A Flame in the North, page 25
At least none of the drink ran down my chin. Aeredh let the liquid retreat when he sensed I needed a breath, and offered it afresh when my gaze turned questioningly to his. “Yitherin,” he said, quietly. “A restorative; there is nothing harmful in it. I will teach you the recipe, if you wish to learn.”
So now you wish to give me more Elder seidhr. How kind. The thought was uncharitable, but I was in no condition to give it voice.
With his patience and my willingness helping at either end, I drained the goblet to the dregs. He retreated, I shuddered once more, and Arneior still clasped my hand, her coppery eyebrows drawn together and her full mouth drawn tight.
“I have not fallen in the river yet.” My tongue was unwieldy and my throat dry despite the Elder drink, but my shieldmaid granted another ghost of a smile to the old joke.
“Not for lack of trying, weirdling.” She squeezed my fingers before drawing away, casting a dark look in Aeredh’s direction. “’Twas beautiful, Sol. Idra would be proud.”
Would she? For all I loved and respected my wise teacher, I had what she did not—not only as eldest daughter of my mother’s hall but as a volva. Power I held, and she made no secret it was more than hers; all of Dun Rithell took pride in it no matter how uncanny its bearer.
And so did I, ever since I began upon the path of training. My arrogance might be small compared to an Elder’s, yet it was mine, and all I had.
Caelgor called the thing in my lap a toy. Such seidhr, counted weak among them, could burn me from the inside out.
And once more an Elder drink bolstered me. It returned some manner of strength to my limbs, but I was not at all certain I could stand. Still, my arms worked now, so I cupped the silver sphere and lifted it. “My lord Aeredh.” The words hurt, scraping their way free. “Here.”
“My lady?” The Elder stilled, the empty cup dangling from his fingers. Its gems glittered sharply, spearing my tender eyes; the world was a bright agony at the moment, and yet curiously darkened by the absence of the orb’s inner shining.
“Take it.” I could barely shape the words; it was an effort not to speak in the Old Tongue after the silver thing’s deep, undeniable whisper.
“Only you may open this item, my lady Solveig.” And of course, because he was Elder he now looked handsome indeed, his head tilted slightly and his blue eyes kindled. His gaze was far kinder than Caelgor’s, but still burned like the silver thing resting against my trembling fingers. “I lack the—”
Must I beg? “Please.”
Arn solved the problem in characteristic fashion, snatching the thing with her free hand and pushing it toward the Elder’s chest. “It is an ill deed to refuse a volva’s gift,” she hissed. “Have you no manners at all?”
He did take the sphere, perhaps sensing she would throw it if he demurred. “Is this some southron custom?” Perhaps he was startled, for he looked to Eol, who shrugged.
“None I know of.” The Northern captain studied me for a long moment and turned to Efain, who still lingered in the doorway, though his ribs no longer heaved. It put Eol’s back to Arneior, and I could not decide whether he considered her little threat or could not bear to look upon me, useless as I was. “Well done, my friend.”
“Babbling away in weirdling-speech.” Arneior addressed a point over Aeredh’s head, and her hand tightened upon her spear. “It seems a lying tongue, to suit them.”
You forget I speak it as well, Arn. Or perhaps she did not, but I was too weary to care. “Let them say what they will.” My voice was a bare husk of itself, and my hands were empty in my lap. Even my sleeves were damp. “As long as they leave us in peace; I’m weary.”
I could not help it. A tired child will whine, and that is what I felt like.
“’Tis worth more than my father’s entire treasury, save perhaps the necklace given to Lithielle.” Aeredh’s hand tightened upon the glass goblet, yet he cradled the taivvanpallo in the other gently. “I shall hold this for you, my lady alkuine. And we shall withdraw so you may rest.”
The urge to howl fishguts, just take the shitstained thing away was sudden, overpowering. I denied it, shutting my eyes again. I could not bear to look at its alien gleaming now. At least they left with no more speech, southron or otherwise, and Arn let out a soft but exceedingly obscene term no other warrior of Dun Rithell would have dared utter in my presence.
