A Flame in the North, page 20
Homes, workshops, halls for dining or dancing or music or weighty discussion, storage for various items—all were carved from the stony hills, and in the streets there were no broken cobbles or cracked ancient paving, only round granite river-eggs whole and complete. The trees grew as if upon sunny hillsides, and if leaves dropped free of their arms there was always fresh green to replace them. Gardens there were, with fruit-bush and healthful herb, not to mention flowers grown simply for the joy of their foliage or flowering. Fountains played, sweet water speaking in garden and plaza, and the singing in Nithraen followed that music.
I must have gaped like a farmchild brought to a greathall for the first time, or a youth seeing his first love at a riverside fair. Between Aeredh—in no armor but a long coat of black Elder-woven velvet and trews to match, like Eol—and my shieldmaid I did not have to worry overmuch about placing my feet, though Arn caught my arm once or twice as I fair tripped over the satin-smooth cobbles in my eagerness to absorb some new vista. The air itself hummed with messages I could not quite hear, brushing like butterflies above a meadow.
Idra had been fond of those bright-winged creatures, often letting them rest upon her greying hair while she tended her small garden. The memory was piercing, and my first unease in Nithraen was that, beautiful as it was before the breaking, there was no birdsong threading through the lifted voices.
But I did not think upon such a lack then, for there were Elder everywhere.
They are tall, the first-awakened of the Allmother; though most are dark-haired their eyes shine with fierce light and are often blue as my mother’s. They did not quite stare, though a few in bright flowing armor standing guard at some post or another glanced at Aeredh more than once, not bothering to gaze upon my own strangeness. Most Elder look youthful indeed, though for some grief or great wisdom may grant them a gravity approaching an aged warrior’s. For all that, they are quick to merriment, and the sound of their enjoyment is often silver as the night’s largest light. They do prize the sun, for it keeps evil at bay—but their hearts are given to the stars, for they woke in starlight and marveled much later when the Moon first sailed across the sky.
The women among the Elder examined me boldly, most with their hair unbound or held back with simple silver fillets. Yet some wore braids as complex as mine, though none with red coral. For all that, their gazes were not unkind, and the men did not linger-look overlong.
Perhaps they found Eol’s glare daunting; I know Arn cast more than one sharp glance at any whose scrutiny verged upon the importunate. Most of Nithraen’s citizens, however, were more interested in Aeredh, who appeared not to notice. He did not meet their gazes, and almost it seemed our small group was amid the wilderness’s vast loneliness instead of a collection of stone houses. I did not see the other Northerners; no doubt they were glad to be resting in such surroundings.
But we were bound for the palace at the heart of the many caves, the very center of Nithraen. Street after street of houses, other buildings, wide gardens, and so many people—at times my breath stopped in my throat, and a strange uneasiness turned my fingers cold, rushing down my back, attempting to raise the fine hairs all over me.
Aeredh pointed out small details—my father planted that tree, there is where casks of new springwine are kept, archers practice amid those trees in certain seasons, we shall soon pass a fountain that sings like one across the sea. He kept a steady pace, and though I might have preferred breakfast, there was wonder enough in seeing that I did not mind very much. Three great caverns melded into one as we walked, and the path under us became a road thrice as broad as the one before my father’s hall.
Had all paved ways once looked like this? The way the blocks were laid reminded me of the trade-road running past Dun Rithell, but this one looked fresh-new, not a crack or discoloration to be seen.
Then we turned again. A wide avenue of white stone with multicolored gems laid in a branching pattern at certain junctures hummed with force, rather like the runestones. Both Arn and I avoided placing our feet upon the glitters, though Aeredh trod firmly. “No need to worry,” he said. “They are meant for dancing upon.”
“It feels wrong,” Arn muttered, and I could not disagree.
At that moment there was a belling, and I halted. From a cross street some distance ahead a pack of giant wire-haired hounds, grey as mist and graceful as deer, crowded a high-prancing white horse. The hunter was dark-haired, in greenglitter armor, and turned toward the shining spires of a palace boiling with silvergold light—for this great three-lobed cavern had two light-orbs, silver and gold, the only one we had seen so far possessing both types at its apex—without casting a glance in our direction.
