FORBIDDEN TALENTS

by Frankie Robertson

  “Kon Neven, my lords, the Kikmongsowuhti, Kikmongwi, and Che’veyo have arrived,” Gris announced.

  “Show them in.” Neven paused, then nodded to Dahleven. “That should be satisfactory, for now.”

  *

  Light snow blew into Celia’s face and she laughed like a child as she bumped down the hill on her sled. The afternoon air was delightfully sharp despite the gray sky, and the speed made her giddy. Though it had drifted deeper in places, barely two feet of snow covered the slope, and rocks still poked through here and there, making navigation difficult.

  “On your right!” Utta swept past on short skis, expertly stopping just before the sled-stop they’d built.

  Celia dragged a foot to brake and ended up backward against the snow bank. They both wore multiple layers of wide-legged pants stuffed into high boots and heavy shearling jackets embroidered with their house crests. Soon, if Utta and Ragni agreed to the betrothal, Utta would trade her red and gold boar for a green hawk.

  Utta laughed. “I believe you now. There can’t be any snow where you come from.”

  “Oh, it snows there. Two inches every five years or so. And it lasts up to half a day, sometimes,” Celia answered, grinning and pulling her sled toward Utta, out of the way of Tiva’ti, the Tewakwe woman who was now sledding down the slope. Fender sat behind her, controlling the limited steering. Now on her third run, delight had completely replaced Tiva’ti’s initial expression of doubt and fear.

  “You must let me teach you to ski this winter,” Utta said, bending to remove her skis for the climb back up. “In a month the snow will be deeper and safe enough for a beginner.”

  “I’d like that.” Celia looked sideways at Utta. “If you don’t think Ragni will be taking all your free time, that is.”

  Utta’s smile wasn’t quite what Celia expected. She almost looked resigned. “I shall certainly be bending much of my attention to Lord Ragnar, but I hope to develop other connections, as well.”

  Well, it is an arranged marriage, after all, Celia thought, though it made her sad.

  Utta released the straps on her second ski and they began to trudge back up the hill. Celia smiled at the two guards, one Nuvinlander and one Tewakwe, standing stiffly at the end of the snow bank. Two others waited at the top.

  Fender and Tiva’ti caught up to them, Fender dragging their sled. “Our next run should be our last,” he said.

  “Oh, no!” Tiva’ti exclaimed. “So soon?”

  Fender smiled gently at the Tewa woman. Celia looked closer. Was there was something more than courtesy in his expression?

  “The clouds are lowering, and there will be snow again tonight,” he said. “We should go in before dark—but maybe we can squeeze in another run.”

  Is Fender flirting with her? Celia suppressed a grin. She thought of Fender as a friend, except perhaps when he was training her and giving her welts with wooden knives. Because she liked him, Dahleven often assigned Fender as her escort, and life had been so calm for the last five months she’d stopped thinking of him as her bodyguard. She usually teased him like a brother, but she didn’t say anything now. She didn’t want to make Tiva’ti uncomfortable.

  “If this is to be our last run, I want to steer this time!” Tiva’ti declared.

  They reached the top and each took their turn, then climbed the hill and took another in the gathering gloom.

  “The last run is always too short!” Utta said at the bottom. “If tomorrow’s weather is fine, we’ll have to start earlier.”

  “I think Gudrun and company have plans for you in preparation for your betrothal.” Celia dusted snow from her pants. She looked up to see a rebellious glint in Utta’s eye. “But if we get out before they catch us…”

  Despite her expression, Utta’s tone was perfectly neutral. “I wouldn’t want to offend Lady Gudrun, but perhaps you would join me for an early breakfast on the slopes, Lady Celia?”

  Celia grinned. “I’d be delighted.”

  Fender rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  They trudged back through the snow, entering the village that sat on the skirts of the castle by a thoroughfare that carried them on up and through the main gates of Quartzholm. The merchants in the courtyard were already buttoned up for the night. She parted ways with Utta and Tiva’ti in the vestibule with promises to meet again at the evening meal.

  Back in her room, Halla helped her pull off her high boots. “Did you have a fine time of it, my lady?”

  “Yes, indeed.” She gestured toward her bathroom. “Draw me a warm bath, please. I can manage the rest myself.”

