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ajar. In the dim light, Leifr saw
    intertwining serpent designs that seemed to move in the dancing
    firelight, writhing up and down the doorposts and across the panels of
    the door. Leifr gazed at them, hesitating a moment, while Thurid
    coughed with impatience, eyeing him with a knowing simper.
    “You needn’t be so nervous,” he said. “Fridmundr is beyond all
    anger and disappointment now. I believe he has quite forgiven you for
    the blot upon the family’s name.“
    Leifr spared him a cursory scowl and stepped into the room
    beyond, mustering all his wits for the ordeal that awaited him; the
    effort resulted in a very stiff and appropriately anxious demeanor.
    A large, carved chair stood near the fire, and a tall, raddled figure
    drooped listlessly between the two heavy dragons’ heads ornamenting
    the foreposts. Completely white, his hair and beard covered his
    shoulders and chest in a straggling mane, and he raised his head with
    the fierce weariness of an aged lion at the sound of footsteps. His eyes,
    white with cataracts, glowed like the eerie phosphorescence of foxfire
    as they probed blindly at the two dim shapes that stood before him.
    “You’re lucky,” whispered Thurid. “Usually he’s not much aware
    of his surroundings.”
    “Thurid? Who’s that with you? A messenger?” Fridmundr’s
    voice, still deep and mellow, reminded Leifr of his real father, and
    his throat constricted, rebelling against the lies.
    “I have news. It’s Fridmarr, your banished son,” Thurid said
    somberly, relishing his role as the bearer of news, whether good or bad.
    Fridmundr stiffened. “Not dead, I hope,” he said with a tremor in
    his voice.
    “No, no. Fridmarr is here, as poor and ragged as a traveling
    come to beg your forgiveness for his past crimes
    beggar. He has
    and bring joy to your household once more.” The last words
    bore a spiteful sting, and Thurid bestowed a sharp glance upon
    Leifr and a nudge to urge him forward.
    “Fridmarr!” The foxfire glow intensified to an amazing, pure
    radiance. “The Rhbus are kind to me in my last days. Is it true? Speak,
    if it is so!”
    “It’s true,” Leifr croaked reluctantly. “I am here.”
    Fridmundr reached out with his long leathery hands. “Come
    closer and let me touch your face, my dear boy, so I can know you’re
    really here. I think it is another dream.” His voice quivered, and a tear
    started its tortuous course down his eroded cheek, disappearing swiftly
    into a hundred channels.
    “It’s not a dream. I have returned.” Leifr knelt beside the
    old Alfar’s footstool and let trembling fingers touch his face lightly,
    never having experienced a more uncomfortable moment in his
    recent history.
    Fridmundr’s gaze faltered upward and seemed to fasten
    on a point somewhere among the dark rafters overhead. He slowly
    sank back in his chair, his strength ebbing.
    “You are changed,” he said softly. “You have endured much, but
    your travels have left you wiser. Your influence no longer leaps out like
    a flame to disorder your life. It has gone inward to some far, deep place
    of darkness and doubt—” His voice trailed away and his brow knotted
    in consternation. “Thurid, you must do something to help Fridmarr. His
    powers are all beyond his reach. Promise me you’ll stay by him to
    protect him. He has a great endeavor before him. He is going to reclaim
    the honor of his name.”
    Thurid flashed Leifr a skeptical glance. “My lord, I shall be most
    happy to help Fridmarr in any way I can. In spite, I might add, of some
    of his past performances.”
    “He has changed,” Fridmundr whispered.
    “Changed, yes, I daresay that’s so,” Thurid replied in an agitated
    tone. “But Sorkvir hasn’t changed. He won’t be glad to see Fridmarr
    back again. I don’t see how Fridmarr can extricate himself from his old
    troubles, especially if he’s let his powers slip away from him—and
    after all the lessons I gave him as a boy. It must