Vidar
When I look back to how things began, I can hardly remember why I was with the mortals that day. I’d wanted some trinket of theirs - some bauble mislaid by their grandfathers and forgotten by them.
There have been many of those over the years and whether I’m recovering them for myself or for the Court of Iceheim, it always seems to be the same story. There’s a ruby that speaks aloud or a crown that has sealed itself to the wearer so it cannot be removed but for death, or possibly it’s an apple from the first tree. It’s always something and the more bizarre the better. Whatever this one is – it’s not bizarre enough to eclipse what follows.
“You’ll be glad you came with us,” one of the mortals says to me, his bright eyes sparkling over his thick black beard. He wears an iron cuirass and when I let my eyes wander too near it, my vision swims. I hope there will be no call to handle iron. The last time it bit my skin I was in shackles kneeling on a bed of ice – and the ice on my bare skin was like the kiss of a lover compared to the cold iron and the colder look in the eye of my king.
But no, I will not think of that. I will think of trivial things. Like beards.
I don’t like that mortals grow beards. We fae males don’t engage in such nonsense. It makes the mortals look uncannily like speaking beasts and while I am excellent friends with Shakholm who takes his form as a grizzly bear and with sly Fernacius who avails himself to the form of a fox, I am not keen to speak to mortals with faces full of fur. I don’t even remember the names of these ones. We came to their hold demanding the bauble and after much bowing and a night smoking from the same bowl, they agreed to bring us with them, and here we are.
Their names are of no consequence in the threads of history. They will live a while, sin to great measure, and then die deaths that are not of note.
“The Mayfly Seer will know where this treasure is,” the mortal tells me eagerly and there is more to the sparkle in his eye than I think my bauble warrants. “There is nothing beyond her ken on this one day of the year.”
“Then I am surprised you will waste her efforts on my cause,” I say dryly.
“It’s not as if they have much else to do,” my kinsman Precatore says from his perch on the ship’s rail. He isn’t even pretending to be of any use as he sits there preening. He’s beautiful even among our kind and the mortals we travel with can barely look at him. His balance – perfect – keeps him delicately settled on the side of the boat as if he is a sparrow taking his rest, the wind flowing through his sloe-black hair like hands of a lover and his pale cheeks not even feeling the sting.
I would not abide Precatore if he were not just as oblivious to their reverence as he is to all things mortal. He does not revel in his superiority to them. He merely is superior and knows it and like me, he is here to see what can be seen.
“But I’m eager to be done with this,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve done to this poor wretch.”
I’m willing to be entertained by their pet seer, too. Willing to see what horrors they’ve wrought upon her. Mortals believe wisdom comes from suffering and oh how they make their wise suffer. It curls evenmytoes, but I am endlessly curious and there is nothing under the heavens or over the depths of hell that I do not wish to see or taste or smell for myself. Not even now when I have felt the deep lash of pain and humiliation myself.
I will see this poor wretch whose eyes they’ve likely taken and whose body likely bears the marks of their devotion. She will have nothing to say that will help us, but I will note whether there is some magic here. Humans have so little of the fire of life, but sometimes when they catch a spark, it blazes brighter than we immortals can achieve.
“Did your mother leave you any seers as presents?” Precatore asks me.
“She left me my beautiful face and the speed of my sword arm. Is that not enough?” I ask, giving him a haughty look. He laughs at my joke to the widening eyes of the mortals crewing the boat. They do not know that among my kind I am destitute.
“It’s said she held secrets within secrets and that perhaps she took some of those secrets with her,” Precatore presses.
“It’s said that your ears are so long mortals fear you’re half donkey.” I balance the insult with a grin. He freezes, his face going blank.
My hand twitches near my sword belt but then he breaks into laughter.
“See? This is why I travel with you, Vidar. Even a broken arrow can strike unexpected targets.”
It takes us all day to make our way up the shore and then across the sea to a lonely island of black sharp stone. After all, she would be no wonder of the world if anyone could find her. At least the mortals have that right. I prefer my mysteries hidden and glorious. Precatore prefers his to be more convenient and his face is set in a frown after only a few hours.
They turn our ship around thrice turn-wise in slow, ponderous rings, before venturing to the isle, claiming it is the only way such a place can be found. I am cognizant of the magic of such superstition and pay it due respect, bowing my sharp-eared head and making the proper signs with my slender fingers as they do.
I love how their eyes sparkle as they watch me – enjoy the adoration of their mortal gazes when their thoughts catch on my other-worldly beauty. Among my kind, I am just one leaf of the tree of life. Here I am a bird spun of gold and rubies beside the desiccated grass of late summer – as long as no one compares me to Precatore.
Half the day is gone when we reach the place. The black rock is cut in sharp planes and no plants grow here. Even the sand is bright and black. I do not like it. It sings to my soul like the last island one might see on the journey to the seas of the dead. I do not want to take that journey. Not for a thousand upon a thousand years.
I am young among my people and the taste of life still intoxicates me.
Precatore is muttering ancient curses that ought to sting the very shores. I ignore him and his bluster. He’s as discomfited as I am, or he would be preening instead of cursing.
“If your oracle sees so true,” I ask the mortal, “why do you not bring all your troubles to her?”
“There’s a price,” he says, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight. He’s the son of a king, I think. Those who rule love debauchery on a scale those who serve can never equal.
Precatore’s head whips around so fast I think he might snap his neck, eyes suddenly lit.
I smile, too. A price. We like that because it is right and fair, and we like it more that he thinks he will witness our humiliation or penance to gain this petty knowledge he should have already offered up.
