Dolor and Shadow

by Angela Chrysler

  “Kill every last Seidkona in the lands to the east. Find that Seidkona and bring her pouch to me. That is my price.”

  “Seidkona are rare and hard to find,” Olaf answered.

  “So they are.” She took up the ladle again and stirred.

  “Consider it done,” Olaf said. He almost turned to leave.

  “Son of Trygg,” she said and gazed at him with golden eyes that made Olaf want to take her. “If you eat of the apple, I will kill you.”

  Olaf watched her blow onto the stew in the ladle.

  “To eat of those apples is to gain immortal life,” he argued and felt her spell-air thicken.

  “There are ways to end an immortal life.” She grinned and gazed up at him. “If you eat of those apples, I will kill you.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  Eager to get gone and leave the witch to her brew, Olaf turned for the door.

  “There are others who knew of Geira’s child.”

  Her words slammed the air from his lungs and he looked back.

  “Word travelled from Eire’s Land and reached the King of Dan’s Reach,” she said.

  “Blatonn,” Olaf whispered.

  The Seidkona shook her head. “Not King Blatonn. His son.”

  “Forkbeard.” He remembered the stern gaze of that spoiled prince born to the son of Gorm.

  “Geira’s grave is not yet cold, yet Forkbeard has inherited your wife’s land and the crown of Dan’s Reach,” she said. “Forkbeard, the king’s son who knew your wife was with child.” The Seidkona stirred the stew again. “If you wish to take back your throne and avenge your wife’s death, assemble an army. Start with Forkbeard’s vassal, Hakon. He resides in your father’s land west of the Northern Way in Nidaros. There, he plays puppet king to your people.”

  Would she have me march to my death?

  “Forkbeard is strong,” Olaf said. “His armies are great.”

  “So they are.”

  “I can not take him alone,” he said. “Not with all the aid of Eire’s Land.”

  “You can when you kill all who worship Forkbeard’s gods.”

  Olaf’s thoughts wandered to the kingdom of Asgard and the gods seated there in halls of gold.

  “The Vanir,” he whispered. “You would have me target Odinn, Thor, and Idunn?”

  The woman shrugged and slurped more stew. “Baldr has fallen,” she said. “There are greater kings with greater powers who look to bring new gods.”

  “Destroy the old for the new,” Olaf said.

  The woman grinned.

  “Very well,” Olaf said and made his way back to the passage. At the edge of the room, he gazed at the witch. Her black hair rippled in the firelight. “How will I know her when I find her?”

  She stirred the stew so long that Olaf thought she hadn’t heard and opened his mouth to ask again.

  “She’s the Seidkona without gold eyes.”

  Olaf flinched, taken aback by such a concept. All Seidkona had gold eyes. Everyone knew that. Their bodies consumed by so much Seidr…For a Seidkona to not have golden eyes…

  Olaf grunted, unsure of what to think of such things. “What do I do with the Seidkona once I have her pouch?”

  The Seidkona shrugged and peered up from her brew with a grin. “Whatever you wish.”

  * * *

  The Seidkona watched the Norsemen with a satisfied gaze as he slipped back into the cave passage. Turning her back on the fire and stew, she strode to the makeshift door where she had emerged not long ago. She pulled back the hide and paid no mind when the hide became a sheet of fine, blue silk. She dropped the silk behind her and breathed in the thick spell-air of Under Earth. Skies made blue by earth and shadow and lit by veins of Seidr ignited every bit of this realm with its energy. The elding balcony where she stood twisted a path of steps down to the garden below and a lake as clear and as blue as the wings of the azul flutter-by.

  Green grass grazed the soles of her bare feet. Soft fibers clung to vibrant pink flowers and succulent orange petals dripped with dew.

  With her prized grin, she eyed the wide, bare back by the lake. His black hair ended at his shoulders where vines of tattoos and runes spilled down his shoulders, biceps, and back. She hungrily studied his form before moving closer.

  “Took you long enough,” Aaric said, looking at her. “Anything of importance?”

  Fand shrugged. “Simple mortals looking to fix simple problems.”

  She eyed the patterns of black that trailed down his chest.

