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A considerable number—three full tables—of Northern men eyed me as they stood; my father’s hand was heavy upon my shoulder. My mother rose from her great chair, too, with little evidence of how the movement must cost her—but then, she was accustomed to hiding such things.
Astrid and I bearherpride.
My sister’s eyes were reddened. Evidence of weeping inflamed her nose and brought a blush to her fair cheeks; she wore yesterday’s fair-going dress and pulled one of Albeig’s fine knitted shawls close about her tense, delicate shoulders. The hall’s quiet was unnatural indeed, and I glanced at Arn.
My shieldmaid studied the Northerners, taking her time. When her gaze turned to me, she looked troubled, but anyone in her position might.
“My daughter.” At least Mother’s voice was clear, without the betraying shake of ague. “The sun has risen.”
“Once more, and may it ever,” I replied, automatically. Idra would have been pleased; she held Mother in some awe even though the lady of Dun Rithell had no weirding in her. But formal manners and a high standard were both kept in Eril’s hall, and that would make any elderly bearer ofseidhrhappy indeed. “My mother, you have risen as well.”
“Our guest Lord Aeredh was kind enough to treat my ailment, though he said your medicine is by far the better course.” My mother Lady Gwendelint inclined her dark head; Astrid had rebraided her hair. My own work to give Mother a sleep-braid yesterday morn, our dam propped upon pillows and coughing miserably, would not have survived a feast. It should not have bothered me. “I was not surprised to hear as much.”
Well, I am. But nobody minds what surprises me.“I am in the lord’s debt, both for the treatment and the compliment.” Another formulaic phrase, uttered with all the grace I could muster; a few of the household men at the nearest table elbowed each other. Whispers rose, perhaps passing our words to those in the far table-ranks, perhaps only commenting upon my appearance and carriage.
The weirding-girl, they called me;Gwendelint’s witch-daughter, the one with theseidhr.
There was a scrape of chairs and bench feet; the wolf-sigiled Northerners moved as a pack of those beasts, detaching from their standing fellows. The one with the gem winking at his sword-pommel was there, a pale face under a shock of dark hair, and his dark gaze did indeed have weight. I felt it afresh as I stood in the door, the great cup’s warmth fleeing me and even Arn’s presence—at the shoulder my father was not holding—providing little solace. Father did not squeeze to warn me of danger; instead, his hand fell away as if he disliked the touch.
I held my ground. There was a youth among them, granted pride of place at the leader’s side; he must have been who they called “the young one,” for his features were unlined and his pale eyes, blue as a frosty winter sky, were bright. In fact, his glance held weight as well and his step was very soft, even among theirs.
It was the youth who continued when they halted before me; he was tall enough our heads were level though I stood upon the third step. Massive timbers creaked, the building waking as sunweight touched its bright roof; the great blaze in the hearth—relit from the very bonfire I had spent the night guarding—sang its own crackle-hiss saga of consumption and warmth.
“My lady Solveig,” the boy said, a light, pleasant voice. No doubthe sang well, probably even with somegranr; still, I almost started at being addressed so by a stranger. His accent was very old-fashioned, but then, they spoke differently in the North. “Well-named are you, child of the Vanyr. I am Aeredh; it is a blessing to meet you this morn.”
“Lord Aeredh.” I could not return any blessing, but I could at least be polite. “I thank you for your care of my mother, though I am told you have cause to grieve here in Dun Rithell.”There.It was mannerly, though the message was that I liked not dancing about a subject when it could be met directly as my shieldmaid’s strikes.
Father coughed, and at least this Aeredh had the grace to look a trifle taken aback.
The man with the gem in his sword-pommel made a short sound, very much like a strangled laugh. When he spoke it was not in our southron language but in the Old Tongue, with a very strange accent. I caught summat about rumor flying like a particular bird even in wintertime, and the boy before me gave his companion a rueful look. A shadow lingered in that rue, though he looked younger even than Astrid.
