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—Melair the Cloak-Weaver, Queen of Dorael
Idra said an occasional sleepless night is a whetstone for a sharp mind; I certainly hoped as much. I was cold clear through, though the bonfire had kept any of us from freezing to death, and very grateful that Albeig had sent my overboots and plenty of wassail up to the Stone.
By the time the east lightened, all I could think of was going home. No doubt the guards regretted leaving the greathall’s shelter, but it is lucky to see the dawn with avolva—or so all the songs and stories say. In some places a wisewoman may tap any man upon the shoulder, married or not, and take him home for a single night.
We did not do such things in Dun Rithell, though once or twice Flokin had jested with Idra about it.
Even the deep warming breaths my teacher made me practice endlessly were not perfect proof against ice; one can only keep the body’s fire high enough to combat winter for so long. Arn was better at it, but then again she had more time to practice during shieldmaid training.
Much, much more.
Walking home was a relief, because it brought us out of the wind to some degree. Even Arn looked a bit pinched, and a shieldmaid loves the cold as others prize summer nights.
When entering a warm hall from a night spent in vigil, ’tis important to remove what layers one can so the chill is not held close to the body. So it was I pulled my aching hands free of pouch and gloves, leaning upon Arn while Sarica and Finduil bent to help with my overboots. Ulfrica took the green mantle and undercloak with a relieved, tremulous smile and a brisk shake to free them of ice; Albeig brought me the great cup. I took it with a will, and the warmth of what it contained filled both my stomach and head. “I could sit in the sauna until spring,” I muttered, and Albeig’s answering smile was tight and pained. “Where is my father?”
“Still in the hall.” Finduil shook ice from my overboots with a slight clucking noise; she would have to brush them hard when they dried. “The Northerners have not slept, and neither has he.”
Nor have I.For all that, I was not as weary as I had been after some of Idra’s greater tests. “Has he at least…” I swallowed the rest of the question when Albeig gave me an agonized look. It was not her place to discuss such matters, especially after being left alongside Astrid to deal with the great feast. “Never mind. My mother’s medicine. Has it been taken up?”
“You have not heard?” Albeig straightened, taking the great cup from my shaking hands. “One of the Northerners—the young one—gave your mother a draught he mixed himself, and the ague has fled her.”
Oh. Well, that’s fortunate.Still, it pinched; I had been using Idra’s best recipe to combat Mother’s shaking. “They keep to the old ways in the North,” I muttered, a formulaic thanks. “Perhaps he will teach me the recipe for such medicine.”
Ulfrica gasped and hurried away, clutching my mantle; I was too cold to care for her dramatics and sorry to lose the protection of fur-lined wool. Still, my festival dress was not draggled, due to Arn’s care with hervolva’s footing, and when the buskins were unlaced my cramped feet gave a sigh of relief I echoed. My slippers were still dry—one piece of good luck among the ill, at least.
Sarica and Finduil left, exchanging dark glances, but I caught Albeig’s arm. “Ulfrica did not chatter about who glanced at her during the riddles, and ’tis not like Sarica to risk a defeat upon that field.” I cleared my throat, a bit of the cold still caught there, and tried to soften the observations with a smile. “What is wrong, Albeig? Does my father not think I can negotiate these strangers to—”
“There you are.” A big basso booming filled the entryway, and as usual, my father’s voice robbed all around of him of the air to speak. Big, capped and bearded with blond, and wearing his great bearskin, Eril the Battle-Mad stuck his thumbs in his belt and regarded his eldest daughter with bloodshot dark eyes as if I had been caught returning from a lover’s hall after dawn. His cheeks were ruddy with ale, and the gleam in his gaze was troubling indeed. “Myseidhrdaughter, welcome.”
“My father.” I straightened; Albeig bobbed and offered the cup to Arn, who drank deep, one hand still upon her spear. “I am told my brother did some ill.”And now you wish me to repair it. Well, such is my lot, and I do not shirk it.
I never had. Bjorn was firstborn, but ’tis the eldest daughter who holds any hall, and we do not forget it.
“I should have been upon the Stone.” My father stepped further into the entryway, glancing over his massive shoulder as if he expected pursuit. Not for the first time, I wondered how he and my mother had fit together to produce children, though I had little desire to even imagine such an event. “Your very first, my daughter, and it seems ill to miss it.”
It was surprising that he would even mention a dark omen, and my unease grew. “There is always next year.” I rubbed my hands together; Arn thanked Albeig with a nod as she handed back the cup. “None will tell me how bad it is, and I think that is upon your orders.”
He winced slightly. “You see much,” he muttered. “I did wish to tell you this myself, and said so.”
Even worse.I glanced at Arn, who tossed a leather-wrapped braid over her shoulder. Her knuckles were white upon the spear haft; a shieldmaid guards her charge even against kin. Not that Father ever lifted a hand to me or Astrid—he saved such things for Bjorn, whosorely needed them—but still, he was a man, and a large one. She had been cautious of him since childhood. “The news must be ill indeed.”
That was when I learned the Northerners, upon being told the roll of Eril the Battle-Mad’s children, had not asked for the young warrior to serve in the North, nor for Astrid the fair to visit their halls in payment for the one struck down. No, in return for the death of the younger son of their lord, laid out by a southron man’s fist and dying headstruck upon a stone, they required a different weregild. And nobody dared to tell me, for such news brought to one withseidhrmight well gain a curse in return.
In other words, the Northerners wished to take the Battle-Mad’s eldest daughter, who had just proved her worth as fullvolvaand elementalist both by lighting the darkest night of the year with will alone.
Blessing Morn
The Elder say they taught us of sacred hospitality, but how can that be believed? For they are proof against nearly all mortal illnesses and accident, and may survive even deep winter with scant clothing. No, the laws which render a guest inviolate we gained from the gods on our own account, in the time before we even knew of the Firstborn. In those dark days when the Blessed had left the world to the Enemy, despite the risk of traitors among us we still had to hold a guest sacred. For otherwise, even the mighty among us could perish in a snowstorm, or by misadventure…
—Maduilda the Wise,volvaof Dun Thirion
There were many strangenesses that morn.
For one, Mother was out of bed and at the high dais-table, her bright blue gaze free of fever though she was fearfully wan. She wore her best grey dress and a fine-woven mantle to match, the green-gem-and-silver brooch at her breast flickering with lamplight. Astrid sat beside her, anxiously watching each movement; Bjorn, at the far end of the table, bore a blackened eye and a bandaged hand. I would have glared at him, promising trouble later, had he not been wearing a quite uncharacteristic air of seriousness while he stared at the great stone hearth, his profile at rest very much like Father’s.
For another, the dogs were either taken to the woods or a-kennel. Nohounds patrolled the passages, stretched out under the tables, watched our guests, or leaned against Mother’s chair while regarding her with open adoration. Also, many of my father’s men had not sought their beds, probably because the Northerners were still at the guest tables. The group of men in dark armor again wore their three different sigils—bear, wolf, a strange rune with some resemblance to the ancient form of a torch—and the hush when I appeared in the great door at my father’s side spread from them to infect the entire hall.
There were other visitors, of course, neighbors and travelers from up- and downriver, not to mention the Barrowhills much farther south. Some were somnolent at table; face in puddle of ale is how many prefer to end a festival feast. Those who were awake, though, caught the silence from the Northerners and rose awkwardly when the dark-clad men did. No few elbowed their resting compatriots into some manner of wakefulness as well.
