FORBIDDEN TALENTS

by Frankie Robertson

  The root burl was silent a moment. Saeun had the feeling that it listened to something she couldn’t hear. “We greet you.”

  “We?”

  The root burl blinked.

  Saeun had the feeling it was confused. “Thank you for your greeting. Who is the other you spoke of? The other who greets me?”

  “My sister greets you,” the voice clattered.

  “Your sister? Where is she? May I see her?”

  It was hard to tell since the root burl showed no real expression, but Saeun had the feeling it was looking at her as if she were stupid.

  Slowly the root burl moved, shifting a rough and knotty arm that was only the length of the span of Saeun’s two hands. It reached out and patted the rim of the bed, the base of the bed-nest formed by the roots of a giant tree. “My sister, where you shelter.”

  “The tree? The tree is your sister?” Well, there is a family resemblance. Saeun smiled.

  The creature blinked. “Yes.”

  Saeun put her hand on the wood rim of the bed. “Thank you for your shelter.”

  The little burl creature stilled even further, as if listening again, and closed its eyes. It almost disappeared. She could still see the burl, but it blended so completely that it was hard to believe it was anything other than part of the tree, even though she’d seen it move. A moment later its eyes opened again. “She welcomes you.”

  “Thank you.” Saeun rubbed the wood at the edge of the bed. “What shall I call you?” she asked, looking back at the burl. But it closed its eyes again, and then disappeared completely.

  *

  The rest of the family had already assembled in his parent’s apartments when Ragni arrived. Dahleven looked tired and angry as he paced from one end of the room to the other. Celia held Kaidlin’s hand as they perched together on the window seat. Ingirid sat alone at the table, her eyes red and swollen, turning a small stone figure of Eir, the goddess of healing, over and over in her hands. Mother wasn’t there. The door to Neven’s bedchamber was closed.

  Dahleven stopped his pacing and came over as a guard pulled the door closed behind Ragni. “Where have you been?” he growled. “Gris sent Korst to find you an age ago.”

  “I was with Utta.”

  Dahleven’s brows drew down into his frown. “I should have known. You certainly didn’t take long to get over Saeun.”

  That was too much, even from Dahl. Fury roared through Ragni like an avalanche. He grabbed the front of Dahleven’s tunic, swinging him around. Dahleven was slightly taller and more heavily muscled, but Ragni had caught him off-guard. The door reverberated loudly as Ragni slammed his brother’s back against it.

  “My lords!” Gris dropped his obscurity.

  “Stop it!” Celia shoved between them, pulling at Ragni’s hands. “If you can’t behave any better than that, you can take your testosterone somewhere else!”

  Celia’s sharp words shocked Ragni back to himself like the splash of cold water after a bath, even if he didn’t know what testosterone was. His fear for Neven may have clouded his Talent as well as his judgment, but he didn’t need his Empathy to see Dahl was as worried for Father as he was. But worried or not, Dahl had better watch his mouth. He let go of Dahleven’s clothes and stepped back.

  “How is he?” Ragni asked, his voice tight.

  His brother’s angry expression turned grim. “Not good,” he said, straightening his tunic. “Helbreden and Mother are with him now. He can’t talk or move his right side.”

  Ragni closed his eyes. “Baldur’s Luck.” It wasn’t possible. His father was too powerful, too much of a presence even without his Talent, to imagine him so diminished. Celia touched his arm and he opened his eyes.

  “Come, sit down.”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Then you can comfort the rest of us.”

  “Celia.” Dahl inclined his head toward Kaidlin.

  Celia’s lips thinned and her eyes glinted, but she held her tongue and returned to sit beside their younger sister.

  “No one outside the family knows yet about Father, other than a few servants and Gris.” Dahl nodded toward the Chamberlain, who had resumed the use of his Talent. “The news will be all over Quartzholm by tomorrow, of course, but morning will be soon enough for official announcements.”

  “We’ll know more then too, I hope,” Ragni agreed.

  Dahleven nodded. “I’ll leave telling Wirmund to you. I don’t want to deal with the man.”

  “You’ll have to, soon enough.” Even if Neven recovered fully, his convalescence would likely take some time. Dahleven would have to cope with the Overprest and the other Jarls while he acted in Neven’s stead.

