Too Often Fearless
Most hold Dorael was the fairest, for there the Cloak-Weaver of the Blessed lingered and the forest was that of Lithielle’s birth. But artful Nithraen, Galath of the willows and blue fields, Tol-Naralin the dreaming, proud Faeron-Alith, shining Laeliquaende, Gaeliquenden of the fragrant gardens, the delicacy of Isdrassil-named-Icemarn, and so many more—who can say which was most beautiful? Only that they are lost…
—Song of the Scattering
The contrast between thin bluish winter daylight and the lack of snow and ice made the whole glittering city into a dream, even the gardens. Trees which would have long shed their robes in the Wild—or upon the slopes of Tarnarya—still bore them, albeit in bright autumn finery. Many were the same kind we had seen in Nithraen and Taeron’s throneroom, but others made their home there too, from silverbark birch to wise gnarled tahami, larch to the ever-dancing shiverleaf and more.
I rarely saw Elder about the work of tending their gardens, and when I did it seemed more a contemplative activity than one with any real urgency. Even Idra had to blast a weed or two with a muttered curse in the small plot just outside her thatched cottage, but in Waterstone the line between copse and field, garden and pasture, blurred easily. Things simply seemed to know where to grow, and how. Perhaps it was the constant singing seidhr drenching the air.
Though at any given moment I would have much rather been in what Naciel called the smaller library, Arn was restless. The discomfort between us was new, and deeply unwelcome. So, the day after being shown a treasure-trove of knowledge, I forewent the pleasure of pillage. Instead, I settled upon a stone bench amid a bank of rustling bluegreen grasses with white feather-heads, listening to a stone fountain half-buried among waving tufts, and watched my shieldmaid use a wide flagstone space for her daily spear-swinging.
Closing my eyes, listening to the faint afternoon breeze, I sought some measure of peace. I did not need my great green mantle, though the wind was cool. The heartsblood wool of my second-best dress sufficed, and I had taken much care with my braids that morn, every scrap of red coral placed at appropriate junctures. My grandmother’s silver bee-end torc rested lightly against my collarbones—women armor ourselves just as warriors do, though in skirts and bright accoutrement—and I laid my hands in my lap, palm-up.
Summon me, Aeredh had said. I will answer.
Well enough. Yet the soft, lying voice of the Marukhennor’s gloom still lingered in my head. I had not dreamt; my sleep was as thick and dark as rivermud, and my bones still remembered the killing cold outside Laeliquaende’s mountain-girdle.
What vast weirding kept winter itself at bay? Would I ever unravel it? What need did the Elder have of any mortal when they could perform such a wonder?
Enough, Solveig. You have chewed that question until it is dry. Find a better one.
Arn’s faint huffs of effort when a spear-strike would meet the flesh of an enemy, the scuff of her boots—sounds so familiar they were almost unheard, like the sough of my own breath. I shut them away.
The soft breeze teasing plumed grass, whispering through branches bearing painted leaves, brushing against stone buildings before it escaped the city to play in the fields beyond; I also shut that away, and it left without trouble, a polite guest aware of welcome overstayed.
It was harder to ignore the fountain’s soothing, everchanging chimes. And yet more difficult was the music of Elder voices, a great tapestry of song rippling as the breeze shifted, rising and falling like the breath of some vast clean-limbed animal.
Yet it faded, and I was left with my own heartbeat. Idra’s training was thorough, and some might say harsh. Discipline, even tempered by love, can be uncomfortable. She ever had little patience with my lack of confidence.
First you were too prideful by half, now you behave as a shamed thrall. Who amongthem wears the bands you do, Gwendelint’s daughter? You earned them, else I would not have forced the ink under your skin myself.
Was it her voice, or merely what I wish she could tell me? Idra was gone, and though the dead might speak during times of great need and a volva knows how to provoke such an event, it is never wise to disturb an ancestor’s rest.
I did not think it likely my teacher had gone to the halls of Odynn’s feasting, nor to the sybaritic pleasures of Fryja’s innermost halls. Perhaps she would find one of Hel’s mist-shrouded lands more restful, for it was on days the clouds came to earth and the river breathed moisture upward that Idra seemed most content, though the damp oft made her bones ache until her last student could ameliorate the discomfort with a wire of vital warmth run into the marrow.
