A Flame in the North, page 12
Aeredh was hard upon her heels, and ’twas he who beckoned Farsight. The beast obeyed him, of course, for the Elder have a way with every free creature, and besides the horses were busily greeting each other as well. The blue stars were Elder-wrought lanterns like Idra’s prized solstice-light, burning clear and cold, held by Efain the scarred and another Northerner—Karas, with his hair in a leather-wrapped club, pale and with his hand to hilt as he scanned what could be seen of our surroundings.
I sagged against my shieldmaid, doing my best not to burst into tears unfitting for a full volva or even a mere adult with no weirding.
And the wolves? Well.
The wolves were silent.
Lady Question
Many are the great houses of the North, but there is a division in them. For some love the Elder, and fought against the Enemy. Others gave their allegiance to the Black Land, and on the Day of Ash they slew their brethren without mercy, even within greathall and family, yea indeed like ravening beasts…
—Aethrasil of Haradhrun, A History of Töllmar
Their camp was a fair distance away, and I heeded little save the warmth of sitheviel. Aeredh produced Eol’s small black flask, encouraging me to take yet another swallow, and I rode double with Arn as Farsight, looking well pleased with herself indeed, was led by the Elder upon his own mount. I did not even see the camp clearly, save to note two great slab-rocks tilted against each other sheltering the fire, which had burned down to blue-tinged coals.
I did not ask how they had performed such a miraculous rescue. Arn joined our mantles and shared her warmth, and though the sitheviel burned in my middle and they plied me with much of their strange waybread I cared little for either, clinging to my shieldmaid. Eol and the others were absent, but I did not wonder at the fact.
I was simply too grateful for the luck of survival; great fits of shivering seized me over and over while I thought of the un-sheep creatures or the wolves finding this place.
At least the fire would keep the latter at bay. Or so I hoped, and fell into a deathly doze upon another pine-bough bed with Arn holding me close.
The next morn dawned bright, mostly clear… and shocking, for we were not merely two days’ journey from Dun Rithell.
At that distance the terrain should still have been familiar enough; I should have been able to discern familiar landmarks. Instead, peering from the two boulder-slabs sheltering our camp, I saw what could not be. Somehow we were upon the side of a stranger’s mountain, forested slopes stretching toward more great peaks and deep valleys almost sparkling with cold winter clarity. Upslope, bright snow mantled a knifelike summit I did not know the name of; we were upon a thin margin just above the trees.
Taking night-shelter in the forest might have been wiser. I could not say as much, though, for I was too busy gazing at sheer precipices and wondering how, by any and all gods, spirits, or seidhr, Farsight and I did not plummet to our deaths during our bruising, fog-choked gallop.
Morning also meant every Northerner had returned to the camp. Eol was deep in converse with Aeredh, their dark heads close together and the Elder occasionally tapping one finger into his opposite palm to accentuate a point. The rest set about their morning tasks as if it did not matter we were much, much farther away from Dun Rithell than we should be.
Of course Arn was awake far before her charge, and brought me a cup of warmed ale. “Drink every bit.” She glowered mightily, her hornbraids redone, her woad-stripe refreshed, and her freckled cheeks cheerfully reddened with brisk weather. “You fair had my heart to stopping, Sol. What were you thinking?”
It would do no good to point out it was not my fault. My shieldmaid’s anger was quick and sharp, like her tongue; it also died almost as ’twas born, like lighting upon Tarnarya’s hood. “There was not much thought involved, true.” I accepted the cup, though hot ale is never my favorite drink. “What was that thing? Dare they name it?”
“At night? I should hope not. It died hard; the scarred one Efain had the honor.” If that irked her, Arneior gave no sign; she folded into an easy crouch, her spear providing balance. “The rest were driven away or died as well. The youth merely said they are twisted. The one I saw was like a sheep, but a few such wool-bearers might well give even Mother Hel’s shepherds pause.” Her words became a whisper as I held my nose, attempting to down the ale. “I do not recognize these mountains. We are much farther from home than we should be.”
