A Flame in the North, page 19
At that time the Nith had never frozen save once, and the tale of that winter—told to me long afterward—is terrible indeed.
The ford is always crossed in stages, for there the Nith runs shallow over many gravel-beds before it gathers two tributaries, Shaerith the Cold and Eleth-mir the always musical. With their aid it becomes much mightier than our river at home, turning southward with a vengeance to come, after long wandering, to the sea. On the far side of the Ford’s broad shoals forested hills rose, their foliage oddly tinted, and the air was not nearly so frozen. Falling snow vanished, though the sun’s light still filtered through endless heavy cloud.
I was glad to be out of the whirling ice-feathers, not to mention those strange seidhr-shapes. The stone road broke through a thinning white carpet, breaching to leap like a fish. Beyond a short rise, the forest bore more paleness upon its shoulders and hood, but not below the canopy. Crisp cleanness shone between pillar-trunks, as if we were high upon a mountainside again, the air thin and crystalline.
Our horses lifted their heads, snowmelt dropping from hocks, withers, and tails. The Northerners exchanged relieved glances, but Arn urged her mount closer to mine. She was deadly pale, her freckles glaring like the blue stripe on the left side of her face, and her knuckles were bloodless as she gripped her spear, apparently not trusting the saddle’s bucket to hold it.
If her nape was crawling like mine, if the fine hairs all over her were rising, if she was suddenly sweating under her mantle—while still chilly, it was appreciably warmer than upon the other side of the river—I did not blame her. I felt the weirding as well, though I was too exhausted to do more than wonder.
There is a word for an animal made so placid by fear or tiredness it simply ambles, head down, toward the burden-release of the knife, and now I know its depths.
Hills rose in great pleats, the trees so old and large not much undergrowth gathered between them. They had to be evergreens since they bore their finery even in new winter, but their leaves were deciduous-shaped and tinged with gold at the edges. Great greygreen boles lightly touched with lacework lichen made hallways in every direction, and in summer the sward would be verdant.
It was beautiful, and the tree-leaves familiar, since I had seen them wrapped around the Northerners’ strange melting waybread. But the unnatural blunting of winter’s chill and the loveliness of the groves were both… disturbing.
There is no other word for the feeling, though I racked my porridge-impersonating skull-meat to think of one.
We rode for some while upon the newly freed road, its surface innocent of fallen leaf or branch, moss or stray pebble. Aeredh’s song dropped into a hum, echoing the inaudible ringing from the runestones at now-regular intervals. Passing from one stone-singing tone to the next produced a strange thrill along my back and upper arms; Farsight’s ears were pricked so far they almost seemed ready to slip free and go galloping themselves.
Arneior pulled her mount to a sharp halt; it took a moment for me to convince Farsight to stop though Soren had her reins. It also hurt, vaguely, to use the savagely overstretched willpower-muscle inside my aching head and chest, but if my shieldmaid would go no further, I would follow suit.
Besides, the idea of sliding from the horse’s back, taking a few staggering steps into the woods, and sinking down upon the banks of yellowed grass with only the thinnest thread of green at each blade’s center was incredibly appealing.
“Hold,” Soren said, pleasantly enough. “Does the lady require—”
“We are being followed, again.” Arn turned as far as she could in her saddle, looking behind us, her spear almost quivering. “And there are voices. Sol?”
“I hear them.” My whisper was a singsong; I clutched at the pommel and tried to focus through the swimming before me. Even Farsight’s neck was undulating. “I do not think they mean us ill.”
“But do they mean us well?” Arn shook her coppery head, leather-wrapped braids vigorously brushing her shoulders. “They may show themselves, or I shall not allow my Solveig another step. There is weirding here, and I do not like it.”
It was Eol who answered. “We are in the lands of our lord Aeredh’s kin.” His cloak dripped and his hair was wildly unhappy at the battle we had just suffered; the rest of him probably felt the same. “Nothing here will harm you or Gwendelint’s daughter, lady shieldmaid. We are very close to shelter.”
