Raging Sea

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Yet, the insult and the reminder of the other part of her bargain with her father stung. Without another word to or glance at Dalla, Ran made her way to her chamber and slammed the door shut. Now reminded of the rest of the bargain—a marriage of her father’s choosing in exchange for two years of control of the shipping business in Orkney and a large share of the profits made—Ran, threw herself on the rope-strung bed and screamed into the pillows.

  She’d wanted some control over her life, unusual as that would be, and her father wanted to use her to make an alliance, so the agreement gave them both something they wanted. In two years she would still be of marriageable age and in the prime of her childbearing years, too. But she would have money of her own and her children would inherit her share of Svein’s business interests. It was practical. It was beneficial. At the time she’d agreed, a marriage of convenience and business was the only kind she would consider, especially so close to Soren’s betrayal.

  Now though, this new happening, this strange change, forced her to consider what to do. Did she pursue the cause of her new ability? Or ignore it and discover the reason for it when it revealed itself to her? An ability to control the seas would be an advantage of immeasurable opportunity for her father. If she could use her power to move ships as fast as she’d traveled, there would be immense profit.

  Somehow she knew that this power was about something much, much larger than profit. The voice said her destiny was to save humankind from some great evil. And she knew to the depth of her soul that it was true. The voice also said something evil was coming and that she must prepare. How could she do that? What was her part? Rolling to her back and staring at the ceiling above her, she realized that whatever was happening involved both Einar and Soren.

  Einar’s seemingly innocent and unconnected words now made sense to her. With his brief message of consolation he had also included words about a larger future and her place in something bigger than Orkney. She’d thought he meant a marriage to a man from across the sea in Scotland or in Norway or elsewhere, part of her father’s plan for an alliance that crossed boundaries. Now she thought Einar’s words were connected to this power.

  And Soren . . .

  His arrival in the marketplace was a surprise. His departure should not have been. But in those few moments before he’d walked away, he’d grabbed his arm in the same place she had held hers—the place where that peculiar mark now lay. If they shared the same mark, did he have the same power as she? Or was his different?

  Ran sat up and pushed her damp hair from her face. She held her arm up and examined the mark. It no longer burned or stung, but now it appeared alive. The two lines resembling waves undulated under her skin, the marks moving like the sea did.

  The only way to find out if Soren bore the same mark and how he was involved would be to see him again. On the morrow, she would visit Ingeborg and leave word for Soren that he could examine the letters his grandfather had sent to her. Then, when he came to get them, she would try to find out whether he bore the mark. And what Einar had told him. For she could not believe for a moment that his grandfather would not have shared such knowledge with Soren if he’d known it.

  Ran spent the rest of the day and evening in her chambers reading and reading again the missives from Einar. Now, his words seemed to carry a message she’d not seen before this change had taken place. Now, she looked at the words and phrases in a completely different way and wondered at their meaning.

  As she collected the letters into the box where she kept them, Ran was convinced of one thing—Einar Brandrson had known much more than anyone else about all of this.

  Chapter 7

  Ingeborg greeted her warmly and invited her inside. It had been two years and yet she could detect no hint or trace of anger or disappointment in the way Soren’s aunt spoke to her. In little time, they sat close to the fire, sipping some hot tea. Ingeborg knew much about herbs and plants and made several different varieties. This one was her favorite, and Ran was pleased that Ingeborg remembered.

  “So you saw Soren and he told you of Einar’s passing?” Ingeborg asked.

  “Aye. I went looking for Einar to thank him for his letters these past two years, and found Soren at the broch.” Ran could not stop rubbing her hand across the lid of the box in which the letters sat. “He said Einar passed quietly?”

  “Ran, I know you were special to him. He spoke of writing to you after . . .” Ran shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “Soren spoke true—Einar passed in his sleep. He was buried next to his wife.” Ingeborg nodded to the box. “Are those his letters?”

  “Aye. Soren asked to see them. He said Einar had been confused the last few months and he wanted to see if the letters could help him understand why.”

  “Einar was disturbed, surely, but never confused,” Ingeborg said with conviction. “I’ve thought on it much since he passed. At first, when he lived, I did think him confused, but not now. He was disturbed over some matter.”

  “Disturbed?”

  “He was convinced he had failed in some duty and that his end was coming without having the opportunity to carry out some task. It brought to mind a holy vow made and broken.”

  “But to whom would he make such a heartfelt promise? His wife before she died? Their son?” Ran watched Ingeborg’s face as she shook her head. “Then who?”

  “That I know not. Mayhap Soren does? Einar left a packet for him.”

  Ran did not speak then, thinking on seeing Soren again, at the broch. Mayhap Soren did know more? In the silence, she took a deep breath for courage and asked the question she wanted most to know.

  “How does she fare?”

  Ran could not speak the name of the woman Soren had seduced and ruined, then had to marry. Not yet. Not ever. Ingeborg’s face lost all its color and she dropped the cup she held. Tea splashed on her skirt and the floor, but Ingeborg only stared at Ran.

