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She nodded briskly and rose in a fluid motion as a blue-eyed Northerner approached, the one with a brace of daggers at his belt. His nose was proud indeed; I thought his name was Gelad. He gave a half-bow and offered a wooden bowl laden with breakfast—more of their waybread, and yet more stew. They were hunters indeed, to find so much in winter. “My ladyalkuine? Here.” He handled our tongue well enough, and with a riverside lilt. “We have an easy journey today.”
I am not here to take my ease, my lord.And I hoped the stew held no roast carved from thatthingwith its foul flanks and odd horns.“We need not travel slowly on my account, my lord… Gelad? Have I your name aright?”
He nodded. “Indeed, and an honor to be named. I must offer our apologies, though our lord Eol will no doubt do so as well.”
“None are necessary.” Rumpled and aching as I was, in a nest of blankets and under Arneior’s mantle as well as my own, I did not feel much like accepting pretty words. My disarranged hair tugged at my scalp when I turned my head, as if Astrid were braiding again. “My thanks for breakfast, my lord.”
“And ours for your presence.” The Northerner had a kind enough smile, though his bright gaze was watchful. No shadow of sleepless exhaustion lingered upon him. “We would not travel the Elder Roads save at great need; last night proved the risk.”
“Elder Roads.” I had never heard of such a thing; I wondered if the fog had been entirely natural or had merely masked some travel-weirding. It would be another skill worth learning, to go so swiftly—but if such roads held beasts like the sheep-horror, ’twas perhaps best to leave them alone. “Is that how we came so far?”
“It is.” His smile was equal parts gratified and somewhat paternal; clearly the Northern men thought me simple for all myseidhr. Which pleased me well enough; being underestimated is an edge all its own. “There are things in the North which may surprise a southron lady, and—”
“Gelad.” Eol cut him short, appearing over the fellow’s shoulder with something close to a scowl. “Let the ladyalkuinebreak night’s-fast in peace.”
I dropped my gaze to the bowl, and set to my work of consumption. But behind the disheveled picture I presented, my skull-meat was working furiously. Arn hovered over me, solemnly watchful as the leader of the wolf-stamped men crouched at a respectful distance, his hands hanging easily over his thighs and his wrapped swordhilt peering from his shoulder.
He had veiled the gem again, perhaps because its glitter might draw attention from a distance.
“I must offer apology to Gwendelint’s daughter.” At least he did not lack for formal address. A faint blush from the chill clung to hischeekbones; it was strange that the Northerners did not have beards. One would think them chilled by the lack. “Last night could have gone ill indeed.”
“It went ill enough.” I was too hungry to set aside my bowl; then again, when one is traveling, there is little need for overly fine manners. “Yet ended well, Eol of the North. Farsight and I would have found our way home.”
It was not quite a lie, I told myself. Some chance, or even someseidhr, might have helped me survive until dawn, frostbitten but still breathing. There was no reason to contemplate any other outcome.
“Farsight? Oh, yes.” He nodded, and his dark gaze was direct as Bjorn’s, though shadowed by worry. “A fine name for a noble steed. I would assuage your worry, Lady Solveig. We will let no harm come to you.”
It managed to nettle my pride, even after narrowly avoiding a plunging death upon a fear-maddened horse. “There stands my shieldmaid, and I amvolva. I am not overly worried. I would know, though…” How far could I inquire? It might be best to test the limits of what this man would allow his weregild.
Eol of Naras stilled, and his dark eyes gleamed. He was much leaner than Bjorn, but his self-possessed quiet might well warn a fellow warrior not to taunt too freely. “What would you know?”
Several of his brethren cast sneaking glances upon us as they went about their work. Only Aeredh watched openly, a faint line between his eyebrows. Did Eol expect me to ask about the Elder who rode with us, now not bothering to hide his ear-tips? Or about that evocative phrase,Elder Roads? Did such tracks all run through cold fog, along mountaintops? How was the travel-weirding achieved?
“That sheep-thing, last night.” I could not ask what I truly wished, but such is life—as Idra often reminded her student. There were other matters to inquire upon that could easily test his willingness. “I caught only a glimpse of it. What is its name?” Perhaps he would even label it in the Old Tongue, adding to my store of knowledge.
“Ah.” Did he look surprised, or pained? It was difficult to tell; his reserve was near uncanny. “It is a twisted thing; in the Old Tongue we call itgrelmalk. They are not common.”
“That is a great comfort.” I was somewhat gratified that he had given up a word I could use.Grelmalkwas no term I had been taught; I would have to think upon it today, tasting its syllables to discover its secrets. There were other things a weregild could reasonably expect to inquire about as well, and he had opened the door a fraction to their urging. “How do such things breed? Do they come from the North? How often do they attack travelers?”
“We should name youLady Question.” Eol’s expression changed again, a few fractions’ worth of difference settling into faint bemusement, his dark hair full of blue glints in thin winter sunlight. “They come from the Gasping upon the borders of the Black Land, and are an affliction. You shall never see another so closely, for we will not use the cloaked ways again. We did not think… well, it matters little what we thought. I mean merely to reassure you.”
I would know what he thought and more of these “cloaked ways,” but he rose, nodded to Arn, and returned to Aeredh. His men busied themselves with breaking camp, and Arneior watched their movements with interest, her thumb moving slightly upon her spear-haft, an absentminded caress.
So he would answer a few things, but not most and certainly not all. Care and caution were called for here; my restraint would have to match his own.
I finished my breakfast in silence, and the food did not warm me.
Treesong, Welcome Cup
Lokji invented winter, but it was the Allmother’s eldest son who filled it with terror. For the Enemy twists all things he can, hating even the season of rest when the world is quiet…
—The Proverbs of Graendel
By midmorn we had descended well into the forest. Clouds arrived from the north and east, and a thick tang of fresh snow coated my throat. The trees, crowned by previous snowfalls, held a profound hush as the air warmed—spring was a long time away, but each day was now a few moments longer than the last.
Of course, in the North new winter warms only so it may produce another white veil.
I was well occupied in thinking upon and tasting the strange wordgrelmalkwhile attempting to repair my braids and the red coral beads when the first flakes floated down. Old snow had been compacted by wind, its own weight, or slight thaws, swept into almost-dingy drifts resting between thick trunks. Still, the way was clear enough and the pale horses stepped more lightly than southron ones. Perhaps they had been bred for it; there were stories of Elder mounts which could balance upon ice-crust, were it thick enough.
