by Andre Norton
“Thank you, Granddam,” Elin said demurely. “Now I feel able to stay the evening without pleading a headache and taking to my room.”
“Haven’t I told you that everything will work out all right?” Ysa said. “There, there, you’re young, my darling, and you lack experience, that’s all. Never you fear. We have time on our side. And with time, all the problems”—she put a special emphasis on the word, which Elin understood immediately—“will work themselves out and you will achieve the station in life that was destined for you in the Loom of Time.”
Indeed, Ysa thought, I have been busy. There is unrest brewing on the eastern borders and also with isolated tribes of Fridians and Aslaugors to the north.
She had promised wealth, dropping broad hints that Their Maimed Majesties had hoarded the vast trove of fire-stones from the Mother Ice Dragon’s lair, and were keeping them for themselves. She had dared even spread tendrils of doubt into the border area where Grattenbor merged into Åskar, Earl Royance’s domain, and to Yuland, along the southwestern border of Rendel, and the wealthy island Kingdom of Writham to the west.
Even if these last two seeds failed to bear fruit, the others looked ripe to break into a civil war sooner or later unless stronger, cooler heads prevailed.
The day following the feast, Ice Princess sailed back into Cyornas Fjord. The NordornKing and NordornQueen immediately called a meeting of the Council, so that Rohan and Tordenskjold could report to all the results of their ransom voyage. Each noble had his own chair now, carved and painted with his device and crest. The order of precedence had been altered; Ashen was now seated beside Gaurin instead of at the other end of the table. That position was occupied by Duke Einaar, with Bjaudin NordornPrince beside him. One chair was empty—Gangerolf, late as usual—so Rohan took that one. The Council meeting would surely have ended before Baron Gangerolf the Tardy showed up.
“We retrieved nine of Rohan’s men,” Tordenskjold told the nobles seated around the table. “Eight Rovers, and their captain, Fritji. A hundred gold pennies in all; Fritji cost us double. I’ll wager he won’t be going out to sea alone again for a while, not until he gets more experience under his belt.”
Gaurin glanced at Ashen. She was pale, her hands tightly gripping the arms of her chair. “And what of our son?”
“The captain of the Wykenig ship, Holger den Forferdelig, played a little game with us,” Rohan said. “First he claimed not to know of whom I spoke. Then he said he thought he remembered him, but he might have let the boy drown.”
Ashen gasped.
“No, Ashen NordornQueen, remember, he was enjoying playing with us. Finally he did pretend to remember Mikkel. I think he will send a message asking for ransom.”
“Ransom!” Tordenskjold snorted aloud. “We offered him the Ice Princess for the boy! What more ransom could he want?”
“Oh, I expect he would be able to think of something.”
“Whatever it is, we will pay it,” Gaurin said. He reached out and took Ashen’s hand. “And I believe also that he will send a message to us concerning our son’s welfare.”
“He seemed taken with the notion,” Tordenskjold said. “Incidentally, the little warkat is with him. I think Holger thought the warkat’s presence and loyalty to Mikkel was special enough to save his life, whereas he left Tjórvi to live or die as best he may.”
“How does my son?” Rohan asked.
“He fares well. He has been keeping much to himself, and not appearing in the Hall but eating his meals with the servants unless ordered otherwise.”
“Well, I’ll instruct him otherwise, as it seems he will be staying here an indefinite period of time,” Rohan said.
“You are relieved of your vow, if vow it was, to leave Tjórvi as surety for the return of Prince Mikkel,” Gaurin said.
“I thank you, but will abide by my promise.”
“What say my nobles?” Gaurin looked from man to man seated around the table. “What say you to this news?”
Svarteper, NordornLand’s Lord High Marshal, spoke first as was his right. “We should assemble an army and take Prince Mikkel back by force of arms.”
“I concur,” Baron Arngrim said.
Most of the other nobles—Baldrian, Håkon, even Einaar and Bjaudin nodded their agreement. Their eyes were alight with the thought of battle and forceful retrieval of their young Prince.
