Lines connected some of the symbols but he knew not why. The fire and the hammer. The lightning and the water. The tree and the sun. The moon and the horse. Soren ran his finger over them and shivered at what he felt there. This was not just a parchment; this was a talisman, filled with some power he could feel but could not explain.
The symbols were arranged in a circle, too, outlined in shapes that resembled the stones near Stenness and Brodgar’s Ring. And in the center of that sketch, a black circle, completely filled in. A word he could not read was next to it and underlined several times. Another word, written then struck through several times, was under the black spot. When he touched that circle, screams filled his ears and visions of fire burst before his eyes.
Soren drew back, not certain what had happened. The sounds and sights stopped when he no longer touched the parchment. The sick, queasy feeling that settled in his gut made him want to burn the thing. Only that it was the last contact with his grandfather stopped him from doing so. Standing, he held the paper in the sun’s light to see it more clearly. Other shadowy figures were revealed then, along the edges of the drawing, but he could not identify them.
Placing the disturbing drawing down, he looked once more at the piece filled with words. More like words than symbols, he realized, but the language did not look familiar at all. Soren had seen Latin and English and Scots and many others and yet this did not seem similar to those.
Einar would not have left them for him unless they were important and unless they could be understood or translated. So, if he could not translate these words or symbols, who could?
The only man he knew who might be able to help lived in Kirkwall. A childhood friend, Ander Erlandson worked for the bishop now. Though Ander was a priest, Soren thought he could trust the man.
Soren would not be able to travel to Kirkwall right away though he would as soon as was possible. Until then, he would protect these pages and say nothing about them to anyone. After speaking with Ander, he would go to the broch and try to find any sign that would help him understand whatever this information was that Einar wanted him to have.
If only his grandfather yet lived . . .
• • •
Ander looked from the parchment he held to Soren and back again, squinting and peering closely at the strange words. Soren could see both the amazement and curiosity in his friend’s gaze as the priest scrutinized the sheet again. Soren left the other two—the map and the diagram—tucked safely inside his tunic. Until he had some idea of what these were, there was no reason to share too much with others. Even friends.
“I have never seen the like, Soren,” Ander said, lowering the parchment to the table between them. “Where did you come upon such a document?” Ander moved a candle closer and bent over to look once more.
Soren chose not to answer and waited on Ander’s examination to continue. When his friend happened on something curious or different, he would quickly become lost in it. Minutes passed as Ander turned the parchment this way and that, holding it up to the candlelight and away from it. Then he’d hold it up against the glare of the midday sun coming through the window in the corner of the chamber. Soren stood and walked to the window, away from the table so his pacing would not interrupt his friend.
Peering out of the round tower of the bishop’s palace, he could see the cathedral of St. Magnus rising over the other buildings of the city. Ander’s position was important enough that he worked in the lower chamber of the bishop’s private residence.
“May I keep this a few days, Soren?” He turned as Ander approached, parchment in hand and a furrow in his heavy brow. “I want to compare it to something I saw in one of the bishop’s books.”
“You have no idea of what it says then?” Soren asked, fighting the urge to tear the paper from Ander’s hand.
“And no idea of what language it is either,” Ander admitted. “I am baffled by it,” he laughed as he shrugged. “And I do not like to be baffled.” No, Ander did not. It was one of the reasons that the bishop took him into service—Ander was relentless when meeting an obstacle. Ander looked at Soren and waited for an answer.
Could he part with it? Einar had trusted it to him. But Soren trusted Ander and he needed his help, so Soren nodded. “How long?”
“Two days, three at the most. I have an assignment to complete before I can give my attention to it.”
“Three at the most,” Soren repeated, more to convince himself than to confirm his friend’s words.
Ander nodded and smiled, like a predator who scents another prey. “And if I give it back to you in two or three days’ time, you might even trust me with the others.”
“The others?” Soren asked.
“You keep touching something over your chest. More of the same, mayhap, or something different?” Ander asked, holding out his hand.
Soren stepped back and shook his head.
“Ah, so there is more.”
“Nothing really,” Soren assured. “Only something personal from my grandfather.” He met Ander’s green and knowing gaze, hoping the lie worked.
“Very well,” Ander said, backing away and placing the parchment on the table once more. “I will protect this one and you can make up your mind later on the others.”
“I thank you for your help, Ander,” Soren said. He walked to the door and pulled it open. “I will come back at week’s end.” About to leave, he finally remembered the name his grandfather had mentioned. “Have you heard the name Taranis before?”
“Aye,” Ander said. And nothing else.
“And . . . ?”
“I remember not where or when, but I will seek that out, too,” Ander said, lying as Soren had. The man’s left eye began a slight but noticeable twitch. Soren laughed then.
“Lying is a sin, Father Ander,” he reminded.
