FORBIDDEN TALENTS

by Frankie Robertson

  What’s he doing now? Is he asleep? She wished she could use the Dream-door, but it was almost dawn. Dahleven would be up by now, if he’d slept at all, giving orders for the defense of their home.

  Their home. That’s how she thought of it now, modern medicine or no. Quartzholm was home, because that was where Dahleven was. She didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  She put her hand over her belly. She wanted this baby, their baby, even if she hadn’t planned it. And she wanted their child to know his father’s love and laughter and strength and honor.

  Dahleven can’t die before he even knows he’s going to have a son.

  Ever so slowly, the eastern sky began to lighten. The wind started to rise along with the sun. It soughed through the branches overhead, but didn’t reach them on the ground.

  “As good as my hearing is, lady, I’ll never hear if someone approaches with this wind. And in this forest, neither of us can see far enough to give much warning,” Baruq said. “I’m going to go down to the tree line to watch.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Celia said. She had to see this myst, and Quartzholm, for herself. She tiptoed back to where the others still slept and snagged her snowshoes without waking anyone.

  The sun had crested the mountains by the time they came to the meadow’s edge. Celia stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She blinked, and blinked again, not quite able to take in what she saw.

  Half a mile downslope, Quartzholm’s pink stone walls backed up against the ridge. No mist obscured the castle or the village that skirted it. The town was eerily quiet where the business of the day should have been starting to bustle. But even stranger, a huge aspen grove now crowded the streets of the village, bare branches shining white in the sunlight.

  *

  Dahleven sat across from Magnus in the men’s mess and drank his meager ration of water. Gods, he was thirsty. They all were. Only a few other men sat scattered among the tables. It was early yet for the morning meal, but they’d both been up all night. Even if Celia had tried to use the Dream-door last night it would have been no use.

  His last shred of hope of saving Quartzholm had died with Wirmund. He wished he could hold Celia just one more time, but he was glad she was well away from here. He hoped she was all right. He hadn’t heard from her in days.

  When Dahleven came back to the conversation, Magnus was still discussing contingencies. “…as rear guard for the evacuation of the women—”

  Abruptly, Dahleven held up a hand to stop Magnus. Something had changed.

  Magnus raised his head like a hound sniffing the air. “What in Niflheim?”

  Without a word, they both rose.

  Rose colored sunlight was just tipping the highest towers as they reached the courtyard. The Stoneshapers were shouting back and forth to one another.

  “It’s stopped over here, too!” Someone on the south wall called.

  “And here!”

  “Not here!” Another on the northwest wall called. “The wall’s still shaking over here.”

  “What’s going on?” Dahleven asked one of the guards.

  “My lord! A moment ago the—”

  “Hoi! Hoi!” The watch on the east wall shouted. “Trees!”

  Dahleven ran for the stairs, Magnus on his heels. What in the Nine Worlds is going on?

  “Where’d they come from?” He heard one of his men call as he climbed.

  “Where’s the mist?”

  “Never mind the mist, what are those things down below?”

  “Stone-warriors, ain’t they?”

  “Why aren’t they moving?”

  Dahleven had just reached the parapet when someone asked, “Hey! What’s that noise?”

  Dahleven wasn’t in any doubt. “That noise” was the sound of weopons smashing and troops fighting for their lives. Only they weren’t his troops. The clash of arms was coming from outside the walls. Trees wouldn’t attack with swords, and it was too soon for Magnus’s messengers to have brought reinforcements—if they got through. Who was fighting?

  He looked over the frost-rimed wall, shading his eyes from the sunlight.

  The obscuring mist was gone. At the base of the wall, stone-warriors stood in the gleaming light, rigid and unmoving. Some of them seemed frozen in the act of reaching into the wall, others were looking back over their shoulders, half turned toward the grove of aspen trees that ringed them and Quartzholm, crowded in the streets and alleys of the village below. Through the lace of bare branches, he couldn’t see much of the combat beyond the flashing of swords and armor, but the sounds of effort and pain and dying were clear enough.

