Current, Skill, and Seidhr
Take care, my friend. No winemaker knows which pressing shall be his last.
—Elder proverb, attributed to Vardhra Star-Kindler
Idid not quite collapse, though my sides heaved and my lungs burned. I did bend double, palms upon my knees, and sought to draw as much breath as possible. The turf was springy under my thin slippers, and the scent of water rising from the river was almost that of Dun Rithell.
Yet not quite.
Arn skidded to a halt, her boots leaving little impression upon thick grass. Neither of us ran barefoot as Naciel, who clearly did not wish to halt just yet, but that particular Elder seidhr of swift motion works even when one wears heavy hooves.
My shieldmaid’s spearblade shone, not angrily but with great cheerful sun-darts. It was a fine day, barely a feathery cloudbrush in an aching-blue sky; were we outside the valley we might well be frozen solid. But here, I cherished the breeze patting my flushed cheeks.
Joy boiled in my middle, shook my already trembling ribs, and for the first time since before my teacher’s death I laughed without restraint.
After Idra’s passing the weight of responsibility had settled upon me, along with a thousand other cares. Not only that, but I had daily worried over lighting the solstice fire, the specter of possible failure stalking closer each day, fraying my nerves. Journeying north was not a merry occasion, and though Waterstone was beautiful I did not feel at ease in valley or palace. Even in the library I found only mild amusement at Tjorin’s sallies or certain passages, the fact of being caged robbing near every word of its savor—but running as we did with Naciel, fleet as summer-sleek deer, provided a few precious moments of relief.
My merriment ribboned along the water; we were far from the city, having left the gates at dawn. I straightened, though muscles in my side gripped hard, the claws of mortal weariness digging in. Tipping my head back, I stared at white brushclouds across the blue vault, and the thought of freeing all my subtle selves at once to lunge upward was so enticing I did not think I would mind the abandonment of my physical form.
“Wingéd be praised.” Arn’s voice recalled me to the duty of staying earthbound. “There is my weirdling; ’tis good to hear you, Sol.”
“Almost like being home,” I murmured, and glanced about.
A winter-yellowed bank sloped to the chuckling Egeril, silver foam combing over worn boulders before widening to smooth fast-flowing torrent. On the other side dark evergreens came almost to the water’s edge, their roots buried in mud that did not smell like that at home, heavy branches bearing no ice but no hint of soft new growth either.
I did not know if spring would come late to this place, or indeed at all. Was it simply, eternally autumn where the Elder rested?
As always, even after something so pleasant as running lightfoot in Naciel’s wake the consciousness of our predicament arrived, hemming me in. My breath returned swiftly even as the princess ran in a wide arc, cutting away from the river’s course, returning to her companions at leisure.
I wondered that other Elder women did not accompany her, but she did not seem to feel the lack.
“Except there you would be keeping Bjorn from mischief, hearing tedious legal cases all day, and attending to every chilblain and mead-sour head in range.” Arn’s grin held no anxiety, yet she glanced over her shoulder, the habit of alertness too deep to break. “Not to mention locked in the stillroom muttering about cures, and singing the same sagas every night for warriors too lazy to make their own.”
I could not argue. How many times had I wished for some measure of solitude or leisure, or even a few moments of simple quiet? In Laeliquaende was all the peace I could ever long for, and yet I was dissatisfied.
“And you would be knocking the same warriors into the training-yard’s dirt, instead of sparring with Elder and two-skins.” I still smiled; I was helpless not to, joy filling me like clear sweet mead. “Efain seems to delight in bruises.”
“As well he should, each one is an honor.” The garden she practiced in had lately become the haunt of a few Northerners and even one or two Elder, eager to find if a shieldmaid was a worthy foe. She had rarely been so exercised, and gloried in it. “I have not seen Aeredh, though. I would not mind sending him sprawling.”
So, she no longer judged the mention of him unwise. I shrugged, stretching; we seemed to have outpaced any guards this morn, and perhaps that was Naciel’s aim. She was running toward us now, her hair a bright banner and her dark-blue dress fluttering.
If Tjorin saw her at that moment, he might well swoon like a lovesick calf.
“There is no need for him to visit. He has what he wants.” Even the thought of the Crownless could not dampen my mood.
“Ai, you sound like an old married woman.” She examined her spear, critically, and the brightness of its long, leaf-shaped blade was matched by her smile. Her woad-stripe fair glowed.
The sun rose slightly earlier, fell just a few moments later each day. It was impossible not to be cheered by that fact alone. The Naricie before us—and other streams within the valley’s bowl—would rise as melt occurred high on white slopes, so at least I would have that marker of time passing, as well.
It could not be much longer, could it?
The princess seemed to shrink as the ground dipped beneath her, then rose like a wood-spirit as she continued up the hillslope. She halted between one step and the next, skirts swirling and her hair turning into shawl instead of banner, looking intently past us.
I turned, and saw what had caught her interest—a high-prowed boat of silvery wood, moving swift upon the river’s shining length.
Ah. So that is why she brought us out today.And that answered another question, they did have such craft—I could not think the Elder unaware of shipbuilding, but I had seen none yet upon the many waterways. Slim and high-necked, the rowboat danced like a leaf over the rocks, but the black-clad figure in it handled his paddle awkwardly as an Elder never would. The craft was far too large for a single rower, even one of more-than-mortal strength.
Arn turned to look as well, shading her eyes with her free hand. “Huh.” Her coppery eyebrows drew together. “It’s Tjorin.”
“So it is.” I watched as he struggled to right the boat’s passage, and all my merriment turned to unease at once, as a single drop of wyrm-venom will taint an entire cask of ale. “Arn, he does not seem—”
Naciel saw it too. The boat lifted over a final submerged rock as if it meant to fly; the princess gasped, the sound carried on a breeze that was, after all, softer than it had been a few days before.
