The Silver Stone

by Joel Rosenberg

Chapter Twenty-Two

  A Farewell

  Ian met her in the gardens, just as dawn was breaking. The walls of the Keep would block the sun for hours yet, but the sky was a royal blue, lightening by the minute, as gray masses of clouds whitened into cottony puffs.

  He had tried to sleep, but hadn’t been able to. Arnie hadn’t had any difficulty falling asleep in front of the fireplace, Mjolnir lying on the floor next to where he put his blankets. Ivar del Hival and Thorian Thorsen had quickly retired to their sleeping rooms as well, but Torrie and Maggie hadn’t been able to sleep either, and had one by one exited their sleeping rooms and joined Ian in the central salon of their suite in the Residency.

  Another all-nighter. Well, somebody had to do some planning, some thinking ahead.

  It was nice to be able to think beyond the Table. That felt downright luxurious.

  Marta made her way down the path toward him, dressed in yet another variation of her traveling outfit of blouse and culottes.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Her eyes were red, and her smile sad as she took his hands. “Good morning, my Ian,” she said.

  He slipped his arms around her waist and locked his fingers together. “Am I still your Ian?”

  She nodded. “Yes, if you want to be. If…” She shook her head. “But it would be awkward now, wouldn’t it? You were part of the party that has shaken Vandescard to its foundations.” She had to laugh. “No more Tyrsons? It would be hard to imagine a Vandescard without the Tyrsons.”

  “Oh,” Ian said, “I figure they’ll find sufficient excuses to chop a hand off the worthy, sooner or later. But I suspect that the idea of invading the Dominions will be put off, at least for a while, or—”

  “Or until Odin actually sends us the Promised Warrior. Unless—”

  “If you’re going to count on Arnie for that, I think you’ll be surprised. And not pleasantly.” What was it about Arnie that made him able to hold Mjolnir? The hammer’s handle had burned off generations of hands among the Vandestish elite. What was it about Arnie that made it safe for him to hold it?

  Ian thought he knew.

  He’d known it every time that he had seen Arnie take down one of those little figurines of Ephie’s, dust it, and then carefully, gently, put it back in its place. He knew it the day that Arnie had volunteered to come along. Not for his willingness, but for the glee in his voice at the prospect. At last, at long last, Arnie had found a way he might be able to kill himself without breaking his promise to Ephie, and he had seized on that chance without pause, without hesitation, without regret, until he found himself standing in the rubble that had been the Wolf’s Head, holding the hammer of Thor in his hand, the Brisingamen diamond at his feet.

  Arnie just didn’t give a damn about dying. Was that what had saved him?

  Maybe. Probably.

  “If not him,” Marta said, “perhaps there will be…”

  Ian’s jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t count on that. Not real soon. We’re going to go have a little talk with Harbard the ferryman, the six of us.” It wasn’t nice to play with people like they were toys. It wasn’t nice to curse Hosea, or to—

  But let it be, for now. The six of them, Ian carrying both Giantkiller and Gungnir, Arnie bearing Mjolnir, should be a match for the old bastard.

  “You leave this morning?”

  Ian nodded. “As soon as the old ones wake, we’re going to, er, acquire a dozen or so horses from the stables here, and head off.” Somehow he didn’t think that Arnie would get a lot of resistance, and what the hell, they did have some good Dominion gold.

  “And you were going to leave without speaking to me?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m not that much of a coward,” he said.

  “Then what of us? The idea of settling down to become the next margrave doesn’t appeal to you,” she said, shaking her head in amazement. “It really doesn’t, and I really don’t understand it.”

  Ian shrugged. “Maggie put it to me kind of bluntly, last night—she asked if I really wanted to spend the rest of my life squeezing taxes out of the citizenry in between bouts of political intrigue and the occasional battle, and the answer is no.”

  “But… but ruling the Hinterlands is what I was born to do,” she said. “Even if you asked me to leave it—”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Discussing it was hopeless, and useless, and what made it worse was that he liked Marta, a lot. She was gentle, and kind, and tough beneath the polished exterior. And truth to tell, he liked her just the way she was, even though that would pull the two of them apart.