“Curiaen,” Eol said, quietly. “The fifth son of Faevril, my lady alkuine, and returned from hunting the Enemy’s servants upon the borders of Nithraen. His brother should be… ah, there.”
A second hunter, his hair bright gold as Astrid’s, was the true center of the pack. The horn at his hip glittered fiercely, and he looked over his shoulder. Though his eyes were dark his glance was like a dart; Aeredh again appeared not to notice, though I all but heard the missile whistle. It did not strike, or if it did, the impact was silent.
“Caelgor,” Aeredh said, mildly, as if I had inquired. “Faevril’s third, and a mighty hunter indeed. Though he has lost his best hound.”
“None would gainsay you.” The Old Tongue burst from Eol; Arn tilted her head slightly at my side, listening hard to tone and hue though she could understand neither word nor accent. “I wish you would simply—”
“My father’s people chose.” Aeredh shook his dark head, and his faint smile held no amusement. “I have also chosen, my friend. Forgive us,” he continued, in the southron tongue. “We should not speak so before you, Lady Solveig. We are bound for the palace, and will have a draught there to ease whatever hunger you and your shieldmaid have. Afterward the rulers of Nithraen will question you, though not overly harshly. You need fear nothing.”
I fear little with Arn next to me. Though that was not quite true—my anxiety at this place’s strangeness could be diminished but not wholly elided, and the memory of the lich sent a fresh shiver down my back. Regardless, Eol wished for me to attend, so I must.
I could not help it; the question bolted free. “Do you think they found it? The thing with the iron helm?”
“’Tis likely, and if so it will carry no tales to its master. We may be grateful for that much.” Aeredh’s smile turned passing bitter, though, and he did not look thankful at all.
“Usurpers,” Eol muttered.
I did not like the turn conversation had taken, and had to appear oblivious or merely curious while I examined the buildings, the glittering streets, the trees of several different kinds. A large, spike-limbed evergreen of a type I had never seen before thrust skyward as if it longed to reach the roof, and though its trunk was massive there would be many a long year before its crown could reach close to its goal.
Certainly longer than a man’s life, or even two.
“Soft, my friend.” Aeredh did not sigh, but he looked very much like my mother when she wished to do so. I found myself wondering if he had any children, though he looked far too young. “I have left the matter behind; so should you.”
“Sol?” Arn, very quietly; did I wish to let these lords know I understood their ancient speech? Or perhaps she was asking something else. I did not like being unable to discern or anticipate my shieldmaid, but we were both disarranged by travel.
Not to mention our surroundings. This place was so vast, and so many Elder were breathing within it. I wondered they had not run out of air, and that was an uncomfortable thought indeed.
“I am hungry too,” I murmured, as if she had meant to inquire about that. “At least there is a chance of breakfast, small one. Though I am uncertain if the Elder have ale.”
“’Tis the time for winterwine.” Aeredh’s good humor returned, the sun freeing itself from a cloud. “You may find it a worthy substitute, shieldmaid.”
The breeze touching my braids was sweet indeed, but I was unsure if I could truly like this place. I took to studying where my slippers landed instead of the buildings or gardens; the ground was so easy I did not need buskin or boot. My bee-torc rested comfortingly against my collarbones, but I did not think its work would impress those who had hollowed out this lovely, uncanny place.
No one likes to feel insignificant. My delight in seeing the new and strange soured some little as the palace drew nearer, lifted voices and the sound of stringed instruments as well as pipes echoing from its wide-open doors. Hound and hunter were gone from view; so were the crowds of Elder folk, yet the music remained. Another chill touched my skin under heartsblood wool, and I looked to Arn.
She felt it as well. My shieldmaid’s dark eyes were wide, her freckles bright against paleness. For all that, the light suited her, burnishing every edge and glittering upon ring- or scale-mail. She had reapplied her woad-stripe, and it glowed reassuringly.
