Speak of a Friend
What now lives in our old homes,
where once we sang and slept?
Shadows and dark things, creatures misformed.
Remember what was, but do not dream,
for the Gift-giver lurks in the corners…
—Gaelfang the Mad, once-lord of Aen Aethas
Quiet was the lord of Naras’s step; he led us through the tower’s passages with no more sound than an owl’s muffled wing. The doorways were all arches of the Elder style, with tapering tops; the doors themselves were of heavy varnished wood, ironbound and strong though some showed signs of great age.
Finally we reached a staircase. “A long climb,” our host said, “but worth it. We may go slowly.”
Though it was indeed many stairs they were also well-laid, and I had little trouble even with the Jewel’s weight. Still, Arneior preceded me, and was perhaps uneasy at the close confines. The lamp flickered, dancing shadows filling a stone throat. As the stairs wound upward the archways confined themselves to the left side, each solemnly barred.
Near the top, signs of wear and decay became far more marked; a low humming of wind tiptoed alongside us. The last few steps were somewhat less solid, wood instead of stone; they led to a timber roof and trapdoor, but Lord Tharos turned aside upon the final platform and the last door opened with no protesting squeak.
I hesitate to call what was revealed a room, for much detritus lay scattered upon the floor and half its outer wall was gone. The Taurain’s breath played across the hole, producing a mournful flute-note. The cold was sharp after the comfort of our small room, but also bracing. Clouds had parted; a soft glow was moonlight running over ice and thin fingers of snow digging into the tower’s hide.
For all that, the space was protected from the full force of the weather. The hole was wide enough to permit a view of white wilderness to a far horizon turned faintly blue by the lamp of night, and I let out a small sound of wonder.
“Gaining some height oft makes many problems appear simpler.” Tharos beckoned, setting the lamp aside on a handy protruding rock-shelf. Its flame straightened, tall and gold. “Come, and shut the door. We will not be heard here.”
For all its weight the slab of old wood moved easily, and when it was closed the tenor of windsong changed. The sound was still beautiful, but I suppressed a shiver and hoped the cluttered floor was solid.
Arn hovered at my shoulder; I faced Eol’s father over a stripe of moonlight. His hair silvered in the bleaching glow and his smallbeard holding only traces of charcoal to match his cloth, he was a forbidding sight. He had laid aside the pearl-handled dagger and the plain golden torc, but the ring was still upon his left hand, gleaming wetly.
“Well?” he said, finally. “I beg of you to tell me truly, lady. How did my son die?”
Arn tensed, though her fingers remained easy upon the spear.
I had suspected he would ask—what father could not? I had also given some thought to my answer, and for what it was worth I gave it steadily. “My brother struck him, my lord. Your son fell; his head cracked upon a stone.”
“Ah.” He nodded, thoughtfully. “And why did your brother strike my Arvil?”
“There were words concerning my sister, my lord.” Who would like telling a grieving parent of such matters? Sharp edges twitched inside my chest, the Jewel’s prodding far easier to bear than delivering this particular tale. “It was… a mischance.”
“Are you so certain?” His left hand tightened, the ring’s scintillation akin to a cat’s eyelid-flicker.
“I did not see the event myself,” I admitted. “Yet my brother and father spoke of it, and so did Aeredh.” I thought it best to be honest concerning the dead—but also as kind as possible. “Thus I was given as weregild for a year and a day. Events during our journey turned that debt to alliance instead. Yet I would ease your grief, lord of Naras, in whatever way I can. I am sorry for it.” And everything afterward.
“Weregild.” A brief nod. “I have heard of the southron custom. But that is not everything, my lady. You would not be taken to Taeron’s secret fastness were it so, or now guarded so closely by three of the mightiest lords of Nithraen and the beasts of my House besides.”
Beasts of his House?A mistranslation from the Old Tongue, perhaps? And he regarded Aeredh and his friends as deserving the term of the mightiest?
In any case, I could give a diplomatic answer. “Indeed we have traveled far.”
The wind caught my words, shook them; then, dissatisfied, whisked them out through the hole. North and slightly east it looked, much larger than a window, and outside stars glimmered fitfully through snowy moonhaze as the weather cleared. I wondered what had torn away great chunks of masonry, for at the edges it looked as if a giant claw had dug through clay.
The silence lengthened, and no doubt Tharos thought nervousness might make a woman chattersome. Yet I had never been so even as a child, and traveling so long with men not of my kind or kin set the habit even deeper.
The Jewel’s claws prickled afresh inside my ribcage. Mere discomfort, or a warning?
I wished yet again I were not carrying the thing, for my wits were much quicker without its dragging pressure—and I suspected I would need them both sharp and swift to deal with Tharos of Naras. He was no bandit or petty warlord; nor was he of my father’s rough stripe. Cold and contained, he reminded me most of Taeron, or—more aptly—of Caelgor the Fair.
