“Vali will not be Talentless!” Solveig interrupted. “Nor do I need to buy Gunnar’s loyalty with marriage. It is precisely because he is a fine man that he should choose his wife for reasons other than power and politics. He knows I will not oppose his leadership of the jarldom, should Vali…not be able to inherit. Until that time, to proclaim him publicly as successor would weaken Vali’s position. I will do nothing to harm my son. Not for any reason, nor for anyone.” Solveig had kept her voice low and controlled, but the intensity of her words wasn’t lessened.
Hafdan was announced and he hurried in, breaking the tension. A little younger than Dahleven, Hafdan stood tall yet relaxed, radiating self-confidence. He’d been a good choice to replace his cousin as Jarl, when Jorund’s ambition had driven him to the crime of house-burning two years ago. Hafdan bowed his courtesies to the room at large. “My apologies for my late arrival.”
“I’ve only just arrived myself, and we’re all still slaking our thirsts.” Dahleven said, pressing a tankard into Hafdan’s hand.
Hafdan smiled and took a swallow.
“Too much ale last night, Hafdan?” Yngvar bellowed from across the room. “You young pups haven’t enough experience in ruling or drinking to know your limits.”
Dahleven cringed inwardly. First one squabble, then another. Thank the gods the Althing brings the Jarls together only once a year. The Jarls had been calm and well-mannered for a while after they’d voted to Outcast one of their own. The shock of Jorund’s crime had subdued even Yngvar for a time. Apparently, that time was now past.
Ingdall, Yngvar’s heir, winced ever so subtly and stepped away from his father as the Jarl continued. “Or did your lady wife detain you late abed? She’s breeding again, yes? Women in her state are insatiable, aren’t they? I remember my own wife, once her sickness passed, couldn’t wait—”
Hafdan’s face stiffened in a rictus of control. Dahleven knew that only the truce of the Althing saved Yngvar from immediate and serious harm. Enviably, Hafdan had a true union of mind and heart with his lady wife, and felt any lack of courtesy toward her keenly.
“Yngvar!” Magnus voice cut sharply across the other Jarl’s. “Tell me about your new fishing fleet. I’m told you have five new ships.” Magnus strode across the room and drew Yngvar aside.
Dahleven had never understood how such a spineless man could habitually spout the most tactless and offensive things. Perhaps because no one thought him worth the effort to call him on it.
He glanced at Ingdall, where the man stood expressionless, trying to ignore the fuss caused by his father. He was very fair and looked nothing like his sire. How would it be to have a father who inspired derision rather than respect? Ingdall was a hard man to know: quiet, competent in the games, but not flashy.
Dahleven turned back to Hafdan, whose face was still rigid with anger. Dahleven nudged the tankard upward, clutched forgotten in Hafdan’s white-knuckled hand. “Drink.”
Hafdan pulled his daggered gaze from Yngvar’s back. He lifted his ale, took a sip, and swallowed tightly, his face relaxing a bit.
“Tell me about the new terracing of your fields,” Dahleven said. “I hear your crop yields have increased.”
Hafdan smiled grimly, as if to say, Don’t worry, I won’t kill the old fool—today, but he accepted the distraction Dahleven offered. “We decided to rotate the crops—”
“Kon Neven,” a servant announced in stentorian tones. The Jarls fell silent as Dahleven’s father entered the room.
Neven wasn’t exercising his Talent, but every eye followed him to the table. His green brocade tunic flashed with gems sewn across his chest in the pattern of his emblem, a swooping hawk. By comparison, the other Jarls looked like minor lordlings. Dahleven made no effort to suppress his proud smile.
Neven rested one hand on the back of the large chair at the head of the table. “My Lords, throughout the long years we have come together to hear the needs of our people and make the land prosper.” The ritual words were powerful, and sent a shiver up Dahleven’s back. “Just as our fathers in Midgard gathered, so do we now. We have feasted together, as we have since Fanlon’s day, and now we convene the Althing with this Council, to guide our future together.” He gestured with open hand, inviting the others to sit, then did so himself.
