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The next day I added to my store of Old Tongue by listening to every scrap of women’s conversation I could hear, made small repairs to Arn’s clothing and my own, and used the sauna again. It was very much like being home, between the thump-clack of the looms and the singing of those at their own needles. There were constant offers of food and drink, which Arn availed herself of mightily, and many excited questions about the ways of the South. I learned a great deal by listening to the few who had a store of the southron language translating for those who did not, and myvolva-marks were much admired.
That evening’s feast was far less troubled, for I exerted myself intelling Lady Hajithe small stories of Dun Rithell andvolvatraining before withdrawing as early as possible to the closet with Arn. The following morn bore no fresh snow, for the storm had taken itself elsewhere; I awoke to preparations for departure. Arn and I were excluded from any work save repacking my mother’s second-largest trunk. None of the large white Northern horses were burdened with it during the day, though it arrived at our camp each night intact, andthatwas a piece ofseidhrI deeply longed to learn.
Journeying with a trunk but without the need to haul it a-cart seemed a very useful bit of weirding indeed; I was much exercised in how to arrange witnessing the use of that particular skill but could find no graceful way of doing so. It did not help that Aeredh and the wolves of Naras were absent much of the daytime during our stay, returning only for the evening meal.
A chance remark by one of Lady Hajithe’s warriors as he lingered in the door of the women’s quarters, speaking to his sister, solved that last mystery. The Elder—whom the entire Steading held in reverence and the children crowded whenever he returned, forsaking even the novelty of my and Arn’s presence—was in the forest, “speaking to the stones.” It seemed he was strengthening invisible protections, rune-wrought or otherwise, with the wolf-stamped men accompanying him just as Dun Rithell’s warriors flanked Frestis during the Midsummer boundary-walks, carrying the wicker baskets and keeping watch while he sang and made the sacrifices.
If there were more of those twisted, terrible sheep-things about, I could well see the need. And I pondered how we would travel in these conditions. There are ways to move through the landscape in any weather withoutseidhr, of course.
I merely wondered if an Elder and a collection of skin-changers would use the ones I knew.
We took our leave amid bright sparkling snow and thin golden sunlight. My mantle and overboots had been well cleaned; Arn was looking very pleased indeed, though sorry to leave their clear, fiery mead behind. Her spearblade glittered vengefully, the haft free of leather pax-knot, and she studied the dark-clad Northerners in turn while I cast my gaze over the assembled household. One of thechildren, a long-legged scamp of about nine summers, thrust his tongue out and squinted both eyes; I made the war-face in return, well acquainted with this game, and was rewarded with a cheeky giggle. His mother sighed, touching his peaked fur cap as if to ruffle dark hair, and I could not help but smile.
Lady Hajithe herself brought a great golden cup starred with clear fiery gems instead of the wooden welcome-goblet carved with antlered creatures, offering its contents first to Aeredh. “Travel in safety,” she said in the Old Tongue. “If there is need; our House will answer. As ever.”
“As ever, and in return,” the Elder replied solemnly, and drank deep.
I thought she would offer it to Eol next, but instead she paced to me, her great blue mantle bearing black fur at the hood and her indigo leather house-boots tooled with flowing designs. “You do your mother proud, young Solveig. I would call thee daughter also, and whatever aid this House of the Faithful may offer is yours for the asking.”
Mighty promise or merely a traditional leave-taking, I could not tell. “You do me great honor, Lady Hajithe of the Eastronmost Steading. I shall do a daughter’s duty, and dream of thee.” The cup contained more mead, but this time the herbs in it were sweetish, and my tongue untangled them all. For health, for strength, for warmth—it was a good cup, and she offered it to Arn next.
“Fare thee well, shieldmaid. May your spear ever find its target.”
“Farewell, Lady of the Eastronmost.” My shieldmaid gave her the salute those taken by the Wingéd Ones pay to women they respect, a touch of left-hand fingertips to heart and forehead while her spear dipped slightly; then she drank. “May the Wingéd Ones protect thee.”
