No Other Outcome
The Secondborn love games, and learned no few from us. ’Tis said even the Allmother gambles, and do not those who stayed in the West play upon the bright beaches, or in the houses we left behind? If we somehow return, will we find the boards and cups, the carven figures and the taivvanpallo where we left them, ready to continue? And our kin will weep with joy to see us once more, once more.
—Unfinished Saga, attributed to the Crownless
Abloody stain in the grey, mist-drenched east turned lazily to gold. The mist burned away, streaks of blue sky widening like dye tipped into a slow-flowing stream. From the white towers and singing fountains of Waterstone the Elder came, along the paved roads or over gentle hills striped with vineyards, dancing through the copses, the young ones dressed in bright festival garb and the elders in more muted jewel-tones, all smiling, most singing. Pennants fluttered on the wind, guards stood in their light, glittering armor, and palpable excitement filled the entire green bowl.
Some few stayed in the city, treasuring its peace; many wended their way to a wide velvet-nap green south and west where the race would end and the winning captain be crowned with a wreath as he reached the crest of a slight rolling hill within view of the pale walls. Pavilions in many colors crowded there, the largest viridian and bearing a great flag with Taeron Goldspear’s device.
My heart beat high and hard; a single draught of winterwine for breakfast had slid down my throat much as mead of my mother’s brewing with its aftertaste of sweet fire. Naciel stood aside upon the rocky beach where the racers’ boats were drawn up; any Elder with friends enough to wield an oar could attempt this course, and even those who failed were accounted brave and blessed by their fellows.
Tjorin bent his dark head slightly; the princess’s murmurs were for his ears alone. We received many a curious look from the assembly, though the Elder were at least polite enough not to point. Arneior waited, for once wearing only her quilted padding, no ring-and-scale; she turned her spear meditatively, its blunt end grinding in wet pebble-strewn sand.
The air of anticipation was familiar—any gathering upon a festival day feels much the same—but there were no fires, nor sacrifices in osier cage or well-dug pit. Nor did any soon-to-be contestants approach a volva to ask for blessing or advice.
Of course, I would be upon the water with them soon. The similarities to a Dun Rithell river-race were outweighed by the differences; both crowded me, an odd sensation indeed.
I looked over the throng, deliberately avoiding a direct gaze which could be mistaken for ill-wishing our rivals. Maedroth the Watchful was nowhere in evidence; perhaps he was with his uncle? His absence was strange, for at last night’s banquet he had commented upon the river race, asking which captain Naciel favored for victory.
She had not replied, turning to me and inquiring of certain southron customs instead. Her cousin did not seem to take this as an insult, merely smiled as if she had replied with a jest.
I rose on my bare toes, bouncing lightly. My grey travel-dress was a familiar friend, its skirt cut higher than gifted Elder robes. Once I was in the boat the shortened hem and lack of shoes would be an asset; bare skin grips better than any footwear. Gelad, Efain, and Eol stood silent and stolid, though Gelad did not like being without his boots; his expression as the river lapped at his toes was that of a long-suffering elder brother drawn into a younglings’ game.
I could not help but smile. “We shall not capsize, if that is what you fear. Arn and I are river-children; we know what we are about.”
Efain shrugged. Eol was rather pale, but it could have been the dawnlight strengthening in steady increments before the sun’s head lifted above knifelike eastron peaks.
Gelad answered my grin with one of his own, though he quickly sobered. “’Tis not the water I fear. Even attempting this is a mighty thing, according to the Elder.”
They are ageless, true. But this river is only a shadow of ours at home.I would not say it, for boasting in such a manner is unseemly. “I am told those who have two skins have strength above that of mortals.” Before we climbed into the boat ’twas my task to bolster confidence, like a proper volva. “We will not make a bad showing, I promise you that. Simply listen to my small one, and all will be well.”
I could have continued in that vein, but Aeredh drew close as if to grant the mortals some further wisdom. I half-turned away, politely, settling my attention upon Arn. She watched the river filling with reflected light, its nighttime face receding and the foam upon the rapids to the north beginning to spark.
Quick initially, but only enough to warm us. Then Arn will take us through the first rocks, and we shall see how well the wolves have learned their mistress’s call. Another smooth portion, then I must sing us through what they name the Teeth, and after that the river bends and ’twill be up to Efain… Then the truly tricksome part, and we must use every means of speed andseidhr we have. My eyes half-closed; running along the bank with Naciel was not even remotely like what we would face upon the water, but I could guess, could I not?
