*
Dahleven was almost satisfied with their camp. They’d climbed higher, above the stream, so their sentries could see anyone who approached from that direction. It wasn’t the most defensible position, but it was the best they could do.
He hadn’t been so cautious two nights ago, when they’d found Lady Celia, nor at the midday break yesterday. Had that contributed to the attack? He didn’t think so. It was more likely ill luck, a chance encounter. A bad chance. Tewakwe seldom traveled this side of the Thorvald mountains, but who knew what the Renegades and Outcasts did?
Dahleven pulled himself back from his musings to hear the last of Fendrikanin’s tale of how Sorn won an oar-stepping contest at the last Festival. It was traditional for a dead man’s companions to toast him for three nights and tell of his deeds. They hadn’t any mead or ale to honor Sorn properly, but his stories would be told, and by the third night they’d be home. Then the beer and wine would flow, and the golden tongues of the skalds could give Sorn the honor he deserved.
Ghav cleared his throat and the men’s attention turned to him. “Let me tell you, Sorn was quieter than a mouse, and I have the tale to prove it.
“A year ago this month, during the Feast of Fanlon, our Sorn was strolling home in the dark hour before dawn, when he came upon one of his sweet friends weeping. Now Sorn was weary from drink and dancing, but he had the tenderest heart any sister could wish for, so he could hardly pass by without stopping. ‘My dear,’ says he, ‘Why are you weeping?’
“And the young maid answers, ‘I’ve been with Rolf, and he’s asked me to marry him.’
“‘And that gives you cause to weep?’
“‘No, of course not!’ she says, blushing as maidens do. ‘But I’ve stayed out past the time when my father expected me home. His anger is a fearful thing. If he learns that Rolf kept me out so late he’ll beat me and lock me in the house for a year.’
“Sorn had witnessed the man’s anger himself, so he knew the lady spoke the truth. ‘The lights are out,’ he suggests to the girl, ‘Slip in through the kitchen door.’
“‘I daren’t,’ she says. ‘Father is such a light sleeper. He wakes at a mouse’s sneeze.’ And at that, the young maid begins to weep again.
“Sorn thinks for a moment, then tells the girl to dry her eyes. ‘I’ll help you,’ says he.”
Someone groaned, anticipating the trouble Sorn’s kindness would earn him.
Ghav continued. “As soon as she dries her eyes, Sorn scoops her up into his arms. The girl squeaks, and Sorn says, ‘Be as quiet as the dew, and I’ll get you inside.’ And Sorn carries her into the house and up the stair, making less sound than an owl’s wing.
“He sets the lady down at her bedroom door, nods a silent farewell, and makes his way back down the hall. But then, just as he’s passing by the old man’s door, a mouse runs out of its hole, its little nails skritch, skritch, skritching on the floor. Sorn stands still and silent, and for a moment he thinks himself safe. But then the mouse comes closer, its little feet loud in the quiet night. Inside the room, Sorn hears the girl’s father cough and stir.
“Sorn knew what he had to do. Quick as lightning, before it could take another step, Sorn scoops up the mouse, runs down the hall, and out the kitchen door as quiet as a butterfly.” Ghav paused, as if savoring the anticipation of his audience.
“I know this is true, because I came along just as Sorn emerged onto the street. There he was, stepping out of a dark house, breathing hard and red in the face. ‘What mischief have you been up to this Feastnight?’ ask I, knowing the sort of fun young men are like to have.
“‘Why, none at all,’ says he.
“‘And I suppose that’s a mouse in your pocket?’“
“‘Yes, indeed, and here it is!’ and he dangles the furry mite by its tail in front of my nose.”
The men groaned softly, grinning. Dahleven just shook his head. It was an outrageous mangling of what really happened, but true to Sorn’s spirit. He flashed Ghav a smile before he stood. The rest took his signal, and they quickly dispersed to their blankets.
Dahleven hesitated, then offered Lady Celia a hand to rise. He liked the way she wrapped her long fingers around his wrist in a practical grasp. She got to her feet slowly, despite his help. She’ll be stiff in the morning. He gestured to Ghav, and the older man escorted her beyond the edge of camp. Dahleven wasn’t ready to perform that intimate courtesy.