  “You do not know? Your father did not tell you?” Ingeborg asked. Ran found it difficult to breathe, knowing that whatever Ingeborg said was going to be terrible. She shook her head and put her cup down.

  “Tell me what, Ingeborg?” At her request, Ingeborg slid from the stool and knelt in front of her. Taking Ran’s hands in her own, she met Ran’s gaze and whispered the news.

  “Aslaug is dead. She died just after you left, falling from the cliff near her father’s house.”

  Ran gasped and shook her head at this. Dead? Her brother Erik had loved Aslaug for years and planned to marry her. When his best friend, Soren, betrayed all of them and seduced Aslaug, all their neatly made plans for the future fell apart. In one act of betrayal, Soren had torn apart three lives and his own. When her condition was made known, her father disowned her, forcing Soren to marry her or lose all honor.

  “She was carrying . . .” Ran could not finish the words.

  “Aye. Both gone in a moment.”

  Ran’s throat was thick with burning tears as she thought on the ending of the young woman’s life. And that of the babe she carried. No matter what she might have blamed Aslaug for, Ran had never wanted her death or that of an innocent life either.

  “Soren?” she asked, using only his name.

  “He was not there. ’Twas said that Aslaug went to beg her father’s forgiveness and he denied it. They found her body the next day when Soren went looking for her. He was . . .”

  The opening door stopped her words.

  • • •

  Soren stepped inside and looked at Ingeborg and then Ran. When no one spoke, the uncomfortable tension told him that he was the subject under discussion. From the pale look on his aunt’s face and the shock on Ran’s, he knew exactly what had been said.

  Aslaug.

  Aslaug’s death. And her babe. There was nothing he could say. Not then and not now.

  He noticed Ran clutching a wooden box and nodded at her.

 
; “Are those Einar’s letters?” he asked.

  She blinked several times and seemed to realize she was holding the box. Ran looked at it and then at him and nodded her head. Ingeborg released her hands and sat back on her heels.

  “Aye. I think you should see them,” Ran said, holding out the box to him. Did she know that her hands shook? Or that she would not meet his gaze?

  “My thanks,” Soren said, taking it from her. “I will return them as quickly as possible.” He understood she was giving him a precious gift, made even more so because she did not and could not trust him.

  The color that shimmered around her pulsed brighter when she did look at him. There he saw disappointment and anger and hurt, but mostly he read sorrow in her gaze. When he began to say something, she shook her head and walked past him. Soren reached out and touched her arm to make her stop.

  “Ran, wait. I would speak with you before you go,” he said.

  She pulled free and walked out. He nodded to his aunt and followed her. Ran was almost to her horse when he caught up to her. He wanted to tell her what had happened but could not. When she stopped and turned to face him, the sorrow was ebbing away from her eyes, but the aura around her did not lessen.

  “Why did you not tell me? Why did I have to learn this from your aunt?” she asked in a furious whisper. “Even Einar kept it from me.”

  “Tell you when, Ran?” he answered, crossing his arms over his chest. “When you’d just learned of Einar’s death and were distraught over it? Or should I have come to your father’s house to tell you and risk seeing him or Erik?”

  “Erik will never return here. He is betrothed to the daughter of one of my father’s . . .” Ran stopped then. Erik was another uncomfortable topic between them. Her brother, his best friend. All in the past.

  “Just so,” he said.

  Ran crossed her arms, mirroring his stance, and lifted her chin. She was about to ask an impossible question. He recognized it in the way she stood and held her head. And the way she worried her lower lip. He tried to prepare himself for anything.

  “Did she fall or did she . . . jump?”

  Nothing could have prepared him for that. Ran was smart. She was one for details. She’d listened the way Ingeborg must have said it and heard what had not been said. And only a very few people knew or had guessed at the truth.

  “She was buried in hallowed ground, Ran,” he replied with the only words he would allow himself to utter.

  He would not lie to her again. He might not be able to tell her the truth, but he would not lie. Aslaug’s death was another mark against his soul but he would not damn hers for eternity by exposing her own sin.

  “I am sorry for her death. I would never have wanted that, Soren,” Ran said, her arms dropping to her sides. “I did not want that.”

  He nodded and stepped out of her way, changing their discussion to something less damaging. “I will see this is returned to you.”

  She mounted without help, as she always did, and gathered the reins in her hands. Urging the horse to turn, she paused.

  “Once you read those, I have questions for you. Will you meet me at the broch the day after next?”

  Ran knew there was more to this than a man and his death. Did she see the same things Soren did? Did she bear the same mark? Was something pulsing through her blood as it did in his even now? He nodded.

  “At midday?”

  “At midday,” she agreed, and then she turned the horse and rode away.

  Soren should not have agreed, for it broke the bargain he had with her father. But he suspected that in the coming days, he would break most parts of the damned thing.

  “She needed to be told, Soren.” Ingeborg walked up next to him as Ran rode off toward the south.

  “Aye.” Soren turned to his aunt. “When I learned that my grandfather had been writing her, I thought that he would have revealed it to her.”

