A Flame in the North, page 33
I closed my eyes, for the wind was speaking.
Rustles and rushing, the creak of frozen limbs and the whisper of sap buried deep to wait for spring. Small animals sleeping, burrowing, or hunting during daylight—snap of feathered wings, crunch of tiny teeth in leftover berry or bone—as well as the larger beasts eking out their winter existence. A bear slept in a deep cave, only dimly aware of the cold outside; wolves that were not of Naras howled many leagues away, singing their joy at finding meat while a lean haggard deer struggled in snow, knowing its time had come but attempting to break free of the pack’s circling nonetheless.
Other deer sought through the white waste for food, finding it in bark, twig, or under hoof-scraped snow. Even the scattered boulders had a song all their own, low and grumbling at the very bottom of my hearing; the ice-locked streams sang slow crystalline notes.
“What do you hear?” the lord of Redhill asked, softly.
“Everything alive,” I whispered. “Arneior?”
“Battle.” My shieldmaid’s voice was much quieter than usual. “Some few leagues east, and another north. There are foul things marching to the south; their boots have iron heels to crush the snow and everything underneath. More than one wolf pack is hunting today, and all will find what they seek.”
I frowned, straining my ears, but I could not hear what she did. “A winter hawk, hunting as well.” The scream of prey found and carried aloft on beating wings filled me with feather-brushes, as if the Wingéd Ones circled me instead of my shieldmaid. “I hear the wolves too, but not…”
“It has been long since I stood in this place and heard aught but the slither of the Enemy through these woods. Sometimes I wish I could.” Tarit barely mouthed the words, but they were clear as a bell. “The Elder, though they may offer aid, do not rule here. I would advise you not to seek returning south if Nithraen is fallen.”
I suppressed a shiver. The wind was rising; I could discern nothing in Tarit’s voice but truth. Yet I longed to return home. The sickness filled me, toes to scalp, before draining to leave a cold, unsteady clarity in its wake. “I shall consider your counsel closely.”
“I am gladdened to hear it, my lady.” Tarit’s tone did not shift, nor did his physical self. Soft and level, he continued. “When you leave, you will go to Dorael or to Taeron’s kingdom, as you choose. This I promise you.”
Those in the woods surrounding Redhill could not hear us; the wind brought tales, but did not spread them. Now I understood his invitation to see the hilltop. My eyelids rose, and the bright day was like a blow, a flood of impressions once a heavy stone-and-silver gate was battered wide. “It is more choice than I have been given so far, my lord, and I thank you for it.”
A king could hardly have accepted my gratitude with more regal unconcern. “Listen as long as you please, my lady Solveig. I shall wait for you upon the edge of the stone.”
Then did the son of Hajithe withdraw, either to find shelter from the cold or to let Arn and me pass what words we would in privacy.
No, I did not precisely like our stay at Redhill. Yet I liked Tarit the proud very much, and the songs of his fate grieve me still.
The Chair of Honor
Aulm of the deep waters whispered into Taeron Goldspear the High-helm’s dreams, showing him a place of safety. Yet the vision ever carried within it a warning—do not become enamored of your own mighty works in the perishable world. Laeliquaende’s beauty was never meant to last.
—Daerith the Younger, Floringaeld’s Lament
Deep in the hill was a hall of much higher vault than the others, and its walls ran with tangled carvings of dverger-runes. A round stone table was not placed but had been carved from the hill’s heart, and its surface was polished to reflection. Mehem would not speak of seidhr or of how Redhill was constructed, but did look somewhat pleased when I let out a gasp of wonder upon seeing the rune-covered walls, reaching to touch the carvings and checking at the last moment, even as my fingertips burned with curiosity.
“My apologies.” I snatched my hands back, letting them drop to my skirts. “May I?”
The bearded dverger sucked his cheeks in, his strange golden-flecked gaze depthless, and settled his thumbs in a wide leather belt. Inside the hill, he wore no mantle but a half-cloak lined with soft brown fur, and soft slippers with hide soles. “Your tall men have never noticed, nor remarked,” he said, gruffly. “You are of the South, young one? I hear our writing is used there, or a form of it.”
