Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “Is that the sterkkidrikk?” Bergren pointed to the flask the other man clutched, forgotten.

  Isolf nodded and held it out.

  Cele took it, glad of an excuse to withdraw her arm from Wirmund’s. “Thank you.” She took a couple sips of the intensely sweet liquid and grimaced. She’d never liked the energy drinks back in Midgard, either.

  Wirmund urged the flask upward again with a firm touch. “All of it, my lady. We don’t want you falling victim to Exhaustion again.”

  Cele suppressed a grimace and drank. When she’d finished, she said, “I’d like to go back to my room now.”

  Bergren nodded.

  “Do you feel well enough?” Wirmund asked. “You may rest in my rooms.”

  “That would be lovely,” Angrim chirped.

  Cele fought the urge to clap her hand over Angrim’s mouth. I’m not going to get a second try at the Staff. Not with Wirmund watching. “No. Thank you. I’m fine now. Let’s go back.”

  *

  The next day Aenid was with Master Sevond when Cele arrived, and the three of them spent a companionable morning together.

  Cele and Aenid left at the same time, Cele’s guard trailing along a little distance behind. “Is that something you wear in mourning for Lord Jon?” Cele asked, indicating the gray veil that Aenid wore.

  “Yes. The women of the family wear these for six months. Then we’ll burn them to symbolize the passing of our grief.” Aenid smiled sadly. “I wear one for Sorn, too, beneath my clothes. But six months won’t bring an end to my sorrow.”

  Cele nodded, not commenting on the difference of sentiment Aenid had for her father and Sorn. “How’re you feeling?” she asked in a confidential tone. “Are you still fainting and getting sick?”

  “No, it was only those few times. I feel quite well, actually.”

  “You haven’t told Sevond yet.”

  “No. I will soon. When I tell him, I’ll have to tell everyone. I want to be sure before I share it.”

  Cele nodded. “Don’t wait too long. Better you tell them before they guess.”

  Aenid put her hand to her middle and spoke softly. “Do you think my belly is rounding?”

  Cele looked at the younger woman critically. “Maybe, but no one will notice it in that loose gown.” She cocked an eyebrow at Angrim. “Unless you keep walking around with your hand on your tummy.”

  Aenid colored and dropped her hand.

  Cele laughed and changed the subject. “How’s Ari?”

  “He’s well. Baldur smiled upon you that day. One would never know he came so close to Niflheim.” Aenid grew more sober. “He’s too young to really understand about Father, though he knows something’s wrong and keeps asking for him. Ljot and Solvin feel it more.”

  “And your mother?”

  Aenid shook her head. “She wept for a day afterward. But now she almost seems happy.”

  That Ingirid might feel some relief at Jon’s death didn’t surprise Cele, but she couldn’t say that to Aenid. “Grief is different for everybody.”

  Aenid nodded. “We say, ‘Grief travels a twisted road.’ Aunt Kaidlin is staying with Mother and helping with the boys. I don’t think she would follow Nanna’s Path, but we’re not leaving her alone for a while.”

  “Nanna’s path?”

  “Baldur’s wife,” Aenid’s tone became instructional. “She killed herself rather than live without him. There’s an old tradition of women joining their husbands in death. It’s not much done anymore.”

  “Thank goodness!”

  “Come visit soon,” Aenid said as they parted ways at the top of the stairs. “Ari would like to thank his rescuer.”

  Cele doubted Ari remembered her, but she said, “I will.”

  Dahleven and a covered tray awaited her in her room.

  “You look well recovered from your jaunt of last evening.” His voice was tight.

  Of course the guards would tell him. “I’m fine.”

  He shook his head. “Emergence Exhaustion is nothing to flirt with, Celia! Surely Ghav has told you that.”

  “I wasn’t that tired!”

  “That’s not what I heard. You collapsed on the stair for nearly half a candlemark!”

  Cele frowned. Had she spent that much time trying to Find the Staff? “I was just resting.”

  “You needed sterkkidrikk!”