Dahleven sat on his father’s right. Father Wirmund took his place at the far end of the table, to Ragni’s left. Other than the four of them, no one had an assigned place, and no precedence was accorded any particular position. Thank the gods. We hardly need another source of contention.
After the usual shuffling and scraping of chair legs on the fitted stone floor, Neven regained the Jarls’ full attention. “My Lords, we have a matter of importance to consider, one beyond our usual concerns. Though not in equal measure, all of our provinces have been affected by the raids on our trade caravans to the Tewakwe. In recent months, our borders have been attacked. We can no longer continue as we have been. Increasing the strength of the caravans and the numbers of our border patrols is not enough. We must face this threat to our peace and deal with it. End it. If we do not, it will continue to grow.”
“It’s clear what we must do,” Solveig said. “We must take the fight to the Tewakwe Confederation. Give them a taste of the bitter draught they’ve been feeding us!”
“Are you proposing a combined force again, Kon Neven?” Ozur shook his wooly head. “I can’t support that. I’ll not ask the men of my province to fight and die for another’s land with no hope of gain.”
“If we sent you our men we would have too few to work the nets and leave our own lands undefended.” Yngvar bared his yellow teeth in a poor attempt to smile. “And such a force would give you a great deal of power.”
“In truth, Neven, are the losses really so serious? I’ve lost a few barrels of salt-fish, but that’s to be expected in trade. I think perhaps you are making overmuch of this. There’s been a bit of raiding and pilfering by Tewakwe Renegades going back as far as I can remember. That’s not new.” Ozur’s reasonable and avuncular tone was only a step away from condescension.
“Assaults on our borders are new.” Magnus slapped his hand down on the table. “Running battles on the ridges are new. The death of my son is new.” Magnus drew down his bushy brown eyebrows and spoke with such vehemence that his dark braids shook. Ozur didn’t meet his eyes. Magnus’s son had been killed in a raid on his lands just after the thaw. His grandson, Magni, sat by his side now as heir. At seventeen, Magni had been a man for two years, but he still had the long, loose-limbed look of an unbroken colt.
“Lord Dahleven has just returned from the drylands.” Neven’s voice pulled everyone’s attention back to him. He still wasn’t using his Talent. Dahleven wasn’t surprised. His father preferred to let reason prevail, when possible. He thought his father might be overly optimistic with this group.
“He went there to learn more of the threat we face.” Neven continued, turning to Dahleven. “Tell them what you observed.”
Dahleven saw no reason to lead into it slowly. “Tucked in a blind canyon near the Owlridge crest, this side of the Tewakwe holdings, we observed a camp of Renegade Tewakwe. They were living side by side with our own Outcasts.”
“Outcasts!”
“Nuvinlanders?”
“It’s hardly surprising that evil-doers flock together,” Hafdan said mildly.
Dahleven, curious, turned to Hafdan.
“With no community, no family, a man must make what connections he can, or die alone,” Hafdan said.
“Are you sure you saw clearly? Wouldn’t they be more likely to prey on each other?” Ulf asked. “The nameless curs we’ve cast out broke our laws and shamed their families. It hardly seems possible that they could ally with anyone, let alone Tewakwe skraelings, when they betrayed their own.” Ulf had only recently ascended to his Jarldom, but he had ruled in his father’s stead for the last two years, since Koll had been crippled by fire in Jorund’s attack. He had less patience than most with Oathbr
eakers and Outcasts.
“How do you know that they weren’t just Tewakwe from the Confederation trading with the Outcasts?” Yngvar put in.
“We saw clearly enough, and heard more. Falsom has Heimdal’s eyes, and Lindimer…Lindy had Heimdal’s ears. They weren’t trading. They were sharpening blades, crafting arrows and bragging to each other about their latest raids. While the Renegade Tewakwe have been raiding our trade caravans and testing our borders, our Outcasts have been attacking the Confederation.”
“Truly? Perhaps the Tewakwe Confederation has joined forces with the Outcasts.”
“No. The Tewakwe holdings showed signs of raiding, and there were no Outcasts among them. They have fortified, however. They’ve narrowed the entrance to the cliffs with bulwarks of shaped stone.”
“What did they say about the raids?” Yngvar asked.