“Very close,” I agreed. My heartsblood dress was fine enough for this occasion, at least, and I was glad of its weight. And of my father’s bee-torc as well. “’Tis not the carving calling to me, but what lies inside it. Is it history, or—”
“After a fashion.” Mehem moved aside as Tarit entered, the tall Northerner glancing down briefly to avoid collision. The two seemed to share a cordial dislike, yet it was Mehem the son of Hajithe deferred to in most if not all questions of supplies or safety. If the dverger said It is bad to leave the hill today, no follower of Tarit would stir a step forth; if Mehem said You should return by noon, it was heeded as a father’s edict. “Once there was peace in these lands, and my people came through with caravans of goods. We traded much with the Elder, and wrought many a treasure they still hold dear. News is written here, and genealogy, and things of note. But what is written is not what is. More must be added.”
“Ai,” Arn muttered, shaking her ruddy head; her woad-stripe was freshly applied and gleamed rich blue. “It is weirding-talk. I leave you to it.” She followed Tarit; others appeared in the two other arched entrances set equidistant around the vault. Each group was brought by one of Mehem’s sons, for the passages were tangled and even men who had arrived first with Tarit could still become lost in their labyrinth if not going to some memorized place.
“Pfft.” Mehem gestured, brushing her words away. “You may look all you like, lady of the South, but do not touch. These are the things of my people; we share much, but I would not have these handled by the tall.”
The curiosity in my fingertips was close to actual pain; still, I clasped my hands tightly and bent a knee, not a bow but the courtesy of a lord’s daughter. “Forgive my rudeness, my lord dverger.” I could almost feel the rough tweak Idra would have given one of my braids, reminding me not to be impolite in any matter, large or small.
The sharp ache of missing my teacher mixed with homesickness, a drink grown strong by the mixing of two liquors.
“At least you asked.” He indicated my wrists with a short, sharp jab of his capable, callused hand. At first I had thought his fingertips discolored—or even inked as my volva-markings—but the dark veining and blackened nails were called forgebless among them, and the sign of a maker. “The marks, there. I would examine them, but would you let me touch?”
“No,” I admitted. It was fair enough, and just besides. “Though you may look all you like, once this council is done. You may find our writing has not diverged far from yours.”
“And you wear it upon your skin. How…” He glanced at the room, gauging its fullness, and despite the number of Elder and Secondborn present, there was no sense of crowding.
“Ink, forced under the skin with needles.” I did not begrudge the explanation.
Still, he made a face, nose wrinkling with something close to distaste. He looked very much like old Flokin in that moment, though a third of that fellow’s size. “Barbaric.”
“Knowledge is ever paid for, my lord.” I was somewhat nettled by the word barbaric, but as my mother said, even one’s closest neighbors may oft seem strange. Such is the wide world, and every house is a country all its own. “I earned every one of my marks, and was glad to receive them.”
“I suppose I cannot argue.” Of all the men I met in the North, Mehem the dverger spoke our language best. I could not tell where he had learned it. “We say the same. All things have a price, whether or not one wishes to pay.”
“Spoken like one of Ullwë’s own.” Aeredh drew close; he was no longer the smiling youth he had been in Dun Rithell or the first part of our journey north. His eyes had darkened, and his mouth was no longer merry. Elder do not age as Secondborn do, ’tis true, but sometimes a great grief may leave marks upon them which approximate it, and the fall of his city seemed to have done so. “My lady Solveig, we cannot have this council without you. Will you come, and listen?”
“Listen, but not speak?” I fought the urge to fold my arms or touch my torc. Either would show nervousness. “In the South, one does not dispose of a woman without her consent and counsel. Is it so different in the North?”
“Certainly not.” He went still in the particular way of the Elder, as a granary feline will when something captures its entire regard, and the light in his gaze sharpened. “We began badly, though with the best of intent. Grant me the chance to make some amends, my lady, and say what you will. You are so quiet I oft think you disdain to speak.”