“Holger den Forferdelig is known as ‘the Terrible’ for good reason. He can laugh one minute and burn a village or sink a ship the next. He said that any such move would result in Mikkel’s death at once, and I believe him,” Tordenskjold informed them.
The war spirit evaporated like spring mist. No one else seemed to have a suggestion. Then Count Mjødulf spoke. As was his habit, he put his hands on the table and laced his long, slender fingers in front of him so that they were reflected in the high polish of the table top. “I believe, from what Chieftain Rohan and Admiral-General Tordenskjold have reported to us, that this Holger the Terrible might be, in his own way, a man of honor. I have heard it said that such exist among the Wykenigs. Let us then go on the assumption that this is the case. Let us await a message from him concerning Mikkel and after a reasonable time—say, a month—if we have not heard from him, then let us meet again and make other plans.”
“Alas, I fear that is our only recourse,” Gaurin said somberly. He turned to Ashen and kissed the hand he still held. “Our midwinter celebrations will be dimmed, I fear, even with the presence of young Tjórvi to brighten our days.”
At that moment, Gangerolf made one of his typical noisy entrances into the Council Chamber, sending the door crashing into the wall. “I see you started without me, as usual,” he said. “Well, then, what’s happened?”
Snow had begun falling and the many visitors to the Castle of Fire and Ice knew that they must be on their way or risk a much longer stay than they had anticipated. Royance and Mjaurita would be leaving to travel to their elegant manor in Åskar, leaving the Silver Burhawk at winter anchor in the pens of Cyornas Fjord until they could take a pleasure cruise. Those with longer journeys to make dared not linger.
“This winter looks to be an early one, and a hard one as well,” Gaurin commented to Ashen. “Prince Karl is making ready his vessel even now; he will have difficult sailing if a storm catches him on the way. Our Rendelian kindred probably have the easiest return of any. Bernhard of Yuland will be traveling with them as far as Rendelsham, but then he has an overland journey south and east. He may find his coach mired in snowy mud even in those milder climes.”
“Elin wants to go to Iselin with Ysa,” Ashen said. “Those two have taken quite a liking to one another.”
“And Ysa? Is she agreeable?”
“Yes. In fact, she claims it would be highly improper for Elin to continue to live so closely to her betrothed.”
Gaurin raised one eyebrow. “Well, she does still fancy herself the Mistress of Court Protocol. And you, are you agreeable?”
“Gaurin, would you think it horrible of me to say that having Elin in the care of another for a while would suit me well? She is entering into a very difficult time of her life. I know how I felt, just becoming a woman. I don’t think she would be willing to accept instruction from either Zazar or me. If she will do so from Ysa, then I say let her have her visit.” She smiled, a trifle shakily. “She can always come home again when she and Ysa quarrel.”
Gaurin laughed out loud, the first time in a long time; then he sobered. “Whatever will bring you ease, my Ashen. I know you grieve daily for Mikkel. But look you, with the onset of winter, it has become impossible for us to parley with his captors and ransom him. It would be unsafe. He is as secure as we can reasonably expect him to be.”
Only partially reassured, Ashen determined to consult with Zazar again. The Wysen-wyf had peered into matters unknown before; she would repeat the ritual even if Ashen had to order it done. Zazar, unfortunately, was lying abed with a cold and so any such petition would have to wait.
/> The NordornQueen forced herself to remain calm on the surface. Her nerves were stretched to their breaking point, however, and she felt that the slightest touch would shatter her entirely. If that happened, she would begin weeping and never stop.
Before Zazar had recovered, she and Gaurin received the looked-for message, delivered by the least prepossessing of messengers. An Aslaugor from the far north arrived in Cyornasberg, obviously having traveled through deep snow. He bore a packet wrapped in the oiled skin of some cold-weather animal, and asked for directions to the Castle of Fire and Ice. A townsman pointed him toward the barbican gatehouse.
“Here,” the man said, thrusting the packet into the hands of one of the guards. “Got it from a Fridian passing through my village. Said this here is for the great ones. You take it and save me the trouble.”
