A Flame in the North, page 4
“Aye.” Flokin eyed me in the bonfire’s fitful glow. A short distance away, spindle-legged Asjel the miller’s son had tripped while bringing wood up, and was being mocked by other boys. “He swears he heard the Northerner say summat of your sister. Your lord father, well…”
He should have left Bjorn with me. But I could not play nursemaid to my grown brother, nor could Astrid. Even Mother could not anymore. “What are they demanding?”
Flokin coughed. Perhaps he did not expect me to be quite so direct, but I had just called the winter bonfire. None could now say I hadn’t earned each of the blue bandings about my wrists, or the ancient runes living under the skin.
Every pinprick with ink forced into my flesh, every terrible test, every deep lonely night was worth it. I had brought flame from empty air upon the darkest night of the year. Idra, for all her wisdom, would not have been able to do so.
Seidhr is uncommon, though every house has its own cunning, as the saying goes. Only two ancient, half-unintelligible sagas speak of elementalists, though they do not name specific ones. Still, there are many marvels among seidhr’s many-branching ways, and Idra had never betrayed any surprise or shock at finding one among her students.
I waited, but the bearded man said nothing. Arn made a short, displeased noise. “Come now, Flokin. Say what you must.”
At least he had a healthy respect for her temper; especially during the dark of the longest night. “I dare not speak upon it, my lady Solveig. ’Tis for your father to do.” He would say no more, nor would any of his companions.
Put that way, though, ’twas simple enough to guess. The Northerners kept to old ways; some said their proximity to the ruins of the Black Land kept them faithful. The most ancient weregild is a child for a child, and Father must have suspected they might demand as much. He would draw out negotiations until I could leave the green, cross the road, and re-enter the hall; no doubt seidhr by his side would help in dawn’s cold light, especially after demanding Northerners had spent a night drinking at a fine table.
A wisewoman’s strength is not just in weirding but in negotiation. A cunning mind, a quick hand, and a wise tongue are necessary. Besides, before I could even speak I was upon my mother’s knee when cases were decided; an eldest daughter is often called upon to give advice to even the haughtiest lord.
Father couldn’t lose Astrid; it was unthinkable. If Bjorn were betrothed it could have been a compelling argument to keep him, but perhaps some time with Northerners would hammer some elementary caution into his thick head. The only question would be how long, and that was why Father wished me there before negotiations truly started.
A year and a day is traditional, but I could mayhap shorten the duration.
The bonfire strengthened, and as I turned the matter over inside my head Asjel also turned upon his tormentors with rhyming couplets. Flyting is an ancient game; even those lacking a strong arm may use its sting. A bright light upon his young freckled face, he likened the other boys to a pack of running sores, and his tormenters stepped back, giving way.
I could not help but smile; the gods love those with quick wits, especially upon a festival night. The other boys, taught once more to respect a stream of insults as much as a bared blade, hoisted the young spindle-legged stumbler upon their shoulders before setting off toward the wood stores, singing a few of his choice couplets no doubt inspired by a passing divinity.
It was a night of strange occurrences. A pair of latecomers wrapped well against the cold hurried past to enclose lights in horn keepfires. I shivered, wishing for something a little more substantial to eat; it wasn’t like Albeig to leave us unfed.
Sudden dark shapes loomed over Flokin’s shoulder, and for a moment I thought the shadows of the stairway had come to life, ill spirits about to throw themselves upon the fire. Arn handed me the aleskin, cocking her head as she regarded the new arrivals, and the men of my father’s household stiffened almost in unison.
It was the Northerners, come to visit the flames.
They are tall as Father, those of the North, but mostly dark-haired as Mother’s people. Their eyes are often dark too, but even so there is a terrible glow to their gaze, and they are held to be sparing of words as a whole, though courteous enough when necessary. They often do not wear beards, and sometimes it is said there is Elder blood in their high houses that makes it less likely for them to grow such proud appurtenances. Not many of them favor the axe, being instead enamored of heavy swords; it was said they did not have the battle-rage, but a cold calculation in attack or retreat made them dangerous indeed.
