The Marriage Medallion

by Christine Rimmer

  "So hot…"

  "Fight. In your veins runs the blood of kings. I have big plans for you. Don't you dare to die and disappoint me."

  "No, Dad. I won't die. I swear I won't…" But her father only shook his head sadly—and disappeared.

  Her mother stood in his place, tall and beautiful and thoroughly exasperated. "What are you doing, Brit? What were you thinking?"

  "Mom," she cried, reaching, crying out again when pain lanced through her shoulder. "Oh, Mommy, I'm so sorry…" But like the others, her mother had vanished.

  Gentle hands guided her back to lie among the furs. An old woman with kind eyes bent close and whispered coaxingly, "It's all right. Rest. You're safe here."

  And there were other voices, soft voices. They whispered of the poison that burned through her body, they murmured that now they could only wait and watch and keep her as comfortable as possible. They spoke to her soothingly. They bathed her sweating face with cool wet cloths.

  And then, within the swirling, firelit twilight…

  The one whose picture she carried with her, in her pack. The dead brother she'd never know.

  Valbrand.

  A hot bolt of fiercest joy shot through her. Not lost! Not dead, after all.

  Oh, she had known it, though until this moment she hadn't quite dared to admit it even to herself.

  Yet it had been there, against all odds, deep in her most secret heart. No one had really believed she would learn anything new when she said she would find the truth about what happened to him—well, okay, her father believed, at least a little. And Medwyn. After all, they had sent her here to find out what she could.

  But no one else had any hope. Not her mother. Not her sisters. Not even Jorund Sorenson, the ally she'd cultivated at the National Investigative Bureau.

  They all told her the truth was known already: Valbrand had died at sea.

  She'd told herself they were probably right, that she only sought Eric Greyfell to understand better how her brother had died.

  But still, she had known. And she'd been right.

  She tried to say his name. But words wouldn't come.

  Valbrand. Tall and strong and so very alive. Standing right there, next to where she lay. He was dressed all in black, like the masked figure she'd seen in the heart of the fjord as she stared up, numb and fading, from the cold, rocky ground.

  Had that been him, then—the masked one, in the fjord?

  Valbrand was looking at Eric Greyfell, who stood beside him.

  Eric warned her brother, "She sees you. She knows you. You shouldn't be here, not without the mask."

  One of the soft-voiced women who tended her whispered, "She knows nothing. She's trapped in her world of fevered dreams…"

  Her brother, still looking at Greyfell, smiled. His smile was rueful, sad and teasing all at once. "The littlest of my little sisters…"

  Not so little, Brit thought, irritated. Just because she was the youngest by barely two hours didn't give anyone—even her long-lost and recently dead brother—the right to call her "little."

  She tried to tell him that, but again the words would not take form. Valbrand was still looking at Eric, still smiling fondly. "Your bride," he said. The two words echoed. They bounced off the rough wooden walls.

  Your bride, your bride, your bride, your bride…

  Greyfell's expression gave away nothing. "If she lives."

  "She'll live," said Valbrand. "Thor and Freyja protect her equally. Hers is the thunder, hers is love." He chuckled. "And war…"

  And then he looked directly at her. She saw that something terrible had happened to the left side of his face. It was crisscrossed and puckered with ridges of white scar tissue, the flesh between ruined, ranging from angry red to deep purple. What could do such a thing to a man?

  Acid? A blowtorch?

  She cried out in pity and despair.

  The gentle hands caught her, guiding her down. The soft voices soothed her. "Rest now, you're safe…"

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  « ^ »

  Slowly, the burning heat faded. The dreams receded.

  Brit woke weak and exhausted. She found herself in a large wooden room, bare rafters overhead. The windows were small and set high up. Thin daylight bled in through them. Very carefully she turned her head.

  She saw a big, round-bodied stove in the center of the room, the chimney rising through the rafters above. And a pair of long, plain benches on either side of a plank table made of whitish wood—a deal table, she would have bet. Deal was the pale wood that came from the Norway spruce. There were oil lamps set in sconces on the walls. She lay on a bench-like bed built into one wall. Her blankets? A nest of furs. Someone had dressed her in a soft cotton nightgown.