  He kissed her, hard, her tongue warm against his. After a long time, he pulled back, just a little. “So. What of us? Do we say good-bye here?”

  “I think, perhaps, we should say ‘farewell, until we meet again’.” Her smile was both warm and sly at the same time. ”Oh, if you don’t mind, I’ll still represent myself as your betrothed.“

  He chuckled. “And if you find somebody you’d prefer, well, it won’t hurt his status much that you’d thrown over Ian Silver Stone, killer of giants, for him, eh?”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “Then again, he would have to be very special. And there is always the possibility that you’ll come to your senses, isn’t there? You know that there will always be a place for you in the Hinterlands.”

  “I hope I can stop by, often. Or at least, every now and then.”

  “That would be nice,” she said. “I won’t promise to wait, but… as I say, he would have to be somebody special.” She patted her belly. “You won’t mind if I don’t wait on having a daughter for you, I would hope.”

  The thought of another man in her bed bothered Ian more than he was willing to admit, but so be it. “No, that would be fine,” he said.

  “You lie,” she said, laughing. “You’re such a foreigner about some things.”

  “You’ll miss that.”

  She nodded. “Well, yes, I will. And you will miss me.”

  He kissed her lightly on the lips. “That’s certainly no lie.”

  “And perhaps I could remind you, once more, of all that you’ll be missing.”

  “That would be very nice.” Ian offered her his arm.

  They walked back into the Residency, and up the stairs to the second-floor suite that Ian shared with the others.

  The rest were all awake. Arnie and Torrie were busy packing the various bags, while Maggie, Thorian, and Ivar del Hival sat in front of the fire, each with a steaming mug of tea in hand.

  “Good morning,” Maggie said. “And good morning to you, Margravine.” Maggie smiled. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous if I suggest that you and I go off and take tea together this morning, before we leave. I could tell you some stories about your… friend there.”

  Marta smiled back. “That would be very nice.”

  “Please.” Ian held up a hand. “Later,” he said. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  He turned and followed Marta into his bedroom, hoping that he wasn’t blushing too much.

  And then she was in his arms, and he couldn’t have cared less.

  As they reached the top of the road overlooking the Seat, a black bird spiraled down out of the blue sky. It startled Torrie’s horse—Torrie had picked a high-spirited black mare as his primary mount—but Ian’s somewhat morose bay gelding barely seemed to notice, even when the bird lit on a thick branch a dozen feet over their heads.

  “Greetings,” it said. “I’ve come to bring word to he who waits,

  “For word of your victories, word of your glories,

  “Tell me what I need to know, without hesitating.

  “I’m always eager to hear your stories.”

  Ian looked from face to face among the others, and was surprised that they were all waiting for him. Even Arnie, who rode clutching Mjolnir as carefully as Ian used his free hand to hold Gungnir.

  There was no point in lying. Hugin or Munin would surely be able to monitor their progress back to
Harbard’s cottage.

  “I’m sure he’ll have heard,” Ian said, “that we’ve managed to survive. We’re on our way to Harbard’s Crossing now.”

  But it would be a mistake to carry the Brisingamen diamond with them. Yes, they would be hard to take on directly, carrying both Gungnir and Mjolnir, but stealth might succeed where directness would not.

  “Can I bind you to take the diamond to her, not to him?” Ian asked.

  “Thought and memory alone must we bring to him,” the bird cawed. “Say: ‘bring this to Freya,’ and so I will do.”

  “I have long been an honest messenger,

  “Long before you.”

  The bird cocked his head. “You might ask of your friend Hosea, some time. He—”

  “Orfindel?” Torrie put in. “Hosea? The real one? You’re sure he’s alive?”

  The bird ruffled its feathers. “No, I make no such claim,

  “Though I saw him at work, but yesternight evening,

  “Still, he may have curled up and died since, “Though he showed no sign of such leaving.” Maggie cocked her head to one side. “We speak of our friend Hosea, not Harbard or anybody else in disguise.”

