Chapter 30
CHESSA SAT ON Cleve’s lap in the longboat.
All the men were huddled around them waiting for Varrick.
She saw him first, tall and slim, his head thrown back, that damned cloak of his billowing out and yet there was no wind, not even a small breeze, and she knew that he’d saved her, just as she knew that she must act and she must act now, else they would never have peace.
Varrick would always be there, waiting for her. It had to stop.
When he was nearly on them, she turned on Cleve’s lap and burst into tears. She cried and sobbed and shivered violently, huddling against him, burrowing against him, as if she wanted to crawl inside him to protect herself.
Cleve, completely taken by surprise, nonetheless gathered her against him, kissed her hair and rocked her, whispering meaningless words to soothe her, but they didn’t seem to. She cried harder and harder.
Varrick stared at her. He said, “What is wrong? Has something happened to her? Is she in pain?”
Chessa whispered through her sobs, “I’m so afraid. I thought I would have to go to York. I believed I would have to be his wife. You saved me. All of you saved me.”
“Chessa,” Cleve began, “it’s all right, sweeting. I’ll protect you always. No, love, don’t cry more, you’ll make yourself ill.”
As he spoke he looked up. Varrick was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. His expression was cold. He looked more dangerous than his son in that moment. “What she said is nonsense. What is wrong with her?”
Igmal shrugged and said, “She’s a woman, lord Varrick. She was frightened. The storm you called up terrified her.”
Varrick continued to frown down at her, a wealth of distaste on his face, but he said nothing more.
The mist lifted and the air was cold and clear.
The waters of the loch were smooth and dark.
Chessa looked up to see Varrick coming, a good dozen men trailing behind him.
His cloak billowed behind him. She was used to that now.
She wondered idly how Argana managed to make the wool so very lightweight.
They hadn’t seen Varrick in seven days. Argana had come to tell them that Varrick had taken Cayman to Turella in Inverness to return with her to York.
“She sang and she smiled,” Argana had said.
“She will enjoy herself and she will enjoy this fool, Ragnor, you’ve told me so much about, Chessa.
There are depths to Cayman, aye, and she will suit herself. ”
After his return Varrick still hadn’t come to Karelia. Chessa knew that he would come. She wondered how he would look at her now.
But here he was, on the seventh day. Chessa welcomed Varrick, Argana, Athol, who looked as sullen as a goat deprived of a tough boot, and Igmal, who waved to Kiri, and when the child shrieked his name and ran to him, he threw her into the air and brought her tight against his chest. The other men flowed into the crowd of Karelia people, conversation lively, laughter free, the four Karelia dogs barking in a frenzy, jumping and leaping about all the people.
Varrick stood off to one side, staring at the people. He wasn’t frowning, nor was he smiling. He heard Kiri say to Igmal, “I just sniffed you and you smell clean. Did you bathe like I told you to, Igmal?”
“Aye, little one, I bathed not three days ago.”
“Your bearskin isn’t too bad either,” Kiri said, and smelled it again.
“Nay, I kept it on and bathed it with me.”
Kiri laughed and laughed. “I will ask my papas if I can do that as well.”
It was nearing the winter solstice and yet there was no snow yet, no frigid nights to make everyone’s teeth chatter.
Chessa gently patted her swelling belly.
It seemed that more and more often the people from Kinloch were here at their farmstead, and why not?
she wondered. There was laughter here and fights.
There was no magic here, nothing to frighten anyone.
There were no billowing gowns or cloaks when there was no wind.
Chessa smiled toward Varrick, squeezing Cleve’s hand. What would he do? Had he finally given over? Was he finally ready to leave her alone?
“Welcome, Father,” Cleve said. “Chessa believed you would come. The women are preparing a feast. If you would like to send one of your men back to Kinloch to fetch the others, you should do it soon.”
Varrick gave his son a superior smile. “There is no need for that.” He pulled the burra from its sheath at his belt.
“I will call them with this.” He lovingly stroked the burra and stood back.
Then he looked at Chessa, his eyes on her belly, and there was uncertainty in his eyes, and determination as well.
She sighed to herself. Her bout of hysteria after her rescue had done no good.
She crossed her hands over her chest and yawned.
Varrick still stared at her, and now there was anger in those strange eyes of his.
She’d wondered several times when she’d angered Cleve if his golden eye grew more enraged than his blue one.
When she’d told him that, both of them forgot their argument in their laughter.
Varrick walked to the edge of Falcon Ridge, the only high strip of land at Karelia. He performed nicely, bringing thunder and cold white streaks of lightning. He didn’t bring rain, for which all the people were profoundly grateful.
When he finished, he turned. He froze. No one was even looking at him.
Igmal was showing Kiri how to toss the knife he’d carved for her.
Other children were looking on, begging him to teach them as well.
Three of his men—his men—were drinking and poking each other.
