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Yet I could not.
“It tastes of memories, my lady Question.” Eol watched my expression, and his smile was somewhat pained though his tone kind enough, for once. He did not drink, but of course he must have upon arrival, not being half-dead of exhaustion. “I remember my own unease, the first time I drank.”
At least you do not hide it.There was no poison I could find in the liquid, and I handed the heavy, gem-crusted silver item back to its bearer with what grace I could muster. “Many thanks,” I advanced, tentatively, and the Elder cupbearer—he looked no older than Aeredh, but that was no indication—gave me a startled, blue-eyed glance.
“It is my duty,” he replied, in a heavily accented approximation of the southron tongue. He looked to Aeredh, as if his fellow Elder would take issue with the words, and then cast his gaze down and hurried away.
I could only watch him vanish into a nearby hallway. “Did I offend by—”
“No.” Eol’s eyebrows drew together, very nearly wearing a scowl again. In this light, the sharp vitality burning in him—different than that of the Elder, but bright nonetheless—was more evident than ever, and his hair glinted blue-black. “Another used to rule here, my lady Question. More I cannot say.”
Many were the halls of Nithraen’s great palace. Our own great timber warrens were trifling in comparison, but I would have given much for a friendly hailing from a table of my father’s warriors, or ale drawn from Dun Rithell’s casks though I ever prefer mead. I missed Ulfrica’s smile, Albeig’s anxiety, Ulveig’s fierce swearing, Astrid’s worrying, and even Bjorn’s great graceless self presenting me with a problem to solve.
At least Arn was with me. A vast central hall swallowed us, its pillars tree-carved so finely I expected to hear the subtle brush of moving leaves. Aeredh glanced at me twice, perhaps measuring the effect of such grandeur upon one of my kind, or attempting to encourage.
Or for another reason entirely.
Curiaen and Caelgor were now the rulers of Nithraen, and they often came from their hunt to the great ruling hall. When we emerged from a stone forest the light was cool gold, the stone underfoot cushioned by soft carpets woven to resemble close-cropped grass, and the rain-colored hounds milled excitedly, too well-bred to bay at our approach. They ringed us as we walked, but more in the manner of curious sheep than hunt-bred chasers.
It was strange, for they did not smell of dog but only, faintly, of fresh air and musk.
Some few Elder scattered about the bright, incongruous sward. A group had gathered about a harpist, whose playing grew softly plaintive when we appeared. Guards in bright greengold armor attended at intervals, while two slim Elder maids in matching pale dresses halted dancing and withdrew, bright blue gazes startled as young deer. Movement whispered behind us, and in the center of the woven meadow was a small rise with a round bench carved of living grey stone polished to smoothness, its cushions brighter than the “grass” and well arranged. A greater circle of white paving surrounded it, and the two hunters, bright-haired and dark, stood at its edge, conferring with each other while making every effort to appear unaware of our approach.
Yet tension sang in the air around the brothers, and the fair one, his shining hair a little deeper gold than Astrid’s, very carefully did not turn his back. Both bore great curving Elder bows, their quivers half-empty from the hunt; sword and knife rode their belts. The folk of Nithraen were proud indeed, holding their lands against any incursion, yet they bore arms more to show the skill of their crafting than for brawling. I did not know as much then, though, and was glad of Arn’s spear close by.
We halted some small distance from the hunters, and Aeredh stilled. Arn examined everything about us with wide-eyed interest,her right hand easy upon spear-haft. Eol moved to stand to her left, but slightly behind; his eyelids dropped halfway and the gem in his swordhilt gave a single bright dart.
A tall female hound approached me gravely, fringed tail held high. She examined my skirt with some attention, and presented her head for a pat. I bent to smooth soft fur, peering into her dark, intelligent eyes. Farsight had the same air of good nature, and I have ever liked dogs.
“Beware, brother,” the dark-haired hunter said in the Old Tongue. He was the taller, and his smile was thin. “You may lose another hound.”
Perhaps he did not think avolva’s ears sharp enough to hear, or a shieldmaid’s. Eol stiffened; I sensed more than saw the slight movement.
Aeredh said nothing. He appeared deeply interested in the carving of the roof, highly figured and rising on dome-ribs to brilliant golden orb-light.
“And what is thy name?” I murmured to the dog. “Fair and sleek you are, and swift as the winds, I judge.”
I meant no ill, of course. Complimenting a hunting pack is simply good manners, especially when there is some small unpleasantness or hesitation to smooth over in a hall’s conversation. It was my duty asvolva, and as the eldest daughter of Dun Rithell, to save guest or host from embarrassment; now I was called upon to use that skill as a weregild.
Why else had Eol brought me here?
The blond hunter tilted his head slightly, and his gaze came to rest upon me. An Elder can show their displeasure with such a look, and it is heavy indeed. “Well, perhaps the haughty-brought-low must find his dogs where he can.”
It sounded like an insult, but their accent was archaic and though I was used to the Northerners, they had hardly spoken enough for me to discern nuance. Yet a tone, a swift glance, a gesture—or even the tiniest shift in breathing—can express contempt, and the Elder have much time to learn such display if they wish.
The hound nosed at me again, not quite demanding but certainlyhopeful. Canines always senseseidhr, and rare indeed is thevolvaor seer they—or cats—do not like. If the power curdles through viciousness or great evil, though, they cringe, and their obedience becomes reluctant just as that of the two-legged, though even the most helpless among Secondborn turn on our tormentors long before a dog would ever think to.
The most polite thing, of course, was to give a couplet in praise of our hosts’ possessions. It might even stave off unpleasantness, and would certainly fulfill my responsibilities as weregild. Arn, though she did not have the Old Tongue, could very well tell a sneer from a smile, and our gazes met.
Shall I take offense?hers asked.
Not just yet, mine answered.
I do not know from whence the poetry came. I know only that it left me in a voice not quite my own, deeper and more resonant than my ribcage could ever produce. For all that, it was achingly sweet, and it spoke the southron language as I smoothed the dog’s head again, marveling at the texture of her coat. “Well-robed you are, by noon or night; A shining jewel among many prized.” Each syllable in southron was neatly balanced, a play upon a highborn lady’s great furred mantle lurking in the first half, the second holding the rhythm of running our bards call dogside, for the lolloping sideways motion of an excited puppy. It rhymed both at midline and end, and I could only think a passing divinity—or one whose veiled gaze had been upon me since the journey’s start—had poured it into my mouth with Elder winterwine.
The cavern reverberated as if I had screamed a river-rowing obscenity, or a drunken warrior’s challenge. The dark hunter’s chin lifted and his gaze kindled; he stepped forward, though the fair one’s arm rose across his chest, a restraint matched by the blond’s narrowed eyes.
Arn tapped her spear’s blunt end twice, both to honor whatever invisible beneficence had granted the words and to show her approval. And apparently the passing god or spirit found that pleasing as well, for the sound was also granted uncharacteristic weight, as of blade meeting blade.
