“Shape Changer.” The woman appeared capable of handling the situation. “Only you could slip past my defenses, and only you would dare to try.” She stepped toward him menacingly.
The other laughed. “No answer is it, then? That is in itself an answer.” His leer became an insolent grin. “I see I have matters to discuss with the AllFather.”
The woman opened and closed her mouth wordlessly. Her fists clenched, and gold flickered as she moved. “If you reveal me, then you’re a fool. He has the potential to bring chaos back into our world.” Her hair slid along her cheeks, as smooth and yellow as melted butter. “That, my loathsome friend, would serve only you.”
“Only me, yes. So what purpose did you have in rescuing him?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Your reasons? And what might those be?”
The man on the floor tried to make sense of the conversation, but he could still find no base on which to ground the information. Without knowledge of self and location, he could not place their words into the proper place in a universe he could not remember.
“My reasons are none of your business.”
“Your reasons, wanton one, are every man’s business. Leave it to Freya to think only of her crotch. Isn’t that what most women accuse men of doing? Who but you would save a man’s life to complete your collection of bedroom trophies?”
The woman quivered with rage. “Your mouth is full of lies and your head full of treacheries. For all you claim I’ve slept around, at least I never bore babies. But you, Shape Changer, you mothered a horse. You fathered a wolf and a snake. Your mischief may bring us all down.”
Anger sharpened her motions, and the dazzling sparkle of gold mesmerized the man on the floor. He tried to maintain his attention on the conversation, but it seemed like meaningless sounds.
“Perhaps,” the Shape Changer seemed proud of her condemnation. “But you’re not blameless. Admit it. You rescued him from curiosity or for your own torrid pleasure. Now we have little choice but to set him free, despite the prophecies. Your treachery, not mine, will bring the Ragnarok.”
“Liar! Trickster! Cheat!” she screamed.
“I’m all of those and more,” the Shape Changer admitted cheerfully. “This time, I’m correct. You took him alive, and you could no more slay the Thunder Child than you could me. You know his parentage.”
The woman hissed.
“Just you and me and Sif . . .”
Sif. The name seemed to hold a significance to the man. He seized the thought fanatically, trying to build self and understanding from it. “Sif,” he repeated aloud. “Sif.”
The woman went rigid. “Quiet,” she said to her companion. She drew the Shape Changer away, continuing in a low whisper, beyond the man’s hearing.
The man willed himself enough strength to lift his head, but it felt heavy as an anchor. He moaned. The word “Sif” floated through his otherwise empty mind, but no meaning accompanied it. Gratefully, he returned to unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 7
A Power Challenged
Colbey Calistinsson awakened cradled in the folds of a blanket. He jerked to consciousness with the sudden and clear-minded alertness he had trained himself to for decades. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew that he lay on a bed and a heavy silk coverlet enwrapped him to the chin. He opened his eyes. An image of richly crafted furniture filled his vision and his mind. His gaze found and held the only other living being. She sat in a chair by his bedside, her curves defined beneath a skintight dress. Long, golden hair framed sturdy, traditionally beautiful features, the locks a shade yellower than her necklace, brooches, and rings.
Colbey sat up, the blanket falling in a jumble at his waist. At first, the need to define location and danger held his attention fully. Then, as he recognized no threat, he could not fully suppress the first stirrings of desire. “Hello,” he said carefully, uncertain what to expect. He had no way to guess whether he had started another of the Wizards’ tasks or if the seer’s crystal had sent him elsewhere.
The woman said nothing. She only stared, blue eyes dancing, a strange smile taking form on her lips. Colbey felt a twinge of twice-meeting, as if he had seen this woman before.
Colbey considered exploring her mind, but the idea disbanded as it formed. For now, she was a stranger. But he would not steal the thoughts of friends, and he hoped that was what she would become. Also, something about her seemed curiously divine. He thought it not just improper but unwise to access her mind. “Who are you?” His hands wandered unobtrusively to his swords, and their presence reassured him. Much about this woman was gold, but not all seemed pure or comforting.
