“Be patient, Mikkel. They have never seen an Outsider Man before.”
It was on the tip of Mikkel’s tongue to say that he was still considered a boy, but when he saw himself revealed head to foot in the mirrored walls of the Rock-Palace, he could not claim that status and be believed. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Holger, and wide of shoulder. His muscles lay smooth on his frame, speaking of strength. His hair was unkempt and a red beard covered his chin.
Tentatively, he touched it, then tugged on it. It was real, all right. When they had left the village, it had been but a few hairs. They must have been longer on their way than he thought.
He allowed the Maidens to lead him into the palace and a bathing room where hot water in plenty awaited him. By signs and gestures, he indicated that he wanted to bathe himself, alone. Giggling, the Maidens trailed out and left him, though by the expressions on their faces and the tone of their chattering to each other, they clearly thought his preference very silly.
He investigated what the room had to offer. There were thick towels in plenty, and a dish made from a big shell filled with pieces of some soft substance that worked up into foamy suds that cleansed his skin. Over the tub was a shelf of crystal flasks filled with what he discovered to be perfumed oils of varying scents. He left those alone. Experimentally, he tried another liquid that also foamed, and washed his hair with it. It smelled good but not like perfume, faintly reminiscent of fruit and fresh grass. He ducked under the water again and again, enjoying the feeling of being thoroughly clean. Younkers in Holger den Forferdelig’s village seldom had the time to bathe adequately. A quick dip and splash, and it was back to work for them.
Reluctantly he emerged from the bath and dried off, using several of the thick towels that seemed to be made of coarsely woven silk. Looking into a hand mirror, he applied a carved ivory comb to his hair. He attempted to put it into braids, but made a botch of it; he had never had to do this for himself until he had been taken captive.
Still wrapped in a towel, he followed the Rock-Maidens who showed him to what must be his sleeping room. There he found fresh clothing made of white snow-thistle silk waiting for him. His old clothing had been taken away, perhaps to be cleaned or, perhaps, copied. Rock-Maidens were, he surmised, unfamiliar with the clothing of Outsiders; the garments they gave him consisted of flowing robes, rather than tunics and trews, with a silk sash for a belt.
As soon as he got his robe over his head, Maidens entered the room. Despite his protests, they combed and braided his hair, working pearls and iridescent white stones into the braids. Mikkel tried to remember where he had seen the like of these gems before. Somewhere, there had been a bracelet. It swam before his eyes. A slim blonde woman wore it. He could almost remember who she was. . . . Another Maiden trimmed his beard neatly.
Before they finished, he discovered that he was ravenous. More Rock-Maidens waited outside his chamber and he made a gesture—fingers toward mouth, rubbing his stomach—that they immediately interpreted correctly. They led him at once to another part of the palace where a table of covered dishes awaited. Petra entered the room almost at the same time. She, too, was dressed in long white silk robes. She still wore the green-glass jewel, along with bracelets and necklaces of iridescent white stones like those of his adornments, translucent and shot with rainbows. Her belt and tiara were made of the same kind of stone.
“You do look like a princess,” Mikkel told Petra.
“You are no proper Rock-Man,” she responded, “because no Rock-Man is so slender and handsome. You are now Ridder Rødskjegg—the Knight of the Red Beard. It is very becoming.”
Taken aback, Mikkel could only stammer a denial.
“Rock-Men,” Petra continued as she took the covers off various dishes and began filling her plate, “are big, ugly brutes. They’re much more, well, rocklike than the women. They are objectionable enough that we prefer to live well apart from them.”
Mikkel was filling his own plate from platters of broiled fish and small whole lobsters. A bowl of shrimp, still in the shells, came in for its share of attention as well. He held one by the tail and squeezed the meat into his mouth.
“You’re leaving the best part,” Petra said. “We eat clams and crab, lobster and shrimp, shells and all.” Suiting action to words, she picked up a shrimp and crunched it between her teeth. Then she smiled at his reaction. “You’re lucky we didn’t serve you chunks of stone and see you try to eat it!”
