracle and was regaled with a long series of tales falling into three categories: people who searched for the Oracle and never found her; people who searched for the Oracle, found her, received a Prophecy then disregarded it, leading to their doom; and people who searched for the Oracle, found her, received a Prophecy and heeded it, leading to their doom anyway.  I asked what the point of this was, if heeding and disregarding the Oracle's prophecies were equally bad choices.  Rognvald shrugged and answered that tales of people who received a Prophecy then lived happily ever after were boring and never made into songs.  I assured him that Castillans do like the occasional happy-ending story, but he clearly thought that showed a lack of artistic sensitivity on our part.

He described the Oracle as being over one hundred years old, very old and powerful.  I immediately pictured the Matushka.  I asked him if there was any specific ritual or etiquette for meeting with the Oracle, and all Rognvald could offer was that I should not eat her stew, even if she offered.  Apparently, anyone who does eat of it immediately becomes her bound servant.

The tales helped pass the time as we journeyed.  The foothills of the mountains soon led into the sharper rise of the island's core.  Those mountains were more treacherous, bitter, and unforgiving than La Sierra de Hierro, the Weissenbergen, or even the Drachenbergen.  They rose like sharp teeth to cut and swallow travellers, their breath was the ice wind that whistled perpetually past our ears.  I was glad for the new winter clothes, yet I was completely frozen most of the time.  I kept wiggling my fingers and toes for fear they would get frost-bitten and require amputation.

At night we took turn keeping watch.  When I asked what kind of dangers might be encountered, Rognvald answered very seriously, wolves, both ordinary ones and Ice Wolves, as well as goblins and trolls.  Asked what Ice Wolves were, he described them as wolves the size of cows, breathing ice wind to freeze their prey.  I looked at him closely, but he did not seem to be spinning tales to make fun of me.  Goblins he described as creatures the size of children but with the strength of men, with greyish skin like stone, and wielding weapons.  Trolls were apparently large, shambling creatures of phenomenal strength, with moss-green skin.  He said he had never seen ice wolves, but had met with goblins and trolls.

Rognvald's warnings were well founded.  We had reached a respectable altitude by the time the attack happened, on the middle watch deep into the night.  Rognvald raised the alarm; Gris was quick to react, but I was fast asleep and found myself surrounded by a passel of small gnarly shapes armed with an odd assortment of weapons.  From Rognvald's earlier description, my foggy brain recognized them as goblins.  There were perhaps fifteen or twenty of them swarming around us.

Rognvald already had his sword out and hacked at the foul little monsters, felling two in one blow.  Gris chanted something and drew runes in the snow; I do not know what these were meant to do.  Buffeted by blows from the goblin's weapons, I managed to reach my rapier and whip it out.  Rognvald was dealing damage to the creatures, hacking left and right, but they were getting back at him with a vengeance.  I swung my rapier, trying to keep the nasty little beasts away with my greater reach.  Gris pulled out a pistol and fired it at some goblins, showing herself a respectable marksman by dropping two with one shot.

Blows were raining on us, and although Rognvald was fighting well, he went down under the goblins' attack.  Gris drew her second pistol and fell two more of the little creeps.  I kept slashing at them, and they dropped, but not fast enough.  Out of shots, Gris dropped her pistols and swung at a goblin with her bare hands, connecting with a good solid blow.  At last I felled the last of them, but I felt I was an inch from dropping in the snow like Rognvald.  I hunched there for a second, panting, every muscle and bone in my body hurting from the goblins' blows and the injury sustained earlier against Red Thorfild.

I suddenly noticed an odd smell on the breeze, a smell of food – of stew, I thought suddenly.  I turned to Gris.  "I smell stew!" I said.

"What?"

"Stew, I smell stew.  Did Rognvald not say the Oracle cooks stew, and I should not eat of it?"

Gris made a face.  "Then you had better lead on," she answered, "since I smell nothing."

"Should we try to pull Rognvald with us?"

"He would never forgive us if he was to miss this," she said, straight-faced.

We shouldered the skald's unconscious body and I did my best to follow the smell, faltering in the snow and ice.  After what seemed like hours but must have been a fairly short time, the olfactive trail led us to a fissure in a rock face.  I tried to peek in but could see nothing.  I tried to knock but there was nothing but stone.

"How do you address the Oracle?" I asked Gris.  "Does she have a title?"

"Her name is Gunrud Stigandsdottir," answered the sorceress.

After all this talk of how sacred the Oracle was, I had expected something more formal.  I called through the fissure: "Madam Gunrud?"  Only silence answered.  I tried again.  "Madam Gunrud?  Hello?  Anyone in there?"  Silence.
 

I finally wiggled through the fissure into a vast cavern.  It was completely bare, save for an incredibly withered, unbelievably wrinkled, faded, gnarled, ancient crone toiling over a large pot set on a wood fire.  The fire burned, but there was no wood piled nearby to feed it.  The old woman stirred the pot's content, from which emanated the appetizing odour of stew.  I looked at the crone; I had been thinking of the Matushka earlier, but the Matushka had appeared as a strong, hearty old woman.  This one was frail and looked about to fall apart like a bundle of bones tied too loosely.  Her hair was patchy and her eyes were milky white with cataract.  I tried my best to give her a polite greeting; she cackled with laughter and said something in Vesten.

"She says you do not think her very pretty," commented Rognvald, who had just come to.

