“No!” Cele screamed. “I’ll do it!” Her stomach tightened painfully as her bravado failed her. She knew Jorund meant to kill Dahleven, but she couldn’t bear to watch him tortured. She had no doubt he would cheerfully dismember Dahleven until she did as he wanted.
Dahleven shook his head and frowned, drawing his brows down over his stormy gray eyes, protesting inarticulately around his gag.
Jorund looked disappointed and released Dahleven’s wrist. “Excellent. Proceed.”
Cele looked away, trying to hide her thoughts. With Jorund’s last warrior down, she had a chance. He wouldn’t expect her to attack. Quickly, Cele considered her opponents. She didn’t think Eirik and Angrim would be much of a threat, but they didn’t have to be to foul things up.
Jorund’s dagger was still against Dahleven’s hand. Cele willed Jorund to stand or move the dagger away from him so she could sweep kick it away, but he remained kneeling by Dahleven’s side, poking the point of his knife into Dahleven’s glove. Small spots of blood bloomed on the leather. I’ll have to chance it.
“Don’t even think it,” Jorund said as she started to move. He shifted the knife to Dahleven’s armpit. Cele abruptly aborted her assault. One upward thrust would cut the nerves to Dahleven’s arm, sever the artery. “I know about your unusual skills in combat, my lady. Though even after you killed Pung I didn’t expect such an effective response to Mord’s and Orlyg’s efforts.”
They weren’t Neven’s men, after all. “You told them to rape me?”
“I would have stopped them in the nick of time. Probably. I wanted you grateful to me, and I’m quite aware of Lord Ragnar’s Talent, you see. That’s why I had Harve chase you home. You had to believe your own story of escape and feel enough fear to cloud the rest.”
“You told them to do it,” she murmured, “and you killed them anyway. Flogged Harve.” She could hardly think past her horror and disgust. How could she have ever believed this man?
Jorund shifted his weight, but his knife didn’t waver from Dahleven’s flesh. “Enough of this. Find the Talent. And don’t try me again, Lady Celia.”
Cele bit her lips and tried to ignore the fear that trembled through her muscles. The thought of embracing that pain again made her sick, but she believed Jorund’s threat; he’d start slicing away at Dahleven if she failed again. “I tried! There’s too many of them. They’re pulling me apart.”
Jorund pursed his lips. “Perhaps I wasn’t specific. I want the Troll’s Talent. It regenerates all injury.”
Cele stared. “All injury?”
The half of Jorund’s mouth she could see twisted in a wry smile. “Releasing a Great Talent without the aid of the Staff was a mistake I won’t make again. Thanks to you. Only a Talent so powerful can heal the magical damage I suffered.”
So it wasn’t Wirmund who’d destroyed his face. He lied about that, too.
Now he could release all the Talents he wanted without harm—now that he had the Staff. And she’d given it to him.
He wouldn’t share the Talents; he’d take them all himself. He’d become a dictator, one with the ability to regenerate. No one would be able to stop him.
She couldn’t do it. But if she didn’t, Jorund would slice Dahleven to bits.
CHAPTER TWENTY~SIX
Cele swallowed hard. She tried to ignore the shadows that seemed to press ever closer. She looked at the floor, avoiding the sight of Dahleven’s anxious face and the men who lay dead and dying all around her. Shoving aside fear and self-recrimination, Cele closed her eyes and tried to imagine a troll. She’d never seen one, though here in Alfheim, that might be only a matter of time. She wrapped the idea of a troll with the power of regeneration and restoration, confined in dark stone. She pushed her worry for Dahleven out of her mind. Steeled herself against the agony she feared. She wanted that Talent, needed it.
Clear and easy, the Talent pulled her. A mere twenty feet away, a small geode called to her. She started toward it, but movement nearby made her startle and turn.
A stunningly attractive man stepped out of nowhere and bowed to her. Black hair fell just past his shoulders and his beardless chin was in perfect balance with his wide brow and high cheekbones. A velvet cloak the color of the summer forest covered a tunic embroidered with autumn leaves.
