by A. E. Rayne
Edela looked so puzzled and lost in her thoughts that Jael felt unsettled. Her grandmother was always so calm and absolute but now... she just looked lost. ‘What sort of something?’
Edela hesitated. ‘It’s very hard to explain. It is... a darkness. A thick cloud of suffocating darkness. And I see it on Oss, around you and Eadmund. On more than Oss really, on the other islands too. It is an evil thing, this darkness, an old, evil thing that has not been seen or felt for so long... I think we may have all forgotten that it ever existed.’
Jael was both intrigued and puzzled. ‘A bad omen, you mean?’
Edela shook her head. ‘No, no, that is not it. I think it is magic, dark magic of the blackest sort. The type of magic that was banished to the farthest reaches of the land, locked and hidden away...’ She stopped herself then, a fearful realisation gripping her face as a long-forgotten memory flickered. She wrapped her mind quickly around it, willing herself to hold on, lest it slip away.
Jael could barely breathe; the heat from the fire was oppressive. Rain had started to fall, dripping down the smoke hole, sizzling the flames into an angry protest. ‘I don’t understand,’ was all she could say. ‘Magic? Who is using this magic? And why?’
Edela was beginning to regain her composure now. She felt a growing understanding of what her dreams may mean, pulsing through her veins. ‘The Tuuran gods are not spoken about here, not anymore. I used to tell you their stories when you were small, but you grew bored listening because I didn’t speak of swords and battles, and bloody deaths.’
Jael smiled, remembering.
‘But if you’d listened more closely, you would have heard tales that were just as bloodthirsty and death-riddled as you wanted. You would have heard about Raemus, who was the God of Darkness, the Father of Time. He grew so lonely, that he made for himself, a wife, Dala. She hated the Darkness, though, and her heart was heavy to be with him in such an empty, desolate place. And so, they had a child together, and that child was named Aurea, and she was the Goddess of Light. And now it was Raemus’ turn to be unhappy, for he did not wish to exist in such a world, but he loved Dala, so he remained loyally by her side, suffering, while she created a world of sun and water, and living creatures, and all things that grew in the light. Life flourished all around her in the Realm of the Gods and here, on Earth.’ Edela paused to catch her breath. ‘And Raemus grew jealous of all the love and attention his wife gave to the humans, and the animals, and the other gods. In his eyes, it was as though he no longer existed to her, so he hid away in the darkest corners he could find, plotting to return to that time when she belonged only to him, when they had existed alone, in the Darkness, together.’ Edela reached out for her iron poker and prodded the dying embers.
‘And so, what happened?’
‘You don’t remember?’ Edela chided with half a smile. ‘Well, Raemus created the Book of Darkness, and in it, he wrote down all the ways in which he could bring about the end of light. He wanted to destroy life on Earth, to destroy everything that had come between him and Dala. He couldn’t ask any of the other gods to join him, so he shared the secrets of the book with humans, those with like-minded, black hearts, and he turned them from the light. He found many broken souls willing to return to the Darkness with him, to become part of the secret army he forged.’ She shook her head. ‘What those people imagined a world of pure darkness would bring to them, I will never understand. But his followers used his spells and his teachings, and created a path of destruction, killing and burning, destroying the people and the land around them. Of course, it eventually came to Dala’s attention that this dark magic was being used, and she knew that she must act to protect her people. So, as much as it broke her heart to do so, she killed Raemus. But she could not recover the book. He had hidden its presence under carefully woven spells, so that Dala and all those who wished it destroyed, would never find it. Whether it was ever found, I do not know.’
Jael frowned. ‘Do you think that is what you are dreaming about? That someone has found the book? But surely it’s just a story?’
‘Not in Tuura, it’s not,’ Edela snapped. ‘Our gods were the ones who made Tuura, the land your father’s people took from us and turned into their Osterland. In Tuura, the stories of the gods are taught to our children. Not as tales or fantasy but as lessons in our history, of how our people came to be, how our land was formed.’
Jael chewed on that for a moment. ‘If this book did exist, and if someone has found it... what could they do with it?’