“A weakness about which I pray daily,” his friend said, ushering him out of the chamber. “I will see you at week’s end.”
Soren nodded and walked down the steps to the main corridor. Almost to the door leading to the outside, Ander’s voice called out to him and Soren paused and turned back.
“I forgot to tell you. Ran has returned.”
He’d always told himself that he would not react to this inevitable news. The woman had been born and raised here in Orkney. Her father’s shipping business was centered here. She had other kith and kin here—she would return here someday.
Ran had returned.
His life had barely returned to a normal one and now she was back. It would be torn asunder, even if he managed to avoid her, just by knowing she breathed the same air he did. Soren found he could not breathe, so he nodded and wordlessly left, seeking something he knew he would never find now—peace of mind.
He stumbled down the busy streets, not caring where he went or what he did. He mind reeled at the thought that she was on the island. Her father’s business was here in the city. There would be too much to explain and too much he could not explain if they met. Deciding to leave now and go to the broch, Soren realized he’d wandered far from where he’d left his horse.
Turning back, Soren walked through the marketplace where he found himself, greeting the merchants and nodding to the vendors selling their wares. Kirkwall was a blending place, filled with people from all parts of the north and beyond. Norse, Scots, French, English all used Kirkwall and Orkney for replenishing supplies, stocking ships for travel and trading goods.
But something this day, now, was different.
As he walked the streets, Soren noticed a change in the air around him. In the colors of the fabrics offered in the weavers’ tents. In the faces of the villagers. The brightness and hues had been leached from the world in which he lived.
The realization stopped him between paces.
He glanced around to see if something had thickened above him and had blocked the sun. The clear
, blue cloudless skies answered him. What was happening?
And then she walked out from one of the alleys.
Ran Sveinsdottir.
The woman he’d loved. The woman he’d betrayed.
Soren stepped back into the shadows, to regain control over himself and to watch her. Tall and svelte, she moved with the same easy grace on land that she did on her father’s ships. Her blond curls were tamed into several smaller plaits framing her face and one larger unruly braid. ’Twas a hopeless attempt to control the uncontrollable, but the longer woven tresses lay down her back and swung in time with every step she took. His body recognized hers. His mouth remembered the taste of hers and his hands itched to glide over those curves and touch every inch of her.
He shuddered and released the breath he did not know he’d been holding, continuing to watch her make her way through the crowded street. Without considering the folly of it and without thought he followed her, drinking in the sight of her, of her every smile and glance and movement. She bestowed that smile on many as she greeted the merchants and tradesmen along the street. Ran was the one woman he’d loved and the one he could never have. It had been two years since he last saw her and yet—
His vision flickered then and he realized that she was surrounded by color and light. They were missing in everyone else around them and were vibrant and almost alive in her. Turquoise—the color of the seas—surrounded her body, glowing and glimmering. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision, for what he saw was simply not possible.
When that made no difference, Soren even dragged the sleeve of his tunic across his eyes, but it did not change. Her blond hair was bright and golden, her skin glowed and her eyes shimmered. Unsure of what was happening, he hissed in pain as his forearm began to burn.
Lifting his hand, he tugged his sleeve back and watched as the skin there grew red and an outline of a bolt of lightning became visible. It changed as he watched, growing brighter and clearer in shape. And it burned as it did. Covering it with his other hand, he glanced around to see if anyone else noticed.
Those seeking goods or food did not spare him a second glance. Those selling their wares did not either. Everyone else walked around him, ignorant or uncaring about this significant change in their world. As he looked around the area, Soren realized that Ran had the same bewildered expression on her face that his must have been wearing. She clutched at her arm, touching the same place on her forearm that yet burned on his.
He’d taken three steps out of the shadows and onto the street toward her when he finally pulled himself back and stopped. As much as he wanted to understand what was going on, he knew she would not welcome his approach. Or his questions.
Two years. Two years and much more than time separated them.
Since he knew her father would remain in Orkney while his ships and boats were prepared for the sailing months ahead, Soren doubted she was going anywhere too soon. If this strangeness somehow involved her, he knew where he could find her.
He would always know where to find her. Now though, he turned and walked away. He would seek out his grandfather’s tower and try to put her from his mind. As he rode out of Kirkwall, north along the sea, he understood the truth that stood between them—he would never be able to completely rid himself of Ran Sveinsdottir.
• • •
Though he stood in the shadows between the merchants selling their wool and other fabrics, she would recognize him anywhere. Taller than her brother and her father, Soren towered over most men she knew. The years of working the fields and ships had built muscle and strength in his body, and she could not help but notice that he looked even larger now. Her traitorous body responded to the memories now filling her mind of their times together. The feel of his skin on hers. His strong hands moving over her and bringing her to pleasure. Relentlessly. As he did everything.
Could it be the mere sight of him that was causing this eerie feeling within her? The strange buzzing that filled her ears? The way her vision dimmed and flared?