Of course the orbglimmer was likely picking out my own imperfections, but she was beautiful. So I have ever thought of others, especially other women. Astrid would glow like the pearls carried upriver here, and I found myself not quite wishing they had asked for her as weregild instead.
Not quite. And yet.
“We are being followed,” Arn declared, flatly. “Though your people stay well back, still they come.”
“Yes.” Aeredh glanced at me, as if I had been the one to speak. “There has never been an alkuine in Nithraen. Do not let it trouble you, my lady shieldmaid. They mean no harm.”
“No elementalists?” I could barely believe it. The Elder are mighty in seidhr; it never occurred to me that with all their inner sight and invisible strength they would lack even the rarest flowerings of the Allmother’s gift. Then again, Aeredh’s share did not bar him from carrying a weapon—was he counted weak among them?
It was a strange thought.
“You are the first of your kind to set foot here, my lady Solveig.” Aeredh’s smile was beneficent, and his pace did not alter, drawing me onward. “The Elder have only ever had one alkuine, and some hope we may never be afflicted by another. Yet you are blameless in that matter, and a remedy besides. Do not fear, I shall not let any ill come to you.”
It struck me, then, that the Northerners would not utter such a promise so often were there no danger of it needing fulfillment. And from Arn’s expression, she had realized as much too, though well before her charge.
I watched my slippers—not so fine as any Elder raiment, certainly—avoiding gems in white stone, and redoubled my efforts not to lay even a toe upon one gleaming jewel.
It seemed safest that way.
Sons of Faevril
Then did the king lay his circlet upon the throne, and declared that any his people would follow could wear it with his blessing. None moved, and the City of Caves was silent as he took his leave, walking beside Bjornwulf as two friends upon a summer day.
—Baelor of Quaencis, Saga of the Uncrowned
Broad white steps swept us through vast high-arched doors and into the palace of Nithraen; the many-pillared halls were magnificent indeed. As we crossed the threshold, silver chalices were brought by Elder in livery blazed with embroidered representation of two shining trees, their boughs interlaced.
Some say we learned of the welcome cup from the Elder, but others say each of the Allmother’s children hews to the ancient laws of hospitality in their own way. All agree it is best to do as your hosts require in the moment of arrival. A good guest is polite, as a good host shares both food and fireside.
Arn drank deep of hers; I took a token sip followed by a startled, much deeper mouthful as heat slid through me. It was close to sitheviel but far more substantial, with a taste slipping through many different forms. First, it was Albeig’s special crisp-crust harvest bread, the very thing I had been longing for though I knew it not until that moment. A second swallow was honey from hives Kolle’s family tended; there were fields of aromatic purple laventeli their bumble-winged gatherers loved to sup from, and it ever gave a fragrant tinge to their mead.
The third taste puzzled me, for it was roast mutton, and filled me the way only meat could. I lowered the silver chalice, disturbed and attempting to separate each ingredient in the draught from its fellows.
Yet I could not.
“It tastes of memories, my lady Question.” Eol watched my expression, and his smile was somewhat pained though his tone kind enough, for once. He did not drink, but of course he must have upon arrival, not being half-dead of exhaustion. “I remember my own unease, the first time I drank.”
At least you do not hide it. There was no poison I could find in the liquid, and I handed the heavy, gem-crusted silver item back to its bearer with what grace I could muster. “Many thanks,” I advanced, tentatively, and the Elder cupbearer—he looked no older than Aeredh, but that was no indication—gave me a startled, blue-eyed glance.
“It is my duty,” he replied, in a heavily accented approximation of the southron tongue. He looked to Aeredh, as if his fellow Elder would take issue with the words, and then cast his gaze down and hurried away.
I could only watch him vanish into a nearby hallway. “Did I offend by—”
“No.” Eol’s eyebrows drew together, very nearly wearing a scowl again. In this light, the sharp vitality burning in him—different than that of the Elder, but bright nonetheless—was more evident than ever, and his hair glinted blue-black. “Another used to rule here, my lady Question. More I cannot say.”