Our gazes met, and held for a long moment.
I am more than willing, hers said.
Not yet, mine replied, though I mislike the wait. “So I see.” Whether or not there was weirding in our passage, I was weregild and held to certain behavior—not bondsmaid or thrall but constrained to obedience with good grace, in whatever direction Eol of Naras chose to travel.
The rules governing such things are strict, for debtor and lord alike. He could neither rape nor starve me, nor force me to overly harsh labor. I could not refuse any reasonable request, nor deny any aid I was capable of, nor question his decisions. There are finer points argued in the South and entire hedges of restrictions upon both parties; I could not think the North much different. If anything, their expectations were perhaps more stringent, and it behooved me to keep both eyes and ears well open to discern any arcane points of etiquette.
I was, after all, Gwendelint’s daughter.
Warm thick liquid hit my stomach, thought about revolt like a badly used thrall, and subsided. My position was not an enviable one, for all I had Arn to keep me from physical harm. I took a deep breath, held it, and swallowed the last half of the mug’s contents, tasting a bitter medicinal herb or two at the bottom. “Gah. You should keep the ale for your own belly, Arn, and leave mine be.”
“What manner of woman does not like ale?” She shook her head, and a flicker of a rueful smile submerged into watchfulness. “Your braids are coming loose. I hear they hunted more of those twisted things last night, in the dark.”
I shuddered at the thought. The Northerners did not seem to spend much time in their bedrolls, but if such creatures were about in any number I was more than content to have it so. And yet, what seidhr did they possess to stave off sleepless exhaustion? Such a thing would be worth knowing.
Perhaps it was an Elder trick. I would have to watch carefully—it is the height of bad manners to inquire too closely of another’s weirding. Such things must be freely given, or learned by observation and native wit.
For all that, I felt the instinct to both keep my knowledge of the Old Tongue secret and seem oblivious of Aeredh’s strangeness well warranted. Much of volva training is learning to listen to such small, still inner promptings. “Good fortune that you found me, then.” So good, in fact, I was beset with fresh suspicion. “There is much weirding at work here, my Arn.”
“Now this is revealed unto thee?” The old jest warmed her dark eyes for a brief moment; once more, she sobered almost instantly. “What should we do?” Her forehead wrinkled, and in that moment she looked very young.
Almost as young as Aeredh appeared. I could only hope my own unease was not so plainly visible. An uncertain volva is close to useless, as Idra oft remarked.
Once I settled upon a course of action, Arn would see it done. So it had been for many a year, and she was well content to have it thus. Whatever insecurity I felt had to remain unvoiced, and hopefully unseen.
“We wait, and watch.” Learn all we can, and I intend to learn much indeed. I handed her the empty mug, grimacing again as swallowed ale fought for release. “Pay Dun Rithell’s death-debt and return home intact. ’Tis all we can do.”
She nodded briskly and rose in a fluid motion as a blue-eyed Northerner approached, the one with a brace of daggers at his belt. His nose was proud indeed; I thought his name was Gelad. He gave a half-bow and offered a wooden bowl laden with breakfast—more of their waybread, and yet more stew. They were hunters indeed, to find so much in winter. “My lady alkuine? Here.” He handled our tongue well enough, and with a riverside lilt. “We have an easy journey today.”
I am not here to take my ease, my lord. And I hoped the stew held no roast carved from that thing with its foul flanks and odd horns. “We need not travel slowly on my account, my lord… Gelad? Have I your name aright?”
He nodded. “Indeed, and an honor to be named. I must offer our apologies, though our lord Eol will no doubt do so as well.”
“None are necessary.” Rumpled and aching as I was, in a nest of blankets and under Arneior’s mantle as well as my own, I did not feel much like accepting pretty words. My disarranged hair tugged at my scalp when I turned my head, as if Astrid were braiding again. “My thanks for breakfast, my lord.”
“And ours for your presence.” The Northerner had a kind enough smile, though his bright gaze was watchful. No shadow of sleepless exhaustion lingered upon him. “We would not travel the Elder Roads save at great need; last night proved the risk.”