Dahleven gave Lord Yngvar a long look before answering. “We were in the drylands, in Tewakwe territory without an invitation, and not on the caravan trails, Lord Yngvar.” Dahleven paused, but comprehension didn’t dawn on Yngvar’s features. “We were there to look and listen, not to talk. Even if we had chosen to, the Tewakwe were not likely to welcome unexpected visitors after being raided by the Outcasts.”
“This isn’t just raiding for greed and gain.” Magnus said. “They’re not impulsive; they’re organized. They always attack in greater numbers, destroying what they can’t take. Someone is leading them—but to what purpose?”
“It’s obvious. Revenge. Every man stripped of his Talent and cast out is bitter and angry,” Hafdan said.
“There’s more to this, I’m confident. Bitter, angry men aren’t so careful,” Solveig countered.
“I believe they mean to turn us and the Tewakwe against each other,” Dahleven said.
“That’s ridiculous. Who would profit from that?” Ozur waved his hand dismissively.
“You would, for one.” Magni said hotly, leaning forward in this chair. “While we in the border provinces defend against raids, you and Lord Yngvar can profit by selling us the food we haven’t the time and men to provide ourselves with—especially since you won’t send any men to help us defend your fat ass.”
“You young whelp!”
“Magni!” Magnus barked. “An apology is in order.”
“I should say so!” Yngvar chimed in.
The muscles in Magni’s jaw jumped as his face reddened and the cords in his neck stood out. Dahleven thought he might strangle on the words before he got them out. “Your pardon, my Lord Ozur.”
Ozur nodded his acceptance. “Watch your tongue in the future, boy. Feuds have started for less.”
Magni’s eyes burned.
“Lord Ozur is right, Magni.” Magnus growled to his furious grandson. “You should be more careful with your words. There are more graceful ways to state the truth.”
Ozur started to rise from his chair.
“Enough!” Neven’s voice cut clean and sharp, strengthened now by a surge of his Talent. “We should no longer be asking ourselves whether we should act, but what action is necessary. You ask what purpose these attacks would serve? The answer is here, at this table. Not only are we weakened by the slow, continual loss of lives and resources, we weaken ourselves further by our bickering. We must not allow ourselves to be distracted from the real threat. It’s not the Tewakwe. We were meant to believe that, just as they must believe that we threaten them. Whoever planned this hoped we would throw our lives away fighting a profitless war against the wrong enemy. Knowing this, we are stronger, but not strong enough to fight on two fronts. Until the Tewakwe understand the deception, we face the possibility of war with them. They’ll want to stop the predation on their people as much as we do. We must arrange a parley with the Tewakwe to join forces against our common foe.”
*
“Lady Celia!” a familiar masculine voice called.
Cele startled and looked around. She’d been blindly following Thora back to her room after visiting Sevond a second time.
He’d talked about his son as he worked on a new piece of jewelry. “Sorn had a good hand with the files,” he’d said. “The boy could have been fine craftsman, but he had no heart for it.”
The gentle old man hadn’t required any response from her, so she just listened. Over two hours, the jeweler’s words had built a clear picture of the love between father and son. Though Sorn had chosen a very different path from Sevond, there’d been no resentment or rancor between them.
She’d had that kind of relationship with her mother, before she died.
Fendrikanin’s voice pulled Cele from her reflections. “Lady Celia! Well met!” Fender caught up with them and came around to face her, pausing to nod an acknowledgment to Thora.
Cele knew she was grinning foolishly, but the last time she’d seen Fender they’d all been running for their lives. She was relieved to see his impudent face again, and find him well and whole.
“I’m glad to find you here and safe,” he said, “but with Lord Dahleven as escort, I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”
Safe indeed! The memory of Dahleven’s kiss intruded, and she pushed it away.
Fender looked at her, clearly admiring the benefits of the bath and her green dress. “I am sorry indeed now, that we didn’t hurry back for the Feast last night. I would have liked to claim a dance from you.”
Cele smiled at the compliment but focused on something else. “We? Are the others back safely, too?”
