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“Though I am not complaining,” I hastened to add. “A weregild accepts what is given.”
“Ah.” He nodded, scratching behind his right ear with blunt fingers. The wolf-sigil stamped upon his shoulder snarled, teeth clearly visible, and I wondered I had not seen the similarity before. The men of Naras moved swiftly, with economical grace unlike Aeredh’s, and after a few nights in the open each man’s hair was somewhat tousled. “Is that what they say in the South? We do not often exchange hostages anymore.”
Hostagewas an old word, especially the way he pronounced it. I could hear the Old Tongue lingering behind its sibilant. “I thought the North kept to the old ways.”
“The Faithful do.” He shrugged while his gaze wandered past me,clearly distracted by the display. Efain was giving ground, fending off Arn’s jabs with efficiency if not ease. “Is there summat else you prefer, Lady Solveig? We merely have travel-food, but we can hunt.”
No doubt you can.The tart reply burned upon my tongue, but I could not give it freedom. “I am well enough, and thank you for your pains. Are we traveling far today?”
“As far as we can. Nithraen’s close, but riding instead of running…” Another shrug, but he hunched his shoulders halfway as if fearing to speak too much—for his captain drew close, and Eol of Naras looked, as usual, coldly furious.
“Winter does not forgive incaution.” Eol’s southron was less accented, though still tinted heavily with the North. “The morning grows no younger, Soren. Saddle their horses.”
I might have essayed some polite remark in return, but Arn’s voice rose triumphantly, a curlew-cry barely muffled by the snow all round. There was a meaty sound, and Efain skidded backward, hunched halfway over as if he suffered the spine-curve. She had struck him soundly with her spear-butt, and he finished on one knee, glaring at her through a tangle of dark hair, his sword point-down and every line of him vibrating. His eyes glowed like hot coals, and a ripple passed through his skin.
“Fool,” Eol muttered in the Old Tongue. “We have no time for play.” Then his voice lifted, a harsh bark. “Efain!”
For a few moments they froze, shieldmaid and black-clad Northerner eyeing each other. Arn’s ruddy head cocked, a flush of exertion on her cheeks, and her breath plumed silver in the morning chill. Her armor glittered, since she had laid her overmantle aside for this practice bout, and her spear did not quiver. Its readiness was perfectly leashed, and the featherbrush sensation of the Wingéd attention swirled about her.
Efain was perfectly still as well, but as a granary cat will freeze when it sees an oblivious mouse or a well-trained hound just before loosed to chase down prey. Another observer might well consider him a gifted warrior, one Odynn has blessed with the thoughtless grace of battle-madness or the quickfoot.
Like Aeredh, these men were now not masking what they were.
Eol tensed, and oddly, he took two swift steps—toward the impromptu sparring-ground, and one to the side, looming before me as if to block the sight. “Efain.” It was not a cry, precisely, but the name carried a snap like a leather belt cracked against itself.
The scarred Northerner rose. The rippling was gone, and he was no more than an ordinary man now, albeit with a warrior’s mien. “My thanks for the practice,” he said, hoarsely. “You are quick indeed, shieldmaid.”
Arn did not relax, but half her mouth tilted up into a smile. “Next time you will not hold back, then.”
“Enough.” Eol stalked to the edge of the wayrest, and I could not see his expression. Still, Efain shook snow from his shoulders and dropped his gaze. “Break camp, and stop playing about.” The command fled his tongue when he turned slightly in Arn’s direction, though. “If you have had your fill, my lady shieldmaid, would it please you to attend your mistress? We must be swift today; I like not how the wind smells.”
“Sol is not my mistress.” Arn did not look away from her opponent until he left the invisible confines of the sparring-ground, then she turned her gaze upon the captain. “She is mycharge, Northerner; a shieldmaid does not serve. Gwendelint’s daughter is your weregild for year-and-a-day, but I am not.”
“Then I crave your pardon, Arneior of Dun Rithell.” Coldly polite, each word edged as ice upon the wind, our captor also gave a courteous half-bow. “My knowledge of southron ways is imperfect at best. The next time you wish to vent your anger, you may do so upon me instead of my men.”
Oh, fishguts.“’Tis not anger but friendly play,” I said, hurriedly. “To be a shieldmaid’s sparring-partner is a great honor among us, Lord Eol. Please forgive our trespass.”
“Trespass?” He turned on his heel, and if I thought the sigil upon Soren’s shoulder was a-snarl, the one upon Eol’s looked for a moment as if it cried out in pain. The impression vanished in an instant; it became merely stamped leather and dye again, the elder son of Naras likewise merely a man with a proud nose, dark eyes, and a thin, drawn-tight mouth. “Hardly. We simply cannot risk a wound at themoment, my lady. It will cost us time, and we must reach Nithraen with all speed. We wait upon your readiness.”
With that he brushed past me, and the camp was now a hive of activity for all it only contained a half-dozen men. I was left dangling an empty mug from numb fingers, wincing inwardly.
Arneior shrugged into her mantle and we made haste to comply. I could not blame her, for she had done nothing wrong.
Still, it boded ill.
Quick and Delicate
The lord of the Black Land cannot spark life; that is solely the Allmother’s gift. Yet he may twist what he finds with little trouble, and seems to delight in misshapen things. Even his mightiest lieutenants bear some mark of foulseidhr, like Olvrang’s obsidian tooth and Gortaum’s hoof. This is why you must be careful, children, when you meet a stranger upon the heath or the road.
—The Saga of Tarit of Caelim
Deep soft snow-pregnant cloud closed a lid over the forest two days later; there were no more riddles among the Northerners but stony silence except for when travel made a word absolutely necessary. Arn and I traded a few couplets for form’s sake when the silence grew oppressive.
At each halt I attended to the horses with Aeredh, and there was usually another small piece ofseidhrgranted while we worked. He was a kind teacher, never tweaking my braids or making a sharp spitting sound of annoyance as Idra did, but I longed to learn something larger and could not shake the sense that the Elder was testing me in some oblique fashion, or simply giving me child-baubles to play with.
I was never warm, even with all the heated ale they gave me and a scant daily mouthful ofsithevielfrom the black flask. At least thepain in my feet meant they were not frozen through. My head grew light and empty with lack of proper sleep, yet I clung to the saddle grimly, determined not to give the captain any reason to complain of his weregild’s obedience.
Thankfully I had my Arn, and we gave each other many a troubled glance between our riddle-play. Most meant nothing more thanI am with you, at least; nevertheless, they were still a comfort. I had difficulty imagining how Bjorn or Astrid might handle this turn of affairs. I could not even imagine Mother or Idra accepting proof of the Elder lingering in the North or of the Black Land’s resurgence calmly, though Idra would not have been completely surprised at any dire prognostication. Whenever ill news came, she merely shrugged as if to say,So the world is, why expect otherwise?