"Tell her that if I ever reach her venerable age, I hope to look no worse," I said.  The old woman chuckled again without waiting for a translation, then said something else.

"She asks if you would like some of her stew?"

I bowed politely.  "The offer is very kind and appreciated, but I'm afraid I must refuse it."  This elicited more cackling laughter.

Another flurry of words in Vesten followed.  "The Oracle asks whether you wish to hear her prophecy?" translated Rognvald.

I burst out with laughter of my own, perhaps a bit dry.  "You have dragged me here, would have massacred my crew if you had to in order to bring me, because this Oracle had commanded it, and now she asks if I wish to hear her words?"

Gris raised an eyebrow.  "You do not like our hospitality?"

I smirked.  "Your hospitality is very... forceful."

The witch spoke again.  "We brought you because the Oracle wanted to see you," explained Rognvald, "but she says you do not have to receive the prophecy if you do not wish to."

There was a cold knot in the pit of my stomach.  I knew already that I would not hear words of comfort and joy from this oracle, but I also knew that there is a difference between what we want and and what we need.  "Heh.  It would be exaggerating to say that I wish to hear it, but I might as well face it.  I will not turn back from her words.  Please ask her to speak her prophecy."

The woman then recited a long piece, which rhymed in Vesten.  Rognvald translated it in Théan for me, and I have put it down here, as close as I can make it.
 

The words chilled me to the bone.  They whirled around me, like droning bees with an icy sting.  I thought I recognized some faces and places in them, only to get confused again by the multiple possibilities.

I shook myself and thanked the Oracle through my translators.  The witch then extended a hand from which hung two pendants on strings.  She gestured for me to take them.  I approached and received two pieces of bone ivory and metal, each engraved with a rune and strung on sinew cords.  I took them and she spoke again.

"She says you must not take them off until the time has come."

I hesitated for a second then, taking this to mean she wanted me to wear them for now, I slipped the two pendants over my head.  A thought came to me unbidden: I had a vision of the Matushka, Gunrud Stigandsdottir, and Mad Queen Morella attending the Wicked Old Witch Finishing School together.   Well, almost, perhaps.  "Ask her if she knows Queen Morella – Mad Queen Morella, the old one, not the younger queen of Montaigne."

The Oracle cackled cheerfully.  "She says: 'She is troublesome'," translated the skald.

I asked Rognvald, my throat a bit tight, whether there was anything I could offer Gunrud Stigandsdottir in thanks for her prophecy and her gift.  I was not even being sarcastic; if there was any worth to the prophecy, then it was better to be forewarned, no matter how chilling the words were.  The crone chuckled again.

"She says if you heed her words, it will be enough.  Unless you would like some stew after all."

I wondered with some interest what she would do if I accepted after all.  After having had me brought here so she could deliver a prophecy she wanted me to heed, wouldn't having me become her bound servant here upset her plans?  "Thank her again for me, but I think I must decline her generous offer," I replied.

I gave the Oracle a formal bow of thanks and she answered it with a startlingly perfect curtsy that would have been entirely adequate at King Sandoval's court.  I asked Rognvald if he thought he was well enough to travel back, and he looked surprised.  He assured me he felt fine, and I suddenly realized my own injuries were healed as well.  Both Gris and Rognvald were in perfect form.  We took our leave of the Oracle and stepped out of the cave; outside, it was bright sunlight, as if we had been in the cave for six or eight hours at least rather than one.

Once away from the cave, I asked Gris what the two runes meant.  She told me that one is Fornuft, 'Gateway', and the other Herje, 'Ruin'.  Well, that went nicely with the prophecy, at least.  During the climb down, I questioned Rognvald on 'Ragnarok'.  He told me this is the Vesten word for the end times, when the fight between good and evil will destroy the world and leave a new one behind.  I compared it to the Prophecy of the Coming of the Fourth Prophet, but their descriptions do not match very well.  All the same, it would be most galling to think that Cardinal Estéban Verdugo had been right on this.  Is the Fourth Prophet really about to appear, then?  Or am I sinning before Theus for listening to a heathen oracle?

I have been reading the words of the prophecy as I put it down, over and over again.  The first verse puts me in mind of Wische.  The talk of my enemies...  I rapidly lose count when I try to think of names: Malveck...  Cardinal Verdugo...  General Alzais Bisset du Verre...  The Caligaris, Vincenzo, Julius, and Alfredo...  Reis...  Paul du Paix...  Tibold Dedrick...  How many more?

But it is the penultimate verse that freezes my heart: "True love shall save you/At too high a price".  O, this face, the face of true love, is so easy to see.  Too high a price?  My imagination whispers many cruel suggestions, for there are so very many things which are worth far more than my life.

And I have been thinking about what is fate and what is choice.  Why would an oracle deliver a prophecy if not to steer the recipient towards a certain course of action?  If not, prophecies would not be couched in vague and confusing terms; they would be crystal-clear and authoritative if there was no way to avoid them.  I do not know much about Vesten magic, but I have seen a good deal of Sorte sorcery from aunt Lucia and Miranda, Theus have pity on them both, and I understand from them that the future is an uncertain, often confusing matter even for Stregas.  I think Vesten oracles also see the future as if through a frosted pane of glass.  If there was a point to Rognvald's stories, it was that the prophecies can be avoided, although not without penalty.  And do the Prophets not tell us that it is through our deeds that we are to be saved or damned?

Whatever happens, I must not let it pass, this price too high – it must not be paid.