The Fall of Waterstone

Useful, Not Trust

What goes North seldom returns. If mischance does not take the traveler, wanderlust might; ’tis best to stay close to your hall and your fields, among those who share your speech.

—Harald the Skald

The princess does not speak ill of him.” Only an act of will kept Arn from fidgeting, though she ever enjoys my fingers in her hair well enough. “In fact, she seeks not to speak of him at all. Curious, for such close kin.”

“Aeredh does not like him, Eol does not like him, Naciel does not like him.” I massaged her scalp, coppery strands sliding between my fingers. “And I think he does not truly like me. But the fact remains he might be useful.”

“Hm.” She did not quite stiffen, but she did turn still as a cat seeing prey. When she spoke again, it was the half-whisper we used in our closet at home. “So you are indeed thinking of escape.”

A soft cool breeze tiptoed from the balcony into our shared room; my hair was unbound as well, free of the pressure of braids or the weight of red coral. My trunk stood open near the wardrobe, which now held even more Elder garb the princess deemed suitable for her new friends. A trio of light, wondrously carved wooden stands held both sets of Arn’s armor, best and second-best, from Dun Rithell; the third held an entirely new set of scale-and-ring, Elder make and bright silvergold with green padding, both like and unlike that of Laeliquaende’s guards. There were tunics and trousers for her as well as a few dresses, though my shieldmaid ever disdains to cover herself solely in peaceful cloth.

Those the Wingéd take must be ever-ready, though they are given lee to sleep without iron if they desire to. Both of us were prepared for rest, my linen shift of Elder make embroidered with seven-petaled flowers in slightly contrasting cloth, her sleeveless tunic and trews severely plain but still beautifully stitched.

I had not wielded a needle in what seemed like forever, save to repair some small damage to our travel-clothes. Even the pieces Astrid had packed to keep a weregild occupied in the North lay neglected under other items. I missed the peace of pulling thread through cloth, and the satisfaction of making something solid from flat panes—a marvelous seidhr that is indeed, and one who claims otherwise will recognize the error as soon as they are naked to the weather.

“The days grow longer,” I said, softly. “It will not always be winter. An Elder our captors dislike may well have his own reasons for wishing us gone, and once we are outside this valley…” I went to work with my scentwood comb, separating her hair for fresh hornbraids. Her back rested firmly against my knees; her hair was a bright shawl against sleek-muscled shoulders. “What then, Arneior? League upon league of orukhar-infested wilderness, liches sniffing our tracks and quite probably the wolves of Naras hunting us as well?”

For so long as Aeredh had use for us, I was certain Eol would do as his Elder friend thought best.

“If this king lets them leave.” Arn’s wrists were propped upon her knees, her capable, callused hands dangling. “He could just as easily trammel them here after we slip free of the net. But I would not trust this Watchful, my weirdling. He sets my teeth on edge.”

“I said nothing of trust. I said useful.” I began the first braid, taking much care though sleep would disarrange my work in short order. “What would the Wingéd think of us leaving allies in such a fashion?”

It worried me. I had sought to behave in exemplary fashion ever since leaving my father’s hall, and could not help to think perhaps that course was in error despite my mother and Idra both regarding proper behavior as a bare minimum in any situation, no matter how outlandish.

“I have prayed.” Arneior tipped her head back slightly, not needing a nudge to know which angle would best help my efforts. “There is no answer.”

“And I do not dream.” I quelled the shiver rippling down my back. “Yet I think we are watched quite closely, and not by spirits. There was no reason for Eol to be there, otherwise.”

“Are you so certain?” A laugh bubbled under Arn’s words. “Perhaps he meant to thank you for saving his life.”

I almost tweaked the braid developing under my fingers. “If not for his Elder friend, I would have failed. It was…” My hands paused, but I returned them grimly to their task, staring at ruddy, silken strands. The cold of our journey hence returned at odd moments, stealing my breath and running a tremor through my bones. During the sun’s hours I was too busy to think upon it, but once night fell the memory of ice had no fence to stay behind. “You were with Idra almost as much as I was. She never said I was the only one of my kind, only that I was capable of becoming volva.”

“You wear the bands,” my shieldmaid loyally pointed out. “I like not this cringing, Sol. Idra would—”

“Idra is not here.” I could not even be certain my teacher was watching, from whichever of Hel’s lands she had journeyed to once the burden of her flesh was eased.

“’Tis for the best. She would have hated this adventure. Can you imagine her taking Aeredh to task?” Arneior’s laugh now burst forth, her entire body quivering slightly, and I could not help but smile.

“One such as you should behave better.”My impression of Idra’s needling tone held too much amusement to be true-to-life, but I did not think it a bad effort, and Arn’s merriment increased. It had been a long while since I heard her chuckle so heartily.

I continued braiding, and thinking upon the Watchful. We spoke no more, but then again, my shieldmaid and I did not need to.

That night I finally dreamt, but not of Dun Rithell.

Instead, my sleeping self gazed upon orange stars burning in blue depths. Bells rang and Elder singing filled soft night air, but terror clutched my throat with bony claws and the smell of smoke and sickly roasting filled my nose when I awoke, shaking, a howl trapped in my throat. My shieldmaid listened to my stammering recitation, but we could not tell the vision’s meaning.

I wish we had.