Then he tightened the wolvine-rimmed hood of his tunic over his head, turned, and disappeared back the way he had come, not stopping long enough to receive a reward.
At the news, Zazar pulled herself out of bed and, heavily wrapped and muffled and accompanied by Weyse, joined Ashen, Gaurin, Einaar, and Bjaudin in the sitting room of the private quarters Ashen and Gaurin shared. She brought with her a small bottle of her own special cough remedy and when she opened it to take a sip, a strong smell of brandewijn mixed with some of her medicines filled the room.
The five people drew up chairs around a table and watched while Gaurin opened the packet.
Inside the many layers of protective wrapping was a folded letter addressed simply to “King,” sealed with a drop of wax bearing the likeness of a creature out of legend.
“That’s Draig the Sea-terror,” Zazar commented. She coughed and took another sip of her elixir. “Wouldn’t be surprised if this Holger took it for his device. What’s that?”
“That” was another letter, wrapped in rough snow-thistle fabric that had been treated with wax to make it waterproof. The covering bore a single word in characters Ashen recognized as having seen before:
“That’s mine,” Zazar said, taking the letter. “It’s got my name on it.”
Gaurin handed it to her and opened his letter. The writing was childlike, as if the writer were not used to using a pen. The message was brief:
He’s alive, winter is here, will send another update when I feel like it. H.
“Well, that’s short and to the point,” Einaar commented. “This Holger is not a man of many written words.”
“I am glad to know that my brother lives,” Bjaudin said. “I, too, feel that this Holger is merely playing with us. We are currently at his mercy. Yet I do not think Mikkel is in any great danger presently—not nearly as much as when he was on the GorGull when it was being attacked.”
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Ashen said.
“And what is in your letter, Madame Zazar?” Gaurin asked.
For answer, she opened the parcel and spread it out on the table so all could look at, if not read, it. Another package, much smaller and smelling of herbs, tumbled out and Zazar put it aside.
“Can you read it?” Ashen asked.
“With a little time, yes. I’m out of practice, you know.” Zazar gathered up the letter, the packet—much like the bundles and packets of herbs she had prepared for so many years—and left the room with Weyse to return to her lofty apartment, trailing the aroma of medicine-laced brandewijn.
Ashen wanted to go with her, but knew that she would only get the rough side of Zazar’s tongue for her presumption. When the old Wysen-wyf had deciphered her letter—then and only then would she send for the NordornQueen. If at all.
Eleven
Life in the Upplands village settled into a routine for Mikkel. He worked hard through the day, served meals, fell into his bed of straw gratefully and slept soundly until morning. There was always wood to be brought in or water to be drawn from the well, providing he could crack the film of ice that covered it. There were bowstrings and fishing lines to be waxed and made ready for the hunters and fishers, and their bounty cleaned and made ready for table or for the special cooking house, the soðhús where women boiled the meat in a large kettle and salted it down for winter storage.
He had never given any thought to the incredible amount of work involved in keeping a large household running. Undoubtedly, this much or even more went on at Cyornas Castle, but he had been oblivious. When he wanted fresh clothing, it was available. When he was hungry, food was provided.
Talkin had become a favorite among most of the men. They laughed hugely when Talkin showed up to help dispose of any spare bits when they were dressing the meat after a hunt. As for the warkat’s presence among the dogs in Holger’s Long House, Talkin seemed to pick his time and his opponent before establishing his authority. One or two skirmishes and the house dogs tried hard to ignore him. The house cats, on the other hand, adored him and loved to cuddle up with him in a heap wherever he decided to take one of his frequent naps.
Though the people customarily had two meals a day—the dagmál or “day-meal” about two hours after sun-up, and the náttmál in the evenings—the younkers who helped in the kitchen could almost always count on being able to filch a handful of cold meat or raw vegetables to ease a growing child’s appetite. Mikkel quickly learned that volunteering to chop vegetables was a good way to get an extra serving of food under the guise of offering to help. Askepott generally turned a tolerant eye on such goings-on unless the younker exhibited too much greed, whereupon he or she was summarily turned out of the kitchen to be put to such household tasks as Gunnora the Golden might deem necessary. There was always spinning and weaving to be done, to manufacture the cloth necessary for such a sizable village. From time to time, people went out into the forest area to search for a special plant that lay half-hidden under the snow, with only the spiked, deep rose-colored flower visible.
