Chapter 23 #2
“Tell me the truth, Chessa. Is your father really a magician? Did he really renew King Sitric? Did he really then just disappear leaving you to be raised by the king?”
“I would have told you,” she said, turning to smile at him.
“I just didn’t think of it. So much has happened since we’ve come together.
Too, I’ve been silent for so very long. Merrik and Rorik know, of course, and all the people of Hawkfell Island and Malverne.
King Sitric is my father. He is also the magician, Hormuze.
He killed the old king and then became the king himself.
My father’s only magic is his brain. He understands people, understands what makes them do what they do.
There’s nothing more to it save that he wanted to wed Mirana.
She looked very much like my mother, you see.
But since she was already wedded to Rorik, my father had to settle for Sira.
Unfortunately, she pleases him greatly. Four sons, yet she hated me for no reason save, naturally, that I hated her. ”
“I remember thinking that you and Mirana looked alike, not really your features, but when you and she both smiled and nodded, you know, with your head to the side? I’ve been a fool.”
“Oh, no. It’s just that no one ever speaks of it.
It will remain a miracle wrought by the powerful magician Hormuze.
That Varrick believes him great makes me want to giggle.
Your father amuses me, but he is dangerous, never forget that.
” She touched her hand to his sleeve, saying again, “Never forget he is dangerous.”
“No, I shan’t, but you mean more than just danger, don’t you?”
“Aye, but I can’t really explain it.”
“Think of that burra, Chessa. When I held it I felt only that it was heavier than it should be. I could barely pick it up it was so heavy. When you held it, it was as light as a mote of dust. And the heat and cold. Surely that’s magic of a sort.
My father was pleased that you reacted to it the way you did.
It was light for him as well. There is something there, as much as I hate to admit it. ”
She was frowning, looking out over the loch, at the smooth water, darker now beneath the blanketing soft mist, so very gray and fine that there were patches of blue sky that shone through it.
But it would keep coming until there was naught but the soft blurry gray and it would become colder, this summer mist that lived in this land.
There were several small boats with men aboard fishing.
They were very close to shore as if the men feared going out beyond the shallows.
She shivered, pulling her woolen cloak more closely.
“How did it work? Was I just thinking of my mother and my brain brought her forth? Since my father isn’t a wizard, then why would the burra be light to me? Why would I see my mother?”
“Like Ragnor of York, I have great respect for your brain, Chessa, but to bring forth your mother? I don’t think so. I think it was something Varrick did—cast some sort of spell. Perhaps he has the ability to look just a bit into your mind and he saw your mother there.”
She shivered and it had nothing to do with the mist that was now swirling lightly around them.
It was as if the mist caressed them. It wasn’t wet now or chill, it was there, as light as a lover’s fingers touching them.
They were nearing the far south end of Loch Ness.
Low hills spread out around them, sheep grazing on them.
Buzzards and falcons flew overhead. Gulls dove into the loch.
There were barley fields being tended by slaves.
There were thick stands of trees. Huge boulders lay in piles as if tossed there by a mighty hand.
“Varrick’s lands go on forever,” Cleve said.
“He told me that this is called Falcon Ridge, a name he gave it when he called the birds to him and three falcons landed on his outstretched hand to welcome him.”
“They will never be your lands, brother.” It was Athol and he jerked on his stallion’s reins, making the horse rear up on his hind legs.
“These are my lands. Go back to Norway. You have become a Viking like those men who come to trade in Inverness. We are different here. We are Vikings, yet we are more, more than you can imagine. You are too ignorant to know anything. You aren’t welcome, despite the words my father now mouths to you.
He doesn’t know you even though it was his seed that filled your mother’s womb.
Go away, Cleve of Malverne. There’s nothing for you here. ”
Cleve studied Athol’s face. Nearly a man, he thought, with passions boiling too close to the surface, too much passion and not enough control.
He said, “I wonder whether when you reach your man years you will gain control and perhaps a bit of wisdom. Many men never do. I know you feel displaced. I can’t blame you for that.
I am new to you. Like everyone else you believed me dead.
But I’m here now and you will have to make the best of it. ”
“No,” Athol said. “Never.” He wheeled his stallion about, to ride back at the fore of their group.