  There was a woman—a slim, straight-backed woman with white hair. She wore a thick, coarsely woven ankle-length tan dress and good-quality rough-terrain lace-up boots. She sat on a high stool at the far end of the room, her back to Brit. She was working at something that looked as if it might be an old-fashioned loom.

  Brit licked her dry, cracked lips. Was this real? Was this actually happening? Or was it just another of her endless, swirling dreams?

  She sat up. Her shoulder throbbed, her stomach lurched and her head spun, but she didn't lie back down. "Valbrand?" she managed to croak out through her parched throat. "Eric Greyfell…?"

  The woman rose and came to her. "There, there. It's all right. You're safe."

  She remembered that kind, wrinkled face, those loving eyes. "I … I know you. You took care of me."

  "You've been very ill," the woman said as she guided Brit back down and tucked the furs around her again. "We feared we'd lose you. But you're strong. You will recover."

  It came back to her then: the Skyhawk, the forced landing, the death of her guide. "Rutland … my guide?" Maybe that part—the part where she saw the guide dead—was only another of the fever dreams.

  The kind-faced old woman shook her head. "What can be done has been done."

  "But I…"

  The woman had already turned away. She went to the stove, dipped up liquid from an iron pot with a wooden cup. Cup in hand, she returned to Brit's side. "Your guide's body was sent to his family in the valley just south of this one."

  So. That part was real. Twin tears dribbled down the sides of her face. "My fault…"

  "No. What fate has decreed, no mere mortal can alter."

  "It wasn't fate, it was my own arrogance, my own certainty that I could—"

  "Here." The woman bent close again, lifted Brit's head and put the cup to her lips. "Drink. This will soothe you."

  "But I—"

  "Drink."

  Brit lacked the energy to argue further. She drank. The warm, sweet liquid felt good sliding down her dry throat.

  "There," said the woman. She set the empty cup on the floor. It must have tipped. Brit heard it roll beneath the wooden ledge that served as her bed. The woman ignored it long enough to carefully smooth Brit's furs again. "Rest now." She dropped out of sight as she got down to reach under the bed. In a moment, with a weary little grunt, she was on her feet, cup in hand. She started to turn.

  "Wait…" The old woman faced her again, one gray brow arched. "My brother. I want to see him."

  The woman shook her head. "Princess, you know that your brothers are gone."

  "Kylan, yes." Kylan was the second born. He had died years and years ago, when he was only a child. "But not Valbrand. I saw him. In this room, while I was so sick. His face, the left side, it was … badly scarred."

  There was a short silence. The fire crackled in the stove. Then the woman said, "A dream, that's all. A dream brought on by your fever."

  "No, he was here. He—"

  "Prince Valbrand is dead, Your Highness. Lost to us. Surely you knew. He was taken by the mother sea a year ago this past July." The woman spoke so tenderly, with such sincere sympathy.

  Brit opened her mouth to argue further, but then the wo
man leaned close again. A silver medallion dangled from her neck. It must have swung free of her dress when she bent for the cup. Brit couldn't resist reaching out and touching it. It spun a little on its chain, catching the firelight. The sight made Brit smile.

  The woman smiled, too, the web of wrinkles in her face etching all the deeper. "My marriage medallion."

  Marriage? Brit frowned. And then she sighed. "I have one, too." Brit pressed the place where her medallion lay beneath the nightgown, warm against her breast. "From Medwyn, my father's grand counselor. But mine's only for luck."

  "Ah," said the woman, a strange and too-knowing expression on her wise, very lived-in face. "Sleep now."

  Brit did feel tired. But she had so many questions. "Where am I?"

  "You are where you wished to be, among the ones they call the Mystics."

  "How long have I been … sick?"

  "This is the fourth day."

  Her plane had gone down on Monday. "Thursday? It's Thursday?"

  "Yes."

  "How did I—?"

  "Eric found you. He brought you to us."