  “Daylight,” Dahleven said, as Magnus came up beside him breathing heavily. “The sun must have stopped them.”

  Magnus nodded. “Aye. But it’s only a temporary reprieve. If the stories about them are true, they’ll come back to life come nightfall.”

  “Or when that unnatural fog returns.” Dahleven stared at the mounds of man-shaped stone below. Unless…

  “Komigg!” Dahleven shouted to the Commander of the east wall. “I want half your men ready to go through the gates in a quarter-mark, armed with hammers and iron bars. Anything that can smash stone. Send runners to the other walls to send half their men as well.” As he pelted down the stairs, he shouted to Magnus, “Gather the Stoneshapers. They can help, too. We haven’t much time. We don’t know who’s fighting out there, or what the outcome will be. I want those stone-warriors to be rubble by the time we find out.”

  Soon the air around Quartzholm rang with the sound of iron on stone. Dahleven ranged half the men to guard the approach to the walls, but commanded them not to touch the trees. His men hardly needed the warning. They cast nervous glances at the unexpected forest and kept well away from it.

  Shouts of battle sent Dahleven running to the northwest section of the wall. In the shadows where the morning sun hadn’t yet reached, ten of his men fought living stone-warriors. Five men lay unmoving on the ground, and the blows of those still fighting skittered harmlessly off their foes.

  “Back! Back into the light!” Dahleven shouted.

  The men retreated hastily, but not before one lithic foe landed a last blow, killing another man. The stone-warriors stopped at the shadow’s edge, then stepped back as the sunlight crept toward them.

  “Wait until the sun rises a little higher. Then you can have your way with them,” Dahleven said and returned to the east wall.

  A cold blue sky arched overhead, and the smell of stone dust filled the air. As the sun rose higher, the stone-warriors grew smaller, worn away by the incessant blows of hammers wielded by men eager to unleash their anger and frustration upon a foe at last. They’d become little more than indistinct lumps of sand where certain Talents had been busy.

  By mid-morning, the sounds of battle—at least, what could be heard over the sound of rock being smashed—ceased. Should he order his men back inside the walls? How much damage did they have to do before the stone-warriors were destroyed beyond sunset’s ability to restore them?

  “Lord Dahleven!” An armsman called, alarm shading his voice.

  Dahleven spun around, sword in hand, and looked beyond the walls to where the armsman pointed.

  Coming through the trees was a host of Elves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “READY ARMS!” Dahleven shouted, and his order was echoed by commanders all along the base of the wall. He could tell from his men’s reactions that these Elves weren’t even trying to use a glamour. They marched quietly, no, silently, through the forest-clogged streets of the village, their pale faces grim and blood smeared from battle.

  Are they Light or Dark Elves? Friend or Foe?

  Assuming any Elf could be called a friend. Dahleven flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, searching their faces, their weaponry, their armor for some clue. Some carried powerful bows with arrows nocked, others had wickedly hooked polearms, and still others bore swords that gleamed despite the blood that sheathed them. A smaller
number gripped the hilts of strangely curved blades that had yet to be blooded. They would be a formidable foe, an impossible one if the Elves used their glamour. And half his men were already exhausted from swinging hammers all morning. It was some small consolation that the Elven warriors had been in battle for the same time.

  Who had they been fighting?

  A tall Elf stepped forward, flanked by two others, and removed his helmet. His fair hair was dark with sweat and his armor bore the marks of hard use. “I am Lord Kaeron, Praefect among the Lios Alfar. The Oathbreakers have been vanquished.” He looked beyond Dahleven and tipped his head toward the piles of stone and rubble. A hint of a smile played upon his lips. “It would seem you have no need of our Khryss blades. It is well. My people are weary enough.”

  “I am Lord Dahleven …Jarl of Quartzholm.” He hesitated an instant over the truth of saying it aloud. “Your aid is greatly appreciated, Lord Kaeron. Until you came and dispersed that mist, we couldn’t even see the forces ranged against us.”

  “That I cannot take credit for. The tree-folk aided you for their own reasons.”

  Dahleven glanced quickly at the trees nearby, then back at the Elf.

