A Flame in the North, page 5
It was the youth who continued when they halted before me; he was tall enough our heads were level though I stood upon the third step. Massive timbers creaked, the building waking as sunweight touched its bright roof; the great blaze in the hearth—relit from the very bonfire I had spent the night guarding—sang its own crackle-hiss saga of consumption and warmth.
“My lady Solveig,” the boy said, a light, pleasant voice. No doubt he sang well, probably even with some granr; still, I almost started at being addressed so by a stranger. His accent was very old-fashioned, but then, they spoke differently in the North. “Well-named are you, child of the Vanyr. I am Aeredh; it is a blessing to meet you this morn.”
“Lord Aeredh.” I could not return any blessing, but I could at least be polite. “I thank you for your care of my mother, though I am told you have cause to grieve here in Dun Rithell.” There. It was mannerly, though the message was that I liked not dancing about a subject when it could be met directly as my shieldmaid’s strikes.
Father coughed, and at least this Aeredh had the grace to look a trifle taken aback.
The man with the gem in his sword-pommel made a short sound, very much like a strangled laugh. When he spoke it was not in our southron language but in the Old Tongue, with a very strange accent. I caught summat about rumor flying like a particular bird even in wintertime, and the boy before me gave his companion a rueful look. A shadow lingered in that rue, though he looked younger even than Astrid.
The Old Tongue is what the Elder learned in the home of the Blessed, or so Mother and Idra taught me; its rhythm runs through seidhr like an underground river. It is said the Children of the Star taught mortals to speak it when they arrived upon our shores to make war upon the Black Land, and that our own tongue is descended from it in many branchings like our mother-river as it wends south into the Barrowhills. Mother and Idra alone spoke it in Dun Rithell, having both learned as girls, and my teacher insisted I follow suit.
I did not mind, for a wisewoman must know such things. Even more than that, I fiercely, secretly liked sharing something special and secret with Mother. Bjorn was her son and Astrid her joy, but I?
I was her pride, deep as her bones. We were always of the same temper, as two daggers born of the same forging.
“My friend Eol is unused to the southron language.” Aeredh’s smile, though merry enough upon its surface, was pained. “My lady, I must ask you directly: Did you light the fire upon the great stone in yonder green?”
“I was seen to do so,” I replied, somewhat stiffly. Arn was absolutely silent at my shoulder, a rare instance of her complete attention resting upon some danger. My father sucked in a deep breath, whether of pain or caution I could not tell. “By witnesses of Dun Rithell’s seidhr, and others. If you wished to observe the ceremony, perhaps you should have attended it.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, brightening somewhat. “Yet there is no need. I see its cousin in you, well-named one.” His gaze rose past me to fasten upon my father. “We shall return tomorrow, my lord Eril. She will not need much; we travel lightly, yet still in enough comfort for any noble daughter of the Vanyr.”
With that, the youth mounted the steps, passing us like a cool breeze. All the Northerners streamed forth, not merely the wolf-sigiled but those at table, too. The man with the gem in his swordhilt lingered only to examine me from top to toe one final time before he followed, and the other wolf-sigiled Northerners attended him. Those with the bear upon them hurried to do the same, and last of all the rune-sigiled ones with Uldfang their lord, one or two performing a curious salute—the knuckles of their right hand to their left breast, then to their lips, finishing at the forehead as they nodded, like a shieldmaid’s salute to a woman they respect. Strangely, they did not direct it at Father but at me, almost lost in the protective shadow of Eril’s bulk.
A mutter raced through my father’s hall. The Northerners were gone, the chill of their presence draining away, and Father’s hand descended upon my shoulder again.
“’Tis only for a year and a day,” he said, heavily.
I had thought to negotiate a much-shortened duration, being full volva now. But though I had lit the bonfire and proved myself, I was still Eril the Battle-Mad’s daughter, and clearly in this situation he would not be forsworn or do a jot less than custom or hospitality demanded. To him I was a child still, weirdling or not, and while Northmen are dour they are also held to guard their women closely. I was what was demanded, thus I would be sent—though it is always grievous to lose one with seidhr, no matter how short the time.