  “Only to make the guards feel better! Isolf ran halfway across the castle for it. I had to drink it!”

  Dahleven shook his head and pressed his lips together. When he spoke, it was in a softer voice. “I’m sorry. I should have thought to show you Quartzholm myself.”

  She would have liked seeing Quartzholm through his eyes, even if it completely prevented her from Finding the Staff. The tension sizzling between them transformed into something else. It surged, fluttering in her breasts and lower.

  “I would have taken care that you didn’t tire yourself.” The heat in his gaze suggested he would have made sure she’d saved her energy for other activities.

  Cele felt a little breathless at the thought. “I just overdid it a little. I really didn’t need that sterkki-crap.”

  Dahleven’s lips twitched. “It is vile, but it has saved your life more than once.”

  Cele smiled. “I know. And drinking it was better than resting in Wirmund’s chamber, like Angrim wanted to.”

  Dahleven frowned at the mention of Angrim, but didn’t say anything about his former lover. Instead, he changed the subject and poured them a pale amber wine. “I’m glad you felt well enough to visit Sevond this morning. Other duties have claimed so much of my time that I’ve not been able to see him as often as I’d like. He doesn’t have anyone else now.”

  Cele thought of Aenid and Sorn’s baby, but kept quiet as she took the goblet Dahleven handed her. “I like him. He asks me to Find things he’s mislaid and then praises me as if I’ve worked a miracle.”

  Dahleven smiled. “He has a generous heart.”

  Cele nodded and sipped the wine. “Much better than sterkkidrikk.”

  Dahleven laughed and gestured toward the tray. “I, ah, had something special made for your midday meal.” His eyes glinted with anticipation, and something else.

  Is he nervous? “What is it?” Cele reached for the tray’s lid and hesitated. It looked like Dahleven was holding his breath. “Is a snake going to jump out at me?”

  “I hope it will be a more pleasant surprise than that.”

  Cele lifted the cover cautiously, peeking under the edge at first, then lifting it off completely. On the tray was a disk of flat bread spread with a green sauce redolent of spices, goat cheese, and covered with chunks of sausage.

  Dahleven shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s supposed to be a peetsah. You said it was your favorite food.”

  “Oh!” Cele laughed as tears fill her eyes, and she brought her hands up to her mouth. He’d remembered a silly remark from weeks ago and tried to please her.

  Dahleven’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. Is it very awful? It must be very different from the peetsah you remember.”

  “Yes. No! It’s not awful at all! It’s wonderful!” Cele flung herself at him, hugging his neck. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

  Dahleven drew her closer, returning the kiss.

  She’d wanted this, to feel his arms around her again since their time in the meadow, since he’d kissed her in her bed. Her nerve-endings sizzled as his caresses trailed down her back, lingered on the swell of her hips.

  “Maybe you should you try it before you declare it wonderful,” Dahleven murmured against her lips.

  “It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful. Thank you.” She punctuated each statement with a kiss, then kissed him again, savoring the taste of him. His lips were warm and his beard tickled her chin. She might have forgotten the pizza altogether if her stomach hadn’t rumbled loudly.

  They pulled apart, laughing.

  Cele turned to the tray and cut a piece, serving Dahleven first,
then herself. It didn’t smell like any pizza she’d ever had. He waited until she took a bite. It didn’t taste like any pizza she’d had before either. But it was still good. She smiled.

  A satisfied grin replaced the anxious expression on Dahleven’s face.

  “Have some.” Cele gestured to his plate with her slice. Dahleven intercepted her hand, raising the piece she held to his mouth. Her heart sped as Dahleven’s eyes locked with hers as he bit into the bread and sauce.

  “Delightful,” he murmured, then lifted the slice from his plate and fed it to her in turn. Then he gently swept a finger along the corner of her mouth, lifting a dab of sauce and placing it between her lips.

  Cele licked and sucked his finger longer than necessary and was rewarded when his eyes grew dark and his breath quickened. She knew it wasn’t the wine that made her feel so warm, and his gaze was as hot as she felt.