There were a half-dozen of them that night, and three had eyes pale as my mother’s or my own. They filed past, most watching me sidelong before passing the fire. Their leader—or the one I suspected was their leader, by the colorless gem winking in the pommel of his heavy pax-knotted sword—paused before the bonfire, studying at leisure as if he suspected some trick. Then, he turned and appraised me again, despite my father’s guards.
The men of Eril’s hall did not move. Arn stepped before me, though, her chin raised. I kept my hood pulled high, because I felt the Northerner’s glance. Idra’s long-ago searching look, while enough to make child-me quail, was not so strong.
So, the Northern lord had some weirding of his own, or one of his lieutenants did. I saw no wolf upon them; they had come to the fire without sigil, bearing no weapon but their captain’s sword bound with thin leather strips to make it near impossible to draw.
Respecting pax in the old way; we used yellow thread or cloth at Althings, but had not forgotten the original material.
Flokin cursed when they vanished into the dark past the bonfire, a term of surpassing vulgarity. ’Twas no shock to me—I had, after all, grown up with Bjorn—but I never expected anyone else to utter anything like it near one of my father’s daughters.
I spent the rest of that night eating what Albeig sent from the hall, drinking weak wassail, and watching the bright fire of the new year while my head whirled, my hands clenching and releasing inside gloves and sleeves. The question was how to keep them from taking Bjorn for too long, or so it appeared to me then, and I caught myself in the very dead of night muttering bits of logical argument while those around me cast each other uneasy looks and the bonfire had to be fed yet again.
It never occurred to me that the Northerners would demand another of Eril’s children.
A Warm Hall
The Blessed themselves respect those granted a touch of seidhr, for it is a gift of the Allmother. Even Odynn while hanging has not plumbed its depths; even Ulimo the lord of the sea cannot guess at its currents. All are threads upon the loom, and weirding the pattern itself.
—Melair the Cloak-Weaver, Queen of Dorael
Idra said an occasional sleepless night is a whetstone for a sharp mind; I certainly hoped as much. I was cold clear through, though the bonfire had kept any of us from freezing to death, and very grateful that Albeig had sent my overboots and plenty of wassail up to the Stone.
By the time the east lightened, all I could think of was going home. No doubt the guards regretted leaving the greathall’s shelter, but it is lucky to see the dawn with a volva—or so all the songs and stories say. In some places a wisewoman may tap any man upon the shoulder, married or not, and take him home for a single night.
We did not do such things in Dun Rithell, though once or twice Flokin had jested with Idra about it.
Even the deep warming breaths my teacher made me practice endlessly were not perfect proof against ice; one can only keep the body’s fire high enough to combat winter for so long. Arn was better at it, but then again she had more time to practice during shieldmaid training.
Much, much more.
Walking home was a relief, because it brought us out of the wind to some degree. Even Arn looked a bit pinched, and a shieldmaid loves the cold as others prize summer nights.
When entering a warm hall from a night spent in vigil, ’tis important to remove what layers one can so the chill is not held close to the body. So it was I pulled my aching hands free of pouch and gloves, leaning upon Arn while Sarica and Finduil bent to help with my overboots. Ulfrica took the green mantle and undercloak with a relieved, tremulous smile and a brisk shake to free them of ice; Albeig brought me the great cup. I took it with a will, and the warmth of what it contained filled both my stomach and head. “I could sit in the sauna until spring,” I muttered, and Albeig’s answering smile was tight and pained. “Where is my father?”
“Still in the hall.” Finduil shook ice from my overboots with a slight clucking noise; she would have to brush them hard when they dried. “The Northerners have not slept, and neither has he.”
Nor have I. For all that, I was not as weary as I had been after some of Idra’s greater tests. “Has he at least…” I swallowed the rest of the question when Albeig gave me an agonized look. It was not her place to discuss such matters, especially after being left alongside Astrid to deal with the great feast. “Never mind. My mother’s medicine. Has it been taken up?”