  “Are you done?” Aaric asked.

  Fand ignored the impatience in his tone and took up his shirt from the ground.

  “Nearly,” she said, taking the liberty of eyeing the patterns she had spent hours imprinting onto his body. “Danann still hasn’t found you and this should be enough to keep it that way awhile longer.”

  She dragged a single slender finger down his chest until he yanked his shirt back and slapped her hand away. As he pulled his shirt over his head, she widened her grin at his defiance.

  “If it weren’t for these, I wouldn’t come here it all,” he said.

  Tipping her head to the sky, Fand stretched her arms overhead. A long strand of black hair fell from her face.

  “Such anger,” she cooed.

  Aaric fastened his sword to his hip then took up his hide coat and pulled that over his shoulders.

  “What of the brat?” Fand asked.

  “Kallan is well,” Aaric mumbled, feeding his belt through the buckle.

  “Still ignorant and naïve?” Fand smiled. “Still alive?”

  “What do you want, Fand?”

  She savored her grin and met his eyes, heartless and cold as always.

  “Danann knows,” Fand said, savoring the sick look that colored Aaric’s dark skin white. “She suspects the Drui are still alive after all,” she added and looked at the lake speckled with starlight and Seidr dust.

  “What did she say?” Aaric asked.

  Fand shrugged. “They’re sending out mercenaries.”

  She studied the cold gleam in his eye.

  “You’re lying,” he said and shoved his way past her, back to the steps.

  “How can you tell?”

  Her nose burned from the prick of annoyance. Aaric was on the first step.

  “I want the girl, Aaric!”

  Aaric stopped on the elding steps. “You can’t have her.”

  “That wasn’t the deal, Aaric. I want Kira’s daughter.” Fand strode to the steps and stood so that her head was forced back, exposing her slender neck. “She’s too old. The girl has reached her elding. She’ll know soon enough. She needs to return to Under Earth before Danann finds her.”

  “It isn’t that simple,” Aaric said. “I can’t just take Kallan and move her… Eyolf would never let her go.”

  “Then get rid of him.”

  “I won’t listen to this.” Aaric continued up the steps.

  “Aaric, your time is up!”

  Aaric stopped.

  “For nearly an age, I heeded your mindless, petty request.” Fand watched the veins in the side of his neck pulse. “You’ve played with your princess. Now bring her in.”

  “I won’t.”

  Fand ground her teeth. “Then I will kill her.”

  “No!” Aaric slammed Fand into the stone, his hand on her neck.

  She felt his fingers tighten, hungry to squeeze. She smiled her sweet smile, delighted in watching the beads of sweat build on his brow.

  “I can lick them off for you,” she whispered.

  Aaric released her neck and punched the wall with his fist, missing Fand’s head by a breath. Blood trickled down the stone where he held his knuckle and Fand listened to his breath slow then steady.

  “You can’t…you can’t kill her,” Aaric said.

  Fand leaned in until her lips grazed his ear.

  “Bring her in,” she whispered.

  Aaric raised his eyes to Fand. The defeat she had milked o
ut of him was there right where she wanted it.

  “Eyolf won’t let her go,” he said and Fand shrugged.

  “Then get rid of him.”

  “I won’t.”

  He had moved to continue up the steps when Fand clasped his arm. “Get rid of him, or I will kill her.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Streets of white stone twisted through homes buried between Lorlenalin’s towers. The late morning sun that bathed the city in streaks of orange vanished among the dark alleys and winding side streets.

  From beneath a black hood, Kallan peered through the grim lane. She didn’t see the unusual blackness that twisted its way through the alley behind her. It stopped when she stopped and moved again when she pulled her cloak tighter and continued through the maze of back streets. Her feet slapped the stone, adding an articulated footfall to the silence. Behind her, the Shadow loomed.

  The Seidkona descended a collection of small steps and turned into a darker passage where frequent clusters of weathered, gray planks augmented the drab of Lorlenalin’s warrens. Walls loomed over her, forming a labyrinth of gorges from towers built too close together.