For both of them knew well how to wait, and watch. Such men are dangerous.
Tharos turned his head, watching the broken wall—or what lay beyond. “You know of our curse.”
“In the South, such things can be counted a blessing, bringing great strength to protect and aid.” I believed it, then and now. I had said as much to Eol, and that eve I repeated the idea to his father.
I like to think I sought to help, instead of to steer the conversation from his younger son’s murder.
“In a dog, perhaps.” Tharos’s right shoulder lifted, dropped, a weary shrug. “But we are wolves, and to share a beast’s skin is to share his hungers. Uncontrolled, we are worse than animals. And Arvil—my blessed boy—was not as I am, as that other one. He did not carry the fangs.”
A father who would not even use his eldest son’s name, whip-scars upon a man’s back… much more about Eol of Naras’s bleakness now made sense, and I could not tell if the pang going through me was the Jewel or something else. “Eol of Naras has saved my life many times, my lord.”
“He does everything the Crownless asks.” Tharos’s lip well nigh curled under his smallbeard. I had thought he held Aeredh in high honor, being what the North called Faithful, but perhaps that was mere seeming—and if so, I had to be careful indeed. “He always has.”
“They are friends.” I sensed the drift of our host’s current, and ’twas in a most unpleasant direction. My fingers tingled as if the nipping cold would turn them numb despite my newfound immunity. The Jewel shifted again, sharp edges against tender innards.
Were it dragged free of my flesh, what scar would I bear from the parting? The thought returned, and I did not like it this time either.
“Friends?” Tharos laughed, half-turning to gaze into the night—did he see what I did, the darkness well past the horizon, starred with pinpricks of flame? How keen was the Old Wolf’s gaze? “The Elder call us faithful when we obey. But they also keep the secret from us.”
I could not disagree. “They keep many secrets.” Perhaps I sounded bitter as well, for Arn glanced at me; her brow was furrowed, and her grasp upon her spear changed slightly.
“There is one above all others they hoard, Lady Solveig.” He pronounced my name as if in the Old Tongue, and it sounded better in his eldest son’s mouth. In this man’s it was near-mocking, especially underlaid by the wind’s rising, jangling melody. “Have you ever wondered why we are mortal, and they are not?”
What?Did he think me simple? Of course any mortal with sense and the knowledge of Elder existence could not fail to wonder, even if the answer was in no few sagas. “The Allmother—”
“Oh, spare me Elder pandering, girl.” Tharos’s dark gaze sparked, and for a moment he looked very much like his eldest son indeed. “If the Allmother loves Secondborn so, if we are so much more precious and gifted, why do we sicken? Why do we die? Mayhap she prizes them above us, or does not—either way, they lie. Where is the truth of the matter to be found, then?”
Now he sounded like Idra, coaxing me to understanding. I stood very still, yet the Jewel kept turning and prodding. Bitter frustration crowded my throat, a hot ill-tasting lump; if the fishgutting thing in my chest would cease its aching I could perhaps think clearly.
Silly child.My teacher’s voice echoed, just behind my ear where seidhr strikes. You are volva. I taught you to lay aside distractions so the weirding may speak; this is no different.
“We may ask one who knows.” Tharos faced us fully again, spine straightening and shoulders pushed back. A man does not need a second skin to seem taller; he must only stand a certain way, and all will swear him nearly a giant. “And here in the North, ’tis possible to find him.”
A cold fingertip touched my nape, adding to the tingling in my hands. Both sensations were all the more startling since I had not felt winter upon my skin for some while. Slow, rippling dread coursed down my back, yet even as it did I welcomed the feeling.
It was familiar, and above all, mortal. “You say the Elder lie, and I know Secondborn may as well.” I longed to use the Old Tongue, but the old habit of misdirecting Northern men had risen, and I did not question it. I did not know if one of our companions had let slip the fact that I knew their speech… but I did not think it likely, and there was no reason to grant this man any advantage at all, however slight. “Even gods may mislead. Is there anyone in all the world who does not?”
“There is one, my lady.” Tharos’s gaze locked with mine; the contact very nearly jolted me physically. “He gives gifts to those who would hear truth, and works against those who would enslave.”
I did not dare break the humming between us, a fishing-line pulled taut. The contest was akin to groups of strong warriors heaving upon either side of a rope, each seeking to yank the other off-balance. I had seen many such games at Dun Rithell, and laughed when they were well-played.
There is a like challenge in seidhr, invisible but no less potent, a means by which one of strong will seeks to dominate another. Curiaen the Subtle and Taeron Goldspear had both sought to discern my thoughts with sharp strength; Tharos of Naras meant to overpower and lead me to some end.
Perhaps he even thought it would be easy. The wind flirted and swirled, its voice taking on a darker edge.
“The Elder fight the Enemy,” I said, finally. The Jewel’s prickle was an irritant, true, but it also frayed the pull of his will. He had no seidhr beyond that usually granted to two-skins, of that I was certain.