  Halla nodded and disappeared into the bath. Celia had stripped out of all but one pair of pants and a light knit undershirt when a knock sounded at her door. She answered it herself.

  It was one of Wirmund’s acolytes. “My Lord Overprest Wirmund requests you attend him in his chambers, my lady.”

  What the hell does he want? Wirmund was no fan of hers, though he had painstakingly tutored her in the Nuvinland religion. It differed at several points from what she remembered of Norse mythology, and he hadn’t appreciated it when Celia had pointed out the Christian similarities to his faith. He liked it even less that she refused to accept his dogma as truth.

  She didn’t want to cross swords with Wirmund today, but she shouldn’t deliberately offend him. He was powerful, and Dahleven had to work with him. “Tell Father Wirmund that I’ll join him as soon as I’ve dressed for dinner.”

  The acolyte bowed and Celia shut the door. There. That’s polite enough. And at least I’ll get my bath first, this time.

  An hour later, Wirmund showed her the courtesy of rising as she entered his chambers and directed her to a chair. “Lady Celia, thank you for joining me. I trust you are feeling better?”

  Celia expected to hear an edge of irony in Wirmund’s voice. It wasn’t there. She nodded and gave him one of the polite non-committal smiles that Gudrun had taught her.

  “Would you care for refreshment?”

  Celia shook her head.

  “No? Well, I won’t keep you long.” He sat down again in a high-backed chair that looked like a throne. “We are both expected elsewhere shortly.” He leaned forward as if in friendly intimacy. It made her want to pull further back in her chair. “You no doubt know Lady Saeun is under suspicion for violating the Laws of Sanction. You must also know that the woman is missing. The Tracker Talents I sent to find her have failed. I ask your help.”

  Celia barely kept her composure, but Gudrun’s tutoring hadn’t been wasted. The idea of helping him find Saeun sickened her, even without the threat the woman’s capture would pose to Dahleven.

  But how could she refuse? As Dahleven’s betrothed, she couldn’t seem to be aiding the escape of a possible criminal. If she did, Wirmund could accuse her of breaking the law, too.

  She wanted to shout “Not just no, but hell no!” at the wizened old goat, but she smiled instead. There was no way to decline, even politely. He was an old hand at the game of diplomacy and she was a novice. No matter how tactful or evasive her refusal, he’d know she was willing to block his interests. She would be labeled an enemy, and fair game. And if Dahleven tried to protect her, he’d become a target for Wirmund’s wrath as well. Neven might be able to stop him, but at the very least it would screw up Nuvinland politics for years. She could see only one path to take. “Of course. I’d be glad to help.” She would put on a show of Finding Saeun and then lie to him. He might suspect it, but he could never be sure.

  “Good.” Wirmund rose. “Let’s go up to the walls at once then, so you can show us a clear direction.”

  “You want me to do it now?”

  “There is no time to waste. The trail grows colder even as we speak, and she moves further from our grasp. Once you Find her direction, I shall send the Trackers out again. Your Talent will show them where to resume their search.” He opened a tall cupboard and pulled two cloaks from hooks there. Numbly, Celia took one and followed him out the door. T
hey were joined by two guards, one whom she knew was a Truthsayer Talent.

  Celia suppressed a shiver. The insult wasn’t important, but the implication was. He was prepared for me to lie to him.

  They climbed several flights of stairs. Stoneshapers hadn’t worked their Talents in this out-of-the-way staircase; it was made of fitted blocks. Cold seeped from the stone. At the top, one of the guards shouldered open a heavy wooden door. Celia stepped out onto the parapet. The snow Fender had predicted stung her face, driven by a stiff wind. She pulled the cloak tighter, hunching her shoulders.

  “Now, my lady. If you would?” Wirmund said.

  Celia looked out over Quartzholm, past the dim lights of the village below the walls, into the swirling darkness of the storm, her heart aching.

  “She may be too far away for me to Find…”

  “Nonsense, my lady. Everyone knows you have a great Talent.” The Overprest’s eyes glinted as he gave her an unctuous smile.

  She did have a powerful Talent, but Wirmund’s choice of words held a subtle threat. When Fanlon took the Great Talents from the nobles some two hundred years earlier, he’d saved Nuvinland from being destroyed by their arrogant abuse of power. It had long since become unacceptable to call a Talent “great,” regardless of its strength.