  Hope bloomed, a small, bright flame, within her. "Greyfell found me—in Drakveden Fjord?"

  "That's right."

  "But then, it must be true." The woman frowned down at her, clearly puzzled. "I saw him—Eric Greyfell—in Drakveden Fjord, where I crashed the Skyhawk. Valbrand was with him, I swear he was. Wearing a black mask. And there was this guy with a crossbow…" She laid her hand over the thick bandage on her shoulder. "Someone shot him before he could—"

  "Hush." The woman's warm wrinkled hand stroked her brow. "No more questions now. Sleep."

  "My father. My mother and my sisters … they'll be so worried…"

  "Word has been sent to the king that you are safe with us."

  The questions spun in her brain. She needed the answers. But the woman was right. There were too many to ask right now. She could barely keep her eyes open.

  "Sleep," the woman whispered. Something about her was so familiar.

  "Please … your name?"

  "I'm Asta. Medwyn's sister. Eric's aunt."

  So, Brit thought. Medwyn's sister. She should have known, of course. Medwyn had told her of Asta, and she could see the resemblance around the eyes and in the shape of the mouth. "Asta." It was pronounced with the As like twin sighs: Ahstah. "It's a pretty name."

  "Thank you, Your Highness. Now sleep."

  "Yes. All right. I will. Sleep…"

  * * *

  Brit heard the playful giggle of a child. She opened her eyes in time to watch a mop of shiny blond curls disappear over the side of the sleeping bench.

  A few seconds later the curls popped up again, along with a pair of china-blue eyes and a cute little turned-up nose. The eyes widened. "Oops." The small face popped out of sight again. There was more giggling below.

  Brit grinned and whispered in a dry croak, "I see you."

  More giggles. And then the little head rose into view once more. The rosebud mouth widened in a shy smile. The child raised a thumb and pointed it at her tiny chest. "Mist."

  "Hello, Mist. I'm Brit."

  "Bwit." The child called Mist beamed with pleasure. "Pwincess Bwit."

  "Just Brit will do."

  "Just Bwit. Bwit, Bwit, Bwit…"

  "Mist," Asta chided from over by the stove where she sat with two younger women, a circle of children playing some sort of game with sticks and a tiny red ball at their feet. "Leave Her Highness to sleep."

  "It's all right." Brit winked at the child and pulled herself to a sitting position, wincing at the sharp twinge from the wound in her shoulder. Sunlight slanted in the high slits of the windows. Late morning, Brit thought. Or possibly early afternoon. She let her head fall forward to stretch her stiff neck, and her tangled hair fell over her eyes. She speared her fingers in it to shove it back.

  Ugh. A serious shampooing and a little intimate contact with a decent conditioner would do wonders about now. Not to mention a long, hot bath. She heard a growling sound—her stomach. She could eat half a polar bear, or whatever they were serving here in the Vildelund. But first, water. A tall, cool, glorious glass of it.

  However, she hesitated to throw back the furs and go looking for a drink in her thin borrowed nightgown with all these strange women and children in the room. "I wonder, could I have some water?"

  "Of course." Asta set aside her sewing and went to the big wooden counter against one wall. The sink was there, complete with an ancient-looking pump faucet. Asta pumped clear water into a tall cup and carried it to Brit.

  She drank. It was absolute heaven going down.

  From her seat on the floor, Mist giggled some more. "Bwit fuhsty."

  Fuhsty, Brit figured out, had to mean thirsty.

  Brit swallowed the last of it. "Was I ever. Thanks." She handed Asta back the empty cup. The women by the fire were watching her. She gave them a nod. "I seem to remember you two being here while I was sick…"

  "I forget myself," said Asta. "Your Highness, my daughters-in-law, Sif and Sigrid. Mist, whom you've met, is Sif's youngest." She named off the other children. Two were Sigrid's and two, Sif's.

  "Great to meet you all." Brit turned to Asta again. "And now … what's for dinner?"

  Asta's smile was wide and pleased. "Your health improves."

  "It certainly does."

  "Bah-wee soup," announced Mist.