Arn gazed at me, but I could say nothing. I felt the watchers as well, their interest sharp but not unwholesome. Still, if my shieldmaid was cautious, I would not move.
I trusted my Arn. The rest of them? Perhaps, to a degree.
And perhaps not.
So there I remained, with Arn at my side and the Northerners passing whispered arguments, until there was a slight sound within the trees. Riders on slim-legged white horses like our own appeared, melding from the spaces between greygreen trunks, their cloaks woven in greengold-grey and their hoods pulled high. For all that, their gazes were bright in the shadows underneath, and skilled hands held bows when they did not rest upon fluidly shaped hilts chased with gems or stark with plain loveliness.
Thus it was we were introduced to the folk of Nithraen. I heard little of what was said, but we set off again, Arn’s mouth pulled tight and her mare matching Farsight stride for stride. The hills rose but the road was laid to be very gentle to both foot and hoof, and by the time we passed over the Great Causeway above the lapping mirror of Nith-an-Gaelas—a naturally, partially dammed branch of the river itself—I was all but insensible. I did not see the Gate carved with runes of strength, bound with flowing hammered metal and seamless once closed. I did not see the shadows part under the great hill, nor did I hear the silvery trumpets echoing deep in the halls where the Elder lived, sang, and wrought their wonders.
It was enough that we eventually stopped, I plummeted from the saddle into Arn’s waiting arms, and we were taken to a place of resting.
PART TWO
NITHRAEN
Morn in Nithraen
Before Faevril was born, his queenly mother Mieris went to the northernmost shore of Valhalle, to the cave where the Three Kind Sisters weave. Much was her joy upon hearing that her firstborn would be a flame bright enough to light the world, but deep also was her unease, for that was not all the Njorn said…
—The Annals of Valraëne
To wake upon a bedstead carved from grey stone is strange enough, even when its mattress is soft as a cloud and the linens smell of summer freshness. To see the bed’s curtains hanging from a loop of more carved stone overhead, the ring depending from a rough mass of almost-triangular rock, is even stranger. There was a small stand next to the bed, a pillared dish growing from its surface like a twisted tree-trunk and bearing a single, heatless, glowing golden globe. The light it shed was clear and forgiving, brightening when I yawned and scrubbed at my poor head. My braids were in a sorry state, coral beads digging unmercifully amid the tangle, and as I sat up, pushing unfamiliar, finespun blankets aside, I also dislodged Arn’s arm from my middle.
She muttered a curse, turned over, and returned to the deep shadowy land of sleep with little ado. Her spear was propped within easy reach of the carven bed; I realized, staring in wonder, that the entire room had been hollowed from grey stone. A columned opening along one wall let in a dappled glow of shifting leafshadow, accompanied by the sound of voices lifted in song and laughter.
There was a stone table too, but the chairs were—thankfully—made of wood, and in the usual fashion besides, though highly carved. A stone wardrobe with varnished, likewise sculpted wooden doors stood sentinel in one corner, and before it was my mother’s trunk, still securely fastened. My seidhr-bag, with Astrid’s beautiful stitchery making runes of health and protection upon its sides and flap, was tangled in the bed’s blankets near my shieldmaid’s knee. Arn’s mantle and mine hung upon wooden holders set nearby, dry and clean, looking very companionable indeed. The walls were alive with stonework of climbing vines and leaves, a screen-trellis with stone flowers shielding a small sitting room. I peered through the holes, running a tentative fingertip along hard petals.
It was a representation of no plant I knew, but the rock remembered tiny whispers of seidhr-shaping. If I listened deeply enough, I could perhaps untangle the words used to make stone behave so.
The artisans of this place were skilled indeed, for even small hairs along the flower stems had been rendered. The rooms were wide and airy, holding a faint indefinable floral fragrance and the faintest breath of stone-smell, as of a mountain’s slope upon a sunny summer day. On the other side of the sitting room—it held low wooden couches upholstered with velvet, clearly this was a hall much greater than Dun Rithell or the Eastronmost—was a door I felt no need to examine just yet, being too busy freeing my braids.