The woman’s smile faded, and her expression grew grim. “You won’t be damned because one truthseeker could not handle what he found.” She ignored Colbey’s question. “There’s too much at stake. More than either the AllFather or the Trickster understands.”
Colbey swallowed hard, letting the woman speak. She had used the familiar names for Odin and Loki too casually. That, coupled with the knowledge that gods mediated the Tasks of Wizardry, allowed him to believe he sat in the presence of a goddess. He froze, uncertain whether to kneel, bow, or offer his services unconditionally.
The woman continued, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. “Here. Finish your tasks.” She pulled a gold ring from her finger and tossed it to Colbey.
Colbey caught it easily. He looked back, awaiting explanation or instruction.
“Go ahead,” she encouraged. “Put it on.”
“Thank you.” Colbey squirmed. He had many more questions, yet it felt rude to try to interrogate her. Glimpses of the woman/goddess enticed, dizzying him with a longing that shamed him, obvious blasphemy. Needing to escape the discomfort, he slipped the ring onto his ring finger, beside the ones of silver and copper, steeling himself for the sudden rush of energy that preceded transport between the tests. He closed his eyes.
White light burst against Colbey’s lids. His world spun in tight circles, then released him in a small, granite room with a single door constructed of the same stone as the walls. A scrawny man sat on a plain wooden chair, eating a slice of honey bread. Otherwise, the room stood empty. Colbey waited, watching the other for some time. After several heartbeats, when the man did not speak but only continued eating, Colbey explored the chamber. Finding nothing of interest, he took the knob and eased open the door.
The chamber beyond lay empty, four bleak, granite walls without even a layer of mold to break its monotony. Colbey frowned, recognizing the logic missing from its construction. The only door led from one empty room to another. The building had no entrance or exit. Intrigued, Colbey walked into the second room and studied the stone. Though smooth and sterile, it bore none of the scratches he would have expected of walls frequently scrubbed.
A footfall behind Colbey sent him into a spin. The little man stood in the doorway, smiling with haughty interest. “You’re late, Wizard.”
“I came via Hel,” Colbey said, not at all certain he had not. He sighed, hoping to bypass the amenities and posturing. “So, what do I have to do to win the ring of . . . of . . .?” He looked to the other man to finish as well as answer the question, doubting he would get more than a dodge.
“Faith,” the man said easily. “The test of faith.” He swayed in the doorway. “I’m a messenger from Odin; that you know. And he has decreed only one way to pass this test.” The little man’s face drew into a condescending sneer. “You must take your own life.”
“Suicide?” Dedicated to dying in glory, Colbey found the suggestion heinous and its implications intolerable. His discovery that a missing body part would not necessarily bar a brave soldier from Valhalla had eliminated that consideration from his decision to brave the test of endurance. But self-murder was a coward’s escape, and he would not become party to it. “Get out of my way!” He lunged toward the door.
The man laughed. He stepped back, reached leisurely for the granite door, and jerked th
e stone block toward closing.
Colbey sprang for the crack, just as the other made a sudden, desperate yank. Granite slammed Colbey’s arm and head. He leapt back, and the door crashed shut, flush with the wall. An instant later, the pain came in a wild rush that sent him reeling. His head throbbed, his upper arm ached, and a ringing filled his ears. “Damn you, open this door,” Colbey shouted. His own yelling worsened his headache. Even if the little man could hear him, he doubted he would get an answer, let alone satisfaction. And, even if the other did open the door, it only led to another room like this one.
Colbey examined the wall, finding no seam to indicate where the door had been. He trusted his memory of its location, but his fingers and eyes failed him. It seemed as if the door had never existed. More likely, it had disappeared completely, the work of the gods. Now, Colbey considered, the pain settling to a dull ache and the constant ringing becoming familiar enough to dismiss. He studied the wall finger’s breadth by finger’s breadth, seeking the one flaw that would allow his freedom. He found no crack, niche, or outline. His knife could not make so much as a scratch in the stone.