“Ghav is with me. A renegade arrow bit a piece of meat from him so he won’t be dancing for a while. We left Kep and Falsom in the care of a crofter’s wife.”
“Are they badly hurt?”
“Oh no. The slug-a-beds will soon be well enough to return to Quartzholm.” Fender smiled, but his face twitched and Cele knew he was more concerned for his comrades than he admitted.
“And Ghav? He’s here? Would he like a visitor?”
“What man would decline a visit from a lovely woman?” Fender smiled with boyish charm at Thora. “I’ll escort her safely back to her rooms and your care,” he said, offering his arm to Cele.
Thora looked at them with skeptical amusement. “Don’t lose her.”
“You wound me, Thora. In all my days, I’ve not lost more than two or three young maids. And that was years ago.” Fender winked at Cele and escorted her back the way she’d come, then turned down a new hallway.
After taking several more turns, climbing then descending four staircases, they passed through a corridor lighted by a series of tall, narrow windows. The door at the end led outside, onto a stone bridge that arched high above the courtyard to another tower. Birds perched on the parapets. They took flight as Cele and Fender stepped onto the apparently seamless span. Below, the hubbub of merchants hawking their wares blended into a noisy hum. The crowd swirled and eddied in front of the various booths, pooling and growing stagnant where performers juggled on a low stage at the near end of the courtyard.
Cele stopped and looked over the edge, taking in the maelstrom of color and sound that wrapped around the corner of the castle and out of sight. The smells of cooking meat, fresh bread, and roasted nuts made her mouth water. It reminded her of a county fair. “Is it like this all the time?”
Fendrikanin looked surprised. “No, of course not. We have a market once a week, but this is five times the size of that. This is the Althing Market. The merchants have come from all over Nuvinland to profit from the gathering of the Jarls and their folk.”
The swirl of activity looked inviting. “Can we go down there?”
“I thought you wanted to visit Ghav.”
“Afterwards, I mean.”
Fender looked thoughtful. “Thora warned me not to lose you. Will you stay close? She’ll have the skin off my back if I lose track of you in that crowd.”
Cele laughed, recognizing capitulation when she heard it. “I’m a big girl, Fender.”
“That’s not the answer I want.”
Fender’s stern
reply surprised her. Apparently, Fender had a touch of steel beneath his playful manner. Her laughter subsided to a smile. “I’ll stay close. And if we do get separated, we’ll meet here under the bridge. Fair enough?”
He relaxed and nodded. “Let’s go visit Ghav.”
The healer sat with his right leg propped on a chair, writing on parchment on a board in his lap. Shelves lined one wall, filled with an orderly assortment of scrolls, wood and leather bound books, boxes, and flasks. His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise when Fender pulled her into the room. “Lady Celia! You look well, I see. Better than well, in fact.” He winced as he started to rise.
“No, don’t get up,” Cele said, putting out her hand to halt his movement.
Ghav settled back into his chair with a soft grunt. He looked tired and pale.
“Does it hurt very much?”
“Only when he’s gone too long without sympathy,” Fender said.
Ghav shot the younger man a dark look. “Please, be seated Lady Celia. I have a fine wine in the cupboard there,” he said, indicating the direction with his hand. “Fender, be a gentleman for once and pour a cup for the lady. And bring me that pouch, too.”
Cele jumped up from her seat. “I’ll get it.”
She handed Ghav the small leather bag. He drew a leaf from it and crumbled half into his cup. The herb looked the same as what he had dosed Sorn with. Cele’s concern grew. Ghav had quelled her pain and much of Sorn’s with just a touch. His wound must be more serious than they’d admit if he needed the herb to dull the pain.
Ghav looked up and caught Cele’s worried look before she could clear her expression. “I can’t ease my own pain as I can another’s,” he said, correctly guessing the cause of her concern.
How do Talents work, then? Too much had been happening for Cele to wonder about it. And if these people were descended from Vikings, where had these Talents come from? People from her world didn’t have them.
A knock forestalled Cele’s questions. Fender opened the door to a man dressed in what Cele had come to recognize as Kon Neven’s livery: a green suede tunic with the hawk embroidered on the left breast.
Dangerous Talents Page 20