by Ann Boelter
Exhausted as she was, her thoughts continued to race on. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, over and over again. “There is no reason for you to delay choosing a warrior from among the tribe.”
With those few words, he had made his expectations clear. He hadn’t said choose one this very moment, but Nena understood he might as well have. Having voiced it was basically a decree. And he was right; there was no reason—at least no logical one. It was their way and she’d been expecting it, so why was she surprised? Had she really thought to be like Jalla? Her aunt had lost her husband soon after Nena’s mother had died, but had never been required to choose another. Instead she had taken over much of the rearing of Meln’s children—a duty that should have gone to his next wife, but her father had never offered his willingness to be chosen by another.
But Nena knew her situation was different. She hadn’t lost a mate. She’d been a female prisoner of the loathsome Northmen. Her father would have no way of knowing what her captivity had actually been like, and naturally, would assume the worst—that she’d been raped and tortured for months. He probably even thought she would want a husband quickly to put that behind her.
Nena’s thoughts took a darker path and, for a brief moment, she wondered bitterly if his haste had anything to do with her at all. Seeing her circle filled in with no husband’s symbol below would be a constant daily reminder of his own horrific defeat. He, and everyone else, would think of it every time they saw her. Once she chose and had a warrior husband’s lineage on her arm, things would, at least on the surface, appear to be normal. They could all go on with their lives as if nothing had ever happened.
Nena shook the angry thoughts from her head, realizing they were irrational. Again, it had to be the lack of sleep and the Taymen affecting her judgment. Her father had nothing to gain by covering the miniscule evidence of his defeat from her arm. Not when his own skull was a shocking daily reminder to all.
Nena’s bladder awoke her in the darkness. She sat up disoriented and looked around the tent to get her bearings. Embers from a small cookfire illuminated the small space with soft orange light. She still slept on top of Jalla’s furs, though someone had covered her with a thick soft wolf pelt. Jalla and Exanthia slept together in a separate pile of furs on the opposite side of the small firepit. A new flat pan and two freshly washed plates sat tipped on their sides against a stone of the fire ring, and Nena smelled traces of wild onion and antelope. She had heard nothing of their return or the meal they had obviously prepared and eaten.
She stood and moved quietly toward the flap without waking them. As she exited the tent and walked toward the trees, she glanced up at the moon to gauge the time. It would soon be first light, though she couldn’t be sure of which day. At minimum, she had slept the entire day of their arrival and almost an entire night. She did feel more rested, and though she knew she could sleep more, she decided against returning to her furs. Instead she went to the baths, making the most of her early rising to avoid the other women there a bit longer.
When she returned to the tent, Jalla was just leaving with a fired-clay pot of tea. She glanced at Nena’s clean appearance with approval.
“Nena. I wondered where you’d gone so early. Perhaps you would take this tea to your father for me. It helps with his headaches.”
“Of course.” Nena took the tray from her.
“You will usually find him by the bend in the stream in the Meadow of the Idols,” Jalla suggested. “And I was going to take Exanthia to the training grounds this morning, if that is alright with you? She is eager to start her warrior training, and I see no reason for her to delay.”
Exanthia appeared from the tent at that moment, her hair freshly braided and wearing a new young warrior dress. Her face was filled with excitement and anticipation. Both seemed to be waiting for her permission.
Nena nodded and smiled.
Nena inhaled the sweet smell of ripe and rotting fruit as she passed between the twin obelisks that marked the west boundary of the Meadow of the Idols. The fruit trees planted within the sacred space to ensure the gods had sufficient nourishment, were laden with fruit this year and much had already fallen to the ground. The gods would be pleased. Carefully balancing the tray on her hip, Nena reached up between the branches for a dark purple plum and plucked it from its hidden place nestled between the glossy green leaves.
She rubbed it briefly against her dress, then raised it to her lips. The tart skin burst as soon as her teeth touched it, spraying the sweet juice into her mouth. She closed her eyes and savored it. They were better than she remembered. Though the trees were maintained for the gods, the people of the tribe were allowed to share in the bounty, but only by taking the fruit from the west half of each tree. The sweetest fruit that was first touched by the sun every morning was always left for the gods.
Still sucking the last shreds of sweetness from the pit, Nena made her way through the tall carved stone idols. She found her father exactly where Jalla had described, sitting where the creek made a sharp turn, with his back leaned against the gnarled trunk of an old pear tree. He looked up at her approach.
“Ah, Nena—and you have brought my tea. Very good. Sit and join me.” He patted the grass next to him. “When Jalla first made this for me, I did not care for its flavor, but now I have acquired a taste for it. Would you like some?” he offered.
“No, thank you,” Nena declined as she sat cross-legged next to him. “Jalla said it helps with your headaches. Are they severe?”
“Not so bad anymore. The tea helps to keep them at bay. Initially she put other stronger things in it—juice of the poppy I am sure was one, though she knows how I feel about it, and still will not admit it. Now I believe it is down to just a few ingredients.”
“As injured as you were, how did you ever make it back here?” Nena asked the question that had been on her mind since first seeing his scars.