  “But for the rest, we swore an oath to the Vanir, as did our Dark brothers. Their perfidy was a stain upon our honor. We could not let it stand.”

  Dahleven nodded. “It is a terrible thing when brothers must face each other over drawn blades.” He sheathed his sword. All around him he heard his men stand down.

  A spark of surprise showed in Kaeron’s cat-like eyes as he nodded, accepting Dahleven’s sympathy.

  Did he think us without understanding or honor?

  And honor demanded that he invite them in, Kaeron and his commanders, to feast their victory.

  What if this is all an elaborate and clever Fey trick, aimed at getting within the walls? He had only their word that they were Light Elves.

  Better dead than without honor. He hesitated. But better clever than dead.

  “My brother went to find you and your people, Lord Kaeron. Did he succeed?”

  Kaeron looked at him as though he understood full well that he was being tested. “We hosted Lord Ragnar and his company for three days. Lady Celia told us of the siege.”

  Dahleven’s heart leapt. “Are they well? Are they with you?”

  “They were well when they left us. They meant to search out those who would sunder the barriers between the planes.”

  The chill Dahleven felt had nothing to do with the winter air. Celia went into that danger? “Have you heard from them?”

  “No. Not for some days.”

  “Then this may be only the first battle.” They should celebrate this victory while they still could. Though how he could make merry when he didn’t know whether Celia still lived, he could not imagine. “Gather your commanders, Lord Kaeron, and come within. We will feast our new friendship and honor you, who have come to our aid.”

  Lord Kaeron tilted his head as though listening to something else, then the Elf turned. A moment later Dahleven heard a small commotion. The ranks of Elves parted.

  “Dahleven!” Celia ran into his arms.

  The force of her greeting was better than a caress.

  It wasn’t the decorous address his mother would want a Jarl’s wife to give in front of strangers, but Dahleven didn’t care. Celia was safe! He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head, her forehead, her mouth. Behind her came Ragni, Fender, and Utta, followed by Masale, Che’veyo, Tiva’ti, and more Elves.

  Celia drew away first and turned to the Elf Lord. Reluctantly, Dahleven let her slide from his arms.

  “Lord Kaeron, I am pleased to see you again,” Celia said in warm greeting.

  The Praefect nodded an acknowledgment. “And I you, Lady Celia.” He looked beyond her, his attention drawn by another arrival.

  A tall, slender woman walked toward them, the host of Elves parting and bowing as she passed. Even Lord Kaeron bowed to her. She moved with a willowy grace and her black and silver hair branched softly like the spring growth of a tree.

  Dahleven stared, too stunned to speak. Tree-folk! He’d never thought to see one in this life.

  She looked around. “Where is our sister-son’s daughter?”

  Dahleven looked around, then at Celia, questioningly. Before she could answer, a familiar voice called, “I’m here, Mother.”

  Saeun came forward and knelt before the lithe, old woman.

  Saeun is alive? And calls Tree-folk kin?

  “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “Quartzholm is safe because of you, and Dances-in-Light, and the others.”

  The woman took Saeun’s hands and drew her to her feet. “Your gifting was generous, daughter.”

  “Madam?” Dahleven stepped forward. “Was it you and your kin who dispersed that unnatural mist?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Then Quartzholm owes you a great debt. How may we show our gratitude to you and yours?”

  The woman smiled gently. “As you would to any friend. Do not cut the aspen who remain, take only the bodies of our dead, and show courtesy to our children who walk among you.”

  Walk among us? Dahleven glanced at Saeun, then back to the Aspen Mother. “Will you join us in our feasting? You would be most welcome.” Then he wondered, What does one offer a tree to eat?

  “No. The cold stone halls of men are not for such as we. Honor Saeun in our stead. It was because of her that we came.” She turned back to Saeun. “You are no longer alone. Dance with us when the spring comes. And call upon us if you have need.” Then she turned and walked away through the bowing Elves.

  Saeun looked like she’d been handed a much longed for and unexpected gift.

  “Wow,” Celia said softly.