Many were the halls of Nithraen’s great palace. Our own great timber warrens were trifling in comparison, but I would have given much for a friendly hailing from a table of my father’s warriors, or ale drawn from Dun Rithell’s casks though I ever prefer mead. I missed Ulfrica’s smile, Albeig’s anxiety, Ulveig’s fierce swearing, Astrid’s worrying, and even Bjorn’s great graceless self presenting me with a problem to solve.
At least Arn was with me. A vast central hall swallowed us, its pillars tree-carved so finely I expected to hear the subtle brush of moving leaves. Aeredh glanced at me twice, perhaps measuring the effect of such grandeur upon one of my kind, or attempting to encourage.
Or for another reason entirely.
Curiaen and Caelgor were now the rulers of Nithraen, and they often came from their hunt to the great ruling hall. When we emerged from a stone forest the light was cool gold, the stone underfoot cushioned by soft carpets woven to resemble close-cropped grass, and the rain-colored hounds milled excitedly, too well-bred to bay at our approach. They ringed us as we walked, but more in the manner of curious sheep than hunt-bred chasers.
It was strange, for they did not smell of dog but only, faintly, of fresh air and musk.
Some few Elder scattered about the bright, incongruous sward. A group had gathered about a harpist, whose playing grew softly plaintive when we appeared. Guards in bright greengold armor attended at intervals, while two slim Elder maids in matching pale dresses halted dancing and withdrew, bright blue gazes startled as young deer. Movement whispered behind us, and in the center of the woven meadow was a small rise with a round bench carved of living grey stone polished to smoothness, its cushions brighter than the “grass” and well arranged. A greater circle of white paving surrounded it, and the two hunters, bright-haired and dark, stood at its edge, conferring with each other while making every effort to appear unaware of our approach.
Yet tension sang in the air around the brothers, and the fair one, his shining hair a little deeper gold than Astrid’s, very carefully did not turn his back. Both bore great curving Elder bows, their quivers half-empty from the hunt; sword and knife rode their belts. The folk of Nithraen were proud indeed, holding their lands against any incursion, yet they bore arms more to show the skill of their crafting than for brawling. I did not know as much then, though, and was glad of Arn’s spear close by.
We halted some small distance from the hunters, and Aeredh stilled. Arn examined everything about us with wide-eyed interest, her right hand easy upon spear-haft. Eol moved to stand to her left, but slightly behind; his eyelids dropped halfway and the gem in his swordhilt gave a single bright dart.
A tall female hound approached me gravely, fringed tail held high. She examined my skirt with some attention, and presented her head for a pat. I bent to smooth soft fur, peering into her dark, intelligent eyes. Farsight had the same air of good nature, and I have ever liked dogs.
“Beware, brother,” the dark-haired hunter said in the Old Tongue. He was the taller, and his smile was thin. “You may lose another hound.”
Perhaps he did not think a volva’s ears sharp enough to hear, or a shieldmaid’s. Eol stiffened; I sensed more than saw the slight movement.
Aeredh said nothing. He appeared deeply interested in the carving of the roof, highly figured and rising on dome-ribs to brilliant golden orb-light.
“And what is thy name?” I murmured to the dog. “Fair and sleek you are, and swift as the winds, I judge.”
I meant no ill, of course. Complimenting a hunting pack is simply good manners, especially when there is some small unpleasantness or hesitation to smooth over in a hall’s conversation. It was my duty as volva, and as the eldest daughter of Dun Rithell, to save guest or host from embarrassment; now I was called upon to use that skill as a weregild.
Why else had Eol brought me here?
The blond hunter tilted his head slightly, and his gaze came to rest upon me. An Elder can show their displeasure with such a look, and it is heavy indeed. “Well, perhaps the haughty-brought-low must find his dogs where he can.”
It sounded like an insult, but their accent was archaic and though I was used to the Northerners, they had hardly spoken enough for me to discern nuance. Yet a tone, a swift glance, a gesture—or even the tiniest shift in breathing—can express contempt, and the Elder have much time to learn such display if they wish.