“Oh, now you’re just joking with me,” Mikkel said.
She laughed, a silvery sound. “It is easy to do.”
The two moved to a small stone table, in a little alcove. Mikkel applied himself to his food with a good appetite. It was a welcome change from the usual diet of stew and porridge that, though undoubtedly nutritious and as tasty as Askepott could devise, nevertheless had become very monotonous.
As if she had read his thought, Petra said, “Sometimes we make stews of fish and eels and certain seaweed. I have missed this, very much.”
“How did you come to be in Holger den Forferdelig’s power?”
“I was out searching for the plants that make the silk—”
“Snow-thistles, is what we call them.”
“Yes. Well, I got separated from my Maidens, and Holger and his men chanced on me. I tried to run but they were too fast and too strong for me. The iron they carried hurt me and made me weak. They captured me and Holger took my royal jewel.” She touched her pendant. “I told him it was only sea-green glass—you remember the song—but it is a rare gem. We find it occasionally where it has been belched up by a fire mountain.”
“Farther south, we find the same, only the gems are red.”
“Mostly the ones here are red as well. Green gems are more highly prized.”
“What are those white stones?”
“We call them snow-gems.”
“I once saw a bracelet carved out of a big piece of it.”
“The one who wore it is very fortunate. Snow-gems are very valuable.”
“I think that bracelet had some magical powers.”
“Such jewels often do.”
“Who was the Maiden who greeted you so affectionately?”
“Hild. You would call her my sister.”
As they ate and chatted about trivialities, Mikkel wondered about Petra’s remark earlier about finding what to do with him. The Rock-Maidens had been all cordiality and helpfulness and full of charming giggles up until now, but he had a feeling that could change in the blink of an eye.
Rock-Maidens cleared away their dishes and removed the un-eaten food, and gave them a hot beverage that Petra said was brewed of certain sea plants.
“Tomorrow,” Petra said, “there will be a great celebration throughout the city. You will be a part of it as well.”
“Then have you decided what is to be done with me?” he asked.
“Yes, if you agree.”
“I have to know what you have in mind first.”
Close by the ocean wall of the City ’Neath the Waves, lay a sunken ship. Preserved in the icy northernmost waters, it had suffered little decay. Only the hole in the hull, beneath the waterline where some horned sea creature had attacked, showed the cause for the vessel’s demise. Otherwise the ship was intact. Masts, spars, rigging, sails were all still in place, if tattered from the motion of the tides. If the vessel could be raised and its hull repaired, even as obsolete as the design was, it could once more ride the waves as proudly as when it was first launched.
Until now, the Rock-Maidens had only gazed at the vessel, enjoying its presence as a decoration outside their walls. But then their Princess was abducted, and by a man who sailed in such a ship. On land, they could never be his equal, let alone defeat him. At sea, however, it might be a different story.
The Rock-Maidens hated Holger den Forferdelig with a passion such as they had never previously known. He had stolen their Princess from them, had tortured her with the cold iron torque, the marks from wh
ich she still bore on her beautiful neck. Now, with Mikkel’s presence among them, they might challenge Holger on the open sea.
“But I know nothing of sailing,” Mikkel objected.
“You will come to it,” Petra reassured him.
“Why not ask Rock-Men for their help?”
Petra laughed scornfully. “Do you know aught of Nisse? Some call them gnomes?”
“I have heard of them. They are tiny creatures who live in gardens.”
“Not so. In the land of the Wykenigs, the Nisse are large and strong and their main pastime is seeking out trolls to fight. They look like they have been chiseled, very roughly, out of rock. They have strength many times that of a man, can run faster than a snow elk, and have eyesight better than a hawk. Their manners are no better than trolls’, though, and no Rock-Maiden will have anything to do with them, willingly. They are, however, the best gem-cutters and jewelers in existence, so we trade with them from time to time. We have to be on our guard then, for sometimes one of us disappears, a victim of what passes for love to one of them. At any rate, they can be no help to us. Our problem is not your skill or theirs, but the ship itself.”