“Perhaps she merely has some sense.” Mehem moved away, soft-footed—dverger can be silent indeed when they choose, and remain unremarked by taller folk almost at will. He looked ready to leave us to our discussion, but Tarit motioned to him.
“Come, my lord Mehem,” the son of Hajithe called, despite the looks exchanged by his lieutenants—bearded Kaedris, and Berehad called Bowman for his skill with placing shafts from a bow of Elder make and size to rival Daerith the harpist’s. “I value your advice, as all should. Besides, the chair of honor is yours.”
I would have passed Aeredh to join the others at the glass-glossy table, but he moved as if to catch my arm and I halted, my skirt swinging. Perhaps he mistook it for a flinch, since his hand fell to his side and his expression darkened still further. Once more I saw a flicker of his true age, and it was disconcerting against his usual humor.
I waited, but he said naught else, merely indicated the table and walked thence at my shoulder like a shieldmaid.
So it was I took my place at the Council of Redhill. One chair was stone, and shaped with steps for a dverger’s shorter legs to climb into its embrace; the rest were a motley assortment of carven wood. Daerith the harpist of Nithraen was there, and four Elder from the wreck of their city; Tarit the Ill-Fated and his two chief lieutenants attended too, and the wolves of Naras except Soren and Elak, who were with many of Tarit’s men and the other Elder hunting a group of orukhar between the hill and shattered Elder land, where a wyrm’s stink was already blasting the trees and golden grass to sickly shadows.
Despite what they say of that discussion, Tarit and Eol of Naras did not come to blows, nor did Aeredh the Crownless sing a lament for lost Nithraen. It was more like an Althing where all speak their minds upon questions of import, though there was no ale and neither Aesyr nor Vanyr nor any other divinity were invoked at beginning or end. Nor was I treated with much false courtesy by rival groups eager to gain a sliver more than their neighbors, there was no question of a flyting—and there was not a single honorable bout of fisticuffs.
My father would have found it a dull affair indeed.
Arn disdained to sit, standing behind my chair with her spear a straight vertical bar and her dark eyes narrowed. In physical battle my place was where she set me, but here, I was the better warrior. Still, the men left a chair empty at my right should she change her mind, and Aeredh settled himself to my left. Apparently there was some honor in his position or mine, for those assembled looked to him to open the discussion.
It began, as such things do, with a recitation of what we knew: Nithraen was fallen, a large force marched toward Dorael—Daerith the harpist gestured to the shining tabletop, indicating the relative places and points between. There was some power in Aenarian Greycloak’s land which would keep even an army of orukhar and other fell things at bay, but it did not leave those borders and might be overwhelmed in time, especially if the Seven rode forth together instead of singly.
Of the Seven of Kaer Angaran not much was said, since every Northerner knew of them. I gathered they were creatures like unto the lich we had seen, yet far more dread and deadly; the inference sent a chill down my spine.
The recent battles were discussed, and I learned summat of a grave insult which had driven Tarit from Dorael ere his sister Laleith arrived there for fostering—she had been loath to leave her mother before, and went only reluctantly. The son of Hajithe disdained to return to that Elder realm, though Daerith spoke of a pardon extended by the high king himself.
I could have told the harpist the idea of pardon for a wrong not of his making would only insult a man of Tarit’s temper further, but I was not asked, and held my peace. Sometimes I wonder if I should have spoken. It was not my place… and yet.
There was talk of driving the huge wyrm from Nithraen; the thing was, according to some scouts, consuming even the Enemy’s orukhar and a few mightier servants seeking parley or attempting to deliver their lord’s directions to an errant creature. Aeredh found a grim amusement in this news, or at least the set of his mouth said so, and I could think of nothing to say. Imagining my own feelings had such a thing made its home in Dun Rithell among the shattered bodies of my kin was unpleasant at best.
In the end, no force large enough to retake the city could be raised without the Greycloak, and it was clear the great Elder king had his own troubles. Which brought the discussion to, of all things, me.