“You have not heard?” Albeig straightened, taking the great cup from my shaking hands. “One of the Northerners—the young one—gave your mother a draught he mixed himself, and the ague has fled her.”
Oh. Well, that’s fortunate. Still, it pinched; I had been using Idra’s best recipe to combat Mother’s shaking. “They keep to the old ways in the North,” I muttered, a formulaic thanks. “Perhaps he will teach me the recipe for such medicine.”
Ulfrica gasped and hurried away, clutching my mantle; I was too cold to care for her dramatics and sorry to lose the protection of fur-lined wool. Still, my festival dress was not draggled, due to Arn’s care with her volva’s footing, and when the buskins were unlaced my cramped feet gave a sigh of relief I echoed. My slippers were still dry—one piece of good luck among the ill, at least.
Sarica and Finduil left, exchanging dark glances, but I caught Albeig’s arm. “Ulfrica did not chatter about who glanced at her during the riddles, and ’tis not like Sarica to risk a defeat upon that field.” I cleared my throat, a bit of the cold still caught there, and tried to soften the observations with a smile. “What is wrong, Albeig? Does my father not think I can negotiate these strangers to—”
“There you are.” A big basso booming filled the entryway, and as usual, my father’s voice robbed all around of him of the air to speak. Big, capped and bearded with blond, and wearing his great bearskin, Eril the Battle-Mad stuck his thumbs in his belt and regarded his eldest daughter with bloodshot dark eyes as if I had been caught returning from a lover’s hall after dawn. His cheeks were ruddy with ale, and the gleam in his gaze was troubling indeed. “My seidhr daughter, welcome.”
“My father.” I straightened; Albeig bobbed and offered the cup to Arn, who drank deep, one hand still upon her spear. “I am told my brother did some ill.” And now you wish me to repair it. Well, such is my lot, and I do not shirk it.
I never had. Bjorn was firstborn, but ’tis the eldest daughter who holds any hall, and we do not forget it.
“I should have been upon the Stone.” My father stepped further into the entryway, glancing over his massive shoulder as if he expected pursuit. Not for the first time, I wondered how he and my mother had fit together to produce children, though I had little desire to even imagine such an event. “Your very first, my daughter, and it seems ill to miss it.”
It was surprising that he would even mention a dark omen, and my unease grew. “There is always next year.” I rubbed my hands together; Arn thanked Albeig with a nod as she handed back the cup. “None will tell me how bad it is, and I think that is upon your orders.”
He winced slightly. “You see much,” he muttered. “I did wish to tell you this myself, and said so.”
Even worse. I glanced at Arn, who tossed a leather-wrapped braid over her shoulder. Her knuckles were white upon the spear haft; a shieldmaid guards her charge even against kin. Not that Father ever lifted a hand to me or Astrid—he saved such things for Bjorn, who sorely needed them—but still, he was a man, and a large one. She had been cautious of him since childhood. “The news must be ill indeed.”
That was when I learned the Northerners, upon being told the roll of Eril the Battle-Mad’s children, had not asked for the young warrior to serve in the North, nor for Astrid the fair to visit their halls in payment for the one struck down. No, in return for the death of the younger son of their lord, laid out by a southron man’s fist and dying headstruck upon a stone, they required a different weregild. And nobody dared to tell me, for such news brought to one with seidhr might well gain a curse in return.
In other words, the Northerners wished to take the Battle-Mad’s eldest daughter, who had just proved her worth as full volva and elementalist both by lighting the darkest night of the year with will alone.
Blessing Morn
The Elder say they taught us of sacred hospitality, but how can that be believed? For they are proof against nearly all mortal illnesses and accident, and may survive even deep winter with scant clothing. No, the laws which render a guest inviolate we gained from the gods on our own account, in the time before we even knew of the Firstborn. In those dark days when the Blessed had left the world to the Enemy, despite the risk of traitors among us we still had to hold a guest sacred. For otherwise, even the mighty among us could perish in a snowstorm, or by misadventure…
—Maduilda the Wise, volva of Dun Thirion
There were many strangenesses that morn.