  At the end of the narrow alley, a small door, fashioned out of warped planks and held together with fraying twine, leaned against a dilapidated frame. The Seidkona pulled at a rusted bracket, bent and turned upside-down. The Shadow watched and waited as the aged, makeshift handle rattled in her grasp. The door hinge whined and shifted. The last of the nails had come loose again. Without hesitation, she slipped through the small doorway and descended an immediate three steps into the ground, and the Shadow descended too, seeping its way down the steps behind her.

  Broken barrels, weathered planks, and graying scrap wood from the docks filled the small room. A serpentine path wound its way through the maze of wood. In the far corner, near the back of the wall, the tallest of towers obstructed the path from view. With a flick of the Seidkona’s wrist, blue Seidr light burst from her hand and formed a hovering orb that lit the room. The Shadow swelled and wove itself in between the planks and barrels, spilling in and around the room’s natural darkness, where it concealed itself just as the Seidkona gazed over her shoulder.

  Blue light touched her pearl-white skin, accenting her high cheekbones and delicate jaw. She scanned the room as her hand moved to the sword at her waist. The air was thick. The Shadow waited. Her grip tightened on her hilt when, from behind the tower of broken barrels, a boy emerged and charged the Seidkona.

  He swung his stick high in the air and ululated his best battle cry. Kallan released her hilt and raised her palm where silver-blue Seidr flowed, forming a shield. At once, Kallan drained her strength into the Seidr-shield. By the time the boy brought his stick down into Kallan’s ward, the Shadow was gone.

  “Oh.” The boy’s shoulders fell and he pushed out his bottom lip. “I wanted to duel.”

  “Geir,” Kallan said. “I am not going to raise my sword to you. Stop trying.”

  “You’re scared I’ll beat you,” Geir said. His head almost reached her waist.

  “You know what—” Kallan flicked her finger, sending a speck of Seidr through the air harmlessly striking his cheek.

  “Ah,” he cried. “That’s a challenge!” He raised his play-sword again.

  “Kallan!”

  A girl squealed and charged, fastening herself to Kallan’s ankle. The child grinned through blemishes of dirt and tangles of blond hair.

  Geir groaned and lowered his stick again. “I just accepted her challenge, Kri,” he said and slumped back off behind the barrels, dragging his stick behind him.

  With a smile, Kallan brushed back her hood and crouched down to the child attached to her leg.

  “Is Eilif here, Kri?” she asked with a gentle grin.

  “He’s in the back with Latha,” Kri said, refusing to relinquish Kallan’s leg.

  “Is his nose bleeding again?”

  The child nodded.

  Slipping her hand into the folds of her cloak, Kallan presented a green apple that filled her palm.

  “My leg for an apple?” Kallan said as the lantern light caught the white elding bracelet dangling at the end of her wrist. Intricate etchings of eternity knots and runes spanned the length of the jewel, but the apple alone drew Kri’s eye.

  Bristling with joy, Kri released Kallan’s leg. Snatching the apple, she bound their contract and sank her teeth into the fruit. With a flourish, Kallan pulled her cloak from her shoulders, revealing a large basket crammed with herbs, fruits, breads, and salted meats. Her long brown hair fell down her back and, after draping the cloak over the basket, Kallan held her hand down to Kri.

  “Let’s go then,” she said.

  On cue, Kri leapt from the floor and snatched Kallan’s hand.

  Making their way around the barrels, Kallan came to a second door. This one was newer and stronger than the first, with proper hinges and a sturdy, shiny handle freshly nailed in place. Orange light poured from the cracks of the wood and streaked the shadows with a happy glow that seemed unnatural in this part of the city. Pushing open the door invited a flood of squeals and hullabaloo that accompanied a bombardment of minute Alfar children swarming Kallan’s feet.

  Over the sea of heads, Kallan scanned the wide, warm room laden with thick, lavish blankets and elegant furs. A large fireplace crackled beneath a soapstone cauldron that filled the home with the scent of stew. Piles of bedding were scattered about wherever there was room. Beside the hearth, the youngest child slept beneath her blankets.

  “Again?” Kallan called over the children’s heads to Eilif, who stood pinching Latha’s nose beside the only table in the room. Clad in his plain brown robes, the scribe peered beneath the rag held to the face of a lad sitting on the table.