“Survivors of the Eastern Plains tribe discovered me among the bodies. I regained awareness only long enough to explain to them how to build the sky graves, and to request that they return me here, if I still lived, when they had completed them. I fully expected not to even begin the journey home, much less to survive it. They told me later they had found your brother, Ruga, but not you. All this time I feared they had not looked hard enough, and that your spirit might still be lost trying to make the great journey. They were so terrified the Northmen would return. They wanted nothing more than to flee the place. Only later did they admit they had not prepared sky graves for our escort warriors. Every day I worry for them, and part of me worries even for Ruga, if they truly did as they claimed.”
“Ruga is safe with our ancestors, Father. There was a point when I was a captive that I approached the afterlife. I felt Ruga there. And Mother.” She shook her head and frowned at the recollection. “Which was strange because I barely knew her. Yet I recognized her spirit as if we had been close.”
“So you were badly wounded, too,” he said, nodding as if he had expected no less. “Your body has healed well; you show no signs of mortal injury.”
“I was not wounded, Father. I became very ill with a deadly sickness they called the Northman’s Curse. Many among the prisoners contracted it. I was the only one to survive.”
Her father cocked his head and looked at her curiously. “Never before did I believe people could return from being so close to the afterlife. But I, too, felt your mother when I was injured. Ruga was not there, so your words bring me great comfort. It was strange, though. Your mother did not welcome me. It was as if she was trying to tell me it was not my time. Was it the same for you?” he asked.
“No,” Nena said. Her father’s words disturbed her; they confirmed her earlier suspicion that Jarl was the only reason she yet lived. For her, the afterlife had been very welcoming, but Jarl’s hold on her had been too strong—stronger even than the gods. He had pulled her back.
“Ah, probably just the delusions of a wounded old man,” her father sa
id as he took another sip of tea. “You know, with only one eye, I will never raid again, and worse, something is wrong inside my head. I can no longer ride a horse. The world spins uncontrollably if my feet are not firmly on the ground.” He paused and looked at her. “No one else knows that.”
Nena opened her mouth to argue with him. He was not old. He was Meln. He was strong and powerful. But as she looked at him now with the shock of white hair growing from the injured area of his scalp, quietly sipping his tea, she realized that even though he was also home and still chief, much had changed for him as well. Most telling was the fact that he was having such a heartfelt discussion with her at all. Her father was a different man.
“Are the survivors of the Eastern Plains tribe who brought you home, still here?” she asked.
“No. Once their wounded were healed, they were sent on their way. They were well-rewarded for their efforts and well-supplied with provisions for their journey. I will always be grateful to them, but they are not Teclan.”
Nena nodded and was thankful again for Exanthia’s easy and unobstructed acceptance.
“Have you given thought to your decision?” he asked.
She knew he referred to her next choosing. “Yes, but no decision has been made.”
“I know you think my words about choosing another so soon to be callous, but know that I am not unsympathetic to what you have endured, or your feelings on this matter. You must trust me that my decision is for your own good.”
“Yes, Father.” Nena nodded, but her mind raced. He would never have spoken so to her before—never felt the need to justify his decisions. That he did so now was staggering to her.
“When one is left alone with certain memories, those memories can become like the iron vine growing inside,” he explained. “If left unchallenged and not replaced, their vines grow very quickly, and eventually they will strangle your spirit. Even the greatest warrior cannot fight them. You must make new memories, now, before their grip on you is too strong to break. Only when new experiences fill the places within you, will the others wither and fade. Only then can you have your life back as it was before. Only then can your spirit have peace. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she murmured. Her life back as it was before. Was such a thing possible? But it had to be; that was why she’d escaped and returned here. How did her father know these things?
“And the warriors here are not unfamiliar to you,” he continued. “You know them all—have known them your entire life as warriors and as men, so you will not be making a hasty decision from strangers. I expect you to choose one soon. It is the best thing for you, Nena. If too much time is allowed to pass, it could be too late.”
She nodded. “I understand, Father.”
“Good. Now you should go and reacquaint yourself with your friends, and not waste any more of your first day home sitting here with me. There will be many who are pleased to see you.”
Nena nodded and stood. As she left the Meadow of the Idols, she saw Lothor approaching and paused to wait for him. He looked up, then turned suddenly and walked in a different direction. That was odd. She was sure he’d seen her. She followed him, adjusting her own course to head him off in the trees. Maybe he had just recalled something else he had to do, and she was being overly sensitive, but even upon her return, she had felt his attitude toward her had been strange. She quickened her step. She would know the truth soon enough.
“Lothor, may we speak?” she asked when she caught up to him.
He stiffened but nodded.
“I fear you are angry with me. Have I done something to offend you?” she asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
“There is nothing, Nena.” He shook his head and turned to leave.
“I have never known my brother to be a coward,” she said to his back.
He stopped and turned back to face her, his eyes blazing, but his mouth set in a firm tight line.
“Yet that is the only explanation I can find for why he is afraid to confront his sister.”