The power striving with my own came from somewhere else. And why was he speaking so? I had expected questioning upon the death of his younger son, not… whatever this midnight parley was. I could not even glance to Arneior, yet I did not have to.
Her warmth beside me, the steady disciplined fire of a shieldmaid, never altered.
“Indeed they do, for they serve those powers seeking to enslave us all.” Tharos’s tone was gentle, nearly avuncular; the edges of his robe twitch-rippled as he shifted, slowly easing his weight from one foot to the other. “You and I are mortal, young lady, and not party to their quarrel. Why should we bleed for the Elder, work for them, send our children to die for them? There is another way.” A feverish glare had invaded his gaze. “And what you carry is the key to it.”
My attention focused upon the ring—the damp glimmer of its stone swelled, far brighter than the weak golden shimmer lampglow should produce. “What I carry.” So he knows. Be careful, Solveig. Be very, very careful now.
“Did you think me unaware?” The Old Wolf smiled, strong white teeth gleaming with faint lamplight and the far stronger illumination of moonlight. “I knew of my son’s misfortune long before your arrival, for I have a good friend, one more honest than the Elder and wise enough not to strike down our Enemy until the time is right. My own folk, blinded by Dorael’s witchery, sought to entice me from Barael-am-Narain—for my safety, they said, faugh! But I swore not to move until my Arvil returned, and also because I knew you would come.”
My heart pounded in my wrists, my throat, even behind my knees. The Jewel’s burning dilated between my lungs, and I almost welcomed the pain. “You knew?” My voice was a cricket-whisper, barely audible over the wind.
“I was told.” Tharos’s smile widened. “By a friend you never knew you had. He sees you, young Solveig, and many times you have been saved by his efforts. I was shown your face long before this, and all has come to pass as he predicted.”
When the Elder spoke of the Black Land’s lord, they laid the same stress upon he and his. So did Eol and his men—but I did not think Tharos of Naras meant the Allmother’s eldest child. Yet if he did not, who or what…
“No closer,” Arn said. The warning in her tone was clear and harsh, and I realized Tharos had moved.
“There is no need for alarm.” Slowly, softly, he took another padding step; he wore a warrior’s boots instead of house-shoes. His robe’s hem just barely brushed leaves and dust blown in by autumn-breath. “All we must do is wait.”
“For what?” It was so hard to think, between the weight of my burden and a motionless inward striving to keep from being swallowed. The rope tautened, its hum deepening, and the ring on our host’s left hand gave a yellow flash as unlike the lamplight as fish is to fire.
I have seen that gleam before.I strained against a dark current, sinking fast. The discomfort in my chest was oddly smothered, covered by a heavy blanket. The respite would have been wonderful and welcome… save for the fear taking its place, bright copper at the back of my palate.
“It will not be long,” Tharos murmured. “He knows of your people, Solveig of Dun Rithell, and he will protect them. Mine he will cherish too, once they have been taught their error. The curse will be lifted.”
The cold was all through me, now. “You speak of the Enemy.”
“I speak of a friend, southron child.” The glitter in his gaze was of no physical fever, and far back in his pupils a different spark dilated, peering as if through a long dark tunnel. “One who will heal all hurts, explain all mysteries, break the doors of mortal death and bring my Arvil back to me.”
There is a seidhr of speaking to the dead, of course. Ancestors and kin may be drawn from Hel’s many countries, or even Odynn’s and Fryja’s halls, to provide guidance and aid. ’Tis a dangerous act, performed only at great need… but a sudden jabbing instinct told me evocation or spirit-showing over a basin of blood and smoke was not what he meant, and my veins chilled at the blasphemy.
I shifted, a movement of my subtle selves quick as sunlight upon a leaping carp’s wet scales. The rope snapped; the sound of its breaking was all internal, and I saw once more Eol at the oars, cloth upon his back parting and bright blood flying as he strained. The sting sank into my own flesh, I gasped, and the blunt end of Arn’s spear leapt between me and Tharos.
Who had drawn close indeed, his ringed hand lifting as if to touch.
The strike sank into his midsection, driving the lord of Naras back. His boots scraped stone, and I saw beneath his skin as his lip lifted in a snarl.
The wolf in him was strong, grizzled muzzle and lean shoulders bespeaking hunger and survival both. Yet in its dark eyes was a yellow flame of watersick, foamjaw madness.
The Jewel blazed in my chest; for once its burning was welcome. I coughed, a dry rasping sound swallowed at its end by another.
A brazen horn-cry lifted high in freezing air, thrilling up through mortal hearing into the regions beyond. Before, the hunting yowls of the Enemy’s servants had remained at some distance, but not this one.
No. It was close indeed, and loud.
My shieldmaid stepped before me, leveling her spear. Its blade gleamed, a bar of brightness bathed in silvergold from mingled lamp- and moonglow, and was pointed directly at our host.