  “Ah,” the bird said, cocking his head in perhaps unintentional mimicry, “you wound me, you do. ”I said that I saw your friend; and I “Do not say what I do not know to be true.” So be it. “Bring this to Freya,” Ian said. He flung the diamond into the air. If Hugin and Munin could be diverted by Odin from giving the gem to Freya, surely that would have already happened with the ruby.

  The world was at times more treacherous than Ian would have liked, but you had to learn to trust who you could.

  The diamond rumbled through the air, shattering sunlight into a myriad of bright colors, until the raven’s feet closed about it with a loud click. Broad wings beat against the air as it climbed high into the sky, until the bird was only a dot over the trees.

  “Well,” Torrie said, smiling. “Looks to me we have some riding to do.”

  Ian nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Maggie chuckled. “Always in a rush, that’s the way men are. Can’t just enjoy the moment. Hmm… maybe that explains the way you all—”

  “Maggie.” Torrie was actually blushing. “Stop it.”

  She laughed. “Now, now, now. I was just thinking that that explains the way you wolf down your supper, that’s all.”

  Ian had to laugh.

  “Well,” Thorian Thorsen said, kicking his dun gelding into a walk, “the day grows no younger.”

  Ivar del Hival grunted. “Neither do I. Although I wish that I would, from time to time.”

  Arnie Selmo shook his head. “Not me,” he said, quietly, sadly. He shook his head. “If I had a wish, that’s not what I’d wish for, not for a moment.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Harbard’s Crossing

  Hosea was waiting for them on the front porch of the cottage, his long legs stretched out, the heels of his boots resting on the section of stump he was using as a hassock. He had been there since they had first sighted the cabin, more than an hour before, and he hadn’t moved: he was whittling at a piece of wood, although it was too early in the process to tell what it would become.

  He smiled and nodded as they rode up, but made no move to rise.

  Ian dismounted, carefully, one hand on the grip of the saddle, another on Gungnir. He would not throw it. Thrown, it would return to Odin.

  “He’s gone. No need to be concerned.” Hosea raised a slim hand. “It’s really me,” he said, an ever so slight slurring in his voice. “I understand that at least one of you was clever enough,” he went on, his smile taking the sting out of the words, “to figure out that he was impersonating me, while I lay chained in the cave that he uses to stable Sleipnir. Used, that is. He and Sleipnir are gone.”

  “You won’t mind if we check that out for ourselves,” Maggie said.

  Thorian Thorsen, Ivar del Hival, and Arnie made their way around the back in company. Ian was again impressed with how quietly Ivar del Hival could move; the big man made only a little more sound than Thorian, who walked silently, his sword out, and at the ready. Arnie brought up the rear, swinging Mjolnir one-handed, prevented from dropping it by the learner strap terminating in a wrist-loop that now wrapped its handle.

  “No, I won’t mind at all, Maggie,” Hosea said, slowly. “How can I reassure you?”

  “It is he, and only he.” The voice from inside the cabin made Ian jump. He remembered that voice. “I assume you’ll trust me with this, as you’ve trusted me with so much more.” She stood in the doorway, looking almost exactly as she had the last time.

  Her glossy white hair hung loose around her shoulders, although the bangs had been pulled back to either side of the part, held by a pair of golden clips. The creamy cotton shift she wore ended several inches above the knee, and was belted tightly, emphasizing her slim waist and the full breasts that didn’t seem overly large for a woman with broad shoulders. As before, Ian was reminded of Rachel McLish, the bodybuilder—Freya was muscular, certainly, but there was nothing even vaguely masculine about the lines and curves of her body.

  Her smile dazzled as she walked out toward them. “It’s good to see you again, Ian. And to meet you, at last, young Thorian del Thorian. And you, Maggie Christensen.”

  Ian never remembered deciding whether or not to give her the spear, but moving neither quickly nor slowly, she reached out and then she had it in her hands.

  Ian let out a breath he didn’t remember holding. It felt good to have the spear out of his hands. He stripped off his gloves and flexed his fingers, working the knots of tension out.