For one, Mother was out of bed and at the high dais-table, her bright blue gaze free of fever though she was fearfully wan. She wore her best grey dress and a fine-woven mantle to match, the green-gem-and-silver brooch at her breast flickering with lamplight. Astrid sat beside her, anxiously watching each movement; Bjorn, at the far end of the table, bore a blackened eye and a bandaged hand. I would have glared at him, promising trouble later, had he not been wearing a quite uncharacteristic air of seriousness while he stared at the great stone hearth, his profile at rest very much like Father’s.
For another, the dogs were either taken to the woods or a-kennel. No hounds patrolled the passages, stretched out under the tables, watched our guests, or leaned against Mother’s chair while regarding her with open adoration. Also, many of my father’s men had not sought their beds, probably because the Northerners were still at the guest tables. The group of men in dark armor again wore their three different sigils—bear, wolf, a strange rune with some resemblance to the ancient form of a torch—and the hush when I appeared in the great door at my father’s side spread from them to infect the entire hall.
There were other visitors, of course, neighbors and travelers from up- and downriver, not to mention the Barrowhills much farther south. Some were somnolent at table; face in puddle of ale is how many prefer to end a festival feast. Those who were awake, though, caught the silence from the Northerners and rose awkwardly when the dark-clad men did. No few elbowed their resting compatriots into some manner of wakefulness as well.
A considerable number—three full tables—of Northern men eyed me as they stood; my father’s hand was heavy upon my shoulder. My mother rose from her great chair, too, with little evidence of how the movement must cost her—but then, she was accustomed to hiding such things.
Astrid and I bear her pride.
My sister’s eyes were reddened. Evidence of weeping inflamed her nose and brought a blush to her fair cheeks; she wore yesterday’s fair-going dress and pulled one of Albeig’s fine knitted shawls close about her tense, delicate shoulders. The hall’s quiet was unnatural indeed, and I glanced at Arn.
My shieldmaid studied the Northerners, taking her time. When her gaze turned to me, she looked troubled, but anyone in her position might.
“My daughter.” At least Mother’s voice was clear, without the betraying shake of ague. “The sun has risen.”
“Once more, and may it ever,” I replied, automatically. Idra would have been pleased; she held Mother in some awe even though the lady of Dun Rithell had no weirding in her. But formal manners and a high standard were both kept in Eril’s hall, and that would make any elderly bearer of seidhr happy indeed. “My mother, you have risen as well.”
“Our guest Lord Aeredh was kind enough to treat my ailment, though he said your medicine is by far the better course.” My mother Lady Gwendelint inclined her dark head; Astrid had rebraided her hair. My own work to give Mother a sleep-braid yesterday morn, our dam propped upon pillows and coughing miserably, would not have survived a feast. It should not have bothered me. “I was not surprised to hear as much.”
Well, I am. But nobody minds what surprises me. “I am in the lord’s debt, both for the treatment and the compliment.” Another formulaic phrase, uttered with all the grace I could muster; a few of the household men at the nearest table elbowed each other. Whispers rose, perhaps passing our words to those in the far table-ranks, perhaps only commenting upon my appearance and carriage.
The weirding-girl, they called me; Gwendelint’s witch-daughter, the one with the seidhr.
There was a scrape of chairs and bench feet; the wolf-sigiled Northerners moved as a pack of those beasts, detaching from their standing fellows. The one with the gem winking at his sword-pommel was there, a pale face under a shock of dark hair, and his dark gaze did indeed have weight. I felt it afresh as I stood in the door, the great cup’s warmth fleeing me and even Arn’s presence—at the shoulder my father was not holding—providing little solace. Father did not squeeze to warn me of danger; instead, his hand fell away as if he disliked the touch.
I held my ground. There was a youth among them, granted pride of place at the leader’s side; he must have been who they called “the young one,” for his features were unlined and his pale eyes, blue as a frosty winter sky, were bright. In fact, his glance held weight as well and his step was very soft, even among theirs.
