Scepter of Fire

by Vicki L. Weavil

  “No. Go home. I hope you have some plausible story to tell?”

  “I’ve already thought of that.” Gerda helps me to my feet. “I will say my reindeer, Bae, escaped his pen and when I searched for him I met Varna, and asked her to help me. Bae’s waiting for us by the path,” she adds, obviously sensing Erik’s confusion. “We can go home with him in tow, so it will be perfectly believable.”

  I blink as I examine my sister. I didn’t expect Gerda to produce so glib a lie. Still, it is believable. I turn to Erik. “Unfortunately, you must stay up all night. Give Anders more medicine whenever he wakes. Get him to at least take a sip or two, and some water as well. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Madame Doctor, I think I can manage.”

  “It is important.” I brush past him and stride to the table to collect my bag. “I’ll come back tomorrow, although I must wait until I can get away without alerting anyone.”

  “So will I.” Gerda scurries to my side. “We’ll return to watch over Anders so you can rest. We will also bring you food and drink, right, Varna?”

  Erik’s amused expression makes my fingers twitch. “We’ll bring what we can. Come, Gerda, we’d better go if we hope to sell your story. Mother might believe it now, but not if we’re out after dark.”

  As we head out the door, Erik grabs my arm. “Remember, not a word to anyone.”

  I shake his fingers loose. “You claim to trust us.”

  His intense gaze sweeps over my face. “I do. I’m just worried about Anders.”

  “The best thing you can do is watch over him tonight and continue to trust us.”

  As Erik holds the door open, the light filtering through the tree leaves tints his face green. Coupled with his sardonic grin it lends him the appearance of some elven creature. “Very well, Doctor Lund.” He bows from the waist. When he straightens, a more genuine smile graces his face. “Goodbye, Miss Gerda, and thank you. Try not to let your sister get you into any more trouble.”

  The door closes before I can reply.

  Chapter Four: An Eye for Beauty

  Master Albrecht stands at the entrance to a tent, his scuffed boots sinking into a puddle of late spring mud. The papery skin on his neck jiggles as he lifts his chin and stares at two enemy soldiers and their interpreter.

  “If you wish more of your troops to die, please do keep me out.” He adjusts the heavy canvas bag draped over his sloping shoulder. “I am offering my aid, and that of my assistant, to treat your injured soldiers. Not for money, or concessions, but to prevent more needless deaths.”

  One of the soldiers jabbers with the other. The interpreter looks pained and shuffles his feet. “They say—we already have a doctor.”

  Obviously, they said more than that. I assume the interpreter is unwilling to translate insults.

  Albrecht’s expression signals he may know a few of the words. “Doctor?” His laugh emerges as a bark. “More like a butcher. But have it your way. Come, Varna, we shall return to our work at the cottage.” He turns and trudges toward the dirt path that leads away from the enemy camp.

  As I follow two soldiers point at me and laugh. The village boys often do the same, although they tend to wait until they think I cannot see or hear.

  But I do. I hear their snide laughter, and catch them staring at my flat chest and questioning whether I’m actually a boy. Once, the pastor’s son said no one would ever make love to me, unless it was very dark and the man was very drunk. Yes, I hear such taunts and sometimes, even worse.

  I quicken my pace to catch up to Master Albrecht. “Talk about ungrateful. I can’t imagine why you even bother. Here, do you need me to carry that bag?”

  Albrecht raises his bushy brows. “You have your own burden. I can manage.” He stares at the horizon, where hills rise like stair steps to meet the mountain range. “Still, thank you.”

  I frown. “To be honest, I don’t understand why you offer aid to the enemy.”

  Albrecht scans one ridge as if seeking some hidden object. “Those soldiers are simply men. Or boys, many of them. They did not ask to be transported to this country to be shot to pieces on a battlefield near a village whose name they cannot pronounce. A healer heals, regardless of the patient’s allegiance or nationality.”

  “Yes, but … ” I shift my bag from one shoulder to the other. It is heavy. Master Albrecht filled it with bottles of his mysterious potions as well as the typical ointments, herbs, and rolls of bandages. “Many in the village will label you a traitor for offering assistance to our invaders.”