  “Again,” he said, leaving Kallan to free herself from the rabble.

  It took Kallan several insane minutes to quiet the children and disperse the crowd. Exclaiming, they huddled around her basket in the center of the room, and gleefully picked through Kallan’s gifts as the princess tended to Latha’s nose.

  “It looks like you’ve just lost some blood,” Kallan said and shrugged, shaking her head at Latha. “That’s it.”

  “Will it come back?” Latha asked, his round, brown eyes peering over the rag.

  “I don’t know,” Kallan said and pulled a gold apple from the pouch fastened to her side. Unsheathing a dagger, she sank the blade into the apple’s golden flesh.

  “Here.” Kallan offered a slice and, heaving, lowered him to the floor.

  “You’re getting big,” she said, emphasizing a grunt. “Now, go take a look at the basket.”

  The boy beamed as he scarfed down the apple slice and scurried off to find a place around the basket.

  Kallan was back on her feet when she felt a tug on her blue skirts.

  “Kawin.”

  Kallan crouched to the ground.

  “Yes, Rind?” she asked a girl no more than three winters old. Appearing too small for her age, and with eyes larger than her starved, sunken face seemed to be able to hold, Rind wrapped her arms around Kallan’s neck and snuggled her face into the Seidkona.

  Grinning, Kallan stood, taking the girl with her.

  “How did Father and Daggon’s clothes work out?” Kallan asked Eilif as Rind shoved a thumb into her mouth and plopped her head down on Kallan’s shoulder.

  “Perfect,” Eilif said, fascinated by the children who were currently shredding a loaf of bread into pieces. “I used most of them to replace some of the tunics. I also made trousers for the older ones who’ve outgrown their rags.”

  “And Herdis?” Kallan asked, nodding to the sleeping girl who had not awakened despite the commotion.

  “She’s resting well enough now,” Eilif said. “Your concoction seems to have worked. It brought the fever down and it broke this morning. The infection also seems to be clearing up. The smell is gone.”

  Kallan nodded, hearing the relief in his voice.

  “It’d be
easier if I were further into my studies,” she said, detesting her own limits. “Another day and I would have taken her to Gudrun.”

  “What about the food?” Eilif asked. “Did Cook catch you this time?”

  “No.” Kallan grinned. “I used a spell.”

  Eilif chuckled, bouncing his body with the rhythm of his laughter.

  “Don’t laugh,” Kallan said, smiling. “That spell has saved me more times than anything else I’ve learned.”

  “I just remember Aaric and Cook protesting that you not learn it for this very reason,” Eilif said, still chuckling.

  “Not this reason, exactly,” she said.

  “But one like it,” Eilif reminded her.

  “I like cloudberries,” Kallan said, watching the last of the bread vanish as the children started on the fruit. “Besides, this is a good reason.”

  As Eilif’s face split into a wide grin, the door opened, emitting a brief creak that drew Kallan and Eilif’s attention to Daggon, whose wide frame filled the doorway. His wild red hair spilled past his shoulders and into the wiry red beard that framed a pair of copper eyes.

  “Daggon?” Kallan said.

  “Yep,” he said and stepped aside. Behind him, Eyolf stood as tall and as wide as Daggon with a fur and hide coat that added to his size.

  “Father,” Kallan said as Eilif bowed his head in genuflect.

  “Kallan,” Eyolf said and nodded to the scribe. “Eilif.”

  “Stand down, Princess,” Daggon said, closing the door.

  His armor clinked and moved with him as he followed behind Eyolf, who walked around the children as if they had been Kallan’s gowns strewn about her chamber floor while she played with spells and swords.

  “Still robbing Cook’s kitchens?” Eyolf asked.

  With a scrunched brow, Kallan assessed the layer of chain mail Daggon and her father wore, then studied the swords secured at their sides.

  “You’re armed,” Kallan said. “I was told of no battle.”

  A smirk pulled at the edge of Daggon’s mouth as Eyolf took up Kallan’s hands and planted a kiss to each.

  “Told you she would notice,” Daggon muttered.