  Dahleven nodded again. “I know. But you can have the pleasure this time.”

  “All right.” Ragni wasn’t eager to see the head priest himself. The man’s smug satisfaction concerning Saeun’s death rankled. Saeun had broken the Laws of Sanction, and Wirmund was sworn to uphold them. As Ragni himself was. But he didn’t much want to endure Wirmund’s righteous pleasure over the matter. He probably wouldn’t have to, though. The news of Neven would push the other matter aside. “What about Eirik? Do you know who killed him?”

  Dahleven spoke softly. “Not yet, though I have my suspicions. As for who ordered him killed …that’s a more complicated question.”

  “Indeed.” Ragni glanced at the closed door to Neven’s bedchamber. “You’ll have to assign someone else to look into it. Someone you trust. You won’t have time now.”

  Dahl lowered his voice even further. “I need to keep a close eye on this. Perhaps I’ll get Fender to help me. Other than you, he’s the only one I can trust that much. If the assassin got Eirik to talk before he killed him, the investigation could reveal some rather awkward information. Especially since I must lead now.”

  And if Dahl were discovered to be Fey-marked, the Jarldom could fall to Ragni. His stomach twisted into a tight icy knot. No. Ragni refused to worry about that now. “Yes, of course. You’re right. You need to keep someone you trust on this.”

  “Speaking of obligations, it’s just as well you were with Utta tonight.”

  “We weren’t—”

  Dahl raised his brows, too much like Father for comfort.

  Ragni shut his mouth on his protest. “Never mind.”

  Dahl continued. “I want the betrothal to go forward the day after tomorrow as planned—if you and she are willing.”

  Willing. Utta seemed to be. Was he? An arranged union was what he’d always expected. But now with Neven struck down and Saeun dead, he found it difficult to consider the prospect with any enthusiasm.

  “Assuming Magnus still wants the alliance,” Ragni said.

  “I think he will. As long as you don’t give Utta any reason to change his mind.”

  Ragni remained silent. He couldn’t fault his brother for thinking of such things even as they worried about Neven. Father had trained him to think of Nuvinland and Quartzholm first. Dahl would need strong allies like Magnus if Neven died or couldn’t return to rule. Fortunately, while Utta had been angry when he arrived she had grown less so as they talked. She’d even seemed sympathetic about Saeun. He didn’t think Utta would withdraw from the betrothal. But then, she might not think him such a bargain if she could no longer ally her family to a Kon through him. She might prefer a different alliance.

  Had she left a lover behind at home in Dalrik?

  *

  “He may well recover,” Dahleven said to the assembled Jarls the next morning. It wasn’t a lie, even if it probably wasn’t the truth either.

  He’d waited until long after breakfast to summon them and tell them of Neven’s illness. He’d delayed, hoping for some sign of recovery, until he could postpone it no longer. At least Neven hadn’t grown worse. “Helbreden is confident this is a brain attack, but he refuses to predict the outcome. These things can vary considerably in their eventual resolution.” Dahleven was glad he didn’t have to deny the s
ituation with Magnus, Solveig, and Hafdan. They were close allies. He’d be more cautious about what he told the Tewakwe.

  Dahleven resumed his seat at the head of the table in Neven’s formal meeting room. He’d chosen this venue deliberately to emphasize his authority, but it felt strange to sit in his Father’s place. It was too soon.

  He’d been born and bred for this, to take Neven’s place as Jarl. He’d known the eventuality of it was as inevitable as sunrise, but he’d never been eager for it. Now it had come to him, wanted or not, and sooner than he’d ever expected.

  He surveyed the expressions of the Jarls. Apparently the rumors had run slowly this morning. Only Magnus had known of Neven’s illness before the meeting—from Utta. Hafdan looked stunned, Solveig worried, and Magnus grieved.

  “Hel and Loki,” Hafdan muttered.

  “Do the Tewakwe know?” Solveig asked.

  “I haven’t told them yet.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Hafdan said.

  Solveig rolled her eyes. “He can hardly keep it a secret. Not without insulting them with Neven’s absence.”