It is not quite polite to laugh at one who takes a ducking in such fashion, but no riverdweller can help it. For the second time that day I chuckled, but the sound curdled in my throat as Tjorin plunged into a smooth, fast-flowing section after the rocks and before another set of rapids.
“Sheepshit,” Arn muttered, but I was already running, fingers tearing at my dress-laces.
For the boat landed with a tremendous splash near the figure in black, and it was clear from the way Tjorin’s arms windmilled furiously that he could not swim.
Cloth ripped, I left my slippers in juicy mud between runners of slowly greening grass while shedding layers of Elder gown with indecorous haste. I had to, for extra material will drag a swimmer down if it can and Arn was in armor. She could not help.
All I retained was the thinnest linen shift. The ground fell away and my body stretched into a flat skimming dive; ’tis faster than attempting to run into a river’s embrace.
Cold closed over me like a blow. I expected the shock, my breath leaving in a rush to clear both nose and mouth before swirling back in as I gasped above the water’s surface. The current was much stronger than its deceptive smoothness showed, but I expected that as well, aiming myself accordingly. Tjorin was being carried past, and if I meant to catch him before he was dashed upon the rapids I had to work with the flowing.
For all that, our mother-river at Dun Rithell was far mightier than this Elder torrent, and I was well used to her casual, terrifying strength. Albeit a trifle colder, Egeril of the white foam cradled me almost gently, and I was aware of the Elder boat spinning away, ready to fling itself upon the rocks.
The fool is lucky it did not fall upon him.There was no more time for fear or thought, for the rapids were approaching swiftly and Tjorin still thrashing. The greatest danger was that he would strike me or cling, his body attempting survival by drowning us both before we were tossed amid boulders and then the Elder need never worry about a mortal alkuine’s existence or presence again.
Yet there was Arn at the riverside, giving a high piercing cry I recognized; it was the traditional Come, the river means to take one of us, meant to bring anyone from a nearby steading at a run to offer aid.
I arrowed for the black-clad man with the help of current, skill, and seidhr. This was, after all, a battle I knew how to win.
The son of Hrasimir slipped below the surface just as I reached him, and the cold gnawed deep. A few moments in a snow-fed stream can rob the vital warmth from even a strong man, leaving him mazed and witless while the river-spirits pull at his feet. They are lonely, those daughters of Ráen and her giant consort, for all they live in great tribes; they do not ever hesitate to take what companions they may.
Woe betide you if there is not something valuable in your pocket to gift them upon arrival, too, for then you shall be as a thrall in their grottos instead of a captured spouse.
But I had a firm grasp upon Tjorin’s collar, and though he was taller and much heavier the river was helpmeet as well as danger, for it eased the burden. The seidhr of fish-lunge bloomed under my skin and I aimed us for shore, barely aware of a bright flash—Arn, leaping nimble as a young goat across boulders both dry-headed and only slightly submerged, her spear and mail sending up vicious stings of sunshine.
Firs crowded the opposite shore, their feet breaking the rush of headlong passage; my charge struck a dipping root and gasped, his mouth filling with river as I hauled him grimly along. There was a scallop of muddy, reed-heavy ground, and I just managed to aim us at it.
Another great, wringing burst of seidhr, my marks flaming with bright pain at each wrist—seven on the left, five on the right, and a few of the runes dancing between them are for just such an occasion. They must have spun several times that day. I spat earth-flavored liquid, coughed, and my free hand managed to grab at another knotted root protruding amid the reeds; Tjorin almost slipped from my grasp, for the river still clawed at more than half of him and the fool was wearing his boots.
Arn had reached us, wading and splashing; her spear sank deep among other roots, capable of bracing a much heavier pair than me and the son of Hrasimir. Her free hand, sure and strong and flaming-warm, grabbed my left wrist. I was a rope between her and Tjorin’s weight, and heard a voice rising in furious chant, seidhr dropping from my lips like chill rain.
One more effort, choking as the river made her displeasure at being robbed full known, and we had the lackwit safely free of her grasp. I could have halted, retch-heaving while braced on hands and knees, but the work was not finished, for our friend had taken more than a cupful of Egeril and mud both.
“On his side!” I barked, and Arn was already obeying, dropping to her knees. Tjorin was limp, no longer struggling; the breeze coated my clinging shift with ice as I struggled half-upright, rack-coughing again to clear my throat.
My left hand rose skyward, pointing; I screamed a word in the Old Tongue and my right palm struck forth, walloping him upon the back. It was not merely a physical blow, for my marks flamed once more and vital force exploded from me, wringing him much as wet laundry in capable, work-roughened hands.
A gout of foaming liquid spluttered between his teeth, jetted from his nose. I struck him again, my voice a curlew-cry. Arn cursed, willing him to breathe, and finally he drew in a long tortured gasp, then curled up much like the armored bugs which hide under rotting wood do when threatened.
But he was breathing—splutterchoking, as was I, yet air was reaching his lungs and the two blows had hopefully expelled every particle of mud and other matter from those abused organs.
Sometimes one may drown even upon land, if the air-sacs are not freed.
He would naturally require other care—no doubt the Elder could supply it, having no need for Dun Rithell’s mortal cures. But he was safe enough for the moment, and I collapsed in near-freezing mud, wearing only tattered linen turned transparent and clinging, my braided hair streaming, my eyes full of hot tears.
“Idiot!” Arn bellowed; if she was taking him to task, the battle was over. “You sheepshitting fishgutting fool! Are you trying to die?”
His eyes half-closed, his black cloth sodden, Tjorin lay in the mud alongside me without a word. Naciel arrived a few moments later, her skirts wet to the knee.