‘I don’t know. The book is not something that is spoken of, not anymore, except as a warning to those wishing to pursue a dark path.’ She paused, considering. ‘Raemus was also the first God of Magic, so that book would have been filled with every spell he imagined, and he imagined his magic in a dark, dark way.’
‘But still, if he hid the book that carefully, then surely no one could ever find it? And if they did, he must have protected it as well. It seems like an impossible theory, Grandmother.’
Edela looked towards the flames, her mind wandering. It was one line of thought; a direct line towards the darkness that her dreams were warning her about. But perhaps Jael was right, perhaps it was a step too far? She certainly didn’t want to envision the destruction the book could cause if it were found.
‘Grandmother?’ Jael was talking to herself, though; Edela had slipped quietly away, trying to piece the remnants of her long-forgotten memories together into an answer, an explanation... afraid of what she would find.
5
‘There is hope!’ Eirik mocked.
Eadmund staggered across the frost-powdered stones towards his father, shielding his eyes against the only moderately bright sun. Dawn had barely broken, and Eadmund wasn’t sure he’d been awake this early in years; awake perhaps, but not upright and certainly not outside, walking about with the other day-dwellers. It was not an experience he hoped to repeat in a hurry, but his father had asked, well no, demanded he meet with him to discuss the wedding feast. ‘You may call it hope, Father, but for me, it is certain punishment from the gods.’ Eadmund rolled his eyes dramatically, unsure which felt worse: the idea that he was about to be married, or the burning bile that was swimming around his mouth. He swallowed repeatedly.
‘Yes, well they should be angry with a waste like you, for how many battles have you avoided these past few years? Enough to know that your place in Vidar’s Hall is unlikely, to be sure.’
‘True. I shall no doubt die miserably in a pile of vomit, cursed to spend the Afterlife with the saddest, most useless pieces of shit the world has known. Perhaps Grandfather will be there to keep me company?’ He spat onto the stones and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth; he needed a drink.
That broke Eirik’s hard-worn face into a crooked smile. He clapped Eadmund on the back. ‘You may have lost your appetite for battle but never your sense of humour, my son!’
Eirik felt genuinely happy on this unusually fine day. He stood on the beach, next to Eadmund, inhaling the sharp morning air, enjoying the clear view of pale sky and dark sea, admiring all that he was king of. It felt good; he felt good today. He was so close to achieving all that he had hoped for. One step away from formalising his alliance with Brekka; one step away from getting a wife into Eadmund’s bed at long last.
The Furycks would arrive tomorrow, and to his great surprise, everything was ready; almost ready, he reminded himself. He still had to check on the progress of the bridal bed, his gift to the couple. It had been under construction for some years now, in the hope that he would eventually find Eadmund a new wife. Eirik wanted it to be the most luxurious bed his daughter-in-law had ever slept in; a gift worthy of a queen. So far nobody had managed to achieve the high standard he demanded, but he was determined not to settle for anything less.
Eirik may have been a king, but he was a roughly cut, self-made one. His royal line extended back as far as himself, and beyond that lay the blood-smeared stain his turd of a father had left
behind when he’d beheaded him. So, he never fooled himself into thinking that he knew how to act like a real king, like Lothar, a king whose ancestors stretched far, far back, all the way to Furia. Her son had been the first Furyck king and now, here, two thousand years on, her only female descendant was marrying his son, the first of his line. For Eirik, it was perfect; it was a beginning.
For Eadmund, however, it felt like an ending, and as he stood there watching his father vibrating with excitement, he could feel the weight of what was to come pushing him slowly into the thick bed of stones they stood on. He dug his well-bitten fingernails into his sweaty palms and swallowed again. ‘What did you want me for, Father?’
‘Tomorrow. The Furycks will arrive tomorrow,’ Eirik blinked anxiously, his smile fading. ‘I need you to understand what is going to happen. What I expect of you.’
‘I hardly think that needs a conversation,’ Eadmund sighed. ‘You want me to be standing, awake at all times and to say all the right things when it is time to do so.’ He grinned quickly at his father, eager to be gone.