Something had changed between them today. She no longer prickled every time he offered her help. She was still proud, but it was an honorable pride, and she hadn’t quenched her thirst until the last waterskin had been handed out.
He stood for a moment, staring at his blanket. It might be better if we were still biting at each other. He remembered how it felt, with her soft curves pressed against him. Was it only yesterday morning? Then he remembered her fingers clasped with Sorn’s and her desolate sobs, and shook himself. The woman was grieving for his sworn brother.
Ghav returned with Lady Celia, his blanket tucked under his arm. “I thought you might want to share my blanket with me.”
Dahleven looked at his old friend with relief. Though Ghav couldn’t ease the pain of Sorn’s loss, with him as chaperon, sleep might come easier. “An excellent idea,” Dahleven said.
Ghav spread his blanket and lay down by the edge. Lady Celia took the middle, pulling in tight to take up as little space as possible, trying to avoid touching, and being touched. Dahleven shook his blanket, letting it float down neatly upon the three of them. As he lay down with his back to her, he tried to ignore the faint fragrance of flowers.
*
Cele was running. In the distance, her mother and Sorn were playing cards, perched on the rainbow colored rails of the train track. Sorn bid two hearts. Cele shouted, but no sound came out. Coming down the hill, a train raced toward them, picking up speed. She’d never get to them in time! She ran and ran, heart pounding, legs pumping, but the distance never got shorter. There was nothing she could do. If only they would look up, get out of the way, but they didn’t. Her mother slapped her cards down triumphantly. A royal flush, all hearts. Cele screamed at her mother to move, but again she made no sound. The ground shook. The train bore down on them, its huge old-fashioned engine belching thick black smoke. Suddenly, Dahleven ran by. He’d get there in time, but he could only save one. She kept running. Then she tripped and went sprawling. Dahleven stopped, turning his back on Sorn and her mother to help her up.
*
Cele jerked awake, gasping, clammy with leftover fear. No! Her heart pounded. Her mother was dead. Sorn was dead. If she’d been faster, if she hadn’t fallen…No, she hadn’t fallen. She’d shouted. And Sorn had died.
Cele covered her face with one arm, but the nightmare’s images remained sharp and accusing. She groaned. It was just a dream. Just a dream. She sucked in a deep breath. But Sorn is still dead. And it was all her fault.
Dahleven touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Cele lowered her arm, feeling embarrassed. Dawn had barely begun to pale the eastern sky, but Dahleven and Ghav had already risen, leaving her alone in the blankets. At least she wasn’t waking up wrapped around Dahleven like a clinging vine. “I’m fine.” She started to get up, but as soon as she moved, the muscles of her thighs and calves screamed. She winced and gasped as pain lanced through her legs.
Dahleven crouched by her feet. He gave her a wry smile and spoke softly. “We’re all feeling yesterday’s climb, Lady Celia, but not as terribly as you, it seems.” His breath fogged in the cold mountain air and his deep voice rumbled like a big cat’s purr, soothing away her nightmare. Hesitantly, he asked, “If you will permit me, I can rub away some of the stiffness.”
Cele suddenly felt warm. Anticipation danced around the idea of him touching her on purpose, and she didn’t like that feeling. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. She wasn’t attracted to him. She didn’t even like him. Well, maybe a little. He’d been kind to her after Sorn died, af
ter all. But not in that way. She just needed a bit of help to get moving. She nodded. But Dahleven didn’t put his hands on her directly. He began massaging through the blanket.
Involuntarily, Cele tensed and drew in a sharp breathy gasp. She needn’t have worried about any erotic undertones. The pain was terrible as his hands forced blood into her sore muscles.
Dahleven’s hands stilled but remained on her thigh. Now that he wasn’t rubbing, his large hands felt warm and comforting. He looked at her, his face drawn in concern. “My apologies. Your muscles are badly knotted.” He lifted her leg, moving it through its range of motion.
Cele winced as her muscles protested, but didn’t stop him. It had to be done if she was going to do more than hobble today. She looked into his gray eyes and saw compassion swirling in storm-cloud depths—something she wouldn’t have given him credit for two days ago.
“You must have been suffering yesterday. You should have said something.”
“I didn’t want to slow us down. We needed to make up time.” Cele repeated what he’d said, but without reproach.
Dahleven nodded, as if acknowledging more than they had spoken aloud.