“How so?”
“There are iron nails and fittings. And neither Maidens nor Nisse can bear the touch or even the presence of iron.”
“What has that got to do with me?”
“You can remove the iron. We can then replace it with wooden pegs, or stone fittings where there are now iron ones.”
“Yes,” Mikkel said slowly, “that might work. But we would still need new lines, new sails—”
“We will have them, all made of snow-thistle silk and stronger than any canvas. We Rock-Maidens discovered the secret of snow-thistle silk long ago, and some parts of the world are just now catching up with us.”
“And what about the crew?”
“Rock-Maidens will crew the ship. And we will fight Holger den Forferdelig when we find him, and we will best him, too. There are few things that can seriously harm us. Here. Try to stab my hand.” She held out a silver knife.
“No!”
“I promise you, I will not be harmed.”
Reluctantly, he did as he was told. The knife just slid off her thick, smooth skin.
“We can be hurt by an iron arrowhead, but it cannot penetrate deeply. Our movements are slow in cold climes and in the presence of iron; we tolerate great heat but can melt in a fire mountain if we stay too long.”
Mikkel had a sudden visual picture of a Hnefa-Tafl board, populated with living beings. He was the King, and occupied the center square. Rock-Maidens, dressed in white snow-thistle silk and armed with bows and alabaster-tipped arrows, guarded him in ranks and files from Wykenig Dark Attackers. Something that Holger had been in the habit of saying came to mind:
Who are the maids that fight weaponless around their lord, the fair ever sheltering and the dark ever attacking him?
It was madness, but a madness that just might work.
“Well,” Mikkel said, “I suppose there is no harm in trying.”
From the street, Askepott surveyed the Barbican Gate leading to the castle. She was uncertain of what she would do if the soldiers manning it kept her out. Therefore, she decided, she would approach with the air of someone who belonged in Cyornas Castle, and who was now returning. She got as far as the gatehouse before being challenged.
“State your business, woman,” a guard said.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Askepott returned sharply, with an assurance she did not really feel.
“Then you will not enter. Not until you give me a reason.”
“It is my business and not yours. But I will say that Zazar and I are friends and it is she I have traveled many leagues to see.”
“Madame Zazar, is it?” the guard said, visibly impressed. “Stay here and we will send word.”
He showed her into what had to be a guardhouse, where other soldiers sat around a firepot, eating and drinking. They offered to share, and nothing loath, she accepted. And that is where Zazar found her, nearly an hour later, enjoying a hot drink laced with spirits and butter.
“I thought I was past being surprised!” she exclaimed. “How did you get here? And why? Not that you aren’t welcome, for you are. But I don’t understand.”
“Nor could you be expected to,” Askepott said. “I will explain all in good time.”
“Then come with me. There are introductions to be made, and, if I am not mistaken, good-byes to be said to the Duchess Ysa, whom I have cordially invited to return to her little duchy where she can lord it over everyone and there’s none to object to her regal ways.”
Heavy snow had begun falling and the two hurried to get inside the castle walls.
“Maybe she won’t return just yet,” Askepott said, puffing a little, “and it just might be that we need her.”
Zazar paused and stared at the other Wysen-wyf. “I can’t think of a single reason why.”
“I can, and that’s one more thing we must discuss.”
“Well, we’re here, so come inside.”
They climbed the castle’s stone steps to the doors leading to the vestibule just off the Great Hall, and entered.
“Here, you, Rols,” Zazar said, and the man immediately paused in his errand.
“Madame?”
“This is Steinvor Askepott. She’s—she’s a kind of sister. Take her belongings up to my tower and put them outside the door. We’ll dispose of them later.”
Askepott looked a question at Zazar.
“Oh, you needn’t be concerned. Nobody in the NordornLand would dare meddle in my things, and that means yours are safe as well.”
Rols took up Askepott’s bundle and would have added her carry-sack only she didn’t allow it. “Be lost without it,” she muttered.