“Elder Roads.” I had never heard of such a thing; I wondered if the fog had been entirely natural or had merely masked some travel-weirding. It would be another skill worth learning, to go so swiftly—but if such roads held beasts like the sheep-horror, ’twas perhaps best to leave them alone. “Is that how we came so far?”
“It is.” His smile was equal parts gratified and somewhat paternal; clearly the Northern men thought me simple for all my seidhr. Which pleased me well enough; being underestimated is an edge all its own. “There are things in the North which may surprise a southron lady, and—”
“Gelad.” Eol cut him short, appearing over the fellow’s shoulder with something close to a scowl. “Let the lady alkuine break night’s-fast in peace.”
I dropped my gaze to the bowl, and set to my work of consumption. But behind the disheveled picture I presented, my skull-meat was working furiously. Arn hovered over me, solemnly watchful as the leader of the wolf-stamped men crouched at a respectful distance, his hands hanging easily over his thighs and his wrapped swordhilt peering from his shoulder.
He had veiled the gem again, perhaps because its glitter might draw attention from a distance.
“I must offer apology to Gwendelint’s daughter.” At least he did not lack for formal address. A faint blush from the chill clung to his cheekbones; it was strange that the Northerners did not have beards. One would think them chilled by the lack. “Last night could have gone ill indeed.”
“It went ill enough.” I was too hungry to set aside my bowl; then again, when one is traveling, there is little need for overly fine manners. “Yet ended well, Eol of the North. Farsight and I would have found our way home.”
It was not quite a lie, I told myself. Some chance, or even some seidhr, might have helped me survive until dawn, frostbitten but still breathing. There was no reason to contemplate any other outcome.
“Farsight? Oh, yes.” He nodded, and his dark gaze was direct as Bjorn’s, though shadowed by worry. “A fine name for a noble steed. I would assuage your worry, Lady Solveig. We will let no harm come to you.”
It managed to nettle my pride, even after narrowly avoiding a plunging death upon a fear-maddened horse. “There stands my shieldmaid, and I am volva. I am not overly worried. I would know, though…” How far could I inquire? It might be best to test the limits of what this man would allow his weregild.
Eol of Naras stilled, and his dark eyes gleamed. He was much leaner than Bjorn, but his self-possessed quiet might well warn a fellow warrior not to taunt too freely. “What would you know?”
Several of his brethren cast sneaking glances upon us as they went about their work. Only Aeredh watched openly, a faint line between his eyebrows. Did Eol expect me to ask about the Elder who rode with us, now not bothering to hide his ear-tips? Or about that evocative phrase, Elder Roads? Did such tracks all run through cold fog, along mountaintops? How was the travel-weirding achieved?
“That sheep-thing, last night.” I could not ask what I truly wished, but such is life—as Idra often reminded her student. There were other matters to inquire upon that could easily test his willingness. “I caught only a glimpse of it. What is its name?” Perhaps he would even label it in the Old Tongue, adding to my store of knowledge.
“Ah.” Did he look surprised, or pained? It was difficult to tell; his reserve was near uncanny. “It is a twisted thing; in the Old Tongue we call it grelmalk. They are not common.”
“That is a great comfort.” I was somewhat gratified that he had given up a word I could use. Grelmalk was no term I had been taught; I would have to think upon it today, tasting its syllables to discover its secrets. There were other things a weregild could reasonably expect to inquire about as well, and he had opened the door a fraction to their urging. “How do such things breed? Do they come from the North? How often do they attack travelers?”
“We should name you Lady Question.” Eol’s expression changed again, a few fractions’ worth of difference settling into faint bemusement, his dark hair full of blue glints in thin winter sunlight. “They come from the Gasping upon the borders of the Black Land, and are an affliction. You shall never see another so closely, for we will not use the cloaked ways again. We did not think… well, it matters little what we thought. I mean merely to reassure you.”