Abruptly, he pulled his hands away. Their absence left her feeling chilled. “I’m an idiot. Ghav should be doing this and taking your pain, rather than causing you more.” Dahleven looked past her. “Ghav, come here, would you? Lady Celia has need of your Talent.”
The older man came over, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Yesterday’s climb has knotted her legs.” Dahleven rocked back on his heels and stood, making room for the Healer.
Ghav’s face relaxed. “I can help with that.” He pulled the blanket aside, then poured some amber liquid from a flask into his palm. The oil bore a soft fragrance reminiscent of cinnamon. Ghav warmed the oil first in his hands, then smoothed it onto Cele’s calves and thighs.
Cele tensed, anticipating the pain she’d felt before, but it didn’t come. The soreness in her legs had begun to fade with Ghav’s arrival. Now, as he touched her, it disappeared entirely, in spite of his kneading massage. Cele relaxed and leaned back on her braced elbows, watching him curiously. The effect of his Talent hadn’t been so obvious before, when he doctored her scrapes. They hadn’t hurt as much. Sorn had explained about Talents, but now she realized she really hadn’t understood. Ghav’s ability was almost…magical.
No. There has to be another explanation. The oil might carry a drug that was being absorbed through the skin. But the pain faded before he even touched me. The power of suggestion? But she didn’t believe it was that, either.
In this place, a man could take away another’s pain. Or move silently. Or find a path just by thinking about it.
It didn’t fit into her understanding of how the world worked. But this was a different world. And whether it made sense or not, she had felt it, heard it, and seen it.
What a blessing Ghav’s Talent would be for a paramedic. An E.M.T. would love to ease a person’s pain just by showing up. But it would be a curse as well as a blessing. Pain carried a message about what was wrong; a message Ghav couldn’t hear when he got too close to his patients. Everything has a price.
Then she noticed Dahleven was still standing there, frowning, as he watched Ghav’s hands on her muscles. He seemed lost in thought. Is he worried I’ll slow them down today?
The sky was lighter now, and the men not on watch started crawling out of their blankets.
“Hey! Lindimer! Why didn’t you wake me for my watch?” Halsten called as he threw aside his blankets.
Dahleven stiffened, all attention. Ghav stopped rubbing Cele’s legs.
Halsten and Fendrikanin came to Dahleven, sleep banished from their faces.
“My Lord! Lindy and Knut didn’t call us for sentry duty.” The urgency in Fender’s voice made it clear that he wasn’t just remarking on getting a few extra hours of sleep.
“Find them.” Dahleven ordered.
Falsom and Kep went one way, Halsten and Fender another, moving quietly, though not as quietly as Sorn would have.
Dahleven pulled his sword, and Ghav wiped his hands, grabbed his bow, and knocked an arrow.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Cele asked.
Dahleven raised a hand, commanding silence as he scanned their surroundings. Cele pulled on her boots to be ready, though she wasn’t sure for what.
A minute passed. Two. Three.
The crunching of brush announced Fender and Halsten’s return a moment before they appeared, bearing Lindimer between them. They laid him on the ground gently, as if he slept, but one glance told Cele that Lindy would never wake again. His eyes were frozen wide in surprise, his mouth open in a silent shout. His throat had been slashed. Dried blood covered him like a grisly bib.
Cele swallowed convulsively and shut her eyes, but the image continued to swim in her mind. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be here, to look death in the face again so soon. She gazed up at Dahleven. He stood tall against the dawning sky, looking down at his murdered man. A muscle in his jaw bunched.
Halsten stood and reported. “We found him where he stood sentry. There’s no sign of a fight. What could have happened?”
Fendrikanin still knelt at Lindimer’s feet. “His Talent was Heimdal’s Ear, and the moon was still bright last night. He’d have heard anyone before they got that close, even a Cat Foot, and seen them, too.”
Falsom and Kep came back into the camp. Kepliner’s forward momentum faltered half a step when he saw Lindimer.
“We saw no sign. No footprints other than our own, no sign of Tewa or Outcast,” Falsom said.
“And no trace of Knut,” Kep added.
“Why would they carry him off?” Halsten asked. “They left Lindy where he lay.”
For a minute no one answered, leaving the question hanging in the air. Then Fender spoke. “No one carried him off. He left. After he killed Lindimer.”
