“Aye well, as I ha’ said. Food, drink, music.”
“Will ye play for them?”
The old man did not hesitate. “My music is meant for all. I will no’ withhold it. But, Chief Murtray, I maun urge caution. Trust may be misplaced. And ye ha’ yer people to think upon.”
“So I do. So I am.” Was that true? Or did Quarrie think of himself and his longing for Hulda? His need for her.
“If ye give these wolves a den, might they no’ invite others o’ their kind? Enough to rend us limb from limb.”
“Should that happen—should I see any hint o’ other Norse moving in—the alliance will break. Then will I tak’ up my sword.”
And what would such an act cost him, in breaking with Hulda?
He leaned toward the old man. “Tell me this, Master Danoch. Ye say ye ha’ traveled far and heard many a story.”
“So I ha’.”
“Wha’ do ye ken o’ the cauldron o’ rebirth?”
Danoch’s gaze returned to his. It held a spark. “An old tale, that.” Again his voice assumed a cadence. “Our ancestors believed that life was but a wheel, one that never stops turning. We are born to our place upon that wheel, and as it turns we meet the successive occurrences of our lives—including death.” Danoch gave a rueful smile. “When we die, our spirit flies awa’ to feast and celebrate. But eventually—or so they said—it finds itsel’ in the cauldron o’ blood and pain and hope that is rebirth. We are once more born into yet another place on the wheel, to struggle and learn, and so become the beings the gods wish us to be.”
“And,” Quarrie asked carefully, “should such a thing prove true, is it possible we should meet other souls upon that wheel o’ life, those we ha’ known before?”
“It seems, does it no’, that we must do. For do we no’ learn from one another more than any other way?”
Old wisdom. Ancient as a song only half remembered. “And,” Quarrie pressed, “that being so, will we know these people, remember them from before? Would we recognize them?”
Danoch’s gaze prodded his kindly, yet with wondering. “We do no’, lad. No’ in the ordinary way. For surely therein would lie madness.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The messenger arrivedamid a knot of guards, all of them heavily armed. Their appearance along the shore had Hulda’s entire company up and bristling, more than ready for a fight.
She had to bellow at them. “Nei! This is an envoy, not a war party.”
To her disappointment, Quarrie did not make a member of the group. Two full days had passed since she had seen him, touched him, and the ache grew to unbearable proportions. The time had also given her young crew an opportunity to think. Inactivity was not good for them. They felt exposed and vulnerable here, and began to reconsider the wisdom of the alliance.
She’d been just about to suggest a foray out to raid when the Scots party was sighted. She ran out with Garik at her side.
The Scots came walking up as if they owned the place, which in truth they did. Wariness and a good measure of hostility filled their eyes. The messenger, whom the guards surrounded, was a young man surely no older than her own crew.
“I am looking for Hulda Elvarsdottir.”
Hulda stepped forward. “I am she.”
The young man examined her closely. “I ha’ for ye a message fro’ my chief.”
Quarrie. Her pulse leaped.
“He bids ye welcome at a feast in his hall this night.”
“What?” Hulda blinked. She could not have heard that right.
“A feast o’ welcome. In his hall this evening.”
The men behind Hulda stared. Most of them could not understand Gaelic beyond a few simple words and commands. Some, like Garik, could. He shot her a sharp look.
“A feast,” she repeated. “Of welcome.” And she said it over in Norse.