  “Well, now you will see what he told her and when,” she said. “Will you tell me, Soren? Tell me the truth about what bothered him so?”

  He wrapped his arms around his aunt and hugged her. “I thought you were at peace with his death?”

  “I am. I am just not at peace with his last months. He worried over something and would never share whatever that burden was with me.”

  “You are a mere woman,” he joked, trying to lighten his aunt’s grief.

  “Do not jest over this, Soren. He searched for something or someone. He mumbled in his sleep. He left in the morning and would not return. And he sang those songs, the ones he taught you and your father from the time you could speak.”

  “When do you leave here?” Soren asked. He felt the urge to get her away from this area. He’d seen this cottage burned to ash in his dreams and feared it was an omen of things to come.

  “In a day or two. My niece is expecting soon and I want to be there for the birth. Now that winter is easing its grasp on the seas, I will go.” She frowned now, searching his face. “Unless you wish me to stay.”

  “Nay, do not delay in getting to her. She lives on one of the northern isles?”

  “Aye. You sound concerned. What are you keeping from this mere woman now?” she asked, touching his cheek.

  “I know you are truly formidable, Aunt,” he reassured her. Or attempted to. “I think you will enjoy being with your niece.”

  Ingeborg went back inside the cottage, asking no more questions, which suited Soren. He had no answers for her and only fears about what was coming to Orkney. The winds whispered to him then, trying to ease his concerns but he was not soothed.

  Death was coming. Fire was coming. War was coming.

  Without more specific knowledge, Soren knew not from where or how. His dreams were filled with images of fire and war. And standing stones and brochs, like the ones that seemed to fascinate his grandfather.

  He hoped that Ander had been able to decipher the strange words or images. His friend had sent him a message to come to Kirkwall that day. A hint of excitement in the words gave Soren a sense of optimism that he would finally have something tangible to follow to discover his grandfather’s secrets and what they meant for him . . . and Ran.

  Soren promised to send one of the workers from his farm to help Ingeborg pack when she was ready and he rode to Kirkwall.

  • • •

  “Where did you get this, Soren? Truly, it is a marvel.” Ander looked up from his place at the large table and pointed to the parchment Soren had left with him. “You must tell me or I will not tell you what I have discovered about it.” Priest or not, Ander could be ruthless when it mattered and he’d clearly decided it mattered now.

  “This remains between the two of us?” Soren asked. Then he repeated it as a demand, his tone sharp enough that Ander blinked several times as he spoke. “This remains between us.”

  “Very well,” Ander said in all seriousness.

  “My grandfather.”

  Silence and a knowing expression met that admission.

  “I would not share this with many, even without your orders, due to its very nature and content.” Ander smiled and then put the sheet down on the table. Pointing to the top line, he nodded. “I did not recognize it at first, but comparing it to several other documents and manuscripts, it is actually Latin from a very specific place.”

  “Latin? It is no Latin I have ever seen,” Soren said, leaning in closer and studying the shape of the letters. He’d been tutored in Latin, writing and reading, as part of his upbringing at his grandfather’s hand.

  “Not unless you do this,” Ander advised as he lifted the parchment and held it up to the strong light coming in the window of the tower chamber.

  The sun pierced through the parchment and the writing could be seen. It was Latin, clearly.

  “Written backward?” Soren asked, reaching up to outline several of the letters
and words.

  “Aye. Here is the transcription of what it says.” Ander held out a document to him.

  On the sheet were two sections, one in Latin and the other in Norse. But as he compared one to the other, Soren saw that both said the same thing—

  And in those days when the Old Ones were no longer worshipped, they left humanity in the care of those descended from their Bloodlines who would protect mankind from the one of Chaos and Fire.

  If called upon, those Warriors of Destiny can rouse the winds and sea and earth and war and sun and beasts to their cause. Fire will serve both sides and will choose good or evil to triumph at the end.

  Soren looked at Ander, who was grinning like a loon. He read the passage again.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It refers to old myths, passed down through the ages, of old gods, now superseded by the one true God. Your mention of Taranis was the clue I needed.” Ander moved to one of the bookshelves in the corner and drew out an old book. “This is a history from an area on the continent, from before the downfall of Rome. It speaks of gods who governed those who lived there and worshipped their different forms.”

  “This sounds like blasphemy, Ander.”

  A sin and supreme offense of which Einar had been guilty. But this gave written proof to any claims made against his name now. Soren was glad his grandfather was already past the reach of those who would see to his downfall. But, having these kinds of documents in his possession could bring the same charges against him now.

  “I prefer to call it a historical treatise on fanciful old customs. Similar to tales of the gods worshipped in error by the ancient Greeks or Romans in their day,” Ander said as he put the book in front of Soren and motioned for him to sit. “Here is the list I found. Taranis is mentioned here.” He pointed to it. “It is written in an archaic language, similar to ancient Greek and yet not.”

  “And you can read this?” Soren asked, moving the book closer and looking at the indecipherable script on the page. If Ander said the word was Taranis, he would believe him.