Malverne farmstead
Vestfold, Norway
A.D. 922

CLEVE DREAMED THE dream the first time on the night of his daughter's third natal day. It was in the middle of the night in the deepest summer, and thus it never darkened to black until it was nearly dawn again. He was sleeping deeply in that soft gray dark of the midnight summer when the dream came. He stood on a high, narrow cliff listening, sniffing the warm, wet air.

Below him was a raging waterfall roiling through slick boulders only to narrow with the tightening of the banks before it shot out over a lower cliff, crashing far below beyond where he could see. A light mist fell about him. It was suddenly so cold that he shivered. He pulled his warm woolen cloak closer. All around him were thick stands of trees and bright purple and yellow flowering plants that seemed to grow out of the rocks themselves. Boulders and large stones were scattered among the low, scrubby brush. He followed the snaking path, making his way down through the narrow cut in the foliage.

The misting rain stopped and the sun came out. It was high overhead, hot and bright. Soon he felt sweat bead on his forehead. The pony turned at the end of the meadow toward another trail that led eastward. He pulled the pony to a stop, turning it away to the opposite direction. He felt sweat stinging his eyes, wet his armpits. No, he didn't want to go that way, just thinking of it made his belly cramp with fear. No, he wanted to ride away, far away, never to have to see . . . see what? He sat atop the pony's back shaking his head back and forth.

No, never would he go back. But then he knew he would, knew he had no choice, and suddenly, he was there, staring blankly at the huge wooden house with its sod and shingled roof. This was no simple home really, but a fortress. He realized then that he heard nothing, absolutely nothing. There was so much silence, yet men and women were working in the fields, carrying firewood, directing children. A man with huge arms was lifting a sword above his head, testing its weight and balance.

There was no laughter, no arguments, just a deathly silence that filled the air itself and he knew that was the way it always was. Then he heard low voices coming from within the huge fortress. He didn't want to go in there. The voices became louder as the immense wooden door opened. Through air that was thick with smoke from the fire pit he could see men sharpening their axes, polishing their helmets. He could see women weaving, sewing, and cooking. It all looked so normal, yet he wanted to run from this place, but he couldn't.

Then he saw her standing there, her golden head bowed, so small she was, so defenseless, and he backed away, shaking his head, feeling a keening wail build up inside him. She'd spun, dyed, and woven his woolen cloak for him and he clutched it to him as if by doing so he could clutch her and save her. A part of him seemed to know the danger she was in; he also knew he was helpless to prevent what would happen.

He was outside the fortress now, but he could still hear the calm, low voice that was speaking from somewhere within. It was deadly, that voice, just as deadly as the man who possessed it. Soon he would be silent. Soon, all would be silent, except for her. The low, deep voice murmured on until it was pierced by the woman's scream. That was all it took; Cleve knew what had happened.

He ran as fast as he could, looking frantically for the pony, but the pony was no longer there. He heard a cry of pain, then another and another. The cries grew louder and louder, filling him with such unutterable emptiness that he saw nothing, became nothing.

Copyright © 1995 by Catherine Coulter