“I want you to keep your knife close,” Cleve said to Chessa. “Damn, I wish Kiri weren’t with us.”
“But why?”
“I have this feeling, nay, it is more than that. Keep close watch, Chessa. By all the gods, we shouldn’t have come with this half brother of mine.”
The attack came so quickly there was no chance for her to answer. Cleve took a wild look at Kiri, now tucked securely against Merrik’s side, even as he drew his sword.
There were at least three dozen of them, not at all like Viking warriors, but wild men garbed in bearskins and wolfskins, their trousers filthy and ripped, their feet bound in coarse leather sandals, all of them wielding small swords over their heads.
They carried wooden shields and wore wooden helmets.
They looked strong and ready to kill. They were yelling their heads off and their faces were painted with the blue and red circles and squares.
Picts, Cleve thought, and his eyes glittered.
He didn’t doubt for a moment that Athol had summoned them after he’d spoken to Cleve but minutes before. No doubt at all, the little bastard.
Cleve calmly rode forward, even as the Malverne men and Varrick’s men were shouting and positioning their horses, preparing for the attack. The loch was at their back, the outlaws hemming them in. There was no escape, not that a Viking would ever avoid a fight or want an escape.
He watched Athol even as he brandished his sword above his head.
Ah, aye, he was right, it was some sort of signal to the outlaws.
Cleve was on him in the next moment, his arm about Athol’s throat, his knife poised directly above his heart.
He pulled the boy off his horse and over onto his.
He said in his ear, “Call off your men, Athol.”
The boy struggled, nearly shrieking, “They aren’t my men, Cleve, they’re outlaws, thieves. They want our swords and our jewelry. They want the women.”
“You call off your men now or I will stick my knife clean through your heart. Do you understand me?”
“I would rather die than let you have—”
The knife slipped through Athol’s tunic, touched its cold tip to his flesh and then gently eased in. The boy screamed.
“You see, death is never preferable. I learned that during the fifteen years I was a slave. A man can bear anything if he believes he can survive. Call them off or you will never draw another breath.”
Athol shouted, “Sarva! Stop! Nay, come no nearer. You and your men withdraw. Now, or I will die.”
The man in the lead paused a moment, and Cleve could see the frown on his painted face.
These were no Scots. They were indeed outlaws, men loyal to Athol.
But how had Athol gotten to these men so quickly?
He shook his head, but Athol, feeling Cleve’s knife pressing deeper, screamed at him, “Go back! Don’t attack. ”
Sarva slowly raised his hand. The men behind him stopped, then circled around him, speaking amongst themselves.
Merrik said, “Why don’t we go kill them?” As soon as he spoke, he realized he was holding Kiri against his side, her face pressed against him. “Nay, I didn’t mean that. Everything’s all right, Kiri. See, your papa’s solved the problem.”
“Papa always solves problems,” Kiri said, and brought her face out of Merrik’s armpit. “Papa, who are those men?”
“Soon they will be gone, sweeting, and then we will find out,” Cleve said. He whispered in Athol’s ear, “They were here so fast, all ready to kill us. You’d better hope that Sarva listens to you, Athol. Do you like the feel of this?” The knife went in just a bit further. Athol groaned, not moving.
Then the men melted away behind three low hills, behind the piles of massive boulders, simply disappearing into the mist. It seemed to swallow them, pulling them through a gray veil.
Cleve withdrew the knife. Calmly, he sheathed it at his belt. Then he lifted Athol by his tunic and threw him to the ground. He jumped off his horse’s back and stood over the boy. “Stand up, you puling coward.”
“So,” Chessa said, riding her mare to within a foot of Athol.
“This was your idea. You wanted to kill all of us. You wanted to kill Cleve, to kill Kiri.” Her voice rose to a near shriek.
She slid off her mare’s back, pulled her knife and dove toward Athol.
Cleve managed to catch her. “No, Chessa, no. I don’t want his miserable blood on your hands.
Kiri is all right. We’re all fine now. Think of him as another Ragnor of York, the poor fool.
You really didn’t want to kill him, you just wanted him to be gone. ”
“He put you and Kiri into mortal danger,” Chessa said, panting hard, still held in her fury. Cleve shook her. “Come, Chessa. Come back to me.” He leaned down and kissed her hard, then squeezed her against him.