Nor Men
Even Aerith’s songmaster lent his aid, the great bow Kaesgrithil given to a mortal. Well-named was the weapon indeed, the same bow which hunted the Enemy’s creatures upon the banks of Nith-an-Gaelas, its string speaking in Laeliquaende before the fall, and later wounding Saeril the Accursed himself.
—Raelin of Nassan-Daele, Saga of the Ringmaker
The Elder held that spring’s arrival was formally accomplished once the race was finished; the valley was full of celebration. All of Laeliquaende sang, danced, drank. The day’s orb began to descend. An afternoon of merrymaking filled the white city, spread into the fields, ran gaily through hall and settlement, lapped at the edges of vineyards, and threaded through stands of trees whose leaves held thicker strands of green than they had last night.
The wolves of Naras were hailed from every quarter, given great honor, crowned not with the dark-green laekeri but plaited bright-green grapevine. Soren laughed much, a note of disbelief threading through his voice as Gelad spoke of Efain’s shot, and before the sun fell a handsbreadth from the summit there were already songs of Daerith lending his bow and the use it was put to. The harpist himself beamed, toasting the scarred Secondborn with a plain silver goblet—filled by every passing jug—each time a new chorus rose.
Many restoratives were poured down Tjorin’s throat as well, while he was clad in dry cloth of green and silver like a lord of Laeliquaende. After that he roamed, his hand caught in Naciel’s; he was cheered and she radiated both pride and relief. They finally settled in Taeron’s great pavilion, and the princess took up her harp to sing of the morning’s work as well.
A tent was given to the use of Naras, and before going inside Eol stripped his sodden tunic and linen undershirt, dislodging his grapevine circlet. The weal across his back, already mostly healed, glared amid a mass of similar but long-healed marks, yet I was granted only a single glimpse before he was hustled inside. Aeredh lingered in the doorway, casting a bright blue glance over his shoulder.
Arn and I, shivering in wet wool and padding, were given circlets of new-green grapevine as well, but ours were woven with small blue ildora. We were also shown by smiling Elder girls to a smaller round fabric house; Naciel had arranged everything that might possibly be of comfort except a sauna. I might have fallen asleep in a steam-room, though, and almost slid below the surface of a round cask, copper-bound and large enough for two women, full of bathing-water far, far warmer than the river’s embrace.
Sounds of celebration splashed against heavily felted walls. My head still rang with the last effort of seidhr; I longed to collapse. Thin curls of steam rose from the bathwater; Arn levered herself out of the tub with something like a groan. Her spear rested against a highly carved wooden holder, its blade glittering in a sun-shaft from the vent-flaps overhead; she dressed swiftly, though she paused often and finally settled upon a wooden stool to deal with her boots.
I should have hurried to help with her armor, but the silken heat of water was delicious and I was still not yet quite myself. Part of me lingered with the boat, beached and useless, perhaps as weary as I felt. I drifted, my head resting against the cask’s rim.
“Here.” My shieldmaid thrust a goblet at me; a small table, near the rack where an Elder dress of green and gold waited, held two graceful flagons as well as cups for our use. She was hoarse, each word scraped thin as a hide window-cover. “Drink, and do not hesitate. You are pale.”
“Such a feat.” I sounded mead-mazed, slurring. “Arn, you were magnificent.”
“The Wingéd are pleased.” She pushed the goblet’s rim in my face again. “Come now. It won’t do to drown in a bath after that.”
I had to laugh. It was a thin, tired sound, but her own chuckle answered and I found I could lift my hand, clasp the cup, and drink.
That was my first taste of springwine. The winter vintage tastes of memories; this variety flowed clear and bright down my parched throat. It was flavored as nothing, or perhaps only of water, but it was strong as the finest clear ferment ever made from honey. A rushing filled me, spreading from my empty stomach in overlapping rings. My fingers stretched, my toes pointed, and even my hair tingled as if it wished to grow at visible pace.
I had not even loosened my braids. Red coral satin-warm, though my hair was still heavy with riverspray; I touched a braid-rope knocked awry over my left ear and drained the cup’s dregs. There was no bitterness or silt, and as the drink settled within me I felt new-wakened. Aches from being rattled about a boat and the fire in my throat from battle-singing retreated before a wave of seeming health.
All the same a thin thread of unease knotted about my heart, and my subtle selves were not refreshed. I settled back in the bath and began to work at my wet hair. Arn drained two goblets, and there was familiar fire in her dark gaze as she donned Naciel’s gifted armor. She examined her spear from blunt end to sharp tip, muttering softly while almost-heard feather-brushing cloaked her, and at last reapplied her woad.
She might need more of the dye soon. I thought that plant grew everywhere, but had not seen it in the valley yet. Maybe the change of seasons would bring it, for ’tis hardy as a shieldmaid itself.
My own equipage did not take long. I combed my hair with another of Naciel’s gifts, an implement carven from a large chunk of greenish amber. I wished I could dry thoroughly before braiding; the silence between us deepened.
Finally, Arn sighed, setting aside her dye-bowl. “It is a festival. They will be celebrating into the night, I daresay.”
We knew where many of the boats were kept now, in sheds along the riverbank. And yet… “We cannot pass through the whirlpool. There is no other river likely to give us egress, the streams are many yet few of them touch the walls.” The maps of the valley Tjorin and I studied agreed on that, at least. “If we knew the guards at the Hidden Passage were likely to be sotted… and yet I do not think so, for the Elder do not seem to suffer such things.”
She frowned—not angrily, merely thoughtful. “The mountains cannot be entirely impassable.”
“But finding a way over them while being pursued, possibly by both Elder and our wolf allies, whom we will have forsworn by fleeing? I like it not, Arn.” I worked at damp hair with fingers and comb-tines both, wincing. “And I cannot dream. Not of Dun Rithell, not even of our journey here. Just those fishgutting orange stars.”
“I saw them too.” She regarded me somberly. “In a deep blue sky, like summer twilight but unlike as well. What does it mean?”
“I wish I knew.” Well should she ask me, for deciphering visions are part of a volva’s duty. But I could not tell, and I could not lie either. “Perhaps a god is punishing me.”
“Why, though? You did everything you should.” She eyed the jugs upon the small table; there was a burst of merry noise from outside, Elder voices high and sweet singing in the Old Tongue. The words were so archaic as to be nonsense, but they no doubt understood the meaning.
“Perhaps it is as Aeredh says, and there is some purpose to this.” I did not like to say as much; I sounded weary as my flesh did not feel. “I cannot see it, though.”
Arneior was silent for a long moment, staring at the jugs. “We are not gods,” she said, finally. “Nor are we Elder, nor men. Whatever their purpose, at least we have done as we should.”
“True.” I was abruptly cheered; I could always trust my small one to cut the heart from any dilemma. “And at least… well, if I were alone in this, I would perhaps go mad. It is a fine thing to have a shieldmaid.”
“Ah.” She nodded, and a pink tinge crept to her freckled cheeks. “There is that. Sol, sometimes I am glad to have traveled. Home is home, but…”
Had she felt my secret, silent craving for adventure as well? She had never mentioned boredom or longing in Dun Rithell. “I am too.”
She turned her head as if startled, gold threads in her hazel irises glowing. She might have said summat else, but there was a soft commotion near the door-flap of our temporary domicile, a courteous mispronouncing of my name accented in the Old Tongue. ’Twas an Elder guard in full armor, bearing a summons disguised as a request.
Taeron wished to see his captives again, and we barely had time to take up our victory-crowns before answering the call.