After their explorations of an underground city, Hope and Brunhilde were relieved to be travelling above ground again, even in the rocky desert where each canyon and boulder seemed the same as the next. They spoke little of the Stormender and their broken promise to Bedehv, seeking only to forget their argument and find some way out of the broken lands.

After some days of travelling the air changed. Winds bearing clouds blew in from the west, and scattered showers burst unexpectedly upon them. Brunhilde marched in the rain with her face up, she enjoyed the feel and smell of fresh rain. Hope pulled her cloak up over her head and complained about walking under clouds rather than going over them. The land was changing, more greenery and scurrying voles crouched over the rolling hills of the lands.

One evening as they camped, with Hope sleeping soundly by their fire, Brunhilde climbed an outcrop and settled down to watch the stars. She took out some jerky and chewed on it as she sat. She tried to remember some of the tales and fortunes that could be read in the constellations, but she had always been more interested in the runes. The night was mostly cloudless, so she satisfied herself with staring up at the soothing quilt of darkness and glittering points, eventually thinking about nothing at all. The slow, slow turn of the stars was a familiar sight no matter what sky she was under.

A cold breeze lifted and she pulled her furs closer around her. Her breath clouded the night air. A larger mist started to creep around her sitting place. Soon the cold grey air overcame the light of the moon and stars. She grumbled and stood up, then she saw something in the mist far away to her right. A bright light shining like a small sun. The mist glowed grey with its light. Then something more, a building scudded slowly into view, tall and slim.

It was a lighthouse, as ordinary as any lighthouse could be. It would have been a picturesque sight in a stormy bay. But floating above a desert, ensconced in mist it was a bizarre sight. Brunhilde took a last bite from her jerky and licked her salty lips. The rock was floating by at such a leisurely pace that it would take some time to arrive. Should she wake Hope? Better let the princess sleep, she was grumpy if disturbed at night. The barbarian settled back down to watch the strange visitor approach.

As it came closer, she saw more details, there were windows with light shining from them. She watched for signs of life, but she could see nobody moving around inside. Eventually the small rocky island supporting the lighthouse came into view. She relaxed slightly. A floating lighthouse would be a strange thing, but a floating island of rock made it much more believable. Hadn’t her Uncle Stormhand seen an island rise up into the sky on one of his travels? The island was floating by a little distance above her position. She could climb up for a better view, but she liked her current perch.

How would a crew storm an island like this? They would have to moor themselves behind the island, so as not to get crushed or overturn by its movement. Then the best climbers would scale the lighthouse whilst the best warriors assailed the doorway at the base. Distract any defenders whilst the real treasure was taken away without a fight. But a lighthouse would never worth be the bother. A floating church, filled with gold icons, that would be worth raiding. The lighthouse continued its drift toward her.

“Hey there!” she called out as it edged into shouting distance.

The silhouette of a head appeared in a window. “What are you doing down there?” a voice cried out.

“What are you doing up there?” she shouted back.

After a few moments she heard the sound of a door, then a man appeared, standing at the edge of the island. He looked young, his silhouette was thin and confident.

“What are you doing floating by?” Brunhilde said.

The young man looked back up at his lighthouse, then back down to Brunhilde.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said.

“I am not floating by, you are,” she said.

“From up here it looks like you are floating by down there,” he said. “A lighthouse is a stationary point to guide ships, so I must be standing still, so you are the one drifting by,” he said. His voice was irritatingly pedantic and winsome.

“I am sitting on the land which is much larger than your little rock, you must be the one floating, as a ship on the ocean,” Brunhilde said.

“My island is not so little, it’s larger than your perch, which is all I can see. Therefore, you must be floating by.”

Brunhilde looked around, it was true that in the mist all that was visible was her small sitting place.

“Maybe we’re both floating along,” Brunhilde said. Let him deny that.

He mused on it. “True, true. Me on my large perch, you on your little. A riddle.” The rock had moved on slightly, and she could see him more clearly in the light. His short brown hair was messy and he stood on the precarious edge with casual fearlessness. Not tall but not too short. Luck, along with wind and sun had carved him a face that was handsome and fascinating. “How is this one?” he said.

“I kill ships and swallow land and sea.

The sun fears me, but I flee from the wind.”

“That’s a child’s riddle. The mist,” Brunhilde said.

He tutted in frustration. “Very quick.”

“How is this one?” Brunhilde said.

“I scream when I am scared, I purr when I am asleep

If I stop talking, my owner dies.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ve heard this one before; the heart,” he said. He smiled at Brunhilde’s cry of frustration. He stood up straight and called out another riddle.

“I am quiet but my master is loud.

I am faster than he,

But I can rest when he must run.

If I leave my master, I die.”

Brunhilde had heard something like this riddle before. “A fish in a river,” she called out. “How about this?”