Lady Hajithe offered to the wolf-stamped Northerners as well, but without comment. I ached to discern the cause of this among all my other questions, but we were soon a-saddle and leaving the Eastronmost upon a lane of much shallower snow between two of those curious full-bellied statues, passing through winter-blanketed meadow and broad fields into dark forest.
Singularly Incapable
For was not Erlitha the first sworn shieldmaid, given to the valkyrja from birth? Always do the Black-Wingéd Ones watch, and when a girl is born who bears their mark, many are the tests to prove her worthy. Strong is a shieldmaid’s arm, quick is her temper, and sure her judgment; while she observes the spirits of Odynn himself bear witness through her eyes.
—The Saga of Erlitha One-Eye, attributed to Graendl
Aeredh led our group once more, and found a semiwinding way dipping between drifts. Occasionally a carven runestone rose to our right or left, and I thought it likely this was an ancient road of some fallen Northern kingdom. Our passage was easy even as we wended up tree-cloaked hills and into wide dales; we passed a few frozen streams, one with a trickle of moving clarity at its heart even in new winter. Eventually the ground firmed under its white carapace, but not in the manner of hard-frozen dirt.
There was stone lingering under the snow. Even if I could not sense it from the change in hoof-fall, the horses knew and their knowledge filtered into my own head. They stepped lightly indeed; I watched carefully, attempting to untangle the weirding that kept their hooves from sinking. Farsight was in fine mettle, tail flicking and her ears pricked no less than mine.
For the Northerners were no longer so silent.
Eol rode with Aeredh for some while, in deep conversation I could not quite hear even withvolva-sharp ears. Soren with the heavy brows and the one named Karas with the leather-wrapped braid engaged in a lively war of riddles, using the Old Tongue.
I learned much by listening to their good-natured flyting, though Arn looked a bit sour at being left out. She did so love couplets, and any sort of combat appealed to her.
Blue-eyed Gelad rode to my left, gazing at the forest with a worried air between short glances in my direction. Scarred Efain rode a little apart, his head down, apparently sunk in profound thought. He and Elak—whose hair held ruddy highlights instead of the bluish sheen more common among his fellows—exchanged a few comments in the Old Tongue at intervals; they shared the hindmost duty and whoever was not behind our group rode slightly to Arn’s right, trailing her as a guard yet not overly close.
They respected her temper, as any man should.
I was busy thinking about hoof-seidhrand trying to guess the answer to one of Soren’s riddles—the latter purely for my own satisfaction—when Gelad cleared his throat and essayed some conversation. “We may be slightly merrier now, my lady Solveig, since we are not in the fog of the Hidden Ways. ’Tis a relief?” His voice rose uncertainly at the end, lingering in sparkling, pine-scented air.
“I am gladdened.” Perhaps the fellow could be induced to shed some light upon a matter or two; I hurriedly marshaled my wits as Farsight’s ears flicked again. “Do all Northerners learn the southron language, then?”
“It is the grandchild of the Old Tongue. Still, even in the North only the Faithful keep to the Elder’s speech.” Gelad cast another half-worried, half-gauging look at me, then toward the head of our small column. “Our lord Tharos requires it of all his people, as did his fathers before him. So does Lady Hajithe.”
Tharos.Now I might ask in detail of the parentage and House of my captor, since one of his men had freely mentioned them. “So your leader is Lord Tharos’s son?”
“Yes.” He shifted uneasily in his saddle; his pale mount did notcrowd Farsight but would have liked to. “Eldest, though not favored. It was his younger brother Arvil who…”
Who Bjorn smote, and killed. And was he some manner of traitor?All the same, I could only imagine how coldly polite I would be to a weregild were Bjorn or Astrid in a ship sent upon fire’s back to the Allmother, or laid in forgiving earth. “I see.” I settled my mantle’s hood more firmly with one gloved hand, not quite glad to be a-horse again but heartened to finally be allowed some answers. “You must pardon me, my lord Gelad, if I ask something… improper. I do not mean to give offense.”