They had confined themselves to the southron tongue so far, but at that point Daerith fixed Aeredh with a steady look. “I ask you to reconsider, my king.” The Old Tongue in its most formal intonation turned the air expectant-tense, as if he had shouted. “Whoever survived the city’s fall will make for Dorael; once there, we may gain both reinforcement and the Greycloak’s counsel.”
“I have asked you not to address me thus, old friend.” Aeredh’s mien was grave indeed, but he continued in the southron tongue. “You may lead what others you find to Dorael; my lord Tarit has graciously agreed to spare a few of his men as guides in that event. My own path is different, and those of Naras have sworn to accompany and protect the lady alkuine upon our journey.”
“Hold a moment, my lord.” Tarit spoke, forestalling me. “The lady has not given a single word yet, and I would know whence she desires to tread.”
The blunt end of Arn’s spear tapped dverger-crafted stone, a sharp counterpoint. The sleeves of my dress were folded back almost to the elbow, and my marks were—as is the custom at an Althing—upon full display as I rested my hands against cold mirror-gloss stone. “Many thanks, son of Hajithe. I am unwilling to be carted any further without my consent.”
Eol shifted uneasily in his chair, but said nothing.
“She considers herself our ally, my lord Aeredh.” Efain gazed at the table as if he could see a map of the North upon its gleam, and his scars were pale as the rest of him. By then I knew those who have two skins rarely bear such marks unless they are given before the second form shows in them—or unless the wounds were near-mortal; I wondered which had happened to him. “It would be good to ask her, instead of commanding.”
“And should she refuse?” Aeredh exhaled heavily. “Lady Solveig, I cannot tell you our eventual—”
“A hidden city, wherein rests one of your Faevril’s treasures.” My gaze fixed itself over Eol’s head; the shining stone table between us was easily the bodylengths of two tall men and the weight of the captain’s own eyes settled upon me more often than not. I wondered what he discerned in my expression, for I could gain nothing from his. “I must tell you, son of Aerith, I cannot use the seidhr-weapon you would have me wield.”
A silence greeted this assertion. The wolves of Naras did not glance at each other, but the Elder exchanged many a speaking look, and Tarit’s head cocked slightly, a flash of puzzlement swiftly masked behind his usual expression. Eventually, the Elder seemed to concur in some silent way, and the harpist gathered himself.
“Weapon?” Daerith’s eyebrows rose, and his tone, even in the Old Tongue, was both shocked and excessively careful. “You mean to have a Secondborn—”
“Peace, my friend.” Aeredh lifted a hand, and the harpist swallowed further words. “My lady, the end of our journey is hidden for good reason. The Enemy—”
“Caelgor the Fair knows the end, for it was he who told me of it while you demurred.” It was time for these men to hear truths they preferred not to. It is a duty a volva must be cautious with, for nothing irritates a warrior like unpalatable, irrefutable honesty. “Which makes it not precisely hidden, and he has guessed your deeper aim as well. He offered me his protection upon the journey—and his brother’s.”
“The cursèd oath still bears bitter fruit,” one of the Elder—Yedras, one of the spearmen well-practiced in hunting trul—muttered darkly.
“The Hunter and the Subtle are no doubt in Dorael, blackening my name to the Cloak-Weaver despite the Greycloak’s dislike of their line. I care little, for Melair will see past their purposes.” Aeredh turned his attention to me, and I felt the full weight of an Elder’s seidhr-glance then. It was akin to Curiaen’s, but far more easily borne, since he did not seek to pry into my thoughts. “And I would not speak of aught else, be it plan or possibility, until we have reached our destination.”
Dragging me, and my shieldmaid, yet farther from our homes. At the moment, I thought it quite likely his pride was touched, and Eol’s too. Just like Bjorn, or even Eril—rare is the man who does not become stubborn when accused of misestimating some great matter.
Perhaps I was even comforted at that moment, for the eldest daughter of Dun Rithell had already handled more than one warrior or lord in that mood, and plenty afterward as well.