  “I am not concerned about the opinions of the townsfolk. It’s best to ignore such things.” Albrecht shifts his gaze back to the path. “You should do the same.”

  I sneak a glance at him. Had he heard and understood those mocking soldiers?

  Or read my thoughts?

  No, that is ridiculous. I roll my shoulders to relieve the numbing pressure of the heavy bag. “I should, I suppose. We heard enough talk when Gerda returned four years ago. She didn’t even tell the whole story and people were ready to label her mad. Not to mention those who thought she’d compromised her honor, travelling alone with Kai, although they relented on that point when she told them of the presence of Thyra Winther and others during her travels.”

  Master Albrecht stops short and grips my wrist. “Did she tell you the whole story, Varna?”

  For a moment the fingers encircling my wrist appear young and strong, but when I blink and look again it’s Albrecht’s gnarled digits, splotched with liver spots and engraved with wrinkles.

  Perhaps I am going mad.

  I raise my eyes. “Most of it, I think. There were some details she would not discuss. Too painful, I suppose.”

  Albrecht drops my wrist and steps back. “She told you of the mirror?”

  “Yes, she mentioned a shattered enchanted mirror. She said the mage Mael Voss thought it would grant him immortality if he could reconstruct it. Unfortunately for him, he died before that happened.”

  “At the hands of Thyra Winther.”

  “True, but Gerda claims Thyra only killed Voss to save her and Kai.” I gnaw the inside of my cheek for a second, discomfited by his piercing gaze. “I’m not sure why this matters to you, Master Albrecht. Did you know Voss?”

  Albrecht wheezes out a laugh. “No, I never had that pleasure. What would an ordinary healer have to do with a mighty mage? I’ve heard tales of him, of course, and his mirror.” Albrecht resumes his typical shuffling gait. “Whatever happened to it, the mirror? Did Gerda tell you?”

  Did she? I search my memories. “She said it was taken somewhere safe, to be kept hidden. She didn’t say where, although I suppose it might be in the mountains, in Voss’s old kingdom.”

  Albrecht glances at me over his shoulder. “It is a powerful object, that mirror. Or so I have been told. Perhaps your sister knows its location and keeps it a secret?”

  “I suppose that is possible.” I clear my throat. “Master, I would like to beg off working with you this afternoon. Traveling to the enemy camp has taken up the entire morning, and I do have chores.”

  Albrecht grunts. “You seem to be burdened with more chores than usual these days. What is it this time?”

  “Mother needs me to help put up some preserves.”

  “Really, Varna, you must learn to lie better than that. What sort of preserves would these be? No fruit is ripe this time of year.”

  Once, I could’ve claimed we had bartered our flour for some pears from Inga Leth. When I was younger her garden produced fruits and vegetables impossibly early in the spring, as well as long past frost. Strangely, that changed after Gerda returned from her journey to find Kai. Now Inga’s garden is as limited by the seasons as any other plot of land.

  “You have found me out, I do have another reason, but I must beg you not to question me further. I’ve made a promise.”

  “Do you hold promises in such high regard?”

  “Yes, I do.” I lift my head and gaze up at the tree limbs
that canopy the path. Their pale green leaves flutter like moth wings. “I also value the truth.”

  Albrecht stops short, causing me to step on his heel. “So if I were to ask how three bottles of my special potion disappeared, would you give me an honest answer?”

  I drop my head to hide the flush in my cheeks.

  “I took them. It was necessary.” Images of Erik and Anders flood my mind. I must concoct an acceptable lie. “Gerda asked me. She said there was a workman at the mill whose child was ill. I saw you use that medicine on the cobbler’s wife and she regained her health. I should’ve asked, but you were off somewhere … ”

  Albrecht snorts. “Three bottles? I doubt your sister truly requires that much, not to help one person, especially not a child.”

  “She said she needed more. After I gave her the first one, I mean.” I study the tips of my well-worn boots. “I did not question her. What else would she want it for?” I look up, meeting Master Albrecht’s eyes.

