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For some reason, Tarit the grim smiled without reserve that once, and it was pleasant to see. Tiny bits of blown snow clung to his hair. “It is a relief to know someone might, even here. Come.”
He trod firmly upon wind-cleared stone, and I followed, Arn at my side. We approached the carven throne, and as we did the wind mounted. Finally, Tarit paused, turning to regard us both with head held high, shaggy hair lifting as cold moving air combed it almost lovingly.
The dverger said that to stand near that seat upon Karat Vaerkil is to hear the world. It could be some manner ofseidhr, though I did not feel it as I sense the unseen under warp and weft of the physical. Then again, the dvergers’ own legends say they were crafted by the great smith of the Aesyr, not for arrogance but in loving imitation of the Allmother’s gift of breath and life. That god made the very mountains, sowing veins of minerals and gems within them—not to mention the bedrock under hills, and the vast foundation the entire world-tree rests upon. Perhaps dvergerseidhris too subtle to be sensed, or perhaps it is of another kind, wedded firm and invisible to the substance of the physical in ways tallfolk cannot understand.
I closed my eyes, for the wind was speaking.
Rustles and rushing, the creak of frozen limbs and the whisper of sap buried deep to wait for spring. Small animals sleeping, burrowing, or hunting during daylight—snap of feathered wings, crunch of tiny teeth in leftover berry or bone—as well as the largerbeasts eking out their winter existence. A bear slept in a deep cave, only dimly aware of the cold outside; wolves that were not of Naras howled many leagues away, singing their joy at finding meat while a lean haggard deer struggled in snow, knowing its time had come but attempting to break free of the pack’s circling nonetheless.
Other deer sought through the white waste for food, finding it in bark, twig, or under hoof-scraped snow. Even the scattered boulders had a song all their own, low and grumbling at the very bottom of my hearing; the ice-locked streams sang slow crystalline notes.
“What do you hear?” the lord of Redhill asked, softly.
“Everything alive,” I whispered. “Arneior?”
“Battle.” My shieldmaid’s voice was much quieter than usual. “Some few leagues east, and another north. There are foul things marching to the south; their boots have iron heels to crush the snow and everything underneath. More than one wolf pack is hunting today, and all will find what they seek.”
I frowned, straining my ears, but I could not hear what she did. “A winter hawk, hunting as well.” The scream of prey found and carried aloft on beating wings filled me with feather-brushes, as if the Wingéd Ones circled me instead of my shieldmaid. “I hear the wolves too, but not…”
“It has been long since I stood in this place and heard aught but the slither of the Enemy through these woods. Sometimes I wish I could.” Tarit barely mouthed the words, but they were clear as a bell. “The Elder, though they may offer aid, do not rule here. I would advise you not to seek returning south if Nithraen is fallen.”
I suppressed a shiver. The wind was rising; I could discern nothing in Tarit’s voice but truth. Yet I longed to return home. The sickness filled me, toes to scalp, before draining to leave a cold, unsteady clarity in its wake. “I shall consider your counsel closely.”
“I am gladdened to hear it, my lady.” Tarit’s tone did not shift, nor did his physical self. Soft and level, he continued. “When you leave, you will go to Dorael or to Taeron’s kingdom, as you choose. This I promise you.”
Those in the woods surrounding Redhill could not hear us; the wind brought tales, but did not spread them. Now I understood hisinvitation to see the hilltop. My eyelids rose, and the bright day was like a blow, a flood of impressions once a heavy stone-and-silver gate was battered wide. “It is more choice than I have been given so far, my lord, and I thank you for it.”
A king could hardly have accepted my gratitude with more regal unconcern. “Listen as long as you please, my lady Solveig. I shall wait for you upon the edge of the stone.”
Then did the son of Hajithe withdraw, either to find shelter from the cold or to let Arn and me pass what words we would in privacy.
No, I did not precisely like our stay at Redhill. Yet I liked Tarit the proud very much, and the songs of his fate grieve me still.
The Chair of Honor
Aulm of the deep waters whispered into Taeron Goldspear the High-helm’s dreams, showing him a place of safety. Yet the vision ever carried within it a warning—do not become enamored of your own mighty works in the perishable world. Laeliquaende’s beauty was never meant to last.
—Daerith the Younger,Floringaeld’s Lament
Deep in the hill was a hall of much higher vault than the others, and its walls ran with tangled carvings of dverger-runes. A round stone table was not placed but had been carved from the hill’s heart, and its surface was polished to reflection. Mehem would not speak ofseidhror of how Redhill was constructed, but did look somewhat pleased when I let out a gasp of wonder upon seeing the rune-covered walls, reaching to touch the carvings and checking at the last moment, even as my fingertips burned with curiosity.
“My apologies.” I snatched my hands back, letting them drop to my skirts. “May I?”
The bearded dverger sucked his cheeks in, his strange golden-flecked gaze depthless, and settled his thumbs in a wide leather belt. Inside the hill, he wore no mantle but a half-cloak lined with soft brown fur, and soft slippers with hide soles. “Your tall men have never noticed, nor remarked,” he said, gruffly. “You are of the South, young one? I hear our writing is used there, or a form of it.”
“Very close,” I agreed. My heartsblood dress was fine enough for this occasion, at least, and I was glad of its weight. And of my father’s bee-torc as well. “’Tis not the carving calling to me, but what lies inside it. Is it history, or—”
“After a fashion.” Mehem moved aside as Tarit entered, the tall Northerner glancing down briefly to avoid collision. The two seemed to share a cordial dislike, yet it was Mehem the son of Hajithe deferred to in most if not all questions of supplies or safety. If the dverger saidIt is bad to leave the hill today, no follower of Tarit would stir a step forth; if Mehem saidYou should return by noon, it was heeded as a father’s edict. “Once there was peace in these lands, and my people came through with caravans of goods. We traded much with the Elder, and wrought many a treasure they still hold dear. News is written here, and genealogy, and things of note. But what is written is not whatis. More must be added.”
“Ai,” Arn muttered, shaking her ruddy head; her woad-stripe was freshly applied and gleamed rich blue. “It is weirding-talk. I leave you to it.” She followed Tarit; others appeared in the two other arched entrances set equidistant around the vault. Each group was brought by one of Mehem’s sons, for the passages were tangled and even men who had arrived first with Tarit could still become lost in their labyrinth if not going to some memorized place.
“Pfft.” Mehem gestured, brushing her words away. “You may look all you like, lady of the South, but do not touch. These are the things of my people; we share much, but I would not have these handled by the tall.”
The curiosity in my fingertips was close to actual pain; still, I clasped my hands tightly and bent a knee, not a bow but the courtesy of a lord’s daughter. “Forgive my rudeness, my lord dverger.” I could almost feel the rough tweak Idra would have given one of my braids, reminding me not to be impolite in any matter, large or small.
The sharp ache of missing my teacher mixed with homesickness, a drink grown strong by the mixing of two liquors.
“At least you asked.” He indicated my wrists with a short, sharp jab of his capable, callused hand. At first I had thought his fingertips discolored—or even inked as myvolva-markings—but the darkveining and blackened nails were calledforgeblessamong them, and the sign of a maker. “The marks, there. I would examine them, but would you let me touch?”