Where did he come from? He wasn’t part of Jorund’s group or one of Dahleven’s men.Cele glanced at the Outcast. Neither he nor Dahleven, nor Angrim or Eirik seemed aware of the man. Or of anything else.
Four others, two tall, handsome men and two beautiful women moved away, into the shadows, pushing them back.
“You are not looking for that which you desire.” The first man drew her attention back to himself with a voice as rich as melting chocolate. Unlike Jorund’s words, this man’s didn’t bring her pain.
He stepped closer, moving with feral grace. Dark lashes framed the man’s pale, water-colored eyes, eyes that drew Cele in with the promise of understanding some deeply hidden secret she hadn’t known she longed for. She could have stared into his face for hours, but then he blinked and all her questions came tumbling out. “What do you mean? Who are you? Why don’t they see you?”
The man smiled slightly. “You cast your light in the wrong corners. That is why you cannot Find what you seek.”
But I Found the Troll Talent.
“It is not what you truly desire.”
Cele looked closely at the man through narrowed eyes. His sun-bronzed skin was smooth and perfect. Too perfect. He wasn’t very good at answering questions, either. She opened her mouth to point that out, but he put a silencing finger on her lips, and this time his smile reached his eyes.
“I am Galendir of the Lios Alfar, a Light Elf in your tongue. They do not see or hear me because I do not wish them to.”
An Elf. No wonder his skin is perfect.
Then his smile faded, and his expression became serious. “If you wish to Find a way free, you must look for it.”
Great. As if Jorund’s threats weren’t enough pressure, this Elf was speaking in riddles. She started to say, “It’s not that simple,” but he again held a finger against her lips. She had the feeling he heard her anyway.
The Elf’s pale eyes met hers for a long moment. She felt as if his gaze penetrated her soul, as if he saw all her fears and shortcomings. She squirmed inwardly, but didn’t look away. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. “So what do I look for, then?”
A hint of a smile touched Galendir’s lips. “What is it you most need?”
A way to save Dahleven. No, more than that. I need to stop Jorund.
“Just so.” Galendir nodded. “But you are not seeking it.”
“I know! What I need is a bomb! But what do I look for? If I don’t know, the Talents will pull me apart!”
Galendir placed two fingers on the side of her forehead. The touch was cool, delicate, riveting. Cele froze as a vision of great power coalesced in her mind, writhing and twining like bolts of lightning, screaming all at once like many voices in the dark and cold. They wanted to be free. To be used. Their strength rocked her like a thunderclap.
“You want me to give him that? Are you crazy? That’s just what he wants! After the Troll Talent, anyway.”
“It is what he craves, but not what he expects.”
She hesitated. What if this guy is on Jorund’s side? For all I know he’s trying to trick me into giving him the power to kill everyone that I care about. Ragni said Elves don’t interact much with humans. Why does he care about any of this? Cele opened her mouth to demand answers, but Galendir answered her before she could speak.
“Balance. The Dark Ones revealed this place to their tool,” he gestured gracefully at Jorund, who still seemed oblivious to their conversation. “They sent their minion to retrieve the Staff for him. They weighted the Great Wheel. They would turn it to their advantage, but Light must balance Dark. We sensed their meddling, but couldn’t find the way—until your Talent called us. You shine brighter th
an these others. Now it’s our turn. I will guide you, but it must be you who acts.”
Cele’s heart thrashed painfully in her chest, like a bird confined in too small a cage. She needed a weapon, some way to stop Jorund, but she was afraid. She’d made so many mistakes since she’d gotten here. What if trusting this Elf was the worst? She looked at Galendir, who waited for her to decide.
A warrior doesn’t fight herself. Dahleven’s lecture echoed in her mind. Don’t let fear keep you from moving forward.
“You know what you must do,” Galendir said.
She did. Cele opened herself, opened the cage of fear and doubt her heart was trapped in.
Something inside unfolded, blossoming within her. The voices of all the Talents murmured to her from their long confinement. First one whisper, then another and another. The multitude blended into a chorus that echoed for her alone, shouting: Here! Here! Here!
Finding had never felt like this before. Neither gentle tug nor painful rendering, the hidden Talents tried to draw her closer, to find release, but they were sucking her into the dark of their prison.