Several other of his men were speaking to Karelia men, formerly his men, none of them even looking toward him.
His two younger sons were throwing stones into the loch, seeing who could throw the farthest. Argana, silent, obedient Argana, was speaking to Chessa and several other women.
They began to laugh at something Argana said. Argana saying something funny?
None were looking at him except for one dog, who sat on his haunches, his head to one side, staring up at Varrick.
Varrick strode to Chessa. “Come with me.”
She smiled up at him. “Did you call the rest of the Kinloch people?”
“Aye, I called them,” he said, and she heard the child’s temper in his voice.
“Good,” she said. “That stick is a handy tool to have about. I’ll tell the women to prepare more boar steaks. Also, Cleve and his men brought in more than a dozen pheasants this morning. We’ll have a fine feast.”
“It’s called a burra. I told you to come with me.”
She never let her smile slip. “I forgot. You wish to speak to me now? I’m so busy, but, ah, very well, Varrick.”
She walked beside him into the farmstead. Unlike Kinloch, there was no raised dais here, just a long room filled with the smell of roasting pheasant, baking bread and the soft smell of rising smoke, a narrow blue line streaking upward. Varrick strode to the table and climbed up upon it.
“Be careful, Father,” Cleve said. “The table doesn’t always hold itself straight.”
“Aye,” Igmal said, grinning. “Cleve didn’t cut all the legs evenly.”
Cleve poked him.
“Be quiet,” Varrick said. “Come here,” he said to Chessa.
“I hope you don’t want me to climb up on that table,” she said, and rubbed her stomach.
He frowned at her, and she would have sworn he growled.
He climbed down. He withdrew the burra from its sheath and handed it to her. “Take it. Take it and tell me what you feel, what you see.”
Slowly, she reached out her hand and took the burra from him. She cried out and brought her other hand up to help her hold it. “It’s so heavy,” she said, and quickly lowered it to the table. She still held it between her hands, but let its weight rest on the tabletop.
Varrick didn’t move.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?”
She shook her head. “Nay, it’s just very heavy, so heavy that I know I can’t hold it.
“It’s cold now, isn’t it?”
“Cold? It isn’t cold at all. It just feels like wood, very heavy wood that’s got something else inside it to make it so weighty.”
“What do you see?”
She looked down at the burra. “Circles and strange squares. The paint looks faded as if it will flake off very soon now. It looks old and strange. It’s very heavy, Varrick. Won’t you take it back? I don’t like it.”
He looked baffled, then angry. “Damn you, I asked you what you saw, not what the burra looked like.”
“Saw? I saw nothing, save the table and I’m worried that it won’t hold all the food we’re preparing.”
He grabbed the burra from her and shoved it back into its sheath. “It’s the babe,” he said. “Aye, it’s the babe. It’s stolen your powers.”
“What powers?” she said. “You have the powers, Varrick, not I.”
He sighed deeply and called out, “Argana, bring me a goblet of mead.”
There were still the remnants of laughter in her voice when Argana called out, “I can’t, Varrick. My hand is filled with cabbage.”
He turned slowly to see his wife of eighteen years cutting huge chunks of cabbage and laying them onto a large wooden platter. “Athol,” she called out. “Take your father a goblet of mead.”
“I’m a man, Mother, not a slave.”
“I’m a woman, Son, not a slave. That has nothing to do with anything. I’m busy, as are your brothers, if you’d bother to notice. You are doing nothing at all. Your father deserves obedience from all of us. Do as I tell you or you won’t have dinner with us.”
To Chessa’s utter delight, Athol poured a goblet of mead and gave it to his father. He didn’t do it with pleasure, but he did it.
This, Chessa thought, holding perfectly still, not about to draw more attention to herself, was surely the beginning of the end for Varrick’s reign of terror and silence.
The feast went very well. There was plentiful food, more laughter than Chessa had heard since leaving Hawkfell Island.
Chessa remembered the tale and riddle Laren had spun about Egypt for them all and that weasel Ragnor had answered.
She told all the people the story, put the riddle to them, and it was Athol who answered it.
No one could believe he’d answered it correctly and they hadn’t been able to.
Perhaps, she thought, there was a bond between Athol and Ragnor.
She decided she would have Varrick send Athol to York. He could befriend Ragnor.
Late that night when everyone slept, many of the Kinloch people wrapped in woolen blankets and packed next to each other, close to the fire pit, Cleve brought his wife close and said, “Tell me, Chessa, what did you see?”
She said very quietly, “Ah,” she said, “It was wonderful, Cleve. I saw our child. He hasn’t your beautiful eyes, but rather mine, all green and yet deeper than mine, all filled with secrets and joy and mysteries and adventures. He has your golden hair, thick and pure.”
“What is his name?”
She grinned against his throat. “I didn’t have time to ask him.”