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“My lady.” Flokin was the eldest warrior of my father’s hall, slump-shouldered like a bear and possessed of a great grey beard braided with beads of carven horn. The men took up formation about us, breaking the force of the wind’s winter wailing; Arn stiffened,though none came closer than they should. Thus released, those who had guarded avolvaby chance filed past the fire, and would present themselves to Eril for lordly thanks. “Your father would have come to celebrate, but… there is summat unforeseen.”
There might have been an implied insult in the observation; what good was avolvawho couldn’t foretell dire woe? Yet the songs, chants, tales, and sagas were brimming-full of idiots like my brother doing things no reasonableseidhrwould speak of even if they did foresee, or so it seemed to me that night. “My brother killed a man from the North.” Unease spilled down my back; the mantle’s thickness was little proof against that manner of chill.
It is not uncommon to hear wolves in the hills. To hear them twice upon a winter evening is to be expected. And yet, a wolf-sigil house demanding weregild of my father while their cousins howled?
It did not bode well.
“Aye.” Flokin eyed me in the bonfire’s fitful glow. A short distance away, spindle-legged Asjel the miller’s son had tripped while bringing wood up, and was being mocked by other boys. “He swears he heard the Northerner say summat of your sister. Your lord father, well…”
He should have left Bjorn with me.But I could not play nursemaid to my grown brother, nor could Astrid. Even Mother could not anymore. “What are they demanding?”
Flokin coughed. Perhaps he did not expect me to be quite so direct, but I had just called the winter bonfire. None could now say I hadn’t earned each of the blue bandings about my wrists, or the ancient runes living under the skin.
Every pinprick with ink forced into my flesh, every terrible test, every deep lonely night was worth it. I had brought flame from empty air upon the darkest night of the year. Idra, for all her wisdom, would not have been able to do so.
Seidhris uncommon, though every house has its own cunning, as the saying goes. Only two ancient, half-unintelligible sagas speak of elementalists, though they do not name specific ones. Still, there are many marvels amongseidhr’s many-branching ways, and Idra had never betrayed any surprise or shock at finding one among her students.
I waited, but the bearded man said nothing. Arn made a short, displeased noise. “Come now, Flokin. Say what you must.”
At least he had a healthy respect for her temper; especially during the dark of the longest night. “I dare not speak upon it, my lady Solveig. ’Tis for your father to do.” He would say no more, nor would any of his companions.
Put that way, though, ’twas simple enough to guess. The Northerners kept to old ways; some said their proximity to the ruins of the Black Land kept them faithful. The most ancient weregild is a child for a child, and Father must have suspected they might demand as much. He would draw out negotiations until I could leave the green, cross the road, and re-enter the hall; no doubtseidhrby his side would help in dawn’s cold light, especially after demanding Northerners had spent a night drinking at a fine table.
A wisewoman’s strength is not just in weirding but in negotiation. A cunning mind, a quick hand, and a wise tongue are necessary. Besides, before I could even speak I was upon my mother’s knee when cases were decided; an eldest daughter is often called upon to give advice to even the haughtiest lord.
Father couldn’t lose Astrid; it was unthinkable. If Bjorn were betrothed it could have been a compelling argument to keep him, but perhaps some time with Northerners would hammer some elementary caution into his thick head. The only question would be how long, and that was why Father wished me there before negotiations truly started.
A year and a day is traditional, but I could mayhap shorten the duration.
The bonfire strengthened, and as I turned the matter over inside my head Asjel also turned upon his tormentors with rhyming couplets. Flyting is an ancient game; even those lacking a strong arm may use its sting. A bright light upon his young freckled face, he likened the other boys to a pack of running sores, and his tormenters stepped back, giving way.
I could not help but smile; the gods love those with quick wits, especially upon a festival night. The other boys, taught once more to respect a stream of insults as much as a bared blade, hoisted theyoung spindle-legged stumbler upon their shoulders before setting off toward the wood stores, singing a few of his choice couplets no doubt inspired by a passing divinity.
It was a night of strange occurrences. A pair of latecomers wrapped well against the cold hurried past to enclose lights in horn keepfires. I shivered, wishing for something a little more substantial to eat; it wasn’t like Albeig to leave us unfed.
Sudden dark shapes loomed over Flokin’s shoulder, and for a moment I thought the shadows of the stairway had come to life, ill spirits about to throw themselves upon the fire. Arn handed me the aleskin, cocking her head as she regarded the new arrivals, and the men of my father’s household stiffened almost in unison.
It was the Northerners, come to visit the flames.
They are tall as Father, those of the North, but mostly dark-haired as Mother’s people. Their eyes are often dark too, but even so there is a terrible glow to their gaze, and they are held to be sparing of words as a whole, though courteous enough when necessary. They often do not wear beards, and sometimes it is said there is Elder blood in their high houses that makes it less likely for them to grow such proud appurtenances. Not many of them favor the axe, being instead enamored of heavy swords; it was said they did not have the battle-rage, but a cold calculation in attack or retreat made them dangerous indeed.
There were a half-dozen of them that night, and three had eyes pale as my mother’s or my own. They filed past, most watching me sidelong before passing the fire. Their leader—or the one I suspected was their leader, by the colorless gem winking in the pommel of his heavy pax-knotted sword—paused before the bonfire, studying at leisure as if he suspected some trick. Then, he turned and appraised me again, despite my father’s guards.
The men of Eril’s hall did not move. Arn stepped before me, though, her chin raised. I kept my hood pulled high, because Ifeltthe Northerner’s glance. Idra’s long-ago searching look, while enough to make child-me quail, was not so strong.
So, the Northern lord had some weirding of his own, or one of his lieutenants did. I saw no wolf upon them; they had come to thefire without sigil, bearing no weapon but their captain’s sword bound with thin leather strips to make it near impossible to draw.
Respecting pax in the old way; we used yellow thread or cloth at Althings, but had not forgotten the original material.
Flokin cursed when they vanished into the dark past the bonfire, a term of surpassing vulgarity. ’Twas no shock to me—I had, after all, grown up with Bjorn—but I never expected anyone else to utter anything like it near one of my father’s daughters.
I spent the rest of that night eating what Albeig sent from the hall, drinking weak wassail, and watching the bright fire of the new year while my head whirled, my hands clenching and releasing inside gloves and sleeves. The question was how to keep them from taking Bjorn for too long, or so it appeared to me then, and I caught myself in the very dead of night muttering bits of logical argument while those around me cast each other uneasy looks and the bonfire had to be fed yet again.
It never occurred to me that the Northerners would demand another of Eril’s children.
A Warm Hall
The Blessed themselves respect those granted a touch ofseidhr, for it is a gift of the Allmother. Even Odynn while hanging has not plumbed its depths; even Ulimo the lord of the sea cannot guess at its currents. All are threads upon the loom, and weirding the pattern itself.
