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I was such a fool not to guess the truth.
“More than you might suspect.” For the first time, Aeredh did not look amused; his eyes darkened and he watched my Arn very carefully indeed. “You arealkuine—elementalist, they call it now?” He made a slight movement, glancing at his companions as if he would ask another for the proper term, though he handled our tongue well enough.
None came to his rescue, though, all visible men being occupied with other duties. It was a relief to be ignored, even if I suspected ’twas half pretense.
Is that it?“I haveseidhrenough to hold flame itself.” I lifted my hands to prove it, but my gloves and the overmantle sleeves hid the marks. Still, the movement spoke for itself. “And you wish to test me.” My tone was a restraint upon Arn’s wrath. “Very well. What would you have, my lord Aeredh?”
“My skills lie in other directions.” The youth’s smile held an echo of sad memory. In fact, he looked a little like my father, when Eril could be induced to speak of some event he did not wish to revisit. “I thought perhaps you could light the fire.”
I considered the request, glancing at Arn. Did they not carry firefelt, then, or flint to match their steel? One would think a group of such warriors would not overlook something so simple; they were making camp with every evidence of efficiency.
But why have a weregild and not require some little entertainment of it? Perhaps they were also grieving their absent companion, the one Bjorn had felled so ingloriously. His pyre was barely cold at the riverbank, and no doubt the tale would grow in the telling at Dun Rithell. My brother might even begin to preen at striking down a fellow with one blow unless Astrid and Mother punctured his pride with some regularity.
“Sol.” Arn disdained to aim her words at the youth. “You are weary, and still not have recovered from the solstice. I have a flint.”Her offer was not quite an insult—every free person should carry such an article—but it could be taken as one.
I might have winced, were I not so bone-aching weary. “’Tis no matter, my shieldmaid. Better to see the sheep one has stolen earlier than later.” It was not quite how the old saying went, but it brought a tight smile to her generous mouth, not to mention a tired curve to my own lips. “Where, my lord Aeredh?”I will light it, but Arn will not fetch fuel.
She was shieldmaid and I weregild, but neither of us were bondsmaid or thrall.
He led me to the lee of a large frowning stone capable of providing a measure of shelter and perhaps even reflecting some of a fire’s heat; a ring of blackened stones set in the proper place showed more travelers than birds and beasts had alighted here. A stack of cut wood was settled in the lee of another rock—another sign this resting place was used by men, however infrequently—and someone had already arranged the tinder and kindling they wished me to light.
I sank down as gracefully as possible to consider the work, and frowned. The entire affair was arranged oddly, and it did not seem quite right. My hands itched, so I hummed softly while I set them free to do as they wished, realizing the strangeness of the stacking was a form ofseidhr.
A test indeed; did he think himself a teacher, though he carried a blade? Or did they still doubt my ability? Irritation sharp-tasting as an unripe apple flooded my tongue, unease slid down my back on tiny prickling feet.
In short order my hands had redone the fire-setting properly; Arn was there to help me rise, or I might not have managed it without a groan. I backed up four steps, stripping my gloves free and shaking bark-bits from the right one.
Aeredh regarded me curiously. Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to pass even so simple a trial as arranging a few sticks.
Earthbound clouds congealed as night dawned in the east; the damp cold nipped at my bare fingers. I shut out the aches of the day, the uncertainty of being far from home among strangers, the persistent thought that perhaps lighting the solstice bonfire, necessary an act as it was, had jolted the world from its usual course like a cart-wheel escaping a track and nothing would bring it back to the right course.
My breathing quieted. My heart was a muffled drum in my ears. My left hand leapt, fingers stiff, the pressure passing through my chest and down my arm demanding release.
The dilating flame was blue-white instead of orange. Perhaps they had doused the tinder with summat, for it burned with surprising heat—and once ’twas caught I did not have to guard the fire, which kept ribbons of blue at its heart. Aeredh knelt alongside, feeding the small blaze, and I shook both hands hard, for my fingers ached.
It had not nearly taken the effort I was accustomed to. The echoes of unspent force died but slowly, bouncing inside my body’s walls like a brawl during a great feast. When my vision cleared the blaze was merry indeed, though still bluish and small; several of the Northerners drew close to its glow.
“The only good luck we’ve had,” one of them muttered in the Old Tongue, a broad-shouldered fellow who bore eyes like my mother’s and Aeredh’s—and my own.
“Careful,” another replied, and added summat I could not quite make out about enough slack in a fishing-net to let a large catch think it had won for a moment. I understood the gist, though; it sounded like a proverb.
I was glad to practice the Old Tongue, yet it still did not seem wise to let them know I could. They had heard Mother utter formulaic phrases of welcome and farewell, of course, but we were too far south for such language to be daily used.
Or so they might think. The instinct was clear and undeniable, and anyseidhrtrained by Idra the Farsighted would know better than to disregard it. I studied the fire, thinking furiously.
Arn and I were protected by her spear and by custom; if one were weakened the other might be too. Any additional defense was welcome indeed. So I listened intently, leaning upon my shieldmaid, who could no doubt tell my silence was not that of incomprehension or inattention.
“There is no pursuit I can sense.” Aeredh half-turned, still crouching easily, and regarded the two speakers. “Strange, is it not? Almost as if…”
“Will no one say it?” A dark-eyed one with a scar upon his jaw and another bisecting his eyebrow glanced in my direction, andjust as quickly away. “The big blond lout relieved us of a traitor; we should have thanked him with all we carry instead of taking recompense. This is not well done, Lord Aeredh, and our lord Eol knows it.”
Interesting indeed, though I was not certain of my translation of the wordtraitor. It could have meantone who complains, ora cry from a high hill. There were a few other terms I could not entirely decide—recompense, for one, orlout, since that last had turned into the southron word fora good watchdog. I tried not to stiffen, kept my face a mask as required often during training, negotiations, or adjudication. Avolvamust not be suspected of partiality, though of course her kin often share in the blessing of her position. And why not? A plow needs axes to protect it and axes need plows to produce unmolested, as the saying goes. Such is the price paid for survival, and most pay it gladly enough.
“Eol understands there is another power at work here, Efain.” Aeredh’s eyes glittered, that disconcerting light in his gaze brightening. His glance had more than the usual weight, and yet he carried a sword. And he had given a recipe containingseidhrfor my mother’s ague, not to mention built the fire in an unfamiliar manner. “The West has not forsaken us.”
“So you say.” Efain shrugged, and his gaze dropped.
I saw it then, and I almost gasped. For the Northern youth turned to the fire with a short, supple movement, pushing his dark hair back. The top of his ear’s shell-curve was not a curve at all—it came to a high point, blushed faintly with the cold. I wondered blankly how no one at home had seen or realized what he was, but just as swiftly the old stories and sagas leapt through my head, and I knew why.