This plant had a very thick stalk that, when opened, yielded a spray of light, strong fibers that could be dried, spun, and mixed with wool. With a slight shock of recognition, Mikkel realized he was seeing snow-thistles for the first time.
The women and the girls also worked at milking the snow-cows and turning the results into butter, buttermilk, whey, the fresh soft cheese known as skyr, curds, and regular firm cheese. Here the boys helped by preparing seawater in shallow vessels so it could evaporate, leaving the salt necessary to help preserve the new cheeses. Only a lucky few were allowed to sample any of this food, and for that reason the girls preferred to work in the kitchen. Often they were set to grinding grain, a task that Petra liked. The hand mill in Askepott’s kitchen was heavy and the work hard; Petra, however, had a knack of making the large grindstone almost float against the base stone and as she worked, she would sing her song about the sea-green glass. She could grind enough grain for the day’s bread well before noon, an astonishing feat for such a slight girl.
During the warm months there was the struggle to grow enough grain for the mill and during the cold months there was the problem of how to portion it out so that it would last and yet not let the steading go hungry. Some of the grain was used to make ale, but most was used for bread and other dishes. Grain porridge was a staple at the day-meal, usually cooked in water and eaten plain, but prepared with milk and butter when there was a surplus. Special buildings housed the grain, and there the house cats earned their keep, ruthlessly tracking rodents and other vermin and destroying them.
In Holger’s village, one farmer, nicknamed Smjör-Hringr or “Butter-Ring” because of his great fondness for bread and butter, was experimenting with sheltered fields, constructing awninglike coverings over the all-important plants. This technique looked to be able to lengthen the growing time, but when full winter was upon them, the protected fields lay fallow like any other.
The Wykenigs, Mikkel Red Fox learned, were very clean people. In addition to the sweat bath there were bathhouses for men and for women, also constructed well outside the stockade walls. These, he learned, had hot water piped in from natura
l hot springs in the area. No matter that it smelled of brimstone; these baths were very popular with everyone in the steading.
Some of this water was also piped into a wash house where clothing could be scrubbed. Fur or leather garments were cleaned elsewhere by other means.
Mikkel had formed an impression while on shipboard that the Wykenigs were filthy by nature. Now, he realized, they were as cleanly in their habits as Nordorners. Furthermore, he developed a healthy respect for those servants back home, who had been charged with the task of cleaning the clothing he so carelessly soiled. There were no natural hot springs in Cyornasberg or Cyornas Castle.
In the evenings, when most of the work had been done, the men of the steading relaxed in the Long House. Sometimes one would amuse the others with song or storytelling; often the men engaged in wrestling matches or sparring with wooden weapons. With luck, these matches would serve to ward off or at least delay a full-out hólmgang or “duel of honor,” fought to the death on a small islet out in the sound. Once, at Holger’s urging, Gunnora danced, but the performance was not repeated.
The most favored pastimes were games of Hnefa-Tafl. Many men brought their own boards to the Long House but, perhaps deliberately, they were of inferior quality to the ones hanging behind Holger’s chair.
The first evening Holger invited Mikkel to play, to his pleasure the boy caught on quickly enough that the Ridder actually had to work for his victory. Thereafter, a game an evening became almost a ritual with them.
“You are better than any boy your age has a right to be, Ridder Red Fox,” Holger said, grinning. “By the time I get through teaching you, you’ll win money from fools who think they can get the better of you.”
“Perhaps,” Mikkel said before he thought, “I could win enough to pay my ransom.”
He was immediately frightened that he had insulted or annoyed the Ridder Chieftain. Instead, Holger threw his head back and bellowed with laughter.