The Old Tongue is what the Elder learned in the home of the Blessed, or so Mother and Idra taught me; its rhythm runs throughseidhrlike an underground river. It is said the Children of the Star taught mortals to speak it when they arrived upon our shores to make war upon the Black Land, and that our own tongue is descended from it in many branchings like our mother-river as it wends south into the Barrowhills. Mother and Idra alone spoke it in Dun Rithell, having both learned as girls, and my teacher insisted I follow suit.
I did not mind, for a wisewoman must know such things. Even more than that, I fiercely, secretly liked sharing something special and secret with Mother. Bjorn was her son and Astrid her joy, but I?
I was her pride, deep as her bones. We were always of the same temper, as two daggers born of the same forging.
“My friend Eol is unused to the southron language.” Aeredh’s smile, though merry enough upon its surface, was pained. “My lady, I must ask you directly: Did you light the fire upon the great stone in yonder green?”
“I was seen to do so,” I replied, somewhat stiffly. Arn wasabsolutely silent at my shoulder, a rare instance of her complete attention resting upon some danger. My father sucked in a deep breath, whether of pain or caution I could not tell. “By witnesses of Dun Rithell’sseidhr, and others. If you wished to observe the ceremony, perhaps you should have attended it.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, brightening somewhat. “Yet there is no need. I see its cousin in you, well-named one.” His gaze rose past me to fasten upon my father. “We shall return tomorrow, my lord Eril. She will not need much; we travel lightly, yet still in enough comfort for any noble daughter of the Vanyr.”
With that, the youth mounted the steps, passing us like a cool breeze. All the Northerners streamed forth, not merely the wolf-sigiled but those at table, too. The man with the gem in his swordhilt lingered only to examine me from top to toe one final time before he followed, and the other wolf-sigiled Northerners attended him. Those with the bear upon them hurried to do the same, and last of all the rune-sigiled ones with Uldfang their lord, one or two performing a curious salute—the knuckles of their right hand to their left breast, then to their lips, finishing at the forehead as they nodded, like a shieldmaid’s salute to a woman they respect. Strangely, they did not direct it at Father but at me, almost lost in the protective shadow of Eril’s bulk.
A mutter raced through my father’s hall. The Northerners were gone, the chill of their presence draining away, and Father’s hand descended upon my shoulder again.
“’Tis only for a year and a day,” he said, heavily.
I had thought to negotiate a much-shortened duration, being fullvolvanow. But though I had lit the bonfire and proved myself, I was still Eril the Battle-Mad’s daughter, and clearly in this situation he would not be forsworn or do a jot less than custom or hospitality demanded. To him I was a child still, weirdling or not, and while Northmen are dour they are also held to guard their women closely. I was what was demanded, thus I would be sent—though it is always grievous to lose one withseidhr, no matter how short the time.
Traveling north was not even truly dangerous save for the weather. The Black Land the Northerners bordered upon was only a mythical ruin since the Day of Dust back in a many-greats-grandfather’stime when Dun Rithell bore a different name; there was no longer any menace there. Even upon that day we held it as true, for we had all my great-grandfather’s life, my grandfather’s life, my lord father Eril’s life, and my own.
You should have sent Bjorn.But of course, I thought bitterly, he would not. Dun Rithell would next be known for Astrid’s husband, though as Gwendelint’s eldest daughter I would hold the highest honor in the hall no matter who she wed. Still, she was the shining star-maid, Father’s favorite, and Bjorn, the vaunted copy of his sire, would marry into another clan to bring them the gift of battle-rage.
I had never thought it likely I would marry, and yet. I tasted smoke from the great hearth, my nose filling with the breath of meats and other piled delicacies as well as a tang of yeast on a hot draft from an open archway, since the kitchens were finishing the new-winter bread. None of the other guests—some of the chance-guards from last night were at the tables for new warriors, one or two still steadily consuming bits and crusts—had moved, and many avid gazes rested upon me.
“Solveig.” Father’s fingers tightened, but his tone was oddly pleading, for once. Did he expect me to protest, and make the situation even worse? “Only a year and a day.”