  "That's barley," Asta explained.

  Brit wrinkled her nose. "I was thinking more along the lines of steak and eggs and hash browns."

  "Your stomach isn't ready for solid food yet."

  Brit sighed. "Barley soup it is." She gave Asta a big smile. "And would you go and tell my brother I'd like to see him now, please?"

  It seemed, for a moment, as if the room was too quiet. Then Asta spoke carefully. "We talked of this earlier. Perhaps you've forgotten. Your brother is—"

  Brit waved a hand. "Never mind. I remember. So, if my brother's not available, could you track down your nephew, Eric, please? It's imperative that I speak with him."

  Sif and Sigrid shared a look. Asta suggested, "Eat first. See how you feel."

  Asta dished up a big bowl of broth with barley and cut a thick slice from a loaf of dark bread. She carried it over to Brit on a wooden tray.

  By the time she'd eaten half the soup and taken a bite of the bread, Brit was ready to call it quits on the food front. "I guess I sort of miscalculated how much I could eat." Also, she was tired again. This convalescing thing was so inconvenient. She handed Asta the bowl. "Thank you."

  "You are most welcome, Your High—"

  "I wonder, could we dispense with the 'Your Highness' routine?"

  Asta looked pleased. "I would be honored."

  "It's Brit, then, all right?"

  "Yes. Brit. Good enough."

  "Now, if you could just get me my clothes and—"

  Asta was gently pushing her down. "All that can wait. Rest, now. You're not ready to get out of bed."

  Brit found she tended to agree with Asta. So annoying. She felt tired to the bone. She didn't have the energy to get dressed—let alone to deal with Eric Greyfell. She gave Asta a rueful smile. "Sorry, but there's one thing that can't wait."

  Asta brought her a pair of clogs and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as the women by the fire continued with their needlework and the group of children played their game and little Mist sat on the floor near Brit's sleeping bench, sucking her thumb and watching wide-eyed.

  It was hard work, even leaning on Asta, to get all the way to the door and out into the crisp afternoon beyond. The thin sunlight, after the days inside, seemed blinding. Brit hardly had the energy to glance at the village around her—more long wooden houses, all grouped together along a single dirt street. There were pastures and paddocks behind the houses. Beyond the pastures, a thick forest of spruce flowed up the surrounding hills.

  Asta noted her interest in the village houses. "Here we live in the old Norse way
. In traditional long-houses—long, one-room dwellings where we eat, sleep, work and gather with our friends and family."

  Each house had a small garden to one side of it. The pastureland beyond the gardens was dotted with karavik and sturdy, long-haired white Gullandrian horses. According to the map Medwyn had drawn for her, Drakveden Fjord wasn't far to the north. If she followed the fjord west, she should come to the site where her Skyhawk had gone down.

  Not that she had the slightest inclination to go looking for it now. But someday soon. When the annoying weakness left over from her illness had passed.

  At the end of the house, they reached a wooden lean-to. It had a sliver of moon carved into the top of the door. Just like in the old days in America, Brit thought. Was the moon on the door the international symbol for outhouse? She grinned to herself.

  "Something humorous?" Asta wondered.

  "Nothing important. And I don't think I'm going to ask how you handled this while I was so sick."

  "We managed," Asta replied with her usual sunny smile. "I'll be right here when you're done."

  Brit went in and shut the door. When she came out, Asta was waiting, as promised.

  Brit forced a smile. "You are my hero, Asta, I hope you know it."

  "I am honored to be of service."

  "I have to ask, though I know it's going to make me sound like your classic ugly American—don't you ever think about putting in a bathroom, maybe adding electricity?"

  Asta shrugged. "Here we live simply. It's a hard life, yes. But that is our way. We believe the simple life builds strong character and a clear mind—now come. Let's get you back to bed." Asta offered her shoulder. Brit accepted it gratefully. Slowly they shuffled back inside, where Asta helped her to get comfortable and brought her warm water from the stove and a soft cloth to wash her hands and rinse her face.

  Brit was already half asleep again when Asta began checking the dressing on her bandage.