“Finally.” She descended upon me to set all right, much as Astrid or Albeig would have. “You’re soaked. Come, to the water-room.” Her fingers bit my arm as I swayed. She meant no harm; the movement simply surprised her. “What is it? Shall I call them back?”
“Gods, no,” I whispered. “The water-room. Yes. I…” How could I explain this? “Arn, that thing…”
“Beautiful,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But you will have to train so it does not do this to you. Just like a weighted practice-axe.”
If only it were so simple. “Elder seidhr, Arn.” I found my legs would support me, but only just. “And yet it…” I could not even explain.
So far from home, and at the mercy of these men who had no intention of letting us return—and I had just been shown, in the most visceral way possible, that I was infant-weak even compared to their toys. I was no longer Dun Rithell’s pride, the first full volva in generations and elementalist to boot. Caelgor and his brother might have sent us south with a blessing and escort, had I not managed to crack the fishgutting silver egg.
It had nearly killed me.
Half done is worse than not done at all, Idra often said, and like all such lessons, it did not sink below the skin into full knowing until I had failed.
Dread News
Before the door a shadow appeared
The guards quick-slain, the Mere
Fouled by a scaled length. A rush,
A slithering, a rasp-choked cry,
And then Nithraen knew. The bridge had
Betrayed them, as the Crownless warned…
—Daerith the Younger, The Rape of Nithraen
Our remaining time in that Elder city was short, though we did not know it. I did not even dream that last bright night we spent in the bedstead’s stone embrace; I could have blamed my exhaustion or the taste-shifting winterwine, brought in graceful silver pitchers by a somber Soren and all-but-scowling Efain, who clearly considered us troublesome.
At least they refrained from sharp words with my shieldmaid, merely left us to our meal. Soren gave me a long look, as if judging whether or not to speak—then caught Arneior’s eye, and hurriedly retreated.
When I awakened, I could not tell if it was morn or eve. A deep hush pervaded the street, though the strange Elder orb-light did not alter. Even the breeze stilled; no whisper of moving branch or thread of song reached us. No visitor braved our doorstep, and the remaining winterwine tasted of sweetened oatcakes my mother made to celebrate her children’s naming-days.
I wished to weep, but the tears would not come. I was dry as summer-dust upon the trade-road outside my father’s hall.
That morning—or so we thought it was, the constant orb-light was disorienting indeed—we were both somewhat out of sorts. The silence was vast, as if we were the only living things remaining in the cavern; Arneior’s practice in the middle of the largest room given to our use made far more noise than the rest of the entire warren.
My second-best dress of heartsblood wool was already seidhr-clean and dry, packed in my trunk, and I paced before the archway to the balcony in my grey traveling-gown, almost wringing my hands. My shieldmaid could swing her spear to rid herself of an ill mood, but I could not run along the riverbank or venture into copse or pasture seeking the same relief.
I could only fret while treading, and wrestle with the knot of my own anger, bafflement, homesickness—I could not name all the emotions, and that is dangerous for a volva. Weirding sometimes leaps to follow a strong feeling, even if its holder would refrain.
“Shuh,” she huffed, finishing, the weapon held level and almost quivering with battle-hunger. “They cannot expect us to stay trammeled much longer.”
“We are penned goats, Arn.” Even if no bar had been placed upon our wandering, I was sure we would not be allowed to go in any direction without an escort. Normally I would have longed to see the sights of an Elder city, stuffing myself with the strangeness, learning all I might. Now, each loveliness it held was merely a cat-tongue rasp across my nerves. I had not thought my mother’s daughter so small and envious, but it would have been worse had I attempted to lie to myself. “Do you think we should leap the fence?”
“This is unlike you.” She whirled, light upon the forefoot, and her spear-butt stamped the stone floor with a sharp crackle of irritation. “You will tell me what ails you sooner or later, Sol.”
Maybe. “’Tis too quiet.” I found my fingers threaded together and clasped bloodless-tight. “I like not how the air feels.”