  “It’s not likely they could be kept ignorant, regardless. Unless you know of a way to keep servants from talking,” Magnus added.

  Hafdan shook his head. “What a time to lose our Kon.”

  “He isn’t dead, and he may well recover,” Dahleven said, clamping down on his anger. Hafdan had only spoken the obvious.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Magnus said. “He may yet recover. But I know a little about these brain attacks. The victims are seldom whole again. A warrior may fight on though he loses a hand, but a Kon must be whole.”

  Dahleven hated the sad compassion in Magnus’s eyes. Hated that he was right. A Kon was the living symbol of the country’s health and well-being. He couldn’t be weak.

  “Then what of Nuvinland? We can hardly do without an active Kon,” Hafdan said.

  “What use is a Kon in the winter?” Solveig asked. “Come summer and the Althing, if Neven is no better, then we will elect another.”

  “Solveig is right.” Magnus gestured toward the only woman at the table. “Dahleven can well stand in his father’s stead as Jarl. With winter soon to shut our doors, there is little a Kon need do.”

  Dahleven kept a neutral expression. “Thank you, Lord Magnus.” Even if he were Jarl in fact, as the least senior of the Jarls he wouldn’t expect to be chosen Kon. Still, Magnus and Solveig’s support came painfully close to sounding like, “Let the boy play, he can’t do any harm.” He was hardly a boy, and Neven had trained him well. He was certainly better prepared to take his place as Jarl than Hafdan had been when he’d assumed Jorund’s seat. But it served no purpose to dwell on that. He’d have ample time to prove himself. “There is another matter of some importance,” he continued.

  “Yes, indeed.” Magnus looked Dahleven in the eye. “The betrothal.”

  Dahleven watched Magnus carefully. Neven and Magnus had been allies and friends since boyhood. But with Neven ill, Magnus’s daughter might not be betrothed to a Kon’s son for long. “Perhaps the matter should be discussed in private?” If he had to renegotiate the terms of the agreement, he’d rather not have an audience.

  Magnus shook his head. “No need. Whatever we decide will be known swiftly enough among us all.”

  Dahleven nodded once, keeping his air of authority firmly in place. “Very well. It’s Neven’s will that the betrothal take place tomorrow as planned, if Utta is willing.” Neven had not yet expressed his will about anything, but Magnus didn’t need to know that.

  “Utta has no objection.” Magnus looked Dahleven squarely in the eye. “Nor do I. Tomorrow it is.”

  *

  “That’s the situation,” Ragni finished, and leaned back in his chair in Wirmund’s chamber. He tried to read Wirmund, but could barely sense the Overprest’s dismay. Ragni ground his teeth, trying to get his emotions under enough control to use his Talent. What was wrong with him? Nothing much. Just Saeun’s death, his father’s illness, impending betrothal, and an assassin in the castle.

  Wirmund frowned and tapped his hands on the arms of his throne-like chair. The gold ring on his right forefinger clunked against the lion claw carved into the end of the armrest. “The Kon’s ill health could hardly have come at a worse time.”

  Ragni nodded. There was no point feeling affronted by Wirmund’s callousness. The man was right. And while Wirmund and Neven had worked well together for the stability of Nuvinland, no one would call them close.

  “Your brother will be assuming Kon Neven’s duties, of course. I will assist in any way I can to smooth the way for a stable transition.”

  “Thank you, Overprest.”

  “Quartzholm will be kept safe until Neven recovers. I will have Father Sigg perform a Great Healing.” Wirmund rose and spoke briefly to the guard standing outside his door.

  “Sigg? I’m your Second. I should do it,” Ragni said. It was a difficult ritual. Dangerous. He didn’t want anyone else taking the risk.

  “Sigg is as capable as you. And we can’t have you depleted tomorrow at your betrothal ceremony. Or after,” Wirmund added with a wry smile.

  A quick rap on the door preceded the entrance of Father Sigg and Father Vali, Wirmund’s Third and Fourth in order of precedence.

  “Father Sigg, I need you to perform a Greater Healing on Kon Neven. Father Vali, you will assist him,” Wirmund commanded.

