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The bands at my wrists and forearms sang with piercing-sweet pain, as if the ink were forced under the skin all at once instead of agonizing pin-by-pinprick. I was only dimly aware of my physical self, for I followed thetaivvanpallo’s carving through each element in turn.
Metal I tasted, and rich black earth. Fire and smoke filled my veins, ice and limpid wave running underneath their brightness. A cold fresh wind and a hot forge-breath mixed with an indefinable lift, as under the feathered wings of a hawk before diving. A tree’s trunk groaned as a breeze caressed its high crown, sunshine touched my fluttering eyelids, and the peculiar smell which rises from hill and valley late in the darkest of autumn nights filled my nose.
Behind the elements both large and small lingered the invisible spark, the ineffable they flow from. The great tree ofseidhrholds endless branch, bole, and leaf, yet the sap rising through its heart is another secret still.
It is that an elementalist touches, or so it has always seemed to me.
My hands moved of their own accord, fingertips brushing or pressing in particular patterns, and cloth-soft silver flowed underneathwithout a mountain-heart’s heat to make it pliable. The red coral in my braids sang piping-sweet chorus, not a stone but a collection of infinitely tiny skeletons somehow pressed into hard durability; the wool of my dress was made of the sad gazes of sheep and the grazing they did upon sunny hillsides as well as the thump-whirr of spinning and the clack of a loom, the stab of bright needles and the chatter of sewing women. The felt of my slippers, the thread of their embroidery, the precious beaten ore of my torc and the dreams of the smith who crafted it—oh, all,allof it I felt as thetaivvanpalloopened like a flower.
The “toy” showed me glimpses of hills so green they hurt to gaze upon, a conical forge glowing hot, and a tall Elder man, his dark hair with a single streak of pure sunshine along one side, his hands sure and deft as he tossed molten metal from one palm to the other. He whispered aseidhrthat burst against the white stone walls of a workroom cluttered with fascinating implements, drenched in silvergold light the hanging globes of Nithraen could not rival. He spoke in the Old Tongue; my own mouth followed the shape of his words, the accent ancient and unbearably pure.
“Thus I make you, and thus you shall be.”
It was no longer a sphere. Instead, a silver flower bloomed in my hands, its cupped petals holding captive a single point of brilliance. Shadows, knife-sharp and ink-black, painted the walls—for not only did my shieldmaid stand straight and slim, barring all from approaching as her spearblade hung in readiness, but Caelgor the golden-haired son of Faevril stood in that room of Nithraen-that-was, as well as Eol son of Tharos and Aeredh son of Aerith. One of Eol’s fellow Northerners was at the door as well, and his shadow had star-bright eyes and shaggy edges.
Ataivvanpallo, after all, will show the truth even in what its light does not touch. But I did not know it then.
It was open for a few heartbeats, no more. The petals whispered as they closed, and I heard every word of impossibly ancientseidhr. I could not fully remember nor replicate what he said. But I knew the voice was of the man who had created this thing, and that he had taken joy in its making.
A further pang, hidden but incontrovertible, was the deeper satisfaction in knowing none but analkuinecould open the toy, loosing its beauty into the world. Only an aching glimpse would be granted those who did not share an elementalist’s gift, and the knowledge pleased him mightily.
For he knew well, did Faevril the Dispossessed, that he was unique among his kind.
Arn afterward said it took a long while indeed for the thing to open, while Caelgor and Eol exchanged sharp words and Aeredh arrived, alerted by an almost-breathless Efain. The scarred Northerner had been set to watch the house door, and had seen the blond hunter’s approach. All told an hour, maybe more, passed while I sat bolt upright in the chair with my hands working at the orb’s surface, and she was quite content to let the men wrangle as long as they did not attempt to approach me.
And then it glowed, Arn said, dismissing the wonder as only a shieldmaid can.
For me it was no longer than a few breaths before the flowering of the sphere, and when the light receded and I was left holding a smooth silver globe, the carving on its surface had changed. Oh, it still looked the same to those withoutseidhr, I suppose.
But to my eyes the marks made a word, though not in the runes Idra and my mother had taught me.
And that word was, simply,Light.
Half Done, Worse than Not
Once the Enemy did not cover himself in darkness. There was no need, for he was the Allmother’s eldest, most glorious son. But no heart may be satisfied once envy has filled it, and no soul untwisted once lies have taken deep root in the tongue. Now his malice is blacker than cave-night, and of all things he fears the cleansing of light. Even stealing the Jewels did not sate his greed, and he takes no joy in their beauty.
Because it burns.
—Anonymous, from the Paehallen Manuscript
Orb-glow had returned. Nithraen was once again full of song threading through paved or cobbled lanes, blending in every corner. I cradled thetaivvanpalloin my lap, staring at stainless, secretive curves; Caelgor the Hunter took his leave of me as if there were no others in the room.Keep it, he said in the southron tongue,as a gift from one you have done a great service, albeit unknowing. When you leave Nithraen, my ladyalkuine, my brother and I ride with you.
Then, with a courteous nod in Arneior’s direction, he was gone. He passed Efain at the door, and the scarred Northerner’s gaze upon him was unkind, to say the least.
Not that the Elder deigned to notice.
“Well,” Aeredh said heavily, his hands clasped behind his back. “Faevril’s Oath continues to cause grief.”
“I thought you were to guard our ladyalkuine.” Eol faced Arneior as if challenged, but my shieldmaid’s spear was steady and her shoulders relaxed. “Yet you let that—”
“He caused no harm to us.” Arn would not brook scolding, especially by this Northerner. “Indeed he was more honest with my Solveig than you cared to be, wolfling.”
“Was he?” Eol’s ire mounted, and leapt in my direction besides. “Whatever he told you was only in service to finding what Bjornwulf and Lithielle won at great cost. He and his brother will slay any who seek to keep the Freed Jewel from them, even their kin—thatis their oath, and they swore it upon the Allmother and Unmaking itself. They will hunt us when we leave here, and the rest of Faevril’s living sons will come riding upon their trail.”
I stared at thetaivvanpallo, breathing deeply. Itsseidhrsettled within me, a sweet-edged burning I did not know how to quench; I felt as an almost-consumed candle must, eaten even as it flares.
Arn’s shrug was a marvel of loose fluidity, though her spear-point did not move. “Perhaps they will treat us with more honor than you have.”
