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“Do not blame Eol.” Aeredh had grown grave indeed, and spoke with some speed and force, almost as if facing Curiaen and Caelgor again. “Mine was the deciding voice, my lady Solveig. I counted the… the event unfortunate, yet one which could be turned to greater use. And… forgive me, Eol, but I suspected. Your brother has ever had a cruelty in him. It is as well he was not gifted with your strength.”
“Curse, my friend. Not strength, and my father would be the first to remind you of it.” Eol’s grimness deepened, if that were possible. Indeed he stood as one expecting execution in a judgment-ring, with jeering warriors looking on. “My brother might well have been how the Enemy’s spies followed us. Which means I have done you ill, Lady Solveig. I set our course, and told your father we would take no weregild but you. Here in the North you have an opportunity to strike a blow or two at the Enemy, and keep Dun Rithell unconscious of the dark which looms. I ask no pardon, for what we have done—and will do—protects your household as well as our own.”
“You have no intention of letting us return home.” Arn arrived at the realization after I, but to her went the dubious honor of voicing it.
I was, for once, too mazed to speak. They spoke of a curse as well; just how muchseidhrwas I expected to perform for these men?
“None.” Eol’s answer was immediate, and likewise sharp. “And though you might wish to test your spear against our unwillingness, my lady shieldmaid, I would counsel you not to.”
“I heed not the counsel of false men.” Arn still gazed steadily at me, and I could only guess at what she saw in my eyes, for I was surprised by the swift flash of pain in hers. “Sol?”
Now is not the time for open battle, Arneior.The words curdled in my throat. I would have suspected some manner ofseidhrto stopper my tongue, but it was not so, even in that Elder city where invisible force filled the very air and sang between fountains’ waterdrops. I could only shake my head, my braids heavy with red coral beads, resting against my scalp.
Despite the power of such ornaments, the Northerners had led us into a bog after all.
Offering Apology
Thoughorukharare foul they are also hardy, and may march great distances with untiring swiftness. Many times have they appeared where all is considered safe, and their greatest strikes are against the unsuspecting. They delight in battle, and it is well they are so fond of it, for did they not fall upon each other when left to their own devices they might trouble us all the more…
—Tharos of Naras,History of the Northern Houses
At dusk or dawn the orbs of Nithraen dimmed and a hush fell over the city. The songs of the Elder turn slow and thoughtful, lullabies or laments, and sometimes halt altogether in soft restful silence. Upon the balcony of a beautiful room turned into a trap I paced, occasionally glancing into the street below.
I could not see the Northerners, but I could very well feel their watchfulness that eve—or I thought it likely to be evening, though time under the hills was strange and I had no way of aligning myself with the sky. Slipping away from men with wolf-keen senses was a daunting prospect even with my shieldmaid’s spear to meet any direct challenge. Traversing the unknown streets of an Elder city and gaining the outside was another, and after that, the snows of deep winter and more things likeorukhar, the twisted carnivorous sheep-creature, and liches?
Even avolvamight be net-caught in such a collection of quandaries.
There was enough space inside for Arneior to practice her own form of nervous pacing, following her spear’s bright whistling as she parries and attacks invisible opponents. As practice, it clears the mind wonderfully, and its sweat wrings anger away so one may think clearly.
I was not so lucky, too scattered to engage in our usual game of dodge-dancing. So it was the balcony for me, back and forth as a sacrifice in a wicker cage or a fish trapped in a drying puddle. I could not tell if anger was what I felt; the mix inside me was eye-watering volatile as strong mead. The excitement of a journey promising much knowledge was stained with rage at my own blindness, the anxiety of possessing too littleseidhrto avoid the snare, and nauseating homesickness.
I could at least be glad the Northerners had not taken Bjorn or Astrid; my siblings were safely at home with my mother. If things like thegrelmalkor the lich wended their way southward, though…
Every time I thought of those creatures near Dun Rithell, I shuddered. My father was mighty, and gifted with the battle-madness, but against a lich even that gods-granted fury might fail. Especially if I were not there to sing strength into the warriors’ arms, or meet the thing with whateverseidhrI could. Desperation might strengthen us in that battle, but the Northerners spoke as if liches were almost common in their lands.
And that was a chilling prospect indeed, for a single one had reduced me to quivering terror. What else—or worse—might Arn and I face if we escaped our captors, or as we were dragged northward to the hiding place of some strange Elder weapon?
Still bleaker realizations crowded me. What might eventually make its way not just to our riverside but beyond if the Black Land was indeed resurgent and the Elder lacking will, numbers, or weapons to meet its terrible master? For Eol had a compelling argument, and all the sagas say the Enemy is never satisfied with what he holds, always seeking fresh lands to conquer.
I could barely imagine the carnage, didorukharoverrun my home. To think of Astrid broken upon their blades, or my brother pierced by many wounds and collapsing in battlefield mire… no.
No.I refused to think further upon that path, but the mind, like an inquisitive goat, goes where it senses its master does not wish it to.
Silvery shadows moved, tree branches ruffle-rustled, and I halted, my skirts swaying and my fingertips resting against a bee-end of my torc, once considered the very height of fine craft before I witnessed Elder work. On the street below was a flash of dark blue, a glitter of pale gems, and Caelgor the Fair moved with a purposeful step.
He did not look up, but strode for the door to our refuge. No Northerner appeared to gainsay him, so I left the balcony, my sudden purposefulness attracting Arn’s attention.
“What now?” she snarled, and my own expression could not have been pleasing either.
“The blond one comes. Caelgor.” I cast a longing glance at myseidhr-bag upon the bed, discarded the idea of ducking through its strap. Instead I tugged at my sleeves, made certain my skirts were in order, and was glad my hair was suitably adorned. Avolvadoes not wear a warrior’s armor, but a woman has her own sheathing. It is the mail of skirt and accoutrement, jewelry and hair-twisting.
Unless that woman is a shieldmaid, of course. Arneior’s ring-and-scale was full of Elder light, and her spear whirled in a complicated pattern before its blunt end came to rest with a sharp tap against stone floor. “If he insults you—”
“Then I shall respond as seems best.” I did not wish to let her swear an oath, and wished even less for a pair of sharp Elder ears to hear one. “This is not Dun Rithell, Arn.”
My shieldmaid gave a short plosive sound of irritation, but by the time our visitor had climbed the gently winding stone stairs she was at my shoulder, her spear a vertical bar and the flush of exertion fading in her cheeks, pale and blue-striped alike.
I stood behind the chair I had listened to Eol’s explanation in, my hands tense upon its carven back and my chin raised.