  Ragni’s Talent was still too clouded by his own emotions, but Sigg’s shock was apparent on his face. “Kon Neven! What’s happened?” He looked at Ragni.

  Ragni forced himself to relate the details of Neven’s collapse again.

  “Oh, Ragni! I’m sorry.” Sigg put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do my best for him.”

  With his touch, Ragni could feel the man’s genuine sorrow and his determination. He stood and grasped Sigg’s wrist. “I know you will. There’s no one I’d rather have. Thank you.”

  “We’ll both do everything in our power to restore the Kon.” Vali inclined his head, hand over his purple badge of office.

  “Very good. You may proceed as soon as your preparations are complete.” Wirmund waved a dismissal and turned back to Ragni. “Now, what else needs my attention?”

  “At present there is nothing—”

  “What of the investigation of the skald’s murder? To whom has Lord Dahleven given that duty?”

  “He will continue with that himself.”

  “Ridiculous.” Wirmund’s hand swept out in a dismissive gesture. “He has more important things to attend to now.”

  Ragni leaned forward. He didn’t like where this was heading. “The man was his sworn vassal. Dahleven takes such things very seriously.”

  “And that is to his credit. But he is Jarl now, or acting as such. He will have many men sworn to him. He can’t focus on each of their concerns personally. His position now requires him to look at the broader ‘scape.” Wirmund paused, then nodded in decision. “I’ll do it. This requires immediate attention. We cannot have assassins killing within the walls of Quartzholm. Lord Dahleven can have no doubt I will give the matter all the attention it deserves.”

  No! What little Ragni could read of Wirmund’s feelings vanished in an obscuring fog of alarm. If Halla or the killer had learned anything from Eirik before he died, it might well be damaging to Dahleven. Wirmund would never turn a blind eye to Dahleven being Fey-marked. The Jarldom would fall to Ragni, and he absolutely did not want it. Wirmund couldn’t be the one to look into this. “But you’re the Overprest. There’s no need for someone of your stature to concern yourself. Lord Fendrikanin will help him, or I can do this for Dahleven.”

  Wirmund smiled. “You are a loyal brother, Father Ragnar, but you, too, have other matters to concern you. You will be betrothed tomorrow, and that union will add to the stability of Quartzholm and all Nuvinland. Your father’s illness is strain enough. I will not command you in this as your Overprest, but I feel strongly you should not distract
yourself further from your duty to Lady Utta, and to Quartzholm.”

  Trapped, and neatly, too. Wirmund’s arguments were sound. Ragni couldn’t object, not without raising suspicion.

  *

  Celia clapped and shouted along with everyone else in the Great Hall as Utta, holding a statue of Freyr displaying a rampant phallus, was pulled on a small gold-decorated wagon by two guardsmen in Magnus’s red livery. Her dress was the color of spring and she wore a garland of flowers grown in the solarium in her unbound hair. Celia had an excellent view of the betrothal pageant from her place beside Dahleven on the dais. Utta looked pleased, not startled as Celia had when it had been her turn four months past. She grew up with these customs, after all. The guests closest to the procession waved heavy headed stalks of barley over Utta’s head as she passed, then threw them on the floor behind her as the wagon made its way around the perimeter of the Hall.

  When Utta completed her circuit of the room Ragni entered, pulling a silvered plow behind him. It was ceremonial and lighter than the real thing, and wasn’t like the wide bladed plows she’d seen pictures of back home, in Midgard. This looked more like a giant two-handled hoe. Ragni followed the same course as Utta, cutting a furrow through the barley strewn on the floor. Mourning wasn’t appropriate for a betrothal, so instead of his usual silver gray priest’s clothes, Ragni wore Neven’s house colors: a tunic of forest green velvet, and trews dyed to match.

  Finally he stood beside Utta, where she waited in the open-sided wagon. Suddenly the crowd grew quiet. Ragni handed off the plow to a waiting guardsman and accepted a harvesting rake decorated with gold from Father Wirmund. With one swift motion, he swept up a sheaf of barley and offered it to Utta.

  For all intents and purposes, this was more like a wedding than an engagement party. Betrothals could be broken here, but doing so was like a divorce. From what Gudrun had told her, the wedding itself was a more modest event.