  Dahleven held out his hand to Saeun. She hesitated, and he exchanged a look with Ragni. Thank Baldur his brother was here, ready to step into Wirmund’s shoes. His next words would have implications that would ripple throughout the Jarldom. None of his people would think of the Fey, of magic, or even the trees the same again. He’d need Ragni’s support. Dahleven took Saeun’s small gloved hand in his larger one. “Lady Saeun,” he said, pitching his voice so that his men standing near could hear. “For your service to Quartzholm, you are pardoned. All penalties pending against you are void. So say I, Dahleven, Jarl of Quartzholm, and Kon of Nuvinland. Please join us as our honored guest.”

  *

  “Well said, brother.” Ragni stepped forward, proud and relieved that he wouldn’t have to argue Dahl into accepting Saeun after all.

  A grin split Dahleven’s face as he pulled Ragni into a thumping hug, but when his brother stepped back, there was a storm of emotion in his heart. “Much has happened in your absence,” he said softly. Then louder he said, “Tonight we will feast! Lord Kaeron, you and yours are welcome. Come within and let us see to your comfort.”

  Kaeron accepted, then commanded several of his company to see to their fallen. He confirmed that enough damage had been done to the stone-warriors; they would not revive with the night. Dahleven shouted orders to open the gates and a swirling bustle of hospitality commenced. Servants and warriors alike stared. One maid even fainted at the prospect of waiting on the Fey, but most swallowed their fear and made the Elves welcome.

  Ragni couldn’t help grinning. So far, so good. This reaction was better than he had expected. The fear of being Fey-marked would fade along with the fear of the Fey. Especially if Valender cures Neven of his affliction. Dahl’s twilight-eyes might even become an asset in time, rather than a liability.

  Dahleven ordered four squads to go out into the village to gather the dead for burial, then turned back to Ragni and Celia. “Come with me,” he said, pulling them both into a private room. They left Magnus issuing orders while hugging Utta in the courtyard.

  Ragni’s grin faded. His Talent still seemed weak, but he could feel enough from his brother to know that whatever Dahl had to say wasn’t good.

  Dahl shut the heavy do
or behind them. It was only a guard room, furnished with weapon racks, a trestle table, and wooden benches. Apparently whatever Dahleven had to say was urgent enough it couldn’t wait until they reached the family quarters. And then, as Dahl hesitated, his brother’s earlier words sank in.

  So say I, Dahleven, Jarl of Quartzholm and Kon of Nuvinland. Not acting Jarl. Jarl.

  Their father was dead.

  He’d known it was possible. Neven had been gravely ill when he’d left. But he couldn’t imagine Quartzholm without him. Neven’s will had seemed to hold the very stones in place.

  And now he was gone.

  “What is it?” Celia asked, looking from Dahl to him and back again.

  Ragni looked at her. “Dahleven is Jarl now.”

  It took her a second to understand, then her eyes widened. “Oh, Dahl!” She went to him and put her arms around him, compassion flowing from her like a river. Too bad Dahl couldn’t feel it directly.

  Dahl held her for a moment, then eased her back a little, though he kept his arm around her. Ragni could feel how having her near strengthened his brother, and it made him wish Saeun were here, too. Or Utta. The latter thought surprised him, but it was true.

  “There’s something else,” Dahl said. “It’s good that you returned when you did, Ragni. Wirmund is dead.”

  Celia gasped. “Dead?”

  “He called upon Baldur to disperse the mist, and murdered Father Hamma in the doing of it. Cut his throat. Apparently Baldur wasn’t pleased.”

  Ragni stared, stunned. Wirmund killed Hamma? He gifted Baldur with a man’s life? How could he have thought Baldur would accept such a corrupt sacrifice?

  “It would be best if you were confirmed as Overprest as soon as possible,” Dahleven continued.

  Ragni felt as if he’d taken a blow to his stomach. Somehow he hadn’t thought he’d have to confront the grim reality of his situation so soon. Now it was upon him. Overprest. The future that he had worked and planned for, that he’d thought would be his, crushed. Destroyed by the dictates of his crippled hand. He slumped against the edge of the table. “I can’t.”