‘Well yes, that is all true,’ Eirik agreed, ignoring his smile. ‘But you need to do it. Actually, do it. I don’t want Lothar to change his mind. That would ruin everything.’
‘He’s not going to change his mind if he sees me flat out on the ground, pissing my trousers. He’s going to be even happier that he’s giving his problem niece away to Eadmund the Drunkard. I shall be living up to the name!’ Eadmund smiled, raising an imaginary cup to the sea.
‘That may be true, of course, but I don’t care. You will be Eadmund the Very Sober and Not Going to Humiliate His Father while they are here. Or I shall kill you. Or worse, I shall bring your brother back,’ Eirik said without humour.
That brought an end to Eadmund’s light-hearted mood. He turned on his father with serious eyes. ‘Not that, Father. Promise me you won’t do that.’
Eirik took a deep breath and stared out across the sea, to the stone spires in the distance. He felt the weight of all that had been said between them on the subject. He knew what Eadmund thought, what Eadmund believed to be true, but he had to put Oss and all of the islands before any personal grievance, no matter how serious.
‘I won’t promise you that!’ Eirik growled. ‘Oss needs a king when I die. I want to leave a legacy behind. I don’t want to be the only king these islands ever had, that all I achieved meant nothing... just a murmur on the wind... forgotten. I want to leave something behind of me, and if it can’t be you, then it will have to be Ivaar.’
‘But –’
‘But nothing! You have your chance. I’ve arranged this marriage for you. Show me you can be the next king, Eadmund,’ he implored, turning to his son. ‘Whatever your brother has done in the past, I won’t hesitate to call on him if you let me down again.’
Eirik was in no mood to tiptoe about his youngest son’s ego; he wouldn’t let Eadmund ruin this. He had been endlessly patient, but there would be an end to it and that end was coming quickly. He knew he didn’t have time to wait.
They were leaving in the morning, and he still wasn’t here.
Jael chewed anxiously on her lip as she sat in front of the fire, watching the flames shrink, bit by bit. Biddy was fussing about in a corner of the cottage, preparing for tomorrow’s sailing, preparing for bed. They would leave early, to arrive in time for an evening feast on Oss. The following day would be the marriage ceremony and then more feasting. Too much feasting, Jael thought miserably. And no Aleksander.
She kept alternating between being unreasonably furious and desperately worried that something had happened to him, but which one was it and where was he? She had been so confident that he would be back in time, but that had evaporated now, leaving behind an empty hole of disappointment and doubt.
‘Goodnight, Jael,’ Biddy whispered as she climbed into her small bed. There really wasn’t room for three people inside the tiny cottage, but Biddy had taken care of Jael since she was a baby and Jael was hopeless without her, so she had insisted on squeezing Biddy into a corner.
‘Sleep well,’ she replied, grateful that at least Biddy would be allowed to stay with her on Oss.
It was late. Jael sighed and blew out the lamp that was burning on the shelf by her bed. She had resigned herself to the new day coming, to there being no Aleksander to say goodbye to, but she just couldn’t bring herself to get into their bed alone. Snatching up her cloak and belt, she slipped out of the cottage as quietly as she could.
Jael saw no one as she walked into town, just a few scavenging cats hunting for scraps and rats. It was bitterly cold, and most people were warming themselves by a fire or wrapped under furs, sharing their body heat with eager companions. Jael wandered slowly through the shadowed maze of houses as the night hushed about her, snow falling silently to the ground. She thought of going to Tig, just to stroke him and feel his warm, comforting breath as he nuzzled her face but she didn’t want to wake him. He hated sailing and would need as much good humour as possible for his journey across the Nebbar Straights in the morning.
Jael sensed movement behind her and turned to see that the guards in the main watchtower had roused themselves out of their shelter. They were calling down to someone outside the gates. Their voices were muffled, but Jael was immediately on edge. She slipped her hand inside her cloak, adjusting her belt, assuring herself that her sword was within reach. She started towards the gates, her boots crunching softly across the quickly settling snow.