Brooding upon that was a distraction, and hardest of all to put aside.
My heartbeat slowed. My hands tingled, palms warm as if full of summer sunshine. I thought of Aeredh.
At first he had appeared a youth in Northern black, blue-eyed and smiling as if he knew a delightful secret jest. Singing softly upon the mist-shrouded Elder roads, lifting his cup to Lady Hajithe of the Eastronmost, patient and of good cheer no matter what the weather brought—I had been somewhat proud of myself for noticing he was Elder, though it had been Arn whose vision pierced deeper, uncovering the secret of Naras.
In Nithraen Aeredh was the Crownless, regal though his father’s circlet lay discarded upon an Elder throne. And in battle he was deadly, a sliver of his true age showing sharp as splintered metal.
But it was after crossing the Glass I began to think I knew him, for we walked almost as one, his arm over my shoulders, and he carried me the final stretch to this harbor which might yet be a trap. And while some of the Elder were prideful and surprisingly petty considering their great age and many gifts, he had proved himself otherwise—even if I were inclined to dislike the lie told to bring me to this wondrous place. He led his Secondborn friends with neither brutality nor cunning, but calm certainty.
My fingers tensed. The sending leapt from my hands like a bird, a small brown sparrow brought from its thornbrake-hiding by a whisper of seidhr.
It is not right to kill something so small and trustful when you have lured it to your grasp, though sometimes hunger might win over every consideration of fairness. Still, there is a far greater weirding in returning such a creature to its business, unharmed and untroubled, suffering no lingering shock.
It was far easier than I expected, as if the Elder seidhr pervading the air strengthened my own. I exhaled softly, letting the wind and the fountain fill my ears again. Arn was still at her practice, so I drifted in that state a volva knows as well as waking—not of the daylight but not of slumber either, caught between and rocking like a coracle upon waves of slow soft lung-fill and empty.
My fingers twitched. I returned to full wakefulness with an internal jolt, for laid across my open hands was something that had not been there before, and the Crownless settled upon the bench to my right.
“Then did she speak, though many leagues between them lay.”It was the Old Tongue, a quotation from some saga or other work, judging by the accents upon penultimate syllables and the pleasing arrangement of rhyme. He wore dark blue, and the Elder fashion suited him; the tips of his ears were clearly visible, for his hair was pushed back. Upon one high ear-point a filigree of silver winked—such is the fashion of some Elder, the whorls in metal replicating certain glyphs of their writing.
Southron falling-runes can only approximate the sounds of their ancient language.
Relief burned through me, so hot and sudden I almost swayed. I was still volva enough for a sending. “What is that from?”
“An old song. My father used to hum it sometimes.” Aeredh watched Arneior’s practice; by now, he knew better than to think my shieldmaid unaware of his presence. “The first time our people went West some could not finish the journey. There were those who tarried, and those who were… lost.”
The weight in my hands was a knife. A short, curved healer’s blade, it was plain but beautiful, like many things of Elder make. The handle was fine-grained, very dense wood, carved like fishscales and worked with thread-fine silver delineating each one; the sheath bore no gem but instead a single decorative glyph, repeating with slight variations as it marched to the tip. It fit my palm perfectly, as if it had been made to, and its weight felt… good.
I already had a very serviceable healer’s knife for herb-gathering and stillroom work in my embroidered seidhr-bag, a blade Bjorn had made under Corag’s watchful eye and presented to his weirdling sister upon my twelfth birthday. This one, I suspected, would be more than sharp enough to dig an arrowhead out of resistant flesh, or lance an infection.
“It sounds a sorrowful tale.” I lifted my hands, examining the play of light upon the hilt. “But beautifully made, as is this.”
“A small gift.”He slipped into the Old Tongue, but with care upon each syllable, as if he doubted my understanding. “It is of the kind you may carry, is it not?” Did he sound anxious? It could hardly be credited, but then again, he seemed most polite.