Colbey searched his gear, the need for attentiveness turning his head wound into a pounding agony. One by one, objects fell beneath his scrutiny and were rejected. He discovered that, this time, he was missing only his edible supplies, and that unnerved him. He could survive for weeks without food, but thirst would take him in days. The lack of mold or mildew on the walls convinced him that the structure was watertight.
When Colbey finished exploring the unyielding barrier, he turned his attention to the remainder of his prison. From floor to ceiling, end to side, he searched for some minuscule defect or difference that might suggest a concealed exit. The search took him well into the night, but the steady, sourceless grayness did not change. He examined the floor from corner to corner. When that proved fruitless, he returned to the walls. When eye and hand failed to find escape, he pounded the base of a sword against the stone. He found no hollow echoes or areas where the pitch of the knocking changed to suggest a weakness, except where the door had been. And that seemed only a quarter tone higher.
Well into the following night, fatigue caught Colbey. He sat with his back to a corner, quelling the rumblings of his empty stomach. Cotton seemed to fill his mouth, and he wondered when he had taken his last drink. He could not guess how long his frenzied examination of the chamber had taken, nor how much time he had spent with the unearthly woman. Exhaustion weighted his limbs. He placed Harval across his knees, fixed his gaze on the far wall, and fell into a wary sleep.
* * *
Colbey awakened. He rose and, from habit, executed a deft sequence of sword feints. Pain stabbed through the back of his head and threw off his delicate timing. A black and white curtain of spots wove across his vision. His legs went weak. Suddenly, he felt stone beneath his fingers, though he did not recall moving. He clutched at the wall, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Fool. Would you waste what little fluid your body has left for one dance with your sword? Colbey knew that he would, but he also believed his time to die had not yet come. He needed to find a way free, while he still could.
Colbey collapsed twice during his search. The second time, he lay unconscious for longer than he cared to guess. Desperately, he sought moisture at the corners of the floor. He found none. His entire body ached. His lower back throbbed from hip to hip, and every breath came as a dry and tortured waste of energy. A burning in his eyes and the buzzing in his head became relentless. He fell once more, tried to rise, and lost consciousness again.
* * *
Bugs swarmed the walls, gaunt cockroaches with beadlike eyes. When one grew bold enough to crawl over Colbey’s arm, he slapped it. His hand struck only dry flesh. The roaches came from his imagination. The instant he realized this, they disappeared.
“Modi.” Speech was nearly impossible, and the effort stole the reserves his call had raised. Die, I will. But not as a raving lunatic. I’ll die as I was meant, on the point of a sword.
Drawing the blade sapped all of Colbey’s strength. He lay, staring at the weapon, knowing he would never find the vitality to perform the deed. He knew that if he summoned the strength of his will, he could stand, but suicide by sword cut required a dexterity that most men did not possess. The time it would take to properly position the blade might not prove enough, and he dared not take the chance of falling prey to thirst before the sword took him. He knew, without the need to ponder, that the next time he lost consciousness would be his last.
Colbey lay the sword aside respectfully, fighting oblivion and insanity. Without a battle, he would never reach Valhalla, but he still held the vague hope that the scrawny man had spoken the truth. In either case, he would rather die of wounds than slow oblivion. He fumbled his knife free, then plunged it into his wrist.
The abrupt, sharp pain cleared his mind, a welcome change from the dull aches of his parched organs. His courage did not falter for an instant. He tore the blade the length of his forearm. Then, leaning peacefully against the wall, Colbey closed his eyes and waited.
* * *
A pink and green fletched arrow cut the air, then thunked into the waiting hay bale perched upon a stump. Sylva nocked another shaft. “What do you think?”
Seated on a deadfall, Rache Garnsson stared at the slender redhead. Moonlight drew lines along the folds of her dress, glittering from the V-shaped collar that outlined her breasts. The sight stirred him. Now that they had become one, he could scarcely wait for bedtime. “I think you’re beautiful.”
