The Marriage Medallion

by Christine Rimmer

  That Valbrand. Asta clucked her tongue at the night. Damaged so deeply. And not only his ravaged face. He ought to at least be staying in her longhouse, enjoying the civilized comfort of a sleeping bench and thick furs, eating at her table, where she'd soon put some healthy fat on that too-lean frame.

  Instead, almost from the day Eric had brought him to stay in the village five months ago, he'd taken off to live wild, in the woods and in hillside caves, his only constant companion that black horse, Starkavin.

  Asta paused at the stoop, reluctant to enter on some moment of discord, straining her ears for the sound of harsh words.

  She heard only silence within.

  With a small sigh of relief she pushed open the door to the warmth of the fire and the light of the lamp, which waited on the table, burning low.

  And what was that? A lump of wool on the floor…

  She recognized her old gray shawl. But where were the young people?

  Ah.

  With great care, so as not to disturb them, Asta shut the door. Her weariness had vanished, her body was no longer cold. Wearing a look much too soft and full of dreams for a woman who'd raised her sons and set her husband's funeral boat afire, she started back up the street.

  There was always a sleeping bench for her at Sif's. Or at Sigrid's, for that matter…

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  « ^ »

  Brit woke to daylight. She turned her head to see Eric, already up and dressed, spooning bowls of steaming oatmeal from a cast-iron pot.

  He glanced her way and smiled. All of last night was there, in that smile. In those deep, knowing eyes.

  God, she hoped she wasn't blushing. Her cheeks felt way too warm. She sat, raking her hair back from her forehead and pulling the furs with her to cover her bare breasts—which was kind of silly, if she thought about it. It wasn't as if he hadn't already gotten an up-close-and-personal look at them.

  At all of her, for that matter.

  "Come," he said. "Eat."

  "Ahem." Oh, great. Throat clearing again. She had to stop doing that. "Where's Asta?"

  "At Sif's."

  How did he know that? Did it matter? Probably not. He set the pot on the stove and went to the counter by the deep, old-fashioned sink.

  As soon as his back was turned, she leaned over and snatched up her long Johns from where she'd dropped them the night before. Under cover of the furs, she wiggled into them.

  When Eric turned around again, she was perched on the edge of the bench, pulling on her socks.

  "Gotta make a quick trip outside."

  He nodded, poured himself a cup of tea and sat down to eat. Brit slid on the clogs Asta had loaned her, grabbed the gray shawl from the peg where somebody had hung it and went out into the brisk, bright morning.

  She was back in no time. She went to her own sleeping bench and got a bra from the pack beneath it. Turning to the wall, she pulled her arms out of her shirt and put the thing on. She added her jeans and sweater over the long Johns and then ran a brush through her hair.

  Well, hey, wow. Ready to face the day.

  More or less.

  She washed her hands and joined Eric at the table. They ate. They cleared off and washed their bowls and cups and spoons. She was setting the second bowl in its place on the shelf when he touched her—a breath of a touch, the back of his finger to the side of her throat and gone.

  "At night, a temptress. In the morning, a little anxious—and trying to pretend that she's not."

  She felt a smile quiver across her mouth. "Oh, Eric…" She set the towel on the counter and turned to him.

  He gathered her into his arms.

  It felt really good to be there. She nuzzled his warm neck and breathed in the scent of his skin and tucked her head against his strong shoulder. "What are we going to do about us?"

  He held her away a little so he could look down at her. "Do you really want me to answer?" She didn't, and they both knew it. He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. She could feel the round shape of the medallion beneath his heavy wool shirt. He gave her his answer, whether she wanted it or not. It was only one word. "Stay."

  The crazy, insane truth was, she wanted to do exactly that. She could admit that now, for all the good it did. But…

  "You can't," he said, finishing a sentence only begun in her mind. "You have set yourself a task and you will see it through, no matter how bitter the end."

  She looked deep into his eyes. "And you should be with me. You know that you should…" He started to speak. She put her fingers to his lips. "Never mind. Believe it or not, I kind of understand. My brother needs you near him. And you won't desert him."