Even for an Elder.
“Oh, yes. A volva, like any with seidhr, must not touch proper weapons. It is bad for us, and bad for them.” I felt the fool, explaining such small things to one of his undoubted age and power. “This does not trouble your kind at all; I have seen you fight with both.”
“Efain says your shieldmaid is so sharp any other weapon is unnecessary. Eol said it was more likely you simply disdained to carry one, as you oft disdain to speak.” Now Aeredh sounded amused. He stretched out his legs; his boots were of Elder make too, patterned as leaves wrapped in several layers. “At first I thought you remained quiet out of fear. Then I thought you angered, for you had noticed we were not all Secondborn, and many hold those like the wolves of Naras in some caution.”
“Better to listen than to speak.” I used the Old Tongue carefully as well, as if it might turn against my throat. To mispronounce a word at this stage would be utterly embarrassing. “Especially if a weregild finds herself suddenly among Elder and those with a second skin.”
“It was a surprise to hear you use my language, I must admit.” He sobered. “I swore to answer any question you might have once we reached this place. You have been far more gracious than we deserve.”
“You sound like Eol.” I watched Arneior spin, her spearblade a solid bar of silver as it clove air. “Is he well? His shoulder.”
“Well enough. Such wounds heal slowly, and rarely completely.” Aeredh paused. “Do you know what you saved him from?”
I saved no one. It was all I could do to light the snow-hag on fire, and I could not have drawn the splinter without your aid.“Heartseeker,” I murmured. Even the name sounded ugly, and I had to quell a shudder. “That thing, the nathlàs. Was it one of the Seven?”
“Yes, though unmounted. Which rather worries me.” He shook his head slightly, a feline flicker. “The shard you pulled forth would have continued working inward. When it reached his heart he would become the thing’s servant, his will wholly subsumed by the darkness. He would become the Enemy’s thrall.”
“Ah.” It was a sickening thought. “Gelad would stay with him, then, to…”
“To grant his lord peace before he was turned, and seek his own end in battle afterward.” Had Aeredh paled ever so slightly? It was difficult to tell, he was so serene. “It is a terrible thing to bear a heartseeker. Of all deaths, it may be the only one the heir of Naras fears.”
“So there is something he is afraid of.”
Perhaps my honest surprise sounded like sarcasm, for Aeredh’s laugh was pained. “If anything, I would say Secondborn are too often fearless. It is a marvel.”
Not I, my lord Elder.My own cowardice was a deep shame, and not one I wished to speak of. “The sagas say we are to meet death well, after all.”
“It is the Allmother’s great gift. I often wonder…” Another small shake of his head. “Eol owes you more than his life. He is also my friend; thus, I am in your debt thrice-over.”
Thrice? I cannot tell even once, Crownless.“I could not have drawn the cursèd thing free without your aid, and Arn was near to killing you for granting that help. I am merely glad you do not take offense upon that count.”
“Offense?” Once more Aeredh sounded pained; his hands lay easily in his lap, palm-up as if he liked the feel of sunlight and sought to hold it like water. “We owe you so much I would bear even your enmity as a blessing. I am here to explain, my lady Solveig, yet I know not where to begin.”
“Some Elder weapon rests here, and you brought me hither to attempt its use.” That much I knew. “If I learn nothing of import and prove I cannot wield this thing, will you send us home to Dun Rithell?”
Arn whirled lightly and halted, spear held perfectly level, her eyes half-lidded and the stripe of blue woad upon her face glowing as her ruddy hair flamed. A soft feather-brushing filled the air—a sign that the Black-Wingéd Ones had not abandoned her, and no doubt she welcomed the feeling.
“This is no simple matter.” Aeredh’s smile did not falter, merely turned somewhat pained as he rose. “Will you walk with me, my lady? There is summat I would show you; it will help you understand.”
There was nothing else to do, so I rose. At least my legs were much steadier, for a full night’s rest had worked well upon me. Arn fell into step upon my other side, smiling and at ease, as Aeredh set off.
I was not quite completely recovered for all the steadiness of my limbs, but that did not matter.