  “Perhaps Gerda is keeping secrets? Is she always absolutely truthful?”

  I steel myself not to look away, even though Albrecht’s gaze is boring a hole in my forehead. “She is. Absolutely.”

  To be honest, I’ve been astonished at Gerda’s ability to lie. Every morning Gerda tells Mother she’s headed to the mill to oversee our workmen and ensure they are treated fairly by the enemy soldiers. She offers this lie with a smile. Oh, it is true she goes to the mill, but she leaves at midday, claiming she must hurry home to help with chores. Of course, she’s actually sneaking off to supply Erik and Anders with food and drink. She’s even provided them with some of Kai’s old clothes, pilfered from his mother’s house while Olivia Thorsen was at the market.

  “Kai wouldn’t mind,” she said, when I questioned this behavior, and I know she is right. That’s not the problem. No, I worry someone at the mill will inform Mother about Gerda’s true schedule. Mother is so fearful lately, concerned the enemy will retaliate and burn down the mill on the slightest provocation. If she suspects Gerda of any rebellion …

  “I wonder.” Master Albrecht’s words slice through my thoughts. “Sometimes we cannot see our family or friends clearly.” Inexplicably, he leans in and strokes the side of my face. “Love blinds us all. Now, I must leave you, my dear. It seems I am required to distill medicine to replace my missing stock.”

  Before I can form a proper response, he trundles down another path, leaving me alone. I turn my gaze from the hunched figure and step onto the main road.

  As I draw closer to the village, I glance up at a tall hill overlooking the town. I stop in my tracks.

  There is a horse and rider atop the ridge, paused near a stand of firs.

  I shade my eyes with one hand. It is a cloaked figure, which makes it impossible to tell if it is one of their soldiers, one of ours, or simply a lone traveler. I squint, hoping to capture more details.

  Something stands beside the horse, a creature of some kind. My satchel slides off my shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.

  It looks like the wolf who led me to Erik and Anders.

  It cannot be. Although, the wolf was unafraid, almost tame. I lift my bag and run my fingers over the rough material, ensuring no bottles have broken.

  Steady, Varna. Decide if you will speak of this rider—if you will inform the enemy soldiers posted in town, or our own men.

  Or, perhaps, no one at all.

  Gerda speaks of a young woman always accompanied by a wolf—Kai Thorsen’s love, who travels the world. She supposedly left Kai to learn on her own terms, while he studies at the University. But if the former Snow Queen planned to return to our village, surely Gerda and Kai would know.

  The rider leans forward, lifting a pale hand to shade hidden eyes.

  I drop my own hand and raise my skirts so I can move as quickly as possible. The heavy satchel swings from my shoulder, banging against my hip. I ignore this and run, only pausing when I reach the narrow trail that intersects with the path to Master Albrecht’s home.

  Learning against the rough bark of a pine tree, I take deep breaths. I must calm my racing heart before I enter the abandoned cottage. I can’t appear anxious, not when Anders is improving day by day. Erik might decide to move him too soon and destroy all my good work.

  I tuck the loose strands of my hair up under my cap and smooth the wrinkles from my bodice and skirt. Slowing my steps to a walk, I reach the half-open door of the derelict cottage.

  “It is Varna,” I call out as I push my way inside, aware Erik keeps a musket handy, in addition to his pistol.

  He meets me right inside the door, silently taking the bag from my shoulder and placing it on the table.

  “How is he today?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  Erik nods his head in the direction of the makeshift bed. Anders sits up, propped by the folded horse blanket and a pillow Gerda stole from our house.

  Gerda’s seated next to the young soldier. They study a book open in Anders’s lap. I recognize a collection of stories and illustrations I read as a child—humorous tales of talking animals and a young man who gets into dangerous scrapes.

  The golden head bent close to the light brown one, the hands touching as they turn the pages, the peals of laughter … This is not good.

  I cough, loudly.

  Gerda looks up, her blue eyes merry. “Varna! Come and see. I’d forgotten how funny these stories are.”

  “I remember,” I say, without moving.