  Celia set her jaw. She couldn’t see any way to protect Saeun—or Dahleven.

  She had no choice.

  Celia reached out with her Talent.

  *

  Ragni lifted an eyebrow, surprised to see Celia coming toward him down the hallway in the company of Father Wirmund. Their wet cloaks suggested they’d just come outside. What were they doing out there in this weather?

  They drew closer, and a wave of dismay and distress flowed from Celia so strongly that Ragni stopped in his tracks. Wirmund had removed the amulet he’d worn earlier. His emotions were a swirl of frustration and satisfaction.

  Ragni’s heart froze. Saeun? Had she been found?

  Wirmund stopped in front of him. “Your sister need no longer worry about the embarrassment Lady Saeun will bring upon her and your family, Lord Ragnar.” The Overprest’s sharp eyes glittered. “The apostate is dead.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  DAHLEVEN STOOD BESIDE Neven in the reception hall as his father greeted Solveig and Hafdan. As the Jarls of Quartzholm’s nearest neighboring provinces, they’d been invited to celebrate Winterfest and to witness Ragni and Utta’s betrothal. Solveig’s stag and Hafdan’s mountain cat banners hung half a span lower than Neven’s hawk did from the rafter over the dais, along with Magnus’ red boar. Many of Neven’s vassal lords had already arrived; their colors already decorated the walls. If both parties agreed, they’d hold Ragni’s and Utta’s betrothal ceremony in a few days. With any luck, Ragni would have a son planted in Utta by spring.

  Utta stood stiffly between her father and Neven, obviously feeling the insult that Ragni was not at her side. Magnus and Neven had long been friends, but that alone would not secure Utta’s good will. Ragni was not making a good start with his bride-to-be.

  Dahleven’s gaze swept the entrance again. Where is Ragni?

  For that matter, where was Celia? She should have been present as well. It wasn’t like her to ignore her duties. At least, he didn’t think it was. Dahleven realized he’d been gone so much of the last five months that he didn’t know if she was more likely to arrive late or early.

  Dahleven tried not to show his impatience as he greeted another of the lords who had come to celebrate Ragni’s betrothal. He’d much rather be tracking down his own betrothed than standing here, wondering what in Niflheim was keeping her.

  *

  “Dead?” Ragni tried to speak normally, to keep his expression impassive. He stood in a corridor facing the Overprest. Now was not the time to let the stunning pain in his heart show.

  Celia wrung her hands. Even though his emotions were clouding his Talent, her distress clawed through him, leaving his belly roiling. He tried to shut down what was left of his Empathy, but her unhappiness still felt like a rough stone rasping against the inside of his skin, weighing heavy in his chest.

  “Lady Celia Found no trace of the apostate. It isn’t possible the woman could have gone so far as to be beyond Lady Celia’s formidable Talent.” Wirmund smiled smugly. “Not in this weather. There is only one possible conclusion: Lady Saeun cannot be found because she’s dead.”

  She could be wearing an amulet to shield her from Trackers and Finders. Ragni grasped at the thought. It was a weak chance. Not many existed, and they weren’t left just lying about. Such amulets were very difficult to make—as he knew all too well. But it was possible. Just barely.

  Or maybe Celia had lied to protect Saeun. Yes! Of course. Ragni clutched at that hope, but it died as abruptly as it was born. Celia wouldn’t be drowning him with anger and distress and sympathy if she’d Found Saeun and lied to Wirmund. Ragni’s fear for Saeun rose and his sense of Celia faded as shock and grief clouded his Talent.

  Wirmund was watching him, waiting.

  Ragni forced himself to respond. He shrugged and shook his head. “How unfortunate. Her trial would have served well as a warning to others.” The tightness in his throat threatened to strangle him; the words felt stiff on his tongue.

  Celia’s eyes widened but she made no other protest of his attitude. Ragni tried, but he could sense neither her nor Wirmund’s feelings past the tumult of his overturned heart. Ragni assumed an expression of mild concern, but he couldn’t tell if the Overprest believed his performance.

  Wirmund curled a lip. “Indeed.” He turned to Celia and inclined his head toward her, smiling slightly. “Thank you for your assistance, my lady. Until later. Father Ragnar.” He nodded to Ragni and walked away in the direction of his apartments.

