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It was the furthest from home I’d ever been, unless one counted the other side of the river with Father. I visited the camps and smallfarms at Tarnarya’s feet more often with him as I grew older, gathering herbs and other things Idra thought I should know how to use. And listening, as those who were not quite under Lord Eril’s command but close enough taught me the value of open ears; much of aseidhr’s duty is to discern what remains unsaid, and to keep the peace amid jostling holds, halls, and farms.
For a year-and-day Father would not be able to askWell, Solveig, what do you make of that?At least he listened to my thoughts more than Bjorn’s, which according to Idra showed some wisdom. But now he would not have me to uncover the truth of a matter or two, who would be troublesome or who wished to take what a riverlord might not grant.
Of course he would not send his son, his great blond copy, along with these men; of course he would not send Astrid since she did not have a shieldmaid. I could admit that morning I was the only possible choice, and I would even gain knowledge from the occasion. Such a thing pleases avolva, for knowing is power.
And yet I was not pleased.
Still… a traitorous bubble of excitement at a journey into wisdom none other in Dun Rithell could claim was very much in my heart. I rode sunk in silence and deep thought, disdaining to look at the white-wrapped world. What little I could see of the countryside looked very much like the slopes above our eastron standing stones, rocks lifting through winter-yellow grass, dark patches of thornleaf, or bright orange creeping everbranch. A distant inaudible creaking, muffled through the fog, was the breath of a forest surrounding us; perhaps we were upon a chain of heath meadows, though those who went through the eastron standing stones never mentioned such features in that direction.
There were some clear lines of the kind called “wyrmtrack” amid the trees a few days’ journey north of Dun Rithell, though. We had not traveled that long, nor truly in that direction—but who could tell, in this weather?
Arn’s horse pressed closer, and I felt her attention—not precisely worry, for she knows my silences almost as if she hasseidhrof her own. There is oft no need for words between a shieldmaid and her charge.
I did shift uncomfortably in the saddle, though as unobtrusively as possible. Tomorrow would be a misery; adjusting to long hours a-horseback is unpleasant, but I would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
In any way.
“Sol.” Arn leaned from her saddle; I took what she proffered automatically. She broke off a second piece of hard waybread for her own consumption, holding it in her teeth as she tugged her half-glove back on. “I think the fog is thinning.”
I nibbled at the bread; Albeig had no doubt weighted Arn with a fair measure. Still, it would eventually run out, then we would have nothing that tasted of home. A few experimental sniffs, rolling the cold air over my tongue before taking a second bite, and I had my answer. “Mayhap, though it will thicken at dusk. We shall have snow soon, that is the larger worry.”
“Fret not.” The mist was indeed thinning, for I could see young Aeredh upon his mount much more clearly. No water clung to his dark hair, and his smile was bright. He seemed to enjoy riding for its own sake, or some other relief made his eyes spark so. “We can find our way through much worse than this, my lady.”
I confined myself to a single nod. I knew the stories—they say the hunters of the North can track a direbeast through blizzard, or a bird upon the wing. Otherwise they would not survive between new winter and late far-northern spring, in that deep cold after the sun’s renewal when screaming wind pours forth, piling ice upon snow and cutting through any wool no matter how well-woven, any hide no matter how thick. I busied myself with the waybread, and after a short while the track veered away. Aeredh took us to its side between two massive shelflike rocks, calling a halt.
There was no disagreement, though one or two of the Northerners glanced at each other with eyebrows raised. Perhaps they expected me to protest or faint, but I managed a creditable dismount into Arn’s waiting hands. Her hauberk was slightly damp; tiny water-dropletsfestooned her ruddy hornbraids and dewed her freckled cheeks. “Walk a little.” She drew me from the horse’s side; I could still feel the riding motion in my limbs. “At least ’tis quiet here.”
She was right. Father would be returned by now and home all a-bustle between the feasting and trade negotiations. I had often wished for a little peace while caught in new winter’s beginning.
Wishes are dangerous things, Idra said,especially when answered. “How far have we come?” I did not stagger, though I did have to use my legs with care.
She shrugged; shieldmaids are not often troubled by such things as saddle sores. “Farther than we should have, unless the mist is playing tricks. I cannot even hear the stones.”
“Nor can I.” I halted, close enough to feel her heat. The Northerners made a loose ring about us, vanishing by pairs into the vapor and returning with eerily quiet steps. Even the horses were silent; the youth Aeredh went to each in turn, stroking their long faces and smiling as if they jested with him.
I watched to see if he performed anyseidhr, but none was apparent. Perhaps he was simply a horse trainer.
“We should feel them all the way past the bend in the river. Instead, we’re climbing, and have not…” Arn’s hand tightened upon her spear as I finished chewing my noontide measure of bread; she had discerned the direction of my gaze. “That oneis uncanny.”
It was unlike her, for she knew I had been called the same more than once and the term irritated both of us. “Mayhap he has some weirding I may learn. Idra would be thrilled.” Still, it was strange—for he carried a sword, and in the South those withseidhrmay not use physical weaponry.
It is not proper. The virtue that makes a warrior is bled away by the contrasting power ofseidhr, and one of my kind who uses aught but a healer’s knife runs the risk of the weapon turning against them, not to mention losing the deep knowledge. In the sagas, it always happens at the most inopportune moment, and the cautions against even thinking of touching weaponry are many, deep, and insistent.
“Idra was mad,” Arn muttered, and my laugh surprised me. My hand flew to my mouth to contain it, and her face eased, her dark eyes dancing. “So are you, sun-maid.”
“Spear-girl, short but straight.” I let one eyebrow arch, glad to be upon my own feet instead of a-horseback. “Shall I finish a few couplets? I begin to think I could.”
She elbowed me, and I could not keep the merriment restrained. Still, the hush of the Northerners was not a thing to break lightly and I was under the constraint of a weregild’s good behavior. So I sought mightily to trap my giggles, swallowing them as much as possible.
Two of the returned men conferred with Eol, and when they were finished giving some account or another he nodded, turning in our direction. Arn, attempting to keep her own chuckles muffled, dug under her dun hooded mantle. It was very likely Albeig had granted her a small skin of ale for the journey, too, and my spearmaid was not ever of the temper to let such a gift grow cold.
“My lady.” Dark-eyed Eol halted at a respectable distance, and he held a small black glittering thing. “We shall stop as often as needed for your comfort. Try this.”
I am not truly uncomfortable yet, but ’tis only a matter of time.I accepted the flask. It seemed made of smoky glass studded with small flickering red jewels, its cap attached to a thin, well-made silver chain. The liquid inside moved oddly, and filigree upon the glass sides reminded me of Kolle’s lantern, said to be Elder-wrought. “’Tis a beautiful thing,” I said politely, attempting to restore it to his hand.
“Drink—a single mouthful should suffice. ’Tissitheviel.” He looked over my shoulder as young Aeredh approached, apparently to consult with Arn’s mare and my own.
Of course it could not be truesitheviel, since the making of that wondrous drink was long gone with the Elder. What we of the South called by its name in those days varied from settlement to settlement, mothers swearing daughters to secrecy with recipes producing a drink of more or less medicinal value, more or less made of mead and a few herbs. At most I expected it to be some kind of distillation, clear and fiery-potent; I uncapped the glass flask and sniffed delicately, all my senses sharpening.