“Your mantle is ready, and so is mine. It would be a shame to lose the trunk, but we may both carry a saddlebag.” Arneior’s freckles glowed, her cheeks bearing a bright pink tinge of exertion, and she regarded me narrowly. “I say we attempt to find an exit. There cannot be only one.”
“And then what?” I did not point out that wandering an Elder city in search of some egress might be frowned upon by our hosts, for she would blithely assume I could keep us from much notice. Even if that were within my power, what would happen afterward? “League upon league of deep winter and more of those sheep-things, not to mention orukhar?” I could not even bring myself to mention the iron-helmed lich.
She dismissed my objections with an eye-roll very like Ulfrica’s when confronted with one of Bjorn’s clumsy sallies. “Oh, you may find those fog-bound roads the boy did, Sol, and have us home in a trice.”
“I am not so certain.” A shudder walked down my back. I wondered if perhaps I should tell her the source of my brooding, though it irked me to admit any shortcoming at all. Who, Secondborn or Elder, feels easy with such an admission? It is harder than the most impossible seidhr. “Arn…”
“Just spit it forth, weirdling.” She glared at me, though she did not thump the floor again. “Idra would pull your braids, Sol, but I have half a mind to make you dance until you cease fretting. We may do something about what ails thee.”
There was always a cure for my Arn, and it usually involved spear-play. Dodging and weaving as she jabbed at me was an old game, and cheerful enough even when there was some ill feeling the dance was meant to purge. “There are some things you cannot kill with stabbing, small one.”
“Of course, and that is what I have you for.” But she cocked her head, her red-tawny braids dangling over her shoulders; she had not wrapped them yet today. “I mislike this quiet as well.”
“Perhaps it is some Elder observance.” My shoulders ached; the tension was well-nigh unbearable. And the lack of dreaming in what sleep I had gathered made me wary indeed. “This part of their city seems but lightly inhabited.”
“Or abandoned.” She stalked to my side, peering out onto the balcony. Though bright with orb-light there was no singing to be heard, neither of fountain nor of Elder throat. “Something troubles you, and has ever since that hunter brought you the silver apple. Out with it.”
To be so thoroughly predictable is only a comfort until there is an event one wishes to chew privately. “There is much to be troubled over.”
“I thought you giddy at the prospect of more weirding.” So easily did she say it, my shieldmaid; she knew me almost better than my own mother. She adjusted her grip upon the spear, her fingers fanning out to stretch before closing again one by one. “Is it the weregild troubling you, then? I have been thinking, and praying. The Wingéd Ones are silent, but…”
“It makes little difference whether they absolve us of oathbreaking at the moment.” Though being granted some sign, any sign in that direction from a divinity would have been welcome—even one of Lokji’s pranks, and he is a fellow no sane person, seidhr or otherwise, wishes to gain the attention of. “There is still the snow, and those things.”
“But will the dark things be interested in us when there are other…” She halted, her head cocked. “Hist.”
I heard it too. Hurrying feet in boots, light and quick. The sound rang oddly in empty stone lanes, and though I did not have the strength for Elder seidhr, I had at least enough of my own to dread the news such a step brought. “Something is very amiss. It is as well we are packed; quickly, let us be ready.”
Arn hurried for our mantles and her braid-wrappings while I made certain our trunk was well-closed. Consequently, when Efain and Soren appeared, bearing signs of great haste and their own black traveling-mantles, we were unsurprised. Sword-bearing, both also carried their bows, and their quivers were half-empty as Curiaen and Caelgor’s after a long hunt.
“My lady alkuine.” Efain’s scars were flushed afresh, and he took in our readiness with a single glance. “We must go. They have broken the great door, and—”
Arn’s blunt spear-end struck the floor, cutting across his words. “Who has broken what?”
“I told you.” Soren put his hand to his side and exhaled, as if to quell a muscle-cramp. The Old Tongue was harsh in his mouth, and high color stood in his thick cheeks. “They both might be of some use in the battle.”
“And be killed or worse, not to mention prove to the Enemy what he might only suspect?” Efain shook his head and shifted to rapid southron speech, sharply accented with his mothertongue. “The Great Doors of Nithraen have been breached, my lady Minnow, and the battle-rages. Our lord Eol charged us with your escape. ’Tis a relief to find you so ready.”