My scalp tingled with relief, and the prickling slid down my back. I found the colonnade along the bedroom’s wall looked over a tree-lined street, quiet and deserted; the voices came from elsewhere, rising and falling in lapping waves. The trees drove their roots into, over, and past stone containers that had held them as saplings, their branches stretched upward under a shimmering radiance from a great golden thing hanging far above.
It was not the sun, and my fingers froze in my hair. I retreated once more, working coral beads free and whispering a small seidhr against enchantment and ill will with each one. I did not think such caution precisely necessary, but the disturbing feeling under my breastbone would not go away.
Another archway led to a small grotto with water sliding down a stone cliff-face subtly shaped into spiraling designs; it was close and half as warm as a sauna, tiny vines and moss festooning its walls. The light was an indirect golden glow, from whence I could not tell. There was a smaller stone column, too, somehow feeding bubbling cold water into a basin. An entire family could have lived in these rooms and had plenty of space to share with bondsman, thrall, servant, and free retainers alike.
The wardrobe’s shelves and cubbies were empty, and sweetly redolent of resinous wood. I decided against trying to heft the trunk into its embrace, for there was no telling if this was our final destination or how long we would stay.
Finally, clean and warm—and is that not a joy after any voyage, no matter how short?—I took my carved-horn comb to the balcony over the street, setting to work upon my damp hair. The voices had not stopped, merely shifted like river-chuckles running over a stony bed. I studied the bright golden ball hanging high above, realizing it was akin to a great gem. The stars scattered about it were other jewels set in the roof of a vast cavern, but if they were constellations I could not tell, being none I had ever seen.
Under hill, under stone they live; Where singing echoes deep and bold. An ancient saga, telling of the waking of the dverger in the first ordering of the world; I shivered at its unbidden appearance in my head. My second-best dress, of very dark heartsblood wool, was more than fine enough for visiting other halls.
Was it enough for an Elder city? It did not smell underground here; there was no cave-reek. On the far side of the river from Dun Rithell there was a noisome cavern Idra swore had once held an evil hulking stonehide thing finally killed by a distant ancestor of Gwenlara my own mother’s progenitrix; there was no breath of anything so foul here.
The pillared balcony had a pretty carven balustrade; I studied the trees and smoothly cobbled street below. Had they found these caverns and enlarged them, or did an Elder lord look upon a hill ages ago and decide to carve within it? Or perhaps others had made these halls? There were stories of the thrayn dverger, short squat people whose hands know the secret of every earthly crafting and who lived in halls of stone; they were held to have departed the world when the Elder did after the Black Land’s fall, but by burrowing inward instead of taking ship to the far, glorious West.
But apparently the Black Land was risen again. And now I wondered what else lurked in the far reaches of the North, how much would I see before returning to Dun Rithell. I could not think beyond seeing Mother again, and Astrid and Bjorn. Even Father’s bluff, uneasy greeting would be a relief and a joy.
While the cold North might hold wonders like this place it also held things like sheep-monsters in hidden ways, and orukhar. Not to mention the lich we had so narrowly escaped, and that was a terrible memory. I shuddered, drawing the comb through my hair, and sensed more than saw movement below. I peered over the balustrade, narrowing my eyes. A blurring shape slipped through liquid treeshade, moving between patches of deeper shadow.
My fingers cramped upon the comb. I sucked in a soft breath, and he must have heard me, for Eol paused and looked up, peering between heavy-laden branches. He had put aside his blackened armor, but his new garb was sober-dark as ever, leggings and a long tunic of some soft material I learned later was Elder-woven. His eyes gleamed, his face patched and seamed with moving shadows, and the gem upon his swordhilt, now unwrapped, glittered savagely.
“And there, in her tower, the daughter of a king; Looks upon me, and her gaze is as a knife.” He murmured in the Old Tongue, some manner of song or riddle, for the accents were pleasingly arranged. Then he shifted to the southron speech, raising his voice as if he thought my ears were stoppered instead of sharp as a volva’s. “Be untroubled, Gwendelint’s daughter. You are safe in Nithraen, where Caelgor and Curiaen now rule.”