Traveling north was not even truly dangerous save for the weather. The Black Land the Northerners bordered upon was only a mythical ruin since the Day of Dust back in a many-greats-grandfather’s time when Dun Rithell bore a different name; there was no longer any menace there. Even upon that day we held it as true, for we had all my great-grandfather’s life, my grandfather’s life, my lord father Eril’s life, and my own.
You should have sent Bjorn. But of course, I thought bitterly, he would not. Dun Rithell would next be known for Astrid’s husband, though as Gwendelint’s eldest daughter I would hold the highest honor in the hall no matter who she wed. Still, she was the shining star-maid, Father’s favorite, and Bjorn, the vaunted copy of his sire, would marry into another clan to bring them the gift of battle-rage.
I had never thought it likely I would marry, and yet. I tasted smoke from the great hearth, my nose filling with the breath of meats and other piled delicacies as well as a tang of yeast on a hot draft from an open archway, since the kitchens were finishing the new-winter bread. None of the other guests—some of the chance-guards from last night were at the tables for new warriors, one or two still steadily consuming bits and crusts—had moved, and many avid gazes rested upon me.
“Solveig.” Father’s fingers tightened, but his tone was oddly pleading, for once. Did he expect me to protest, and make the situation even worse? “Only a year and a day.”
In other words, I would tidy yet another of Bjorn’s messes. My brother would not meet my gaze. He stared at the hearth, almost as pale as Astrid.
“Sol.” Arn took my elbow, and her affectionate shortening of my name could have been an oblique comment upon my father’s bluffness. Or perhaps it was a measure of gentleness, a shieldmaid’s care for her charge. “I think your lady mother requires you.”
Of course she would not deign to chide Eril directly, even if one taken by the Black-Wingéd speaks as she wills. Or perhaps she simply did not consider him worth the effort at the moment, for I swayed and might have fallen. The walk to the great stone dais where my family’s great oaken table rested seemed much longer than usual, not least because the hall was packed close with feasters who did not want to miss whatever spectacle the paying of weregild would give rise to.
The gossips on either side of the river would have many a mouthful to chew as the days lengthened.
My mother Gwendelint stood very straight, her thighs braced against the table-edge. Astrid, frozen next to her, stared at me as if I were a new creature, a misshapen thing come from blackest night and deep snows. A hectic glitter had kindled in Mother’s bright, pale gaze, and this close I saw high color in her cheeks. Whatever draught the boy had given her provided at least some short-term strength; I could not even teach Astrid how to mix Idra’s more subtle ague-medicine, for it required seidhr to work properly.
Mother hurried from the great table, meeting me upon the dais steps with an embrace I fell gratefully into; Astrid moved woodenly to do so as well. Some of the feasting throng, male and female alike, began to drift for the doors where my father stood as if dazed. He bid each farewell courteously enough, though, and Dun Rithell would be held safe and lucky for another year since a seidhr-lit bonfire had survived the night. Trade negotiations and legal cases would commence in earnest upon the morrow, when men and women headsore or stomach-sour from feasting had recovered enough to argue for remedy, prosecution, or profit.
It would have been my task to arbitrate no few of the agreements, had I not been bargained away to the Northerners. As it was, I shut my eyes, my face buried in my mother’s shoulder, and she did not shake with the ague but held me as if I were young again and she a statue of Fryja brought to warm bounteous life. “My Solveig,” she whispered into my braids, still full of smoke and the wind-scent of the year’s longest night. “Good fortune to our house, and for you most of all.”
It was unlike her to be superstitious, but I could attribute it to whatever potion she had swallowed. My senses could find naught amiss in her breath or pulse, and were the boy’s draught poison I did not think the Northerners would promise a return. I lit the fire, Mother. Tell me you noticed; tell me someone did.
Then I was chastised for my pride, for Astrid’s embrace tightened, her arms woven with my mother’s and mine, the three of us standing and breathing as a single pillar. No man, not even Bjorn who had been born of our mother’s body, could intrude upon that. Hot water welled behind my lashes.
I swallowed a heavy weight that tasted of tears, and I could tell myself the trembling was Astrid’s.
“The winter fire itself,” Mother continued, her arms tightening. “My little weirdling; I should have been there to see it. Well done.”