  I also remember Gerda’s pain, as she struggled to overcome her feelings for Kai Thorsen. I recall how she put on a brave face, expressing her happiness over Kai’s love for Thyra Winther. I remember she claimed she only wanted the best for both her friends.

  I can’t forget how she wept, when she thought no one could hear.

  It took some time, but Gerda finally moved beyond the pain, or at least far enough to cease shedding tears for her thwarted love. Now when she speaks of Kai it’s like someone talking about a beloved brother.

  “Anders is feeling so much better.” Gerda’s smile would warm the coldest heart.

  I remember another fact Gerda seems to have forgotten—Anders already has a sweetheart. He loves that ballerina in the city, Christiane Bech.

  “I know,” Erik says, under his breath. “I see it too.”

  “It would be better if it were you.”

  He shrugs. “She does not see me.”

  I study his profile. Erik is the handsomer of the two young men, despite deprivation sharpening his features. He is tall, and big-boned, and—with food and rest—would cut a splendid, masculine figure.

  A flush rises up the back of my neck. I need to banish these thoughts. I must stop imaging every good-looking young man in my arms.

  Or your bed.

  I slap my upper arm. “Going to sleep,” I say, when Erik shoots me a questioning look. “That heavy bag.”

  Erik apparently finds this explanation acceptable. “Anders is much improved. His fever has receded.”

  “That’s good, but I need to check him over.” I cross to Anders and Gerda. “Let me examine you then, Master Nygaard.”

  “Sorry, I still cannot stand.” Anders’s voice is delicate, much like his body. Considerably shorter and slighter than Erik, his light brown hair spills over his forehead, brushing his eyebrows. His hazel eyes are wide and fringed with soft lashes, and there’s a delicacy about his mouth that reminds me of pictures of cherubim I once saw in a book of Bible stories.

  “No need,” I say, kneeling before him. I push up his loose trouser leg and unwind the bandages. “Erik says your fever is gone.”

  “Quite gone.” Gerda stares at my hands.

  I know what she wants to see. The truth. What damage remains.

  It is not pretty. Although the flesh is growing back, it’s puckered and red, and there’s a deep indentation where a chunk of leg muscle is missing.

  I force a smile. “Healing nicely.”

  “It looks horrible.” Anders’s eyes c
loud with tears. “Yet it is healing, and I will live, and for that I thank you again, Varna.”

  Gerda places her arm around Anders’s narrow shoulders. “It is a war wound, honorably received. Many soldiers have them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  A shadow crosses Anders’s face. I know he must be thinking of Christiane, of how she will view such a wound. Now, if she wishes to go dancing, it must be with other men.

  “You should be able to walk soon, although perhaps with help.”

  Anders’s lips curve into a sad smile. “Erik’s already carving me a cane.”

  I glance up at Erik, who has crossed the room to stand beside me. “Good for Erik. You must build up your strength, though. Do not expect too much too soon.”

  “It is beautiful,” Gerda says.

  I shoot her a sharp glance, then realize she’s staring at the object Erik clutches in his left hand.

  It is a cane unlike any I have ever seen. Formed from a single oak branch, it’s carved with a skill that makes me catch my breath.

  I stare at the gorgeous wolf head topping the cane. “You are an artist.”

  Erik’s face reddens. “No, a craftsman. My grandfather taught me. It’s something I can do, you see, minding the counter in the shop, or at night, by the fire. It keeps my hands busy.”

  “Do not believe it.” Anders casts an indulgent smile at his friend. “Erik is a connoisseur of beauty. He protests when I drag him to the ballet, then is transfixed by the dancers. If you visit a cathedral or art gallery with him, you should expect to spend hours. If he sees anything beautiful, he stops and stares and stares.”

  I drop my hands in my lap and fiddle with the light fabric of my apron. This explains his total disinterest in me, outside of my healing skills. That is fine, Master Erik Stahl. I know I would not attract a man like you. You will never look at me with the gaze you use to admire beautiful things.

  Like the look Anders has turned on Gerda.

  Oh no, I won’t have my sister’s heart shattered again. “Come, Gerda, we should get home.”

  “Really?” Gerda’s lips roll into an adorable pout.