Dahleven nodded, slowly. “Yes. So I think, also.”
The faces of the gathered men were stone, but flames of anger and horror flickered behind their eyes.
Dahleven broke the silence. “We must hurry. He’s had half the night to find his friends,” he spat the word, “and lead them back to us. Let us hope he’s had some trouble locating them.” He looked at each man as he spoke. “Falsom, Kep, stand sentry. Lady Celia and I will fill the waterskins. Fender, Halsten, Ghav, you must build a cairn for Lindy in too short a time.”
Dahleven turned immediately to gathering the waterskins. Cele got to her feet and followed, grateful for a reason to leave the vicinity of Lindimer’s bloody body.
*
First Sorn, and now Lindy. Brave men, both. Dahleven swallowed the sour taste that rose in his throat. All of them bore the same risks, but that didn’t make the loss of a man easier to bear. And Knut, that whoreson! Dahleven hoped a priest would have a chance to strip that dog’s get of his Talent before Dahleven killed him. May he freeze in Niflheim. The Council would declare Knut Outcast, and every man’s hand would turn against him to slay him on sight, without hesitation. But as far as Dahleven was concerned, Knut’s life was forfeit now.
Dahleven forced himself to bank his anger. He needed a clear mind to safeguard Lady Celia and get his remaining men home. As the two of them climbed down to the rocky rill, Dahleven was grateful the lady didn’t pester him with questions. Then he looked into her pale face, and guilt pinched him. She’d been through horror after horror, yet here she was helping rather than becoming hysterical. There is much to admire about her. Sorn was a lucky man, though for too short a time.
“Stay close,” he said. “I won’t let any harm come to you.”
She nodded. “I know.”
Those two words shouldn’t warm him as much as they did.
Ghav and the others had built an adequate cairn over Lindimer by the time he and Lady Celia returned. Not as good as Lindy deserved, but it would keep the scavengers from his bones. He asked Lady Celia to roll up the
blankets, then went to join the others. It pained him to do so, but prudence required that he leave Falsom and Kepliner on sentry, so only four of them sang Lindimer’s death song. Lindy should have had more to sing his passage out of Alfheim.
As Dahleven lifted his voice to blend with the others, he noted that Lady Celia stilled her movements and listened. Then he left his concerns about Great Talents, Tewakwe, Renegades, and Outcasts behind. His heart rode on the song, feeling the universal concerns of men, those things that defined them and bound them together: the fierce love for a newborn child; the pleasure of sliding into the soft warmth of a woman; the brotherhood of shared danger; and the joyous triumph of a foe vanquished.
When their song ended, Dahleven gave the order to move on, with a heart feeling both empty and full.
*
Thanks to Ghav’s Talent, Cele’s muscles no longer screamed with pain. She managed to keep up even though the climb was just as arduous as the previous day’s. She was glad to put distance between them and their last camp, though there was no way to leave the sadness behind. The image of Lindy’s stiff, staring face and his grisly bib of blood rose in her mind. She was glad Dahleven pushed them hard. Their pace kept her from thinking too much about what would happen if their enemies caught their small group. Dahleven gave her every possible assistance, but he didn’t slow for her.
The men around her were hyperalert. Their tension showed in their posture and actions: the way one or another of them would halt the group with a sudden word or gesture and everyone would listen, scanning the mountainside for movement. Their wariness was contagious, and Cele found herself jumping at every bird’s trill and broken twig.
They made the pass by late morning. Patches of snow still lay on the northern face of the slope, even in midsummer. When they reached the crest, Dahleven paused and drew Cele up to stand beside him. “This is Nuvinland.”
A high valley opened below them. Though trees obscured some of the view, Cele could see thick pine forests draping the mountains on either side. Lush green grasses grew in the wide meadows that broke up the forest, with flocks of tiny white and black flecks ranging over them. Sheep, she supposed. Other open areas looked more like tilled land and terraced fields. In the distance, on the right side of the valley, the sun winked off a pink granite wall that thrust out through the forest. It had an apron of bare ground and a cluster of buildings for a skirt, miniaturized by the distance. Far below, a river sparkled silently, too distant for the sound of its rushing waters to reach her ears.
Dangerous Talents Page 10