“What?” Sylva whirled to face her husband, the movement fanning long waves of hair around her cheeks. When she found his eyes fixed on her, she pouted. “I meant the arrows. Their pattern. What do you think?”
Reluctantly, Rache tore his gaze from Sylva to look at the shafts jutting from the hay bale. Two dozen fletches poked from it, outlining the perfect figure of a sword. He laughed. “I love it. But not as much as I love you.” He patted the trunk next to him.
Sylva shook her head. “I love you, too. Now, come here, you big ox.”
“You come here.” Rache patted the trunk again with a huge hand. Though only sixteen, his mother’s massive bone structure and his father’s gladiator musculature already made him a giant among men.
“I want you to try something,” Sylva insisted.
“What?”
“Something. Come here.”
“I’ll try something all right.” Rache bounded deftly to his feet, charging Sylva. He caught her into an embrace, squeezing until he all but mashed the air from her lungs. Then, he released her. He caught her lips on his, one hand wandering to a breast.
Sylva laughed. “No, stop it. That’s not what I wanted you to try.”
“Are you sure?” Rache teased. He pulled her closer until he saw his own desire echoed in her dark eyes.
“You ox.” Sylva planted a hand on his chest and pushed, her touch light as a bird. “Later, I promise. I want you to try this first.” She shoved the bow into his hand.
Rache readjusted his breeks, waiting for need to ebb enough for him to listen. His hand closed around the bow, though it felt wrong in his hilt-callused hand. “Come on, Sylva. Don’t make me do this. You know how Renshai feel about bows.”
“Coward’s weapons. I know. I’m not asking you to shoot anyone with it. Just a hay bale. Even your own mother uses a bow to hunt.”
“Compared to you, my mother shoots like she’s holding the bow upside down.” Absently, Rache fitted an arrow to the string.
Sylva caught Rache’s hand. “And you’re about to shoot with the arrow upside down.” Gracefully, she spun the shaft halfway around, refitting the notch.
Rache studied the arrow, trying to understand how it could have an up and a down. His eyes riveted on the only asymmetry, the third feather, pale green to the others’ pink. Their colors matched the painted crest just before them, the green sandwiched between the pink. Now, he could see that if he had fired th
e arrow the way he had nocked it, he would have sheered off the cock feather.
“What are you looking at?” Sylva asked.
Rache flushed, embarrassed at the length of time it had taken him to deduce the obvious. He covered neatly. “Just wondering why green and pink.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I guess I can understand green. So the deer don’t notice it.”
Sylva laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Rache wondered if he had missed something self-evident again.
“Deer don’t see colors. They don’t care how you dye your feathers.”
The information took Rache aback. “How do you know deer don’t see colors?”
“My father told me. He knows everything about the forest and the animals.”
“But how can he possibly know how deer see?” Rache lowered the bow, glad for the delay. If he had to make a fool of himself, he would do it with one issue at a time.
“By the way they act and react. They don’t care if you wear brown, purple, or glowing red. All they seem to notice is smell and movement.”
“But . . .” Rache started, about to ask how Arduwyn could know about a deer’s sense of smell. He dismissed the question as fruitless. If anyone would know how to smell like a deer, Arduwyn would . . . for both meanings of the word “smell.” Realizing he had never gotten an answer to his original question, Rache returned to it. “So why green and pink?”
Sylva shrugged. “I like green. I used to use green and white, so I could find the arrows. Green gets lost, but white’s easy to see.”
“So why pink instead of white?”
“One time, my father and I hunted apart. He noticed that, from a distance, the white feathers in the quiver looked like a deer’s tail bobbing through the trees.”
The implications shocked Rache. “He shot at you?”
“My father? Of course not. He’s too careful. But he worried that other people might.” Sylva considered, her hand still resting lightly on Rache’s. “It seemed strange at the time. I thought my father knew everything about the woods. I guess there’s some things you can only learn when you have a partner.”
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 12