“You wish to know why I am angry?” he seethed. “There are too many reasons to count. I am angry that the gods did not choose for you here—that the trip to the Eastern Plains tribe was ever made. I am angry that I was stuck here and could do nothing. I am angry that Ruga is dead. I am angry that our father, a great warrior, is now a shadow of his former self. I am angry that the Northmen responsible will sail away and possibly never return for me to have my revenge.
“I am angry that these things happened and you did not stop them. Instead you allowed yourself to be taken prisoner. At first, I was also angry for you, fearing your unimaginable torture at their hands. Yet here you return, months later, your circle filled in, your body unscathed. No scars from even so much as a scratch that I can see. Did you fight at all? Did you fight when our brother was being killed or our father’s head bashed in? Or could you not wait to offer up your first union to save yourself?”
“How dare you!” Nena hissed. She had been so taken aback by his initial attack, it was the first she could gather her thoughts and retaliate. “How dare you question the gods without fear of their reprisal. And how dare you question me! I am the daughter of Meln! The fighting blood that flows through your veins, flows equally through mine! I had eight kills that day. Eight!” she repeated, her voice nearing a shout. “How many battles can you ever claim the same?”
Lothor only stared at her.
“Answer me!” she demanded.
“In no battle have I had eight kills,” he admitted, his voice still choked with rage.
“Had the other warriors present averaged but a single kill each, the Northmen would have walked this earth no more. And no, I did not look for Ruga or Father in the fighting. Had I done so, maybe I would have killed only seven, and the last one would not have bashed in Father’s head, but cut it off instead. To suggest you would have done differently is a lie. You know that, and yet you shame yourself with this outburst and these accusations. Luckily for Father, he could not hear you, or it would have wounded him deeper than the enemy’s battle-axe ever did.”
Lothor took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Eight kills is an impressive feat. But then what? How many did you kill after you were captured?”
Nena didn’t answer.
“Any?” he prodded. He could tell by her expression and silence the answer was no. “How is that possible? How is it possible that you killed eight within hours, but then managed not to kill even a single one in months? Were you chained the whole time? Your arms do not show evidence of shackles. And when you escaped—could you not even kill one then?”
At his reference to being chained, Nena’s mind skimmed back to the special fur-lined cuffs Jarl had the forger craft to not mar her skin. She could not tell Lothor of those. Her mind moved to her escape and Jarl’s guard outside the tent or the wounded guard by the horses. She could have easily killed either one of them.
Lothor stared at her, his face twisted with pain and disbelief at her silent pondering. “How could you become soft to them, Nena? They killed Ruga! They almost killed Father! I, unlike you, Sister, have a hatred for the Northmen that burns so hot in my chest, I fear it can never be quenched. I pray to the gods every day for the opportunity to kill them—to avenge Ruga’s death, my father’s injuries, and my sister’s dishonor.”
“Do not speak to me of dishonor! Or criticize how I fought, when you’ve been sitting here safe on the mountain, doing nothing,” she spat. Lothor winced. Nena knew her brother—knew pointing out his inaction would wound him deeper than anything else she could say. She didn’t care. His words had cut her deeply and, in her own pain, she lashed back. “The day I escaped, I could have easily killed several of their warriors, but to do so would not only have jeopardized my escape, the discovery of their bodies could have led to my absence being noted too early. I could not afford that—could not afford to lose even a single moment. Because wh
en I escaped, Lothor, I was thinking beyond selfish revenge and my own desire to return home. I was thinking of saving a fellow tribe—our blood. Had I killed a few Northmen for retribution that may have never happened. Though I suppose you would consider that an acceptable loss? Our aunt’s entire tribe for a few Northmen?”
They glared at each other for a long moment, both breathing hard.
Lothor proceeded, his words quieter, but no less angry. “Ever since the plains tribe returned with Father and word of the attack, I have wanted nothing more than to take our warriors and fly from this mountain in a wave of death never seen before. But since Father clung to life, and I was not yet chief, the council would not allow it. So you are correct, Sister, I sat here safe and helpless, unable to do anything until Father awoke. When he opened his eyes, I was overjoyed—not only that he still lived, but that my time had finally come. Then he, too, forbade me to pursue them, as he has continued to do every day when I petition him. It is almost as if he is afraid,” he said, his voice filled with bitterness.
“But know this. When I am chief, it will be my mission in life to rid the world of Northmen. I pray the ones responsible will return so they, too, can fall to my blade. But even if they do not, I will bring my wrath down upon every single one of them who ever dares to come here again. Spilling their blood is all I think about from the time my eyes open in the morning until they close at night.” He paused and stared at her. “These are the words I should be hearing from you, and Father, and it sickens me that I do not.” He turned on his heel and strode away.
NENA RETURNED TO Jalla’s tent, still shaken by the confrontation with Lothor. She found Exanthia sitting alone outside.
“Why are you not practicing with the other girls?” Nena asked
Exanthia chewed an edge of one of her fingernails. “They are in-between lessons,” she mumbled.
“But surely the next will start soon.” Nena remembered her own classes as a youth.