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I bent my head only to my mother, and when I looked up to her, tall and proud upon the second dais-step, the damp glitters upon her cheeks mocked us both. Gwendelint of Dun Rithell wore even her tears proudly, and silently dared any who would comment upon them to do so.
“Astrid tells me I am ready.” I held Mother’s gaze; she would not be shamed by her daughter before these men, or any other. “May I ask who among these gathered holds the pledge?” For a weregild is under some protection, from custom as well as gods, and woe to any who breaks it.
Or so the tales sing.
“My lord Eol.” Mother gestured; I half-turned to see the Northerner with the jeweled hilt step forward. He made the same gesture some of his rune-marked friends had, his knuckles to left chest, his lips, and last of all his bent forehead. “He bears the authority of Aenarian Greycloak, the high ruler of the North, and was nearest in kin to one who rides West.”
Riding Westwas an old-fashioned way to put it, but she couldnot very well sayMy son murdered another’s, and I am bearing this disaster as well as I may.
“Your daughter and her companion are under my personal protection, my lady Gwendelint.” Eol the Northerner’s cloak was dark and the fur lining upon it glossy black, though I could not tell what beast it was from. And though he was unused to the southron tongue, he handled it well enough. Any insult to the weregild would be a slight to his honor, and Northerners, like my own folk, have ever been quick to answer such things. “There is a fate to this.”
Mother regarded him almost balefully. “If there is, it had best end with my daughter returned. She isseidhr, my lord Eol, beloved of both your gods and ours.” There was a challenge to my mother’s tone, and her summersky gaze rested not upon the wolf-captain but the youth Aeredh.
“We may argue the names of the Vanyr and Aesyr for many a year and still reach no agreement.” The Northern boy’s clear tenor was pleasant enough. “The snow comes, fair lady.”
“Oh, aye.” Her eyes glittered; I had never heard my mother sound so bitter, especially to a guest so young. “And it falls more heavily upon us than upon your kind.”
I did not wonder at her words, for the Northerners were held to be long-lived, a blessing from the vanished Elder.
“Does it?” Aeredh sounded only mildly interested, though courteous enough. “One would think the opposite.”
I extended my hands, climbing the first stair of the dais; my mother clasped them. A susurration at the entryway was Astrid, peering in wide-eyed.
It would have been impolite for Bjorn to appear. We had already bid farewell, and I could still feel my brother’s rough embrace.
Besides, he was never one to speak when an action would serve. A hot stone lodged in my throat.
A slight cough dislodged it, and my voice was a trifle huskier than usual. “I mixed more of the ague recipe, though it will not hold its virtue past a moonturn; Astrid knows where ’tis in the stillroom.” I took a deep breath. My mother’s fingers were cold; mine were not only because I was swathed in cloth and the great hearth had beenprodded into wakefulness hours before. “Do not go forth thinking you are cured until snowmelt is well past, Mother. I would not have such fine work undone.”
“I am supposed to chideyou,” she said, and the glimmering water in her blue, blue eyes hurt mine. Sometimes, when younger, I had wondered if my mother saw everything about her tinted with sky-dye.
Do not weep, Solveig. You have not for years, do not start now.“I shall think of you scolding me every night before I sleep. Will that do?”
“Only if Arn gives you a clout to make you listen.” The last words caught upon a pained laugh, for my mother rarely ever had to raise voice or hand to me—not like Bjorn, who was endlessly, restlessly curious. So was I, but I learned to satisfy said curiosity discreetly, especially when my hapless brother could take the blame.
When thought of that way, ’twas only fair I was smoothing this wrinkle in the cloth now. “Do not give my small one ideas. You know how bloodthirsty she is.” I squeezed gently. When had my mother’s hands, so strong and sure, developed this faint tremor? Her fingers felt somewhat fragile in my palms, like birds charmed from a bracken or wide heather, trembling against the coaxing.
It is not right to wring the neck of a creature you lure thus; far better is theseidhrtrick of letting the small thing fly free, returning to its business none the worse for wear.
“I will keep her safe, my lady.” Arneior accompanied the declaration with a soft tap of her spear’s blunt end upon the step, lending it gravity. “The Wingéd Ones are watching.”
My mother accepted the oath with a tremulous smile and kissed my forehead, having to bend far indeed to reach me upon the lower step. “Perhaps you will return taller, daughter mine.” Her smile cracked at the edges, so I stepped away as she straightened, smoothing my undermantle. Fine-woven green wool scratched comfortingly against my palms. “We shall have to make you a new cloak.”
“Of a certainty Arn will hunt something in the North to line it with.” I swallowed everything else I wished to say. “The sooner I go, the sooner I return. I shall dream of thee, Mother.”
“You must. Or I do not know how I will bear it.” She gestured again. “Go, my daughter.”
There must be no wailing at a leave-taking such as this, so I nodded, turned, and made it almost to the archway before whirling and running back to the steps, pushing past the Northerners. I climbed the dais in a rush and threw my arms about my mother, squeezing as hard as I dared while Arn glided behind me, her face set and her gaze dissuading the foreign men from making any comment.
Or moving closer.
My arms did not wish to loosen, but I forced them to. I wiped at my cheeks, met my mother’s gaze, and could find little else in my throat that had not already been said; thus it was Arneior and I left the greatest hall of Dun Rithell upon a morning of snowfog amid a deep hush, since nothing had thawed enough to drip.
Truth
I never returned.
Day Travel