  He caught her hand again and kissed the pads of her fingers, one by one. "I never said that."

  "It's all right. I forgive you."

  He was frowning—but playfully. "Did I ask for your forgiveness?"

  "It doesn't matter. You have it, anyway." She pulled her hand free of his gently. "I hope it keeps you warm at night when I'm not here."

  He smiled at the taunt. "Your mouth is forever uttering barbed words. I like it better when you use it for kissing." He tipped his head down. She tipped hers up.

  And there. Her mouth was doing what he liked—kissing him. Actually, she liked it, too. A lot.

  With a long sigh, she slid her arms up his broad chest and wrapped them around his neck so she could stroke his nape and toy with the idea of pulling the leather cord from his silky hair.

  She never got a chance to decide if she would do it. He lifted his head too soon. "I've contacted your father with our plans."

  She pushed at his chest and his arms dropped away. "You contacted him by shortwave?"

  "Yes."

  "I am a little curious about this shortwave setup I've never seen that you're always sending my father messages on."

  "Gunnolf has a work shed behind his and Sif's longhouse. We have it rigged with a generator. The radio is there. I suppose you'd like to see it?"

  "Not really. I just wondered where it was." She stepped back. "And what, exactly, are these plans of ours?"

  "We'll leave as soon as you're ready, you and I, on horseback. We'll go through the Black Mountains, by way of the Helmouth Pass."

  The Helmouth Pass. Such a charming name.

  She knew where the pass was. At least, she'd seen it on the map. It twisted through the mountains, beginning about twenty miles south and slightly east of the village.

  Eric went on, "The mountains are still passable. The snows have yet to close them off. We'll stay about midway through the pass, high in the mountains, in a traveler's hut I know of, for tonight. By tomorrow, at late morning, we'll be on the other side. Your father is sending Hauk Wyborn to meet you and accompany you the rest of the way to Isenhalla."

  "I gotta ask, whatever happened to the option of a nice, efficient helicopter? Seems like a helicopter could easily land in one of the pastures out back—and I could just climb on and be at the palace in no time."

  He looked very serious. "You'd prefer that, then?"

  "I'm just saying, it seems a lot simpler."

  "Good enough." Did he sound … too casual? "Would you care to come with me while I send a second message?"

  She studied his face. Yeah. Way too guileless. "What's going on?"

  "I thought you would perhaps want to take your horse with you. But if you prefer the helicopter, I promise you that Svald will be well cared for here."

  Her horse. Right. "Eric, is there some valid reason you can't tell me what you're up to here?"

  Now he was the one studying her. And frowning. Finally he admitted, "I suppose not … beyond the usual unswerving desire to protect you—thoroughly misguided, at least in this case. My apologies." He was so handsome when contrite. "We very well could get through the mountains without incident. Still, you should understand the danger."

  "The bears and the mountain cats, right? And let's not forget all the fine young renegades and—I thin
k I've got it. The biggest threat of all. That would be the bad guys with the guns who call themselves NIB."

  He shrugged. "And there you have it."

  "Traveling overland, we get to be bait."

  He nodded. "So you see? Here I am, suggesting that you put your life in danger. After this you must never again accuse me of trying to keep you safe." He spoke teasingly. He was making a truly valiant effort to keep things light.

  But she saw in his eyes what he didn't say. Should they meet up with Jorund's men, there was a very good chance she'd never again be accusing him of anything.

  It's hard to do much accusing when you're dead.

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  « ^ »

  Asta and her family—Sif and Gunnolf, and Sigrid and her husband Brokk the elder, and all the little Borghilds—came out to say goodbye. There were hugs all around.

  Little Mist instructed, "Bwit. You come back soon."

  "I will," she promised, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt that it was a promise she had no idea if she'd be able to keep. She looked up from the child into Asta's worried eyes.