That was when we learned there had been battle before dawn upon the causeway leading to Nithraen’s outer gates—great stone slabs, silver-chased and cunningly balanced over the Nith’s mirrorlike mere. Arn had seen them upon our arrival but hardly studied their construction, occupied as she was with the burden of her half-conscious charge. Later, we knew the war-band we had met upon Nithraen’s borders was merely a tiny scouting party, spray before the wave; a strong force of orukhar and other noisome things had issued southward from deep, new-made clefts in the ice-cliffs of the Marukhennor, those perennially frozen peaks raised by the Enemy to guard the eastron plains of the Black Land before turning north toward the Cold Gate.
It was the first army to do so in many mortal lifetimes.
Such was the cause of Nithraen’s sudden silence. Those who could fight were called to the many layers of defense, for Aerith the Delver had thought long and wrought hard to provide his folk with safety in caves the dverger told him of, long ago while the Sun was new. There had been little warning of the disaster though the folk of Nithraen held the hills above their deep homes with bow, sword, and spear no matter the season; some even lived among the trees in summer, free of a stone roof.
It may not have mattered. Warning is not the same as enough strength to fend off vast hosts of terrible creatures bent upon destruction.
My heart leapt into my throat. I could have wished for a true measure of my father’s battle-madness, for at that moment it seemed far better than my own cowardice.
Arn’s expression was merely thoughtful though her knuckles were white as she gripped her spear, and in her dun mantle and fresh woad-stripe she was the very picture of a shieldmaid ready for the work she prefers above all else. “How long, before…”
“They may yet drive the foul things forth at great cost.” Efain shifted slightly, exchanging yet another telling glance with Soren. Had they expected to roust us from leisure? Perhaps that was fair, for I clearly had not seidhr enough to suspect their purpose in Dun Rithell. “Regardless, we have brought danger here.”
“And while Curiaen and Caelgor are occupied, your lords may whisk their prize away.” My chin rose, and I drew my gloves on with sharp tugs. “Very well.”
Efain stiffened, but it was Soren who answered. “No matter what you think of our captain, the Black Land is far worse. Will you consent to accompany us?”
I could have remarked that my consent meant little, but a massive noise boomed through Nithraen, bouncing from wall to stone paving, from the houses to the great dome-ceilings. The orb-lights shuddered, trees quaked, and shadows danced. A bolt of pain lanced from my braids to the soles of my overboots; my strangled cry was lost in blaring, echoing cacophony.
Arn’s hand fastened upon my arm, and she hissed an imprecation at the Northerners to dissuade them from seeking to bolster me as well. Efain whirled, preceding us from the room; as soon as we burst from the house another massive impact boomed through Nithraen. At first I thought rain or hail was pattering around us.
Then I remembered just where we were, under the hills of Nithlas-en-Ar, and realized the small stinging drops were falling pebbles. The dome far overhead shuddered, creaking. Arn yanked harder upon my arm, and we ran in perfect accord, following a Northerner’s black-clad back.
Death of Nithraen
The first of the great wyrms was wingless, and it is said the thing left Agramar against the Enemy’s command, eager for plunder. For they are ever greedy, those things bred in foulness and fed upon giant carrion in the darkness under the Ash Citadel; they will swallow all they may, even as the meal chokes them.
—Eohyna the Riddlemaker, On Wyrms and Their Habits
Just as there are sagas about its glory, there are laments of the Breaking of Nithraen. No few tell of how the battle veered across the causeway and many a great deed was performed by the two sons of Faevril, or by the Crownless—for so they called Aeredh, whether in mockery or strict truth—and his Secondborn friends. It was not the great iron-tooth ram the Enemy’s servants christened Krog which broke the doors but something else entirely—a long sinuous shadow running with wet, wriggling flame, its snout dripping vile orange-yellow heat and its eyes deep glassy crimson, a creature grown immense by rancid feasting in the Black Land. Its teeth were chips of glassy stone, and its hide was thick.
