The Fall of Waterstone

Imaginary Offense

Long vigil held we, and towers we built

The cold iron gates we watched.

Some said the danger was over,

But then came the Day of Ash.

—Bjornvald of Aen Sevras, The Fall of Jormgaard

Even if the walls are thin and roof turned into lace, a night’s rest inside does anyone a world of good. The wolves of Naras were cheerful, even ruddy-haired Elak whistling a snatch of some song or another as he and Soren set about saddling the horses. The sky hung low and infinite, the wind flirting-unsteady and tasting of chill mineral freeze.

Spring snow. It began midmorn, as the horses picked up their hooves and flicked their tails with anticipation. Heavy wet white feathers made wind-curling curtains, erasing any slight depression left by Elder mounts. I listened to the breeze, to the massive silence of snowfall, and my unease grew sharp as the sun descended, precipitation becoming fitful but the silence remaining.

After so long in dry, deep cold the advent of air warm enough to grant flakes nearly brings one to sweat. There was no soft rushing trickle of melt, but even the drop in temperature after sunset was not so bad as it could be.

I could tip my head back, staring at a sky that should have been featureless and dark, and discern tiny struggling lights. They were no longer strangers since our time in Laeliquaende, but the stars should not have been visible to any glance not freighted with piercing seidhr.

Yet I saw them, without any trouble or effort. And that was not all. Thin silvery notes hit the space behind my ear where weirding oft makes itself known. There is no music softer, nor any more aching, yet no creature living under the night’s small fires can hold more than a snatch of the melody. The sharp brazen-throated hunting horns were silent, but I was not comforted.

If anything, I grew more nervous. The Elder did not speak upon the cessation of those terrible cries, but Yedras and Daerith often exchanged meaningful glances and Aeredh stayed with whoever had the duty of end-guard, always the last to approach our daily shelter. The wolves of Naras spread out, those running in their other forms leaving their horses to crowd Arn’s and mine, and we traveled well past dusk each day. Snow passed over us in waves until night fell, halting only until the next sunrise wrung more free; winter had not yet finished her last dance upon the windswept plain and her presence kept the drifts reasonably firm.

Perhaps it was the daily fall of fresh white that mazed our pursuers.

The journey wore on, every possible speed wrung from Elder, Secondborn, and horse alike. Small settlements and steadings rose out of whirling white curtains, approached us, and faded away; we sheltered in them if we could, but more often in a bailkah. Not a soul remained in any mortal structure, and the closed but unlocked houses were disturbing. So was the constant wind-moan and the idea that our pursuers had not withdrawn but were simply… waiting. There was no more singing, saga or otherwise, even if we stayed in a dark, abandoned hall, and we roused long before dawn to be on our way.

We reached the tower of Barael-am-Narain twelve largely silent, nerve-fraying nights later. That day the drifts underneath us softened at noon and refroze at dark, the sky clearing as the sun sank.

And finally, we met a single Northerner.

Just as it has ravines, so too does the Taurain have hills. Even a slight prominence can afford a view for leagues in that country; the settlement stood in thick dusk atop a huddled group of rises arranged for defense and strengthened with palisade and abatis as well as a graceful stone spike at its highest crown. The tower was a rarity, its top sheared by some unimaginable storm. Even broken and at a distance the spire gave much evidence of Elder aid in planning and construction; the bloom of ruddy flame at its base near drove the breath from me.

Snow parted, flakes thinning swiftly. A flicker, a moment of mistrusting my eyes, then my heart attempted a leap into my throat as I realized what I was seeing—that gleam had to be evidence of some habitation. The Jewel pinch-prodded, its quiet burn receding somewhat, and when I glanced at Arn I knew from her expression that she had seen it as well.

“Torch.” Soren’s eyebrows held a few pieces of ice, but his smile was wide and genuine for the first time since before Laeliquaende’s fall. “Don’t worry. ’Tis the Old Wolf’s tower, and he will not have gone to Dorael. Not yet.”

“Old wolf?” If there was a riddle in the term, I could not find it.