“Year and a day,” Astrid breathed, ever more concerned with what would be than what had been. “They would not take Bjorn, though Father pressed them. I even offered to go, since I was the cause of the matter. But no. They wanted our Solveig.”
At least someone does. But my heart eased, for Mother had noticed my achievement and as long as she did, the rest of the world did not matter so much. “I was afraid I could not do it,” I admitted into my dam’s shoulder, covered with fine grey woolen cloth. “But Arn was there, and it was like lighting Idra’s cooking fire.” I inhaled sharply, and hated that I sounded so forlorn. “Must I go?”
It was unworthy of a volva. But in the circle of a mother’s arms we are all, and ever, children.
“I am so sorry,” Astrid continued, fair to bursting with her apologies. She always had the more tender heart, between us. “I was afraid, Solveig. I would go in your stead, if they would but let me.”
“It could not be, Astrid. Let us fasten upon what we must do now.” Mother patted at the back of my head, and she took over the weight of organizing and commanding once more so I did not have to. “Albeig, bring breakfast for my eldest daughter. Astrid, go fetch the recipe Lord Aeredh left; ’tis upon my nightstand. Come, Solveig, sit. Arn, mighty daughter, there is much meat, and you shall have ale from my own cup.”
It was as if she had never been ill, and though I was glad my pride also writhed a fraction or two, sensing that the boy Aeredh, whoever he was and despite carrying a sword, had some seidhr that I had not studied deeply enough to bring to my mother’s aid.
Perhaps he would teach it, then. A small recompense, but one I set myself to wrest from the Northerners if they would insist upon carrying me away.
For after all, a thin worm of excitement had begun to twist at the prospect of travel, down in the most secret chambers of my heart.
Never Fear
If a man is foolish enough to enter the women’s quarters, a spindle-crack upon his skull is the least he may expect.
—Saying of the southron Riverfolk
The rest of that day was a blur, except for when Bjorn caught me at the door to the women’s hall. He had lingered for some while to do so, his expression suggested, and he did not even flyte with Arn as he was often wont to do. “Solveig.”
“Bjorn.” I leaned against the wooden wall, my arms full of folded textiles; Astrid had indeed found some fine cloth a-market before doom had fallen. “What under the fishgutting stars were you thinking? Don’t answer that, we both know you weren’t thinking at all.”
“I know I am to blame, you need not harry me further.” He hunched uncomfortably as Ulfrica hurried past, hissing in his direction like a disturbed granary cat. Ever he is childlike, my brother, when he is not possessed by a battle-god or prodded by a passing valkyra—the Wingéd Ones have little use for men before they are dead, but they like battle well enough and those with some facility in it are often under their gaze. “I did not even mean to do it, I swear.”
Arn, with merely a single contemptuous glance, took herself a few strides in the opposite direction and leaned against the wall, pointedly ignoring both of us.
“Well, if one of them made a jest in Astrid’s direction, of course you had to respond.” My legs were not quite steady, but at least I could sleep in my own bed that night. All other matters, consequential or not, would have to wait until I had endured this day and secured that modest blessing. “I am told a cobblestone had the slaying of the Northern lord’s son, and you largely blameless indeed.”
“Do not mock me, sister.” He rubbed under his blond beard, not nearly so full as Father’s. But Bjorn had time to grow one, or so we all said. His warrior’s crest was freshly oiled, and the braids under it carefully redone. “Though if you ever stopped, I should think you one of Odynn’s wicker dolls substituting for my own Sol.”
“And if you passed a day without needing my mockery, I might well think you substituted.” An unwilling smile touched my lips, though a man was dead. Bjorn was, after all, Mother’s firstborn and my brother—any breath of disrespect to his two sisters earned enough ire from him to make every warrior in Dun Rithell, not to mention many upriver or down, think twice before uttering lightsome words. “At least you only struck the one insulting Astrid. I can hardly fault you for that.”
“Well…” He glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid the entire household would hear. I remembered stitching his shirt, content to do the dray-work while Astrid’s fine touch embroidered sleeves and hem; at least he had not forgotten his new belt or beard-pin, and wore both proudly. Even his felted indoor boots were familiar, and a sign he did not perhaps think it quite wise to leave the hall for some short while. “Actually… that is to say…”
Oh, for the love of Fryja. I stepped closer, my arm-cargo bumping his broad chest. “Spit it forth, my brother. What happened?”