“I am bashful but my laughter is terrible.

Blood of the earth is my mother,

I am her daughter grown strong.

Though I am slow to battle, no ship can defeat me.”

“Very good, a lovely riddle,” he said. “An iceberg. Answer this.”

“I am many lengths, I join two into one

I am slack when stowed, tight when used.”

Brunhilde thought on it for a while, then a smile lit on her face. “Is that an invitation?”

“It could be,” he said with a wink.

“Show me then,” she said. He disappeared and then moments later a rope dropped from the rocks above. Brunhilde grabbed the slack and tied it to the outcrop, then she pulled herself up towards the floating island of the lighthouse.

“Welcome, floating wanderer,” he said. His hand was rough and strong as he pulled her up. Brunhilde kept hold of his hand and pulled a little harder than she needed to, but he was stronger than he looked. He pulled her towards him but she was stronger than she looked. They both smiled and let go of each other.

“Do you have many visitors here?” she asked.

“You are the first. The first that floated out of the mist,” he said. His smile was full of innocent charm.

She looked around at the island. There were small fishing nets hung up by the doorway, the stones of the lighthouse were held together by thick mortar. It looked like lighthouses she had seen before. The rock of the island was grey and jagged like the stone fingers of the bay she had grown up by.

“It seems a lonely place,” she said. The cold mist lapped at the edges of the island like a sea, but the warmth of him standing beside her waken a warmth in her body.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“You have a skald’s mind for riddles.” She reached out and caressed his arms.

“But a warrior’s body?” he said.

“More like a fisherman’s strength,” she said. Before he could protest, she kissed him. He tasted of mead and the sea-breeze.

“I keep a promise when given freely

I break promises when exchanged in secret.”

They both said the same riddle at the same time. They laughed and kissed again. He stepped to one side and gestured to his doorway. She made her way up the cramped staircase to his sleeping room. Sea charts were pinned to the wall, his bed was unmade, a telescope was setup by his window. There was no treasure to be raided, none of the gold kind.

In his bed, the riddles and talking slowed as they shared their warmth which each other.

Presently she yawned, stretched and rolled from his bed.

“Ah,” he said with a disappointed tone. “I thought you might stay.”

“I have my own journeys to make,” she said as she dressed.

“I have more riddles,” he said. He pulled open his sheet invitingly.

“So do I, but not right now,” she said. She placed a kiss on his forehead and then padded quickly down the stairs.

At the bottom the mist was still thick, she could see no landmarks outside of the small island. She breathed deep of the air. It was not sea air, underneath the dampness of the mist she could feel the biting cold of the night-time desert.

“Your perch has drifted off,” she heard his voice behind her. He was leaning against the doorway, with his sheets held around him. Gooseflesh on his arms showed that he was just as cold as her now.

“I tied your rope down there, easy enough to follow,” Brunhilde said. She grabbed the rope, coiled around a stone post, and followed it to the edge of the rocks. She felt his hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at him.

He held a knife in his hand, rings under his eyes made him look tired and desperate. “I cut the rope before we came up,” he said, with a rueful smile. “I would hear more riddles, when I hear one that I cannot answer, I will gladly leave this place.”

Brunhilde saw the frayed end of the rope lying on the rocks. She turned and stroked his cheek. “Poor thing, you will be lonely. I have one last riddle for you,” she said. His eyes lit up.

“People die for me.

Mine is more valuable than yours

Yours is more valuable than mine.

If I do not move, I make you blind.”

“I’ve never heard that one,” he said. “Wonderful. What are you doing?”

Brunhilde was staring out into the mist. “I’ve decided you were right, I was floating by down there, which means my end of your rope must be dangling up.” She leapt out into the mist, the rope tied to her outcrop was still there, hanging like a loose sail rope. She caught it with a dizzying lurch in her stomach. Amongst the mist she could not tell which way the sky or earth was, but she knew where she had tied the other end. She pulled herself up/down the rope.

“That’s not how it works!” he shouted.

“I think it is. If I ever crew a flying ship, I’ll be sure to visit again!” she called back.

“You will,” he said to himself. “Wait, what is the answer?” he shouted after her.

“Think on it,” she said.

He watched her disappear into the mist. The answer came to him and he cursed and clapped his hands.

“Well then wanderer, when you crew that flying ship we’ll meet again,” he said to himself. He turned back to his lighthouse.

As Brunhilde climbed down from her perch, the mist cleared. There was no sign of the lighthouse or its mist, the sky was clear and chillingly dark. Hope was still asleep beside the fire.

Brunhilde settled down to nap before the sun came up. Maybe in the morning she would tell the Princess of her little adventure. But then again, perhaps not, Hope did despise riddles, at least ones she had no answer for.