I would know what he thought and more of these “cloaked ways,” but he rose, nodded to Arn, and returned to Aeredh. His men busied themselves with breaking camp, and Arneior watched their movements with interest, her thumb moving slightly upon her spear-haft, an absentminded caress.
So he would answer a few things, but not most and certainly not all. Care and caution were called for here; my restraint would have to match his own.
I finished my breakfast in silence, and the food did not warm me.
Treesong, Welcome Cup
Lokji invented winter, but it was the Allmother’s eldest son who filled it with terror. For the Enemy twists all things he can, hating even the season of rest when the world is quiet…
—The Proverbs of Graendel
By midmorn we had descended well into the forest. Clouds arrived from the north and east, and a thick tang of fresh snow coated my throat. The trees, crowned by previous snowfalls, held a profound hush as the air warmed—spring was a long time away, but each day was now a few moments longer than the last.
Of course, in the North new winter warms only so it may produce another white veil.
I was well occupied in thinking upon and tasting the strange word grelmalk while attempting to repair my braids and the red coral beads when the first flakes floated down. Old snow had been compacted by wind, its own weight, or slight thaws, swept into almost-dingy drifts resting between thick trunks. Still, the way was clear enough and the pale horses stepped more lightly than southron ones. Perhaps they had been bred for it; there were stories of Elder mounts which could balance upon ice-crust, were it thick enough.
I had become somewhat accustomed to the perpetual fierce silence of the Northerners and even to Aeredh’s soft, almost-swallowed singing as the horses plodded atop solid-packed snow starred with fallen branches, depressions showing animal passage, and other detritus. What made me cease my braiding and retying, swaying atop Farsight with my fingers caught in my hair, was familiar seidhr.
The trees were singing, as they often do deep in hushed woods. Even in the silence of falling snow—every hoof-fall muffled as our route doubled and wound to avoid obstacles, taking advantage of branch-cover or wind-sculpt pushing previous drifts aside—I heard their murmurs.
Arneior rode with her hood back, her hair glowing in directionless grey light. A shieldmaid’s hearing is sharp, but she did not glance in my direction. No, what I heard was for a volva’s ears alone.
It was not the creak of laden branches combed by wind or the snap of ice-freighted twigs. The trees which bear new leaf every spring muttered softly; those who wear their robes all winter were a little louder. They whispered as humans or beasts do while their dreamsouls—a third of what makes a living creature, some seidhr say—wander night’s country.
I was hard put to think I was not dreaming, my overlapping selves disarranged by successive shocks and last night’s fitful, shivering doze passing for sleep. For here we were, Eril’s daughter and her shieldmaid hemmed close by dark-clad Northerners, in a cortege headed by an Elder after escaping twisted beasts hailing from near the fabled wreck of the Dead Dust—called the Gasping in the Old Tongue.
My braids were arranged as well as I could manage by evening; the rest of me felt too rumpled for much confidence. The sun was a mere handspan above the westron horizon, a strengthless smear amid gathering darkness and heavy-falling snow as the woods drew away and ribbons of smoke lifted from a steading. The greathall and its outlying buildings turned their backs to the north wind, all crowding close. The central hall was quite fine, though not as large as Dun Rithell, and the steadings’ meadows were ringed with round, hip-high grey rocks.
Most of the stones bore runes for health, warding, and protection I knew well enough even if in somewhat ancient forms, but every so often they were shaped as squatting thick-bellied people with long earlobes, a few with ornately carved wooden pipes clasped to lichen-starred lips as if they longed for a twist of hemp or other herb-smoke to inhale. I almost laughed upon seeing them, for their expressions were comically surprised. Yet I sensed weirding drowsing within them, a different force than the tuneless hum of deep-carved, well-fed runes. The snow had been cleared in pathways, and hummocks in what had to be gardens during summer were domed hives, their inhabitants slumbering between tiny sips of honey produced against the long cold.
Had it not been winter I might have spoken to the bees, for they are powerful allies and enjoy a volva’s company. I touched the hard lump of my grandmother’s torc near my collarbone, obscurely comforted.