  "I don't like this," the old woman said. "The pass through the mountains is dangerous. And why must you leave us so soon?" Brit had no answer for her. She held out her arms. With a grunt of disapproval, Asta allowed a second goodbye hug.

  "Thank you," Brit whispered against the old woman's thick white hair. "For everything…"

  "Humph," said Asta. When Brit let her go, she fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and came out with a kerchief. "Oh, now—" she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose "—you keep safe. You hear me?"

  "Absolutely, Asta. I will."

  She caught Eric's reproachful look as she mounted her horse. Well, and what was she supposed to say? He swung up into the saddle as Asta chided him, "Take care. Keep well…"

  They started off along the dirt lane in the opposite direction from the way they'd gone two days before. Brit turned to glance back more than once. Each time she looked, the Borghilds remained in the middle of the dirt street, waving goodbye. Gunnolf had lifted Mist to his shoulder, and the child's small frame rose above the rest. She had her plump arm held up, her tiny hand swaying back and forth.

  Too soon they reached the trees. The Mystic settlement—and the small knot of well-wishers—was lost to view.

  * * *

  They reached the next village to the south two hours later. It looked much like Asta's village: a single dirt street lined with matching rows of longhouses, pastures and barns and livestock pens spreading out behind the houses to the edge of the trees.

  Brit remembered what Asta had told her that first time she woke from her fever—that her guide's body had been sent to his family in a village to the south. "Is this the village where Rutland Gottshield's family lives?"

  Eric gave her a bleak look. "We haven't time to linger here."

  "Only for a moment. I'd just like the chance to pay my respects."

  "Be quick."

  He led her to the second house on the left side of the street. A woman, her long red hair streaked with gray, came out to meet them. Brit introduced herself and explained that she'd only come to offer condolences, that they couldn't stay, had no time even to come inside. The woman, Rutland's widow, who said her name was Trine, saluted, fist to chest, in the Gullandrian way and spoke of how honored she was that Her Highness had stopped. Trine said the king had seen to her well-being and the future of the four sons—working in the pastures now, and out hunting—who had lost their father. She murmured shyly that she would forever mourn her husband, but knew great pride that he had died bravely in the service of his king.

  In her mind's eye, Brit saw Rutland's pale face and shaking hands when they had boarded the Skyhawk. "Yes," she told the widow. "Your husband died a hero's death." Her next words came to her, stolen from the stories she'd heard at her mother's knee. "May he feast and fight forever in Odin's great hall."

  The widow stood in the street, waving, when they rode away. Brit glanced back once and thought of the Borghilds, waving, as they'd left Asta's village. She had a strange, sinking feeling. As if she and the man beside her rode toward something huge and horrible, as if they were leaving all kindness and goodwill behind.

  * * *

  The way was much easier than the trip into Drakveden Fjord—at least at first. The hills sloped gently, with small valleys between. The road, well traveled, lay before them wide enough to ride abreast.

  No bands of renegades attacked them. Mountain cats and bears kept to the shelter of the trees off the trail. If traitors lurked nearby, it must have been only to watch and wait for some later opportunity.

  They stopped briefly for a quick meal of jerky and trail mix at noon. About an hour later they reached the base of the jutting, jagged mountains crested at the highest points with white, and began climbing. Soon the trail narrowed. The steep black cliffs soared up and up on either side, the sky a slice of blue between them. Eric took the lead.

  They rode mostly in shadow. The sunlight couldn't reach them between the high rock walls. The wind kicked up, whistling down on them. And clouds began to gather.

  So inconvenient. Brit could almost start to feel that Mother Nature didn't like her much. Every time she had someplace important to go lately, the weather had to up the stakes. She pulled her beanie down more securely over her ears and hunched into her jacket—which, as usual, she didn't dare zip up all the way as she'd have poor access to her weapon.

  Most of the time they were traveling south, protected somewhat by the rock walls around them. But when the trail jogged north, they headed into the wind. The cliff faces on either side made a tunnel through which the icy air rushed at them hard and fast as a runaway train. Brit's lips went numb, and her chin ached with cold. She worried that her eyeballs would freeze in their sockets. She marveled at her own idiocy; she could have brought a damn ski mask, for goodness' sake.