The gates were being eased open now; someone they knew, then? Jael quickened her pace, her heartbeat loud in her ears as she watched a tall, hooded figure step tentatively inside. She stilled, her breathing shallow. The figure raised one arm towards the guards in thanks; his left arm. And then she knew, and she rushed towards the man, who, looking up, saw her and dropped his hood.
Aleksander.
Jael threw her body into his, nearly knocking him backwards. He was so weak and tired, but he stood long enough to wrap his arms around her in relief. She was still here, he wasn’t too late! Breaking the embrace to look at her face, he inhaled her skin, kissed her cold nose, her eyes, her lips, and then held her tightly to him again. She was still here!
‘What happened to you? Where have you been?’ Jael implored, peering at his weary face, then frowned, noticing that he’d arrived alone, on foot. She looked behind him, confused. ‘Where’s Ren?’
Aleksander’s face crumbled. His horse, Ren, had been given to him by Ranuf. He was the brother of Jael’s horse, his most beloved friend, and he was gone. ‘Wolves,’ was all he could get out. Snow was falling thickly between them now; his eyes were heavy with misery, as he brushed the dense snowflakes out of hers. ‘Fucking wolves. It’s all my fault. I should have sensed them, heard them, something. Ren was acting strangely. But I was so... preoccupied... I thought he was just spooked by the storm. I didn’t see them until it was too late... it’s all my fault.’
‘Wolves?’ Jael reached out and touched his face, shocked. ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry.’ She loved that horse, that beautiful, gentle horse, almost as much as Aleksander did. She knew how much pain he must be in, how much she would be in if it had been Tig. She wrapped her arms around him tightly. Snow was in her mouth, her hair, and her eyes; she could barely see now. Taking Aleksander’s frozen hand in hers, she led him home, back to their cottage, for the last time.
In the Great Hall on Oss, bodies were falling about in a happy state of ale-induced slumber. Much had been made about toasting Eadmund, on his last night of freedom, before the she-witch from Brekka arrived.
Well, if they wanted to call her that, Eirik supposed, they could. He couldn’t say she wasn’t, but he trusted Eydis and Eydis believed that Jael would save her brother; he couldn’t imagine a she-witch capable of such a gentle thing. So, they made fun of Eadmund’s future wife with Eirik’s blessing, drunk more than most could handle, engaged in a few half-hearted fights, poked fun at couples humping in darkened corners, badly sang a lot of songs
, and now, finally, a rumbling, snoring peace was descending upon the hall and Eirik was ready for bed.
He smiled wistfully, manoeuvring his way through the maze of bodies littered about the floor; the lucky ones curled up on rows of fur-covered beds lining the sides of the hall. His youth had been filled with nights such as these. Nights that deepened the bonds of friendship forged on battlefields. Nights where problems and fears were shut outside, behind heavy wooden doors, so that all that existed was this happy, drunken brotherhood.
In his sentimental state, Eirik stumbled, tripping over a discarded plate, slipping on a greasy trail of congealed meat juice. He shook himself awake, cross at his carelessness, not wanting to appear as old and clumsy as he feared he was becoming.
The fires were burning down now, but he could still make out the bloated form of Eadmund, lying prone on a bench, as though he had been felled by a hefty axe, his mouth open wide enough to swallow an apple. Eirik was surprised the bench didn’t collapse under the weight. He frowned, wondering what state his son would be in tomorrow. But then, they had a whole day to sober him up, which would surely be enough time?
‘Thorgils,’ Eirik whispered hoarsely to the tall man who was helping to clear up around some of the men, lest they wake up in the morning, face-deep in a pig’s mouth or worse.
Thorgils looked up, half drunk, half asleep. ‘I thought you would have been tucked up in your bed long ago,’ he smiled. ‘I didn’t think this night would keep you here so long.’
‘Ahhh, but I’m not that old and dull yet,’ Eirik laughed quietly. ‘I have a few more nights to come, I think. Just a few. Unlike Eadmund here, who probably has hundreds, if not thousands of nights like this to snore through. Although, if he ruins tomorrow, well, this will surely be his last.’