That means nothing to me, son of Tharos. But excitement rose behind my heartbeat, largely dispelling unease. “This is an Elder place, then?” I had to lean over the balustrade, my damp, unbound hair swinging, and pitch my own words loudly enough for dull hearing.
Although his ears were perhaps as sharp as Arn’s, considering what lived in his skin.
“Of a certainty.” He stepped out of lacework shadow, his eyes bright and whatever golden thing burned overhead wringing a hard dart of light from the gem in his swordhilt. “The great city of Nithraen, in a thousand caves beneath the hills of Nithlas-en-Ar. Do you ask him, Aeredh will tell you stories of its building. May I come up, Gwendelint’s daughter, or will you come down?”
Arn was still asleep, and I loath to wake her. “Am I called, then?” For a weregild must attend where they are bid, and we were not traveling at the moment.
“Only if it pleases you.” Was it chagrin, crossing his face? I could not quite tell. “Aeredh is hard upon my heels; we thought to be your doorguards. There is much curiosity about an alkuine.”
So I am to be an amusement. I was not quite hard-pressed to find a polite reply, but it was close. “I have much curiosity about the Elder, so we are well-matched.”
“I begin to think you fearless.” He did not move; a breeze ruffled branches and sent dappled light cascading over him. How vast was this cavern, if the air moved so? “Grant us leave to linger at your door, Gwendelint’s daughter, and emerge when it pleases thee.”
So you can speak with some politeness, when you choose to. I heard stirring behind me—so Arn was awake, after all. “It will not be long,” I promised, and retreated, working at my hair.
My shieldmaid yawned, regarding me from the carven bed. “What is that?”
“We’re in an Elder city, small one, and my captor wishes to show me like a prize sheep.” The last tangle yielded fully under the comb’s teeth, and now I had only rebraiding to accomplish before I was decent again. “What have you seen of this place? How large is it? The cavern seems deep indeed, yet it does not reek, and—”
“Only you would find this a pleasant turn of events.” She rubbed at her face, yawning afresh, and my own throat ached to answer with a corresponding sigh. “Where is breakfast? And, by the gods, I could do with some ale.”
“As ever.” I carried my seidhr-bag to the table; I could tell it had not been disturbed save to place it in the bed, which was heartening. I lowered myself cautiously in one of the chairs and found it far more comfortable than it looked. “I saw Lord Eol below, but he did not seem to be carrying a meal.”
“No surprise there. The man seems to resent even bread.” She pushed back the covers and flowed from the bed with her usual grace, bending to touch her toes, stretching her hands to the ceiling, and embarking upon the regular, stylized movements a shieldmaid performs to press sleep from stiffened muscles. “And this is not one cavern but several, each deeper than the last. I do not like it, though the air is sweet enough.”
“There is seidhr here.” My hands knew their work; my braids began to take shape. Red coral, solid and healthful, warmed my fingers as I braided, snugged, and looped; the ribbons were Astrid’s and well treasured, but she had slipped them into my luggage anyway. “I shall learn much, and so shall you.”
“Mh.” She wrinkled her nose and disappeared into the water-room.
A Promise So Often
For Lithielle did not wish to be taken, and struggled; as they rode past Bjornwulf leapt to her aid, dragging Curiaen from the saddle. The lady fell too, light as a leaf, and Bjornwulf might have killed an Elder prince in that moment, for great was his wrath at any who would lay hand upon his love…
—The Hunting of Lithielle, attributed to Daerith the Elder
There is no night in Nithraen, merely a period of dimming and shadows at the dawn and dusk of the world outside. Each cavern had its light-orb, sun-golden or moon-silver; the more shadowed passages and streets had graceful, bluish Elder-wrought lanterns burning endlessly at precise intervals. Some caverns blent into each other at their edges, and the mingling of orb-light was beautiful indeed.