We would win this thing. We had to. No other outcome was acceptable, was possible. My bands tingled, every drop of ink under the skin alive with anticipation.
“My lady Solveig?” Quietly, as if the Crownless expected me to pretend sudden deafness.
Oh, for the love of Lokji, leave me be.But one must be gracious before this manner of undertaking, so I faced him once more, my cheeks feeling strange since I now wore my smile as a mask. “My lord Aeredh.”
“We have watched over your craft since Taeron’s daughter selected it.” Still soft, the Old Tongue refusing to tiptoe far from his mouth. Clearly he did not wish to be overheard. “Daeron has given his bow to the endeavor as well; the line is strong and light.”
Did he crave forgiveness, or congratulation? I could not tell, and it was difficult to meet his gaze. What was his purpose? There was nothing left to say, and yet it felt as if we were upon the Glass again, his arm over my shoulders and his thoughts moving alongside mine, twin silverscale fish in a frozen stream. “My thanks for your care, and for the harpist’s.” I took care to make every syllable clear and soft, polished with a simulacrum of Naciel’s laughing accent; it irked me, and I slipped back into my own tongue. “You need not worry, my lord. I will not let the river take your friends.”
“Will you take care with yourself, as well?”Aeredh studied my face as earnestly as Astrid or Bjorn ever had. His eyes were very like my mother’s, only lighter and without the thin lines of gold in her irises. Gwendelint of Dun Rithell had a summersky look; his was… otherwise.
“Does it matter? I am here until…” I swallowed the rest of the sentence; it was ill-tempered, and ill luck before a river-run to boot.
A sigh went through the assembled Elder. The breeze freshened, tugging at every pennant fastened upon slim wands by those cheering on their friends—the devices of Elder houses carefully worked in thread, paint, and gilding, bright glyphs or representations of valorous feats, ancient names and ancestral victories. Some I knew from conversation with Naciel or reading in the domed library, like the tusked bear of Aerindael or the crossed arrows of Naevril the Arrowmaster’s line.
No family among the Elder is so mean as to lack one mighty progenitor, and the tents at the end of the race bore larger flags blazoned with their names and deeds.
The east was a furnace. Very soon the sun’s rim would appear between two peaks they named Yvaerillith, a word denoting graceful shoulders rising from a draped shawl. The race would begin at that moment, this being the only day—the first of spring, as that folk counted it—the fiery heart would rise so precisely balanced.
The princess clasped her lover’s hands, then let him go and stepped away. Tjorin turned to us; Arn approached Naciel and handed over her spear, gazing deep into the princess’s eyes. She spoke quietly, an ancient prayer to the Wingéd used only when one of their taken mortals lays a geas.
A shieldmaid will not trust any mere passing stranger with the duty of spearwatch. Taeron’s daughter accepted the weapon’s weight with a queenly nod; I had explained the duty to her with much care.
Efain muttered something under his breath—prayer or obscenity, I could not tell. Gelad winced slightly as he set off for the boat, his captain at his shoulder. Eol’s jaw was set hard as stone, and his step was that of a man eager to begin a duty.
My marks twinged. It was the deep breath before a plunge; the wind fingered red coral beads among my braids, plucked at my skirt, and damp sandy earth thrilled below my bare soles.
“I go,” I said in the Old Tongue, a single imperative word slipping between my lips on a breath of winterwine. For a moment, Aeredh the Crownless met my gaze directly, both of us surprised; I felt that sensation again, his thoughts and mine running parallel like wagon-ruts, never meeting save by some trick of sight in the far distance.
“Then you carry my—”His lips moved, but I did not hear the rest of it.
For the sun’s first limb lifted free, red as fresh blood. Horns cried out, silver-throated and imperious as the Elder who winded them, and I was already running over sand and splashes of cold river before hopping into the boat. Arn gestured as the craft was pushed free of clinging earth, each man swinging aboard—Efain ponderously, Eol with swift graceless efficiency, Tjorin’s face white and his dark eyes blazing, Gelad as lithe as one of our own steading’s sons.
Boats turned into the current, oars bit, spray rose. The wait was over; Tjorin—and the wolves of Naras—were in our hands.
Arn began to chant.