  And then—but of course—the snow started to fall, stinging flakes that beat against her cheeks and gathered on her eyebrows. She got the hood free of her collar and pulled it up, tightening the strings and tying them beneath her chin with gloved hands that felt like slabs of ice. It didn't help a whole heck of a lot. But it did keep the snow from slipping in around her neck.

  The snow came down thicker—well, maybe down wasn't the word for it; it swirled around them on the angry wind. Brit gave up on the weapon-ready angle and zipped her coat to the neck. Her fingers were so cold and stiff she doubted she could deal with her gun right then, anyway.

  They went on forever, into the cold, blustery white, sometimes moving down into a steep canyon or a rocky gorge, but mostly, it seemed to Brit, moving ever upward toward the stormy sky and the high cliffs that rose tauntingly above them.

  Okay, all right. She wasn't as tough as she liked to think she was. She'd have ordered Eric to stop a hundred times by then, if there'd only been anywhere to stop. But the snow was piling up on the trail and there was zero shelter that she could see. If they stopped, they'd probably end up freezing to death.

  They went on.

  For hours. Sometimes the snow abated and there was only the freezing wind. But it always started up again.

  The snow was blowing at her again, thick and white and blinding, when she pulled back her sleeve and checked her watch. Nearly seven. It must be getting dark. But who could tell? The clouds above were so thick and black, the cliff walls so steep around them, it had seemed like the middle of the night since about three in the afternoon.

  And then, out of the stinging white and the howling wind—shelter. Around a sharp turn, in a little cove of flat land to the side of the snow-white trail, an old wood shack materialized, silvered with weathering, out of the storm.

  Brit had never in her life been so thrilled to see four walls and a roof. And was it possible? Could that be a stone chimney she saw on top of that beautiful roof? A chimney would mean a fireplace, and a fireplace just might mean…

 
Oh, be still, my beating heart.

  Eric led her around to the most protected side, facing the cliff. A crude porchlike structure consisting of a roof and side walls, about ten feet deep and covering the entire cliff-facing wall, led into yet deeper shadow.

  They slid from their horses to the snow-covered ground and went beneath the shelter of the roof.

  Eric handed her his reins. "Watch the horses. I'll only be long enough to get the fire started."

  The fire…

  Then that had been a chimney. And if there was going to be a fire, she would literally melt with gratitude. He opened the door on the wall of the shack, stepped in and shut the door.

  * * *

  The horses snorted and shook their snow-thick manes. More good news: the snow slid right off and left them hardly wet at all. Less work for her and Eric. Oh, yay, hooray! Plus, it wasn't nearly as bad standing here as out there in the storm. Pretty darn cold, yes.

  But bearable. The horses would be fine out here. And there were railings suitable for hitching to either side of the door.

  And speaking of the door—it wasn't set in the frame all that straight. Golden light glowed around the edges of it. Oh, yes, yes, yes!

  The door opened. Eric stood there, holding a lighted kerosene lamp. Behind him, on the side wall, the fire in the fireplace was already crackling away.

  They unsaddled the horses, brushed them down quickly and fed them the oats Eric had brought outside. Then they lugged their gear inside, where the cheery fire was blazing, and Brit dared to hope she might actually get warm again sometime very soon.

  The one-room shack had two doors: one led to the shelter where they'd left the horses. The other, on the wall opposite, faced the trail—two doors, no windows. Like the cave the other night, the shack had been stocked with the bare necessities. The furniture wasn't much: a small table and a couple of roughly made ladder-back chairs.

  Eric took one of the chairs and braced it under the knob of the door that faced the trail. "It won't stop anyone," he said, "but it will give us a little warning." The door they'd come in through opened out. Bracing a chair against it would accomplish nothing. Eric must have caught the direction of her gaze. "It's doubtful they'll use that door, anyway, too much chance they'd spook the horses and give us warning."