There were too many. Talents of healing, creativity, destruction. All calling to her. All vying for her attention. All trying to draw her close enough to leap free. She couldn’t sort through the multitude. How could Jorund imagine he wanted all of this?
A picture of what she needed to Find appeared in her mind. Cele focused on the image Galendir gave her, held it like a shield, let it guide her like a lantern.
The clamor fell away.
Nearby, a large geode called with a clear voice. Several voices. It held more than one of the Great Talents. She listened closer. The trapped Talents promised power, great power. Deadly power.
She’d wanted a weapon, and she’d Found one. But would it stop Jorund, or arm him with a deadly force?
Cele glanced at the Outcast Jarl, still staring, still unaware, thought of how Galendir had seemed to step out of nowhere. The Elves obviously had powers equal to the Great Talents. “Why didn’t you just stop him yourself?”
Galendir frowned. “Freyr has enjoined us. We cannot act directly in the affairs of men. But you can. If you choose. The Great Wheel must turn. Light must balance Dark.” The Elf nodded at Jorund and stepped back into the shadows. “Give him what wants. It’s not what he expects, but it is what you need.”
Cele shivered uncontrollably as Galendir moved away, his words echoing in her mind. What he wants isn’t what he expects.
Jorund blinked and regarded her with a sharp expression. “Did you Find it?”
She could still give him the Troll Talent. She and Dahleven might be able to escape while he was distracted. But she’d already made her choice. Galendir had been cryptic, but he hadn’t tried to coerce or Persuade her against her will.
Cele swallowed hard and pointed. Her hand wavered as she indicated the larger geode. She was barely able to speak. “There. That’s what you want.”
Jorund looked at her closely, and was apparently satisfied by what he saw. He sheathed his dagger and stepped close to the geode, roughly shoving Cele back so she stumbled several steps and fell against Dahleven. “Watch them,” he barked at Eirik.
*
Dahleven groaned as Celia pointed at the geode. His one life wasn’t worth it. Jorund would never be satisfied. Once he was healed, he’d ransack the Great Talents, becoming the most powerful tyrant Nuvinland had ever seen.
Celia lost her balance as the Firestarter thrust her away. She tried to catch herself with several awkward steps, but her shivering overcame her and she collapsed, slumping against Dahleven. She looked near Exhaustion, but after a moment she glanced at Eirik, who was watching Jorund, then pushed herself half behind him, sliding slowly until she could reach the ropes on his wrists. He felt her pull weakly at the knots, her trembling vibrating into him where they touched. A moment later Eirik jerked her away.
“Oh, no, my lady, we’ll have none of that.” With two hands under her arms, Eirik lifted Celia nearly off her feet, then tossed her across Dahleven’s legs.
Dahleven’s temper flared at Eirik’s rough treatment. Celia made no attempt to resist the skinny skald; she barely seemed able to sit up and lean against him. Dahleven had never seen anyone shake so after using their Talent. Her trembling reverberated through Dahleven’s chest and he shifted to give her better support. He wished his arms were free so he could hold her—after he killed Jorund.
Jorund knelt by the geode, running his hands over the dark, irregular surface as though he caressed a woman. It was huge, the size of a mountain cat. “Angrim, bring me that box!” he ordered abruptly, pointing.
Angrim blinked, jolted out of her cowering trance, and scurried to comply. She hardly seemed like the same woman who had strutted her allure so confidently in the past.
Jorund took the small wooden box from Angrim and turned away from her, oblivious to the pleading look in her eyes. Dahleven had little doubt that the Firestarter would discard her now that her usefulness to him was finished.
In a few moments, Jorund had assembled the contents of the box. He drew fire from a lantern to light the two bowls of incense he’d put on either side of the geode. He grinned at Dahleven, his eyes both bitter and gloating. “That’s the last time I’ll have to do that,” he said. “Soon my Talent will be hot again, and it shall not burn alone. What shall I do first? Tumble Quartzholm to its foundations with an earthquake, or burn her? What will Kon Neven be Jarl of then?” He turned away again and drew a small purple bag from under his shirt. From it he took an amethyst crystal.