  They’d come close to sex twice before, and God knew she wanted him now, too. It would be so easy to just let it happen. Her body was clamoring for it. And she could see that Dahleven wanted it.

  He answered her stare by licking the corner of her mouth, then kissing his way along her jaw.

  Yes. Cele groaned and arched her neck, their meal forgotten. No. She cared for him too much to just jump in the sack. It wouldn’t be “casual” or “just sex.” It would be making love. For her anyway. He was destined for a dynastic marriage, and she was going home. If they made love, it would break her heart to watch him marry someone else. It would break her heart to leave.

  Somewhere, Cele found the strength to pull out of Dahleven’s arms. She gulped down half a goblet of wine, and her dazed mind searched for some distraction. “Is—is this the first time you’ve been left in charge of Quartzholm?”

  Dahleven shook his head as if to clear it. “No. But it’s the first time Father has left me behind while going into real danger. He’s a capable warrior, but I would far rather face an enemy myself.” He stroked her upper arm. “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

  Cele shivered at his touch, hungry for more, but she moved away to sit on the window seat. Dahleven’s hand dropped to his muscular thigh. No, she didn’t want to talk about this. But she didn’t know what else to do. Didn’t know how to stop the longing ache in her chest. “Now you know how women feel.”

  Dahleven gave her a confused look.

  “Women have always been left behind with nothing to do but worry until someone comes riding back to tell them ‘we won, prepare a feast,’ or ‘we lost, you’re a widow, your life has changed.’” She didn’t want to think about what it would be like to have a stoic-faced warrior tell her that Dahleven was dead.

  “How else could it be? I’m amazed and impressed at your skill in unarmed combat, Celia, but against a man with a sword or a bow, you’d be vulnerable.”

  “You could teach women how to fight with weapons.”

  He shook his head. “Even properly trained, a woman’s lesser strength would put her at great disadvantage against a man with a sword. And if women joined men in combat, most warriors, the good ones anyway, would be too distracted by protecting them to fight well.”

  His words jolted like a splash of cold water. “You mean like Sorn was.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The majority of wives and mothers and daughters don’t belong in battle.”

  “But some would do very well.”

  Dahleven frowned, then surprised her by conceding, “A few.”

  She felt herself wanting to slide back into his arms and focused instead on the bigger picture instead of the lingering sensation of Dahleven’s hands on her body. “That’s not really my point. Women would rather be out doing things and managing their own lives than waiting to find out what some man has planned for them.”

  “Some women, perhaps. Most women are content with their children and homes.”

  “Argh!” Cele warmed to the topic. “Of course women love their children. So do most men. That doesn’t keep us from wanting some control over our lives. What alternative does a woman have if she wants to marry a man her father disapproves of? Or doesn’t want to marry the man he picks for her? What if he beats her? What if he’s a drunk?”

  Dahleven lips stiffened with anger, his voice grew cold and level. “Ingirid chose Jon against my father’s will, yet Neven let them marry. When Jon’s weak nature became worse, Father told Ingirid he’d settle a rich holding on Jon to release her, if Ingirid willed it. She refused. Baldur only knows why, but she loved him. Neven didn’t force Jon on her, she chose him.”

  Cele winced. She didn’t like having Dahleven angry with her. And this was a side of Neven she hadn’t expected, even if he was a doting grandfather.

  She spoke softly. “I admit, I was thinking of Jon, but he’s not really what I’m talking about. You’re saying your father let Ingirid make a mistake, he let her chose. I’m saying it was her mistake to make. I’m glad Neven is a generous father, but all women should have the right to choose their husbands. And it goes beyond that. Women should have some way to live, apart from the good will and generosity of their husbands and fathers if they choose to. How does a woman support herself here if she’s not raised in a trade? If she goes against tradition?”

  “You’ve been talking to the Daughters of Freya,” Dahleven accused.