  Celia’s hands clenched while she waited for Wirmund to turn the corner. “I could strangle that smug bastard,” she growled. Then her eyes filled and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She looked up at him. “Oh, Ragni! I’m so sorry.”

  Ragni put an arm around her. “I know.” The direct touch sharpened his fear-swamped Talent. Celia’s sympathy and anger swirled into him, cutting like glass and burning like hot iron. The crushing weight of it nearly smothered him. He stepped back with a gasp, breaking the contact.

  “Ragni?” She reached out to him, then pulled her hand back.

  “Come,” he said in a rasp, gesturing her down the hall. They shouldn’t stand about weeping where any curious person could see. He found a storage room nearby and twiddled the lock open with the same ease he’d used as a randy youth when he needed a place to tumble a willing serving girl.

  He guided Celia to sit on a stack of boxes inside and lit a candle.

  “Tell me,” he said, closing the door and leaning against it, “what happened, exactly, when you tried to Find Saeun?”

  Celia swept the remnants of tears from her cheeks. “She wasn’t there. I was going to lie to him, but he brought along a Truthsayer as an ‘escort,’ the bastard. So I had to really Find her, and …I couldn’t.” She looked up at him, clearly wanting to find some hope that Wirmund’s conclusion was wrong. “Maybe the terrain’s too rough for me to Find her, or she’s out of my range?”

  Ragni gave her a solemn look. “You Found Ari through miles of tunnels when your Talent had barely Emerged. You’ve better control now than you had then. Wirmund is right about one thing: she couldn’t have gone far in these mountains, not in the storm.”

  She gazed off to the side then back at him. “What about an amulet like the one Jorund had?”

  “It’s possible,” he said. He didn’t try to make his tone convincing.

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  He turned away and braced an arm against a shelf. He wanted to believe it. By all the gods of Alfheim he wanted to believe it. But it was a hollow hope. He swallowed, hard. He refused to weep in front of Dahleven’s betrothed.

  Celia moved behind him, then her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
“Ragni?”

  He shook his head without looking at her. Grief pressed like a boulder on his chest. Some small part of him noted that even with her touch, he couldn’t sense Celia’s feelings at all now. “Perhaps you’d best find Dahl and tell him his secret is safe,” he managed in a strangled voice. “At least from that quarter.”

  *

  Celia slipped into place beside Dahleven as the crowd of Jarls, Lords, and Tewakwe headed into the banquet. He was escorting Utta in Ragni’s absence. His expression was calm and attentive to Utta, but Celia could tell from the little muscle jumping in his jaw he wasn’t happy. She’d had time to compose herself while she dropped Wirmund’s loaned cloak with a servant and made her way through the maze of levels and corridors down to the Great Hall. He looked down at her and she managed to give him one of Gudrun’s patented smiles, the one that said, “I’ll explain everything later.”

  Utta glanced over at her from Dahleven’s other side. Her step was a bit too firm for someone at peace. Clearly, she wanted to know if Ragni meant to insult her with his absence.

  Celia dredged up her most reassuring smile. “Ragni had a message from Father Wirmund that he had to attend to. One of the hazards of his position, I’m afraid. He sends his regrets that he couldn’t escort you himself. He’ll be along shortly, I expect.”

  Six months ago Celia would never have thought she’d be applying the calmness she’d learned as a 911 dispatcher in Tucson to telling bold-faced lies to her future sister-in-law. She wanted to grit her teeth, but maintained her smile instead. It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

  Celia sat with Dahleven, the visiting Jarls, and the Tewakwe leaders on the dais. The other Lords and Tewakwe sat at long tables running the length of the rectangular room, perpendicular to the ends of the high table. Two hooded fire pits ran parallel to the lower tables, cutting the room in half lengthwise. Celia took her place on Dahleven’s right. Utta sat below with Kaidlin, Ingirid and Aenid, at a table that faced away from the dais, out toward the assembled Lords. Celia wondered if Utta felt as much on display as she had six months ago, that first night at the Althing. She’s probably used to it. Celia hoped so, because Ragni’s space beside her was still empty, and more than one set of eyes were noting his absence. Wirmund’s place on the dais remained empty as well.