A priest’s talisman! Dahleven looked on in horror. The last of his hope that Jorund would fail in the necessary ritual faded.
Jorund held the crystal in one hand and the Staff in the other, raising both over his head. He began to chant in the priests’ tongue. His words echoed in the stone chamber and the amethysts started to glow. Throughout the cavern, the crystals imbedded in the walls answered, returning and amplifying the purple light.
From nowhere, three tall men and two women came forward. Dahleven startled. The men were strong warriors, the women lush and willowy, and all as finely clad as Jarls and their Ladies on Feast Day. Elvenkind! Jorund was oblivious to them. Nor were Eirik or Angrim reacting. Dahleven had heard of such things in fearful tales of the Fey-marked. The Elves used their glamour to hide themselves from mortals. But why do they show themselves to me?
One of the men came toward him and Celia, while the others moved into the vanishing shadows. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, as were the lashes that framed his pale eyes. Dahleven’s heart thundered in his chest. He strained against his bonds, but Eirik had done a good job of binding him. Were these Light Elves, or Dark? Did it matter? No man encountered the Elves and remained whole and unchanged.
“You’re back,” Celia murmured beneath his chin.
Dahleven wished Celia had removed his gag. Had she seen the Elf before? When?
The Elf knelt with impossible grace and drew a dagger that looked like sunlight on ice. He sliced through Dahleven’s bonds as if they were strands of hair. Dahleven pulled the gag from his mouth, and the Elf put a finger to his lips. The touch was gentle, yet firm as a command. And with that touch came the knowledge that these were Lios Alfar, Light Elves.
Dahleven clamped down on the questions he wanted to ask. Why would the Elves free him? What were they doing here, in the deep underground of the Dark Elves? But then, why did Elvenkind do anything? A man erred dangerously if he thought he could understand such things.
Eirik’s back was turned to him. Jorund seemed unaware of the Elves presence, murmuring the words of the ritual. Dahleven looked around. The closest weapon was a sword clutched in a dead man’s hand five feet away. Dahleven thought his odds of killing Jorund pretty good—if the Elves didn’t interfere.
The Light Elf shook his head. “This is not for you to do. Your Lady has chosen wisely.”
Dahleven frowned, not understanding.
“Ligh
t must answer Dark,” the Elf explained. “We felt the Dark Ones shift the balance, but the cause was hidden—until we saw your Lady’s beacon. You have our thanks. Now leave the Dark Ones’ tool to his fate.”
It went against his nature to put his trust in Elvenkind, but he had little choice. He wanted to crush Jorund with his own hands, but with their glamour, the Elves could trick a man into killing his best friend if they chose. Defying the Elf’s command bore too great a risk. He wrapped his arms around Celia and she leaned against his chest.
The Elf looked at his companions standing at the edge of the shadows. Figures within the shadows surged forward as if they would go to Jorund’s aid, then retreated as the Light Elves pushed them back with upraised hands that glowed golden in the dark.
The light from the crystals grew as Jorund continued his chanting. Tears stung Dahleven’s eyes and he winced at the brightness. The Elf turned back to him. “You are too fragile,” he said and stretched his fingers toward Celia’s eyes.
Celia blinked when he touched her, then her eyes widened. “Oh!”
“What is it? What did he do to you?” Dahleven raised a hand to push the Elf away even though he could barely see.
“Be at peace. No harm has come to your lady.”
Dahleven hesitated, and the Elf placed his palm on her head. She breathed deeply. Her trembling stopped. She straightened as though suddenly stronger. Then the Elf reached for Dahleven’s eyes. He pulled back, but the Elf’s touch was lighter than a breath of air.
He could see again, without the light hurting his eyes. Startled, Dahleven sucked in a sharp breath.
The Elf had changed. No longer was his appearance that of a human warrior. The raven hair remained, but now it flowed like midnight down the Elf’s back to his waist, and his eyes slanted sharply over high cheekbones. Lithe and strong, his body moved with a strange cat-like grace. He was beautiful—and completely other.
Dangerous Talents Page 40