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Sounds simple, does it not, daughter of Gwendelint?
Simple, yes. Noteasy, and how Idra used to laugh while teaching me the distinction.
I stared into the darkness, the fear nipping at my fingers, my toes. It brushed the tip of my nose as the wind moaned amid bracken on the green’s edges, kindled a great soughing in the forest cradling the greathall of Dun Rithell, the settlement and outlying steadings sharing its name.
What, in all that blackness, would raise its misshapen head and come for us, should the bonfire not light?
My left hand rose, naked fingers thrust into the wind’s jaws. My breath halted, a familiar pressure mounting behind eyes and breastbone.
Of course nobody truly thought the sun would refuse to rise if the fire remained unlit, and many suspect much ofseidhris misdirection or chicanery, a cunning of hand and eye still worthy of respect even should it not approach true weirding. At the same time, all know the gods both Aesyr and Vanyr, Black-Wingédvalkyra, the hosts of the dead, and passing spirits only occasionally meddle with mortals. Divinities and spirits are usually more than busy with their own affairs; still, a practical, prudent person does their best not to offend even distant neighbors.
For a moment, I was blackly, bleakly convinced that all my practice had been unavailing, all my training a vast prank, and all my marks were going to vanish because I would fail this final test.
A vast hiss filled my skull. A small, still orange point lit in the heart of the big black tower raising before me—or not quite the heart, somewhere around the ankles instead. My concentration almost wavered, but Idra was a thorough teacher, and the fear of a stinging slap to the back of my head before a wearyAgain, my lady, and do it correctlymeant my focus returned, and the bright orange dot widened.
There was awumpas tinder exploded into flame, and a gasp went through those closest to the Stone. I finished exhaling, sharply, and willed the fire to spread. It did not quite hurt, yet it was an effort and my nape was damp by the time the blooming light was no longer in danger of wind-snuffing.
The bonfire was now a yellow-orange star, visible even in the camps across the river. I did not sway, but I did draw my hood further, shadowing my face. Corag and Kolle relit their lanterns with tapers from the blaze and the women began to climb the steps to file past, lighting torch or twist to take home. The new light would go from house to house; a runner was no doubt standing by to bring ceremonial heat and life to my father’s hall.
When the wicker cages burst into flame nothing inside made a sound, though another wolf-howl across the river sounded under a babble of singing, excited chatter, warriors swearing oaths either permanent or yearlong, men and women announcing a god-debt as they climbed down the other side of the Stone upon the wider stairs worked along the rock’s lee.
My pulse returned to its usual pace. I kept my hood high, though many who passed bowed or kissed their fingers in my direction. The wind tore at the flames, but could not kidnap them. After some while Arn reappeared from the head of the stairs, stepping to her usual spot behind my shoulder, for now there were travelers from both downriver and up among the neighbors passing by to gain the new, cleansed light; no few of them studied me critically in the bonfire’s glow.
Yet still, my father did not show himself, nor Bjorn, nor even Astrid.
Ill News
Nothing good comes from the North, especially in winter.
—Southron proverb
Even the laggards had come to collect their new-year light and all others were at table, so there were few indeed treading to the bonfire atop the Stone. Once the drinking was truly underway and the riddles began moving from one bench to the next there would be more visitors, and in the very deepest reaches of night there would be constant traffic bearing fuel for the burning and gifts for the gods, not to mention food and drink brought to those who must hold sworn vigil upon the solstice.
It is a cold duty though an honorable one, and I was glad of the mantle. Arn’s dun overcloak was thick and furred as well; she paced to keep warm, never very far from me. The bonfire’s heat was shredded by rising wind, though I did not have to steady the flame overmuch.
Normally Idra and I would watch together; had Dun Rithell not possessed a wisewoman and apprentice, those with any smallseidhrwould have taken turns at the bonfire’s side. Though the flame had returned watch must still be kept, and one with weirding on hand to make certain nothing misshapen from the night’s depths—or elsewhere—crept forth to extinguish hope. Once the sun rose the wisewoman could take her ease, not before.
Except Idra was with the Blessed, feasting in a great god-hall orenjoying some amusement she would like better, being of a decidedly solitary bent during her lifetime. Either way, she would pay little attention to mortal problems. Or so I hoped; she had spent her life serving her people, and mine was to be a similar lot.
It was well past feast-time though not yet midnight when a familiar shape slipped up the stairs and made directly for me, weaving between the chance-brought guards like a minnow. Ulfrica daughter of Harrick from over the river was with her, of course, and looked miserably cold in her very fine though not heavy yellow cloak; my sister wore a very sensible hooded and buttoned mantle with her furred boots, and carried my gloves and a hand-pouch as well as a heavy green woolen scarf.
“I brought you bread,” Astrid said, breathlessly. “And news. Oh, I’m so sorry to miss it. Was it terribly difficult?” She peered from her hood, a bright pretty star-maiden with a luminous face, and as usual, I felt a faint weary surprise that I could be related to such a sprite.
“Just difficult enough.” It was the manner of answer Idra might have made; I wrapped the muffler about my neck and pulled my hood up again. It was a distinct improvement, and I could not wait to bury my hands in both gloves and sleeves.Your sister is indeed wondrous fair, Idra had said when I complained of how everyone was ’mazed by Astrid,but she cannot do what you can, and well it behooves you to remember as much. “How many dresses shall we be making with your spoils today?”
But for once, mention of sewing enough to keep us occupied until midsummer failed to brighten her. Astrid’s dark-golden eyebrows had drawn toward each other and Ulfrica pressed close, slipping an arm over my sister’s shoulders, giving me a reproachful look.
“I… I don’t know.” Astrid rubbed at one of her braids, red ribbon threaded through golden hair. “Solveig, listen. Something awful has happened.”
Of course.“I cannot be everywhere at once,” I muttered. “What now?”
“Well, if youhadbeen there, I don’t know how it could have helped.” Astrid shook her head, and her large dark eyes shimmered with incipient tears. She was made of water, Gwendelint’s youngest child. “It was Bjorn. Some man hailed Father, another laughed in my direction, there were words, Bjorn hit one of them, and then—”
Oh, by Hel, I am so sick of this.“And Father owes someone a cup?” Bjorn was always causing some damage, and Father paying restitution. Still, what did everyone expect? Our sire was battle-mad; it was now bred into the line. Astrid’s sons might even gain a double share of the gift.
Dun Rithell was glad enough of Eril’s madness when brigands came, or when petty warlords cast envious looks upon our small prosperity. It could even be said his violent rage upon the field was a gift from Odynn, brought by ravens to an infant’s cradle, or from Uellar the Hunter, who roamed the world before the first sunrise.
“Worse.” Astrid was pale, and her lower lip quivered. I took a closer look at her in the flickering light before glancing at the thin straggling line of latecomers. None of those jostling to relight their hearths whispered, elbowed each other, or cast meaningful glances in our direction. It was almost too chilly for gossip, and that is cold indeed. “Solveig…”
