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“It pains me to admit it.” Now the spearman was cheerful, though the glitter in his pale blue eyes was less amusement and more banked coals. “But not as much as it pains me to give the Enemy any lee. I, too, offer my apology for any and all offense. If this is what you will have, my lord Aeredh, we will see it done.”
“Then we await the lady’s decision.” Tarit glanced at Mehem. “There is no need to make it today, though. Our host deems it unwise to leave for some days more.”
“The weather will turn soon.” The dverger stared at thetaivvanpalloalmost hungrily, and his goatlike pupils had shrunk. “Better for travel. For a few moments of handling that bauble, though, I would take you to any point Redhill overlooks by hidden ways. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
“A dverger, touching one of Faevril’s works?” Yedras fell silent as Aeredh inhaled sharply, granting the spearman a warning look.
“The taivvanpallo was gifted to the ladyalkuine, and she placed it temporarily in my keeping.” Once more the Crownless spoke as one well used to command. “I will not seek to retract a gift I have not given, or indeed any that have left my own hand. To do so is beneath us as Children of the Star, and an act unworthy of any free creature. If she wishes to throw the thing into a fire-mountain’s heart or play some Secondborn children’s game with it, the matter shall rest as she pleases, and I will hear no more upon it.” The silence was charged, and when he continued, his tone was no less sharp for the words being in the southron tongue. “My lady Solveig, thetaivvanpallois yours to do with as you will; I only hold it by your request. My lord dverger is welcome to examine it at leisure, if such is your pleasure.”
“I cannot think of a reason to deny him.” Indeed, I was surprised by Elder vehemence upon both sides. “It is not the way of my people, nor of avolva, to hoard craft or knowledge from those who seek with good grace and open hearts. I meant to give you the orb to do as you will with, my lord Aeredh; I do not want the thing.”
So both greater and lesser matters were decided. It was some days before we left that place, and during that while the Elder except for Aeredh treated me with chill courtesy indeed—either because I did not bow to their will immediately, or because I did not want what they considered precious, though Caelgor called it a mere toy.
The discussion turned to other matters—supplies for either journey I decided upon, the disposition of Redhill’s forces over the next few days, whether it were better to meet some of the Enemy’s slinking scouts with blades or let them attempt Dorael’s well-held borders, impassable save by the will of Aenarian the high king.
I said little, for my purpose was achieved and I had much to think upon. Eol watched me closely and confined himself to responding when Aeredh asked his counsel upon travel-matters. Indeed, nothing about that meeting was as the songs or tales after describe, and sometimes I wonder if that is not the case with descriptions of other parleys of import or significance.
When the Council of Redhill ended, Mehem was given the silver orb for some short while despite Daerith’s obvious discomfort, but the harpist need not have worried. Even a dverger’s prying craft could not open it, and thetaivvanpallowas given back into Aeredh’s keeping.
I had what I wanted, and yet I did not know what to do.
Shieldmaid Dancing
The great liches arise from Kaer Morgulis, the lesser from battlefields where the servants of the Enemy brood over the slain. But the Seven come from the third tower of Agramar; burning and twisting they come, cold as the Unmaking itself, and they do not ever forget their chosen prey.
—Morgulis Morgaen, or, “The List of the Dread”
Arn stamped as she lunged, the spear-tip whistling just to the side of my ribs. I bent away, my breath coming tearing-hard; soft echoes bounced from stone walls and ribbed ceiling. “A bad choice,” she said, hardly winded. “But you are right.”
I could not tell if her refusal to commit to a course was merely because she did not care which way we went, or because the Wingéd were silent upon the matter. Stripped to a linen shift smelling of the resin packed in our trunk along with an old, cut-down pair of my shieldmaid’s sleep-trousers, my hair braided without beads, I sweated freely. The spear flickered again; this time I spun, reading the intent of the strike and moving only enough to elude, barely giving ground. My shieldmaid followed, spearblade swinging laterally. I bent, supple as a reed, twisting at the same time with a hip-straining effort. Again, by the barest of fractions, a wicked-sharp edge avoided me, just barely whispering past my shift’s fluttering edge.
We both liked this game, and played it often at home—ducking,dodging,volvadancing just a thread’s width before her shieldmaid’s attacks. While Arneior did not exert herself fully, she also did not dawdle, and the motion not only hardened my muscles and strengthened my physical self, but also helped me think.
It trained her against an opponent withseidhr, as well.The strike, she often said,must be thoughtless—so my weirdling cannot read it.
And if I could not, who else could hope to?
This windowless rectangular vault had plenty of space, and though its stone threatened to bruise bare feet I liked feeling dverger-work against my soles. The new-winter freeze had descended upon the world and even the Elder did not set forth; Mehem and his two sons dared brave the broad stone hilltop for only a few moments each day to test a howling wind issuing from bruise-dark northern sky.
Bleak it smells, the dverger said,and full of hate.
Arn’s hands moved, spear used as stave now, the distance between us halved and the strikes coming from both sides. I gave ground, yes—but slowly, and finally ducked under a lateral blow, my knees grating upon stone as I slid, chin tipped back and my belly tightening to bring me upright at the end of the motion. When I whirled to face her afresh I had the entire length of the room to retreat, and my shieldmaid looked pleased.
“Thereshe is,” Arneior purred; a thin sheen of sweat touched her brow, blurred the edges of her woad-stripe. “Very good indeed, my weirdling. You should sing to slow me.”
“Not enough breath.” The words rode a gasp from my throat. My heart pounded, throbbing in wrists and ankles as well as neck and chest; even my ears were full of its rushing. My shieldmaid was barely misted with saltwater; I was fair to dripping.
“Enough to complain is enough to move.” She slid one booted foot forward, considering me. “You must train, Sol. It is the only way to strength.”
Not the only way, small one. I had no chance or desire to say it, for she moved in again, harrying me down the room. Sidestep, twist, bending under the spearblade as it sought my throat, moving air kissing sweatslick skin with tiny puffs. Spinning on the forefoot, arm raised as the blade flickered underneath like a serpent’s tongue—Idanced before her, always just out of reach. Short huffs of effort, sour smell of stone, and I lost myself in the blessed relief of no worry, no thought, nothing but movement,seidhrflooding arms and legs.
The light from those strange veins of glowing rock brightened as I spun into her next strike, slapping aside the spear-haft with my elbow. It is not allowed for avolvato touch a physical weapon except to keep it from meeting her own flesh, and my hand jabbed forward, my arm giving a twinge as I flung a dart of gathered illumination for Arn’s face.
It was like casting sun-dapples at thetrul, and my shieldmaid’s cheerfully surprised oath rang upon carved rock. I gasped in a lungful, attempting to gain enough breath for a battlesong, or a shield-shout, anything to keep her from me a moment longer. I did not often push this far—we had been at it for some time, and my legs were full of the trembling of a plucked bowstring.
The next time we facedorukharor something similar, I was determined not to be a witless impedance.
She backed away, her weight balanced with each step, and Arneior’s smile was just as wide and bright as it had been the day she was sworn to me, Idra binding our wrists together with a wide red riband and the knot most sacred to the Black-Wingéd Ones. “Not bad.” She passed a critical glance from my tumbled braids to my bare toes, as I tried to quell the shaking. “We will halt now.”