  Her smile broadened. “Ah. I see you do remember me.” She beckoned at all of them. “Come into the house, please—Hosea? Would you be so kind as to invite the other three? Dinner waits, and we have much to discuss.”

  Crowding eight people around a table intended for four at most made dinner more intimate than Ian would have cared for; he found himself squeezed tightly between Torrie and Ivar del Hival.

  But the stew was rich and meaty, the cider cold and sweet, and the apple pie that Freya took from the oven with her bare hands—it would take more than a hot oven to burn the flesh of an Aesir—was even sweeter and richer than he remembered. It was silly for a piece of pie to make such a difference, but each bite seemed to ease the road-weariness that had settled in each joint and muscle.

  The conversation flowed around him, but he just sat and half-listened. Arnie, Thorian Thorsen, Maggie, and Hosea were headed back home. Freya had drawn a map toward a Hidden Way that would lead back to the Newer World, Maggie having rejected the first one she suggested, which terminated somewhere in central Europe. Yes, they had their passports in their kits, but the passports wouldn’t show any entry stamp, and it was best not to draw any attention. And Hosea didn’t have a passport at all.

  This Hidden Way’s other end opened up somewhere in Wisconsin, it seemed; it would be just a matter of hiking to the nearest town to catch a bus or plane, or to rent a car, to get home.

  Torrie and Ivar del Hival were going to head up to the Dominions—maybe, accidentally, Odin had had a good idea by directing them toward Thorian del Orvald, and besides, Torrie wanted to see his grandfather again, and meet his grandmother. They assumed that Ian was coming with them, and he probably should, but…

  Why did he feel so shirty?

  It didn’t make sense.

  “Excuse me.” He pushed back from the table, rose, and walked out into the night. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Torrie rise to his feet, but stop when Maggie seized his arm.

  “Leave him be,” she said.

  The night was just blackness, barely relieved by the twinkling of a canopy of stars above. He leaned back against one of the porch’s support posts, and sighed.

  Marta had pointed out some of the constellations, and Ian had pretended to make up some others. There was a ragged rectangle with a line of three bright stars perpendicular to i
t that she had said was called Thor’s Hammer, and there was that lazy Z near the horizon called Ouroborous.

  He wondered if she was looking up at the same stars right now, and if she missed him.

  Slowly, gradually, his eyes adjusted, and the distant darkness took form and shape, the vague blur at the edge of the clearing becoming trees, the patch of slightly lighter gray becoming the road up to the cottage.

  He walked to the far corner of the porch, and looked down the slope to where the river Gilfi rippled in the starlight, shimmering like a writhing metallic snake. It was pretty, in a cold, cruel way.

  The door creaked open behind him, and Arnie Selmo walked onto the porch.

  “I’m going to be turning in. You need anything?”

  Ian had to laugh. “You can stop pretending to be my squire now, Arnie. We’re done with that.”

  Arnie joined him in chuckling. “Well, to tell the truth, I was thinking like your landlord,” he said, his tone half-serious. “Who you owe some rent to, come to think of it.”

  Ian nodded. “I’m good for it. I’ll write you a check when we get back.”

  “Fair enough. And I do know where you live, eh?”

  “There is that.”

  “See you in the morning. We got a long day tomorrow; let’s get an early start.”

  The door opened and closed again. Ian leaned against the post.

  Again, the door opened behind him, and he recognized Torrie’s heavy footsteps.

  “Well,” Torrie said, idly tossing and catching the two apples he held, “Maggie said that I should leave you alone, but I figured you could tell me that yourself, if you needed to. Want me to go away?”

  Ian shook his head. “No, not really.”

  “Care to talk about it?” Torrie asked.

  “Nah.” Ian shook his head. “I think I need to figure out what’s bothering me before I go around talking about it.”

  “Heaven help you if you should expose some weakness without having it all thought out in advance, eh?” Torrie chuckled. “Yeah, well, it’s up to you. If you ever need to talk, you know, well…”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not the sensitive New Age guy type, but I am your friend,” Torrie said.