“I will take you first to Gaurin and Ashen, and then upstairs we’ll go.”
“Always good to have the host and hostess aware of your presence. Lead on.”
Zazar kept the introductions to a minimum. Askepott was uncertain of how to behave—should she bow? Should she attempt a curtsy? She took her cue from Zazar and nodded her head, a gesture that was returned gravely.
“We are happy to have one of Madame Zazar’s kindred come to visit,” the NordornKing told her.
“May we hope that the visit will be a lengthy one?” said Ashen NordornQueen.
Zazar laughed. “From the looks of the weather outside, yes. None of us, save the huntsmen, will be apt to go anywhere any time soon.”
“And shall I ask Ayfare to prepare quarters for you, Madame Steinvor?” the Queen inquired solicitously.
“Oh, Askepott will do, Your Majesty. And I’ll snark down anywhere.”
“She’ll share my tower, if she’s willing,” Zazar said. “My bedroom is big, room enough for half a dozen soldiers. We’ll hang a curtain down the middle, for privacy. We’ll make do quite well.”
“I will have another bed brought up there for you.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Then shall we expect to see you at meat tonight?” the King asked. “We would like to get to know one of Zazar’s friends.”
“What he means is, I have never confessed to having a friend,” Zazar said with more than a trace of sarcasm. “Yes, we’ll be at meat. All the world’s treasures couldn’t pay me to miss the look on Ysa’s face when she learns that there’s another Wysen-wyf in the Castle of Fire and Ice!”
“Well, this is it,” Zazar said, when they had reached the top of the stairs.
Askepott’s bundle of belongings lay by the door, just as she had instructed. She picked it up, opened the door, and the two of them entered just as a couple of the castle servants arrived with the new bed, bedclothes, the dividing curtain, and a rod to hang it from. Quickly and efficiently they attached the rod to another corbel and supported the other end on the main rod. Then they hung the curtain, set up the bed in the sleeping area, put the coverings on it, and departed as if eager to get ou
t of the tower chambers.
“Oh, this is like home!” Askepott exclaimed. She looked around at the shelves, the pots and jars, even the stack of reed mats. “What a wonderful, comfortable place you have.”
“It’s half yours, as long as you want to stay. What possessed you to leave Holger’s village, anyway?”
“Brew me some tea, and I’ll tell you.”
Presently, over steaming mugs of Zazar’s personal mixture, Askepott related the whole story—her theory of why Mikkel had experienced such an unnatural growth surge, his disappearance with the krigpus and the crazy girl who was always singing about green glass, Holger’s rage, Askepott’s certain knowledge that Gunnora would harm her, even kill her, if she stayed.
“What a story!” Zazar exclaimed, when the other had finished. “And what do you think has happened to Mikkel?”
“I can only hope that he found some safe refuge, perhaps with an enemy of Holger’s,” Askepott said. “Beyond that, I cannot say. Perhaps, with the two of us trying, we can find some indication of where he might be.”
“I do not think he is dead. I would have felt it.”
“You have a kettle. Do you perform the Ritual of Asking?”
“Of course. But I use certain, um, ingredients and my supply is currently low.”
Askepott dug into her carry-sack and brought out a jar sealed with wax. She pulled the wax away and spilled a few threads onto the table between them. The jar was full nearly to the brim. “Ingredients like this?”
“I should have known you’d be familiar with them. How did you come by such a good supply?”
“Let’s just say I have sources and perhaps can call on them even this far south. The Ritual of Asking is what told me the extent of my danger, and the reason. It’s that dragon-tooth bracelet.”
“The one that the Duchess Ysa is all a-twitter to learn the secret of.” Zazar sighed.
“She’s the one with the book-magic, isn’t she.”
“Yes.”
“Unappealing as the prospect is, we might need her.”
“I’d rather not. You don’t know the woman; I do.”
“I’d use Gunnora herself, if I could, and if it would save Mikkel and put that horrid bracelet out of harm’s reach. Where is it, by the way?”
The Knight of the Red Beard Page 23