Should each one be,
But never over-wise:
His destiny let know
No man beforehand;
His mind will be freest from care.
Ha'vama'l


Because it was Yule Eve, the long deserted temple on the plain was
filled with light and sound. Fires blazed upon the floor; the row of
gilded idols came out of the shadow and shone in all their splendor. The
altars were reddened with the blood of slaughtered cattle; the
tapestried walls had been spattered with it. The temple priest dipped a
bunch of twigs into the brimming copper bowl, and sprinkled the
sacrificial blood over the people who sat along the walls ... They
raised the consecrated horns and drank the sacred toasts. To Odin! For
victory and power. To Njord! To Frey! For peace and a good year ... Eric
of Brattahlid laid his hands upon the atonement boar and made a solemn
vow to render justice unto all men, whatsoever their transgressions. The
others followed him in this, as in everything.

Because this was happening in the temple, Brattahlid, the source of
light and good cheer, was dark and gloomy. In the great hall there was
no illumination save the flickering firelight. Black shadows blotted out
the corners and stretched across the ceiling. The long benches were
emptied of all save Leif's followers and Thorhild's band of women. The
men sat like a row of automatons, drinking steadily, in deep silence,
with furtive glances toward their leader. Leif leaned back in his
high-seat, neither speaking nor drinking, scowling down into the flames.