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“Soft, my friend.” Aeredh laid a hand upon Eol’s shoulder as the Northerner took a single step forward. “Look to your lady, shieldmaid. It is no small thing to master even one of Faevril’s minor works, and she is pale.”
Pale? No, I felt as if I had Mother’s ague, but the shivering was turned inward, sharptooth mice nibbling at my bones.
“Then withdraw,” Arn snapped. “I will not have liars near my weirdling. Sol?”
Water.I thought of the great broad-backed river at the foot of Tarnarya oozing through mud at the reed-banks, or the soft sliding sound clear liquid makes upon stones. Snow-fed in spring, our motherstream was clear and cold even in summer, though she rarely froze even in deepest winter. She teemed with fat silver fish, and even the sucking black clay in certain places along her shore could be used for pottery or dye, not to mention wattle and daub. A giving damindeed, our river, and though I was far north among strangers I could still summon the scent of her wide rippleshimmer back, familiar as my own breath.
“Hurry,” Aeredh said in the Old Tongue, from very far away. “Bring me the flask, there are cups aplenty.”
Cold liquid memory met the burning of thetaivvanpallo; I expected steam to burst from the two opposing forces, leaking from my skin and clouding the room like herb-water cast over hot-glowing stones in a sauna. My heart was a blacksmith’s fastest hammer in my throat and wrists, and my scalp was damp. Saltprickle moisture collected under my arms, behind my knees, and I shuddered hard enough that the chair shifted under me.
When the seizure ended, I sagged, blinking at the bright smear of the world. Arn’s face swam into view, blue woad-stripe down one side cracking though it had been recently reapplied, and she did not touch me. Nor had she allowed anyone else to, for which I was most grateful. Still, my dress was all but sopping, and the soft almost-constant singing of Nithraen’s Elder citizens scraped against my ears. I had sweated through fine heartsblood wool; I could have eaten a whole chunk of salt and asked for more, like a great antlered winter-deer.
“Here.” Aeredh was at Arn’s shoulder, and he offered one of the jeweled goblets from the table. The liquid within shimmered restively. “We must have her drink, shieldmaid.”
I am well enough, I wanted to say, but my voice would not do its duty.
“We cannot touch her.” My shieldmaid straightened, and I suspect she did not attempt to strike him only because her current anxiety outweighed the matter of his proximity. “Not even a fingertip, Elder. Step away.”
“What is it?” Eol hovered as well, but farther away. Efain drifted close to his captain, his scars pale and the rest of him following suit. A shaggy blurring hung over the Secondborn men; the Northerners were black blots, and for the first time I wondered why they wore such cloth.
Our riverfolk love color, the brighter the better. Not only does it show one’s wealth, but it is cheersome to look upon, and lifts the spirits when the long dark nights of winter settle over the world.
My hand twitched. It took a great, drowsing effort to lift my fingers from the silver orb, still in my lap. Then to make my entire arm move, my fingers stretched pleadingly toward Arn, was another deep, terrible striving.
Her hand met mine with a shock like two angry warriors upon Dun Rithell’s training-yard. Her skin was dry and warm, my own flesh terribly cold despite the burning. More than that, theseidhr-sense of another thinking, breathing life swamped me. A clear disciplined heat-haze hung upon her, and a great rushing of soft feathers passed through us both.
It helped, though not nearly enough. I exhaled harshly, my lung-cargo chopped into segments by a wave of trembling. “Arn,” I whispered. “Arneior.”
“My weirdling.” But her smile was a shadow of itself, and though her gaze was not nearly so piercing as my mother’s when she suspected wrongdoing, it was still a blow against my own. “The Elder has a drink he says may help. Will you take it?”
It could hardly hurt.I could not even nod; all my will was focused on clasping her hand. She did not let go, but she did suffer Aeredh to lean close and put the goblet to my lips.
Whatever the cup contained was warm, strangely spicy, and drowned the embers buried in my chest. It did little for the weakness, but my consciousness did not gutter like a candle in a cold draft again either. My joints ached, like Idra’s when the weather changed.
At least none of the drink ran down my chin. Aeredh let the liquid retreat when he sensed I needed a breath, and offered it afresh when my gaze turned questioningly to his. “Yitherin,” he said, quietly. “A restorative; there is nothing harmful in it. I will teach you the recipe, if you wish to learn.”
So now you wish to give me more Elderseidhr. How kind.The thought was uncharitable, but I was in no condition to give it voice.
With his patience and my willingness helping at either end, I drained the goblet to the dregs. He retreated, I shuddered once more, and Arneior still clasped my hand, her coppery eyebrows drawn together and her full mouth drawn tight.
“I have not fallen in the river yet.” My tongue was unwieldy andmy throat dry despite the Elder drink, but my shieldmaid granted another ghost of a smile to the old joke.
“Not for lack of trying, weirdling.” She squeezed my fingers before drawing away, casting a dark look in Aeredh’s direction. “’Twas beautiful, Sol. Idra would be proud.”
Would she?For all I loved and respected my wise teacher, I had what she did not—not only as eldest daughter of my mother’s hall but as avolva. Power I held, and she made no secret it was more than hers; all of Dun Rithell took pride in it no matter how uncanny its bearer.
And so did I, ever since I began upon the path of training. My arrogance might be small compared to an Elder’s, yet it was mine, and all I had.
Caelgor called the thing in my lap a toy. Suchseidhr, counted weak among them, could burn me from the inside out.
And once more an Elder drink bolstered me. It returned some manner of strength to my limbs, but I was not at all certain I could stand. Still, my arms worked now, so I cupped the silver sphere and lifted it. “My lord Aeredh.” The words hurt, scraping their way free. “Here.”
“My lady?” The Elder stilled, the empty cup dangling from his fingers. Its gems glittered sharply, spearing my tender eyes; the world was a bright agony at the moment, and yet curiously darkened by the absence of the orb’s inner shining.
“Take it.” I could barely shape the words; it was an effort not to speak in the Old Tongue after the silver thing’s deep, undeniable whisper.
“Only you may open this item, my lady Solveig.” And of course, because he was Elder he now looked handsome indeed, his head tilted slightly and his blue eyes kindled. His gaze was far kinder than Caelgor’s, but still burned like the silver thing resting against my trembling fingers. “I lack the—”