“Aye. Probably already scented us.” The stocky Northerner paused, swaying with his mount’s gait. He did not often ride upon that journey, spending most of it in his other skin. “I crave your pardon, my lady.”

What on earth for?“I might grant it just for the asking, did I but know why.” It felt good to weigh the words, both his and mine; I had been struck near speechless by my burden, and that is never comfortable for a volva.

There are several forms of seidhr in silence, but I wished no more of them at that particular moment.

“Ah. Well.” His horse eased closer. “I had no time, you see. To gather your trunk from the palace.”

I glanced at Arn again. She peered around me in the winter gloaming, bright-eyed and interested, her spear’s blade glistening. The torch in the distance bobbed gently closer with each hoof-fall.

“The city was overrun and you…” I wanted to laugh, but further jostling in the saddle might hurt. And he had waited how long to offer this apology? Either he dreaded my reaction or this was some manner of jest—or, perhaps he meant to lighten my mood, I could not tell. “My lord, I cannot pardon an entirely imaginary offense.”

“’Twas my task, and I am pained by not performing it—I have been seeking a spare moment to speak of the matter.” He regarded me steadily, not quite scowling but certainly downcast. “We promised you would travel as one of our own, and with every care.”

He seemed serious; I was glad I had not made light of his apology after all. “I count it a great victory to be still breathing; the wolves of Naras have indeed shown every care in that regard.” Curiosity invaded me, a welcome tonic after days of being too dazed to think properly. “Of course, were you to tell me how you managed to carry it all the while, I would listen most intently.”

“A small trick, performed by members of my family. Sometimes the… when we receive the curse, we are granted something else as well.” His head lifted slightly; at the head of our column, Karas and Daerith drew away, their mounts quickening. In the distance, the orange torch-spark bobbed again like a small boat on a placid river. “Lord Tharos discourages use of such talents.”

But Eol does not, for all he considers his wolfskin a curse.The mystery of the captain’s grimness was somewhat solved, yet it was nothing I could affect, for there is no way to remove the second skin from one who has the gift. At least, so our sagas say.

So, Soren had an additional talent, but it clearly was not seidhr since he bore a blade. Ordinarily I would be thrilled at finding some new thing approximating weirding in the world.

The lord of Naras disliked both the second skin and these additional talents, but his son welcomed those afflicted. No wonder Eol’s men followed him so faithfully. He cared for his own, and that is a quality which keeps a warlord’s underlings loyal—if the man who would rule knows what he is about.

Was my task here simply to argue the wolves of Naras into considering their gifts afresh? If not for the Elder thing burning in me, I might have found the solution to this particular riddle entirely risible, in the manner only one of Lokji’s pranks could be. “Yet they are useful,” I said. “Such a cunning talent would be worth much in the South.”

“I am better here.” Soren’s smile returned, diffident but pleasant to see. “But I must also speak of summat else, my lady Question. You may well be surprised tonight. Lord Tharos keeps to old ways, and is much concerned with tradition. All his folk know better than to act otherwise.”

It was luxurious to have a problem or two I could solve looming before me, whether it was explaining seidhr to warriors or using my tongue wisely before a lord in his own hall. “You wish me to be mindful of my words. Have no fear on that account.”

“Indeed I fear not, for you are a quiet one. ’Tis more likely our Minnowsharp there will be offended, though the Old Wolf is ever courteous to a lady. It is more that…” He fell silent, and when I turned my head I saw a shadow in the snowy night.

A tall rider, urging his horse past. But I would know him anywhere—Eol, and probably listening to every syllable.

Wolves, like Elder and shieldmaids, have sharp ears.

“Worry not, Soren.” The Old Tongue rang under my words, turning their consonants sharp. “My brother killed Lord Tharos’s son. I shall do all duty demands, as both ally and weregild.”

The horses sensed respite was near, and our pace quickened despite the danger. Finally we rode into Barael-am-Narain, Hill of Broken Spears in the Old Tongue.

But among themselves, those of Naras called it the Old Wolf’s place.

And, more quietly, Home, for now.