It was a warm spring morning in London. Frost had long fled the Thames, and Cnut's court gathered under the vaulted shadows of Westminster's halls.
At the center knelt Asser, his cloak damp from the sea spray that had followed him all the way from the far north.
Nearly two weeks had passed since he left the island of Heimaey; two weeks of silence, of restless sleep, of questioning what he had truly seen.
He had not confirmed with absolute certainty that the fleet hailed from the far north. But all signs pointed to a transformation.
One so vast and complete that it defied reason. Someone had changed the nature of Ísland itself. Whether it was the long-lost Varangians or some greater power, Asser dared not say for certain.
And yet, he withheld nothing.
