At dawn, the mist was rising over the Skjoldvik fjord. Eleven-year-old Ivar scrubbed tar from his hands and stared at his father's drakkar. The sails lay folded like gulls' wings. Iron clanked in the forge and snow fell from the roof of the long hut. Ivar dreamt of the sea, but today he was only to clean the wharf. He sighed and pulled at the wet net that had caught on the piling. A bone with engraved runes flashed in the tangled ropes. Ivar wiped it against his tunic and read in a whisper: "Where the ice sings, there the key to spring." The words tingled his fingers. A low sound carried from the distant glacier, like a flute made of wind. The boy looked around to see if anyone was watching. He tucked the bone into his pouch and ran to Sigrun. Sigrun was a year older and had sharp eyes. She listened seriously, nudging the sledge marks with her foot. "The ice does not sing for no reason," she said quietly. "Tomorrow we set off on our first trading voyage. If it's a sign, we need to check it today." At dusk they slipped out into the small boat. The fjord was asleep, but the sky danced with a green ribbon of aurora. Mist drifted down from the mountains like a bear's fur. Then a boat without oars or sails emerged from the darkness. A lantern with a cold blue flame burned at the bow. The bone in Ivar's pouch turned icy and flared with marks. "Do you hear?" asked Sigrun. The sound resembled the melody that arranged their names. The boat touched the pier without a murmur, and something moved under the tarpaulin.