Even though I was half his size and younger to boot, Bjorn ever retreated before me. “I do not know.” His breath bore precious little cargo of fermentation; he had not been at the mead in his usual way. Who was this fellow, and what had he done to my brother? “Astrid and I saw the Northerners outside the Althing hall just as the last sacrifices were done. They made some sort of announcement inside, but only to the elders and they will not say aught, even Father himself, and he was silent for a while. Then, a little later we passed them at the palisade, upon the row where the fine weavers and smiths sell wares from south-over-sea, and one of them looked at Astrid and said summat. Father looked sour, for he knows a very little of their Old Tongue, and Astrid asked what he had said, and—”
My head ached, attempting to imagine the scene with only this halting explanation. “So you struck him for…?”
“Another fellow said summat else in that strange talk of theirs, to take him to task by the tone, and the first one laughed. You know the manner of laughter I mean. So I hit him, the laughing fool.”
Without even knowing what was said? Still, I did indeed know the manner of laughter Bjorn meant.
Every woman does.
“An ill deed.” I studied his face in ruddy hornlight; inside the women’s hall someone raised their voice in a midwinter song. Several others followed suit, Astrid’s tone a clear silver bell. Something was missing from my brother’s story. “Then they required weregild of Father, and…?”
“Well, at first he said he’d give me to them in bond.” Bjorn’s expression suggested a certain discomfort with the notion, which showed he was not entirely brainless. “Astrid cried, and the Northerners were discussing when the boy-one passed by with the wolf-leader.”
“The one with the decorated hilt?” I did not like the one they named Eol, but he perhaps did not like the weight of my glance either. Sometimes seidhr presses certain others who possess it away with invisible force, like a lodestone turned against its fellow—yet he wore a blade, so he could not have the weirding. “You slew his son?” He did not seem of an age to have a child old enough to leer at a girl, but it was said those in the North wore their years lightly, and perhaps they married young as well.
“No, their great lord is still in the North. Eol has the leading of the wolves and the others have their own captains, though ’tis the boy Aeredh who seems to have the guiding toss.” Bjorn glanced over my shoulder as a trio of thralls bustled past, each giving him a dark look. Or perhaps they were merely anxious. “I can only guess they told him what occurred in their own tongue, and the boy said to Father, We shall take the daughter who lights the fire tonight, my lord.” He did not quite have the lightness of lilt to mimic the youth’s voice, but it was a good attempt. “And nothing Father said or offered would shake them.”
“They do not seem easily shaken,” I agreed. I did not know the noble houses of the North beyond that certain of them acknowledged one named Aenarian’s overlordship, probably as some outlying halls and steadings nominally acknowledged Father. “But perhaps they will forget me by tomorrow; I hear Northerners are great travelers.” Ever looking for the next horizon, they are said to be, though we had not seen many come through Dun Rithell.
We were too small to bother with, though fine enough in our own way.
“Whatever they told the elders is being kept from other ears.” Bjorn’s gold torc—my father’s bear-heads upon its ends instead of my paternal grandmother’s bees—glistered as he shifted, and the runes embroidered upon his shift-cuffs throbbed for a moment as my exhaustion mounted another notch. He did not wear a small-axe as usual, probably wisest for all concerned at the moment. “If ’tis war…”
My weariness acquired fresh depth. “And against just whom would we be warring, then? Even the Robed Ones and their strange god pestering the Barrowhills are more occupied with each other than with us, and that Dagnar fellow in the east died without heir.” I shook my head, glad of a fresh set of braids after the sauna’s delicious heat. Healthful cleanliness works wonders against exhaustion. Still, I was weary, and longed to set my burden of cloth down. “There’s nobody to fight except other petty riverlords or greathalls wanting tribute.” Which was the problem; if Bjorn could have plunged into a real battle or two, he might have learned a little restraint for peaceable life. I took a deep, smoke-tinged breath; the afternoon’s bread was still baking. There would be more wassail tonight, though I might not drink quite so much of it. I ached all over, but this late in the afternoon I could only grit my teeth and wait for dusk.