  Cele hesitated, surprised. He knows about them? “These are issues that are important to all women, even those in Midgard.”

  “It sounds much like what the Daughters espouse.”

  “Who are they? What do you know about them?”

  “I know it’s not wise for you to associate with them. They have a poor reputation.”

  “Because they want women to have rights?”

  “Because many believe them to be whores and witches.”

  “Believed to be. By you?”

  “What I believe isn’t at issue. Your reputation will suffer if you meet openly with them. There’s nothing wrong with a young woman taking her pleasure with a man before marriage, but the Daughters are rumored to think wives and mothers should be free to visit any bed as they will. That they bespell men with unsanctioned magic to get their way.”

  That didn’t jibe with what Alna had said. Nor did Osk and Saeun and Thora strike Cele as being interested only in sexual freedom. Cele’s fist closed for a moment on the amulet hanging under her skirts. “Why do people think that about them?”

  Dahleven shrugged.

  “Have you talked to a Daughter of Freya?” Could I be wrong about them? God knows, I’ve been wrong before.

  Dahleven answered slowly. “No woman has ever told me she was one of them.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  Dahleven shook his head and took her hand. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Cele pressed her lips together, frustrated. He was right, in a way. She wasn’t going to change this world by lecturing people. I’m not going to change it all. I’m going home. And for her to get home, Jorund needed the Staff.

  She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t yet dropped a note down the shaft in the bathing room, as he’d asked. She’d meant to do it this morning. The information she’d gathered last night was probably the best she’d get. But when she’d thought of doing it, she’d hesitated. Jorund had saved her, but he was an Outcast, a criminal in this world, as Knut had become for killing Lindy. Or was he just a political exile? Jorund said he’d been Outcast because he’d opposed Neven, and from the way the Kon had interrogated her, she could believe that.

  On the other hand, Neven had also treated her like an honored guest. He’d been grateful to her for saving Ari. Dahleven and Ragni supported him. Would they do that if he were really a tyrant? Or do they support him just because he’s their father?

  Of course, even if deep down Neven was really a nice guy, Jorund was still the only one offering her a way home. It was a no-brainer. Wasn’t it?

  Yet for some reason, when it had come time to set pen to paper, visiting Sevond had seemed much mor
e urgent. There was no time limit on Jorund’s request, after all. But the sooner she told him where the Staff was, the sooner she could go home.

  “Celia?” Dahleven squeezed her hand.

  “You’re right. Let’s change the subject. There’s something I wanted to ask you.” Dahleven lifted his brows, and Cele continued. “Do I really need to have guards on me at all times? What harm do you expect me to do?”

  His eyes widened in what looked like genuine surprise. “They’re not protecting Quartzholm. They’re protecting you. You’ve been endangered four times while under my care! Twice here at Quartzholm!”

  “Well yes, but…it didn’t make any difference before.”

  Dahleven stiffened as if he’d been slapped.

  “I’m sorry! That didn’t come out right. It’s just that I’m not used to being followed everywhere I go.”

  “No, you are quite right in faulting our security.” His voice was stiff. “That’s why you’ll not be left unprotected until this threat is resolved.” Dahleven rose and went to the door. “I will do all in my power to keep you from harm, Celia.” He took his leave without trying to embrace her again. The door clicked shut with sharp finality.

  “Damn it!” Cele slammed a fist into the pillow beside her. That hadn’t gone as she’d wanted at all. He’d brought her pizza and all she’d done was insult him. What’s the matter with me? She wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to kiss her again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY~THREE

  Cele still hadn’t written the note for Jorund when Angrim showed up again long after dinner. She heard the little blonde laughing and bantering with the guards for several minutes before Bergren finally announced her. Cele saw a servant carrying away a tray when she opened the door.

  “I hope I’m not calling too late, Lady Celia, but things are so dull now with everyone gone home from the Althing. You’re the only interesting person left to talk to.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Angrim apparently missed the irony in Cele’s voice. “Absolutely. Most women only want to talk about foolish things; you’re different.”