Before she could do anything foolish, something in the world around her tilted and changed. Ran grabbed for the table in front of her as she lost her balance. Then, in an instant, her vision flickered again and the colors of the world disappeared. Everyone looked like a pale, drab version of themselves.
Except Soren.
He had changed now, not only looking stronger and healthier, but also an eerie silver-gray glow outlined his body. As she watched this happening to him, her arm began to burn. Clapping her hand over it, she lifted her gaze and met his in that moment.
In that second, everything and everyone around them disappeared, leaving only the two of them. Time slowed and she gazed at the man to whom she’d given her heart, body and soul. Their life together had been laid ahead of them, shining like jewels and holding the promise of happiness. Those hopes had crumbled in an instant when he betrayed her faith in him.
Now, though, all that passed by in the blink of an eye, and she found herself staring at Soren as her arm burned fiercely. And, realizing that his action mirrored her own, she waited for his acknowledgment. Instead, he did again as he’d done before—he turned and walked away.
The bright, shimmering color of molten silver continued to swirl around him as he made his way along the street and away from her. Her heart, the one she’d sworn would never be hurt again, pounded in her chest, reminding her of the weakness of her will when it came to Soren Thorson.
Her arm felt as though it was on fire, so she tugged her sleeve up to look. As on the boat when she’d been rescued from the water, her skin burned and reddened with heat, changing as she watched. A shape formed and smoothed, only to form again. Two wavy lines etched into her then, undulating and moving as the waves or current did through water. For a moment, she believed them real. Then the burning began anew and the markings grew deeper and longer across her forearm.
What was going on? First the strange change to her vision and hearing. Then the alterations to the world’s coloring—and Soren’s. And lastly, this marking on her skin and, from his reaction, on his, too.
With more questions than answers, she wished there was someone she could ask. Someone who could counsel her and help her discover the truth of this.
And she wished with all her heart that it was someone other than the man who had betrayed his every vow and his own words.
As Soren turned and walked off toward the edge of town, Ran knew one thing—she had lied to herself about her feelings for Soren. And the only way she would save her soul and her sanity was to keep away from him.
So, that was what she would do.
Stay away from Soren Thorson.
’Twas only as she reached her father’s house in the city after finishing some of her errands that she realized there was another from whom she could seek advice. A man wiser than her father who had more patience with her willfulness and questions, whom Svein Ragnarson would never allow her to consult.
Einar Brandrson, Soren’s grandfather.
It would not take long for her to ride to his cottage near the northern edge of the island and seek his counsel over these strange occurrences. Surely he would know about these things.
Chapter 4
Ran realized her error as she left her father’s small house in Kirkwall and took the north road out of the city. Old Einar’s interest and time was being spent, not at his cottage, but at the stone tower that sat near the beach at Gurness. His letters, sent over the past two years, carefully avoided any mention of what had happened between her and Soren but were filled with stories of the tower and the discoveries he’d made there.
Although the broch had been deserted and unused, the old man had been digging around the base of it and found bits of old pottery and other evidence that people had lived in it long ago. Those bits encouraged him to continue exploring it and so he had, until the last letter some months ago, which
had spoken of fearful events. Since she knew she would be returning to Orkney, she had not replied and had expected to see him in person and ask about the strange claims he made.
Once out of the city, Ran felt the tension leave her. On the sea, she was never alone. In her father’s houses or in the storage barns and buildings, she was always surrounded by others. But, here, now, she reveled in the solitude as she followed the path along the sea.
Unfortunately, thoughts of her peculiar encounter with Soren and the changes she now noticed in the world around her filled her thoughts during the ride. Even now, the colors that should fill the sky and land around her were muted and understated. Everything appeared as though it was the gloaming when the light of the sun dimmed and everything was seen through a gauzy overlay.
Except Soren. He had appeared bright and vibrant, so much so that he almost sparkled. And the steel-gray color that outlined his shape did glimmer. How could that be? How could any of it be?
She reached the part of the road that followed along the edge of the sea for a short distance before turning inland slightly. And the voices began.
Ran. Daughter of the sea.
Come to us.
Join us.
Waterblood, use us!
Ran tugged on the reins, making the horse stop, and she looked around to see who had called to her. The voices sounded like the whisperings she’d heard before, but these were bolder, more humanlike. And yet, no one was there. No one on the road. No one in a boat on the sea. No one.
She looked out over the sea and noticed that the waves seemed to form slowly and remain in shape, almost as though they were watching her as she rode by.
As she continued on toward the broch, the words also continued. The same words repeated over and over, sometimes louder and sometimes softer. And Ran found she was not unaffected by the pleas. Something deep within her wanted to answer their call. Wanted to feel the warm caresses and welcome she’d felt when she’d fallen in the sea on her journey here.
Raging Sea Page 4