Lord of Falcon Ridge

by Catherine Coulter

  Kerek dropped her arm.

  “Save your pathetic king,” Chessa called back to him even as Cleve lifted her into his arms and lightly tossed her to Igmal, who stood on the dock.

  But Kerek shook his head and ran toward Turella. He grabbed her and pulled her over his shoulder. “We will survive this,” he said, and jumped to the dock. He slipped on broken planks and dropped her. Both of them went down, knocking the breath from each.

  Then, as suddenly as the terrifying storm had begun, it stopped. The air was quiet. The blackness no longer weighed so heavily. There was no more rain. A single bolt of lightning slashed through the black sky, but it was nothing, really, just an afterthought of the storm the demons unleashed during those endless minutes.

  Turella sat up. She shook her head. “She could have killed us,” she said to Kerek.

  He was staring after Cleve, who had reached the dock and now carried his wife in his arms. The rest of Turella’s men, those who hadn’t run for shelter into Inverness, stood on the shreds of the dock, just stood there, panting, not understanding what had happened, thankful they were still alive.

  “The princess did this,” Torric said. “I don’t want her in York. She will kill all of us next time.”

  “Aye,” the men said.

  “She’s a witch.”

  “The night was darker than an old man’s teeth. Now the moon is bright overhead.”

  “We must leave.”

  Kerek listened to the men, knew it was lost, and stood. He held out his hand and pulled Turella, sodden, her hair plastered to her head, to her feet.

  “You are all right, my lady?”

  She nodded. Then she froze still as a rune stone. Kerek stared at her. He didn’t think she was breathing, just staring beyond him. Slowly, he turned to see a tall man dressed all in black striding toward them. The moon seemed suddenly brighter overhead, indeed, it seemed to shine more brightly over the man who was coming ever closer to them. He carried no huge sword, his white hands were empty. The wind came again, but it wasn’t a raging wind, just enough so that the man’s black cloak billowed out behind him.

  He didn’t look of this earth.

  Turella’s warriors, one by one, became aware of the man coming toward them. They stared. They prayed and huddled together. One man drew his sword. As if he’d seen that sword drawn, the tall man paused a moment, then turned to look directly at the warrior. The warrior fell back a step, lowering his sword until its tip was buried into the wooden dock at his feet.

  Turella said very softly, “Varrick? Is it really you? After all these years?”

  “Aye, Turella, it is I. You dared to take what belongs to me. Should I kill you, I wonder, or acknowledge your ignorance this one time, and let you live?”

  “Who is this man?” Kerek said, aware that his voice wasn’t steady, and hating himself for it. Surely this was just a man, nothing more than a single man, and he wasn’t even armed. He could walk to him and strangle him. He could kill him, but he didn’t move. “You know this man, my lady?” Kerek said, seeing the pallor of her face. She looked suddenly like an old woman, bent and frail, not the proud queen he’d loved for so many years.

  Turella said, “He is Varrick. He is my brother.” It was then she seemed to remember she was a queen, not some sort of frightened old woman. She drew herself up. “You still wear black, I see, Varrick. Do you still streak blue and red paint on your face and dance around fires, chanting an ignorant babble of ancient rituals? Do you still seek out those things mortals shouldn’t know about? Do you still terrify people with your tricks?”

  “Did you like the storm, Turella? Did you feel terror? Your men did.”

  “Nay, Chessa brought the storm.”

  “Do you really believe so, sister?”

  She didn’t believe it, and Kerek saw she didn’t. She swallowed, afraid, and Kerek knew she was afraid, and so did this Varrick, this sorcerer all garbed in black, standing so tall and stark white beneath the half-moon that shone so brightly down upon him.

  She was staring at him again, studying his face. She said suddenly, “By all the gods, I should have known. His eyes, they’re your eyes—one gold, one blue. I saw Cleve once in York and I remarked his strange eyes. And again tonight, just for a moment. He is your son, Varrick?”

  “Aye, he is my son.”

  “Chessa is his wife,” she said, her voice absent. “Their child will be formidable.”

  “It is possible,” he said. “That is none of your concern, Turella. Listen to me. Your warship isn’t destroyed. Gather your men, awaken your sodden son, or give him to me and I’ll kill him. Leave my land. Never return here, Turella, else I’ll make you regret it even into eternity.”

  “Aye,” she said slowly, “we will leave. I know there is nothing here for me now. The Danelaw is lost. Chessa wasn’t for me, Varrick, I wanted her for the Danelaw, to lead when the time came, to control Ragnor.”

  Varrick stood quiet, staring out over the dark sea. There was no wind, yet his black cloak billowed out behind him. He said finally, “I have a stepdaughter. Her name is Cayman. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. There is no man for her here and she will grow old alone, without children, without purpose. If you request it, Turella, I will ask her if she wishes to join you. She is very smart. After all, she’s lived with me since she was a child. She would listen to you, Turella, she would deal well with this wretched son of yours. She would replace Chessa.”

  “She is truly beautiful?”

  He nodded. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I don’t lie.”

  “Can she make mead?” Kerek said.

  Varrick’s brow went upward. “Mead? Aye, her mead is excellent. If she decides to go with you, she will have to tell her sister how to prepare it, else all of us will be greatly saddened.”

  Kerek rubbed his hands together. “If this is true,” he said to Turella, “then Utta of Hawkfell Island is safe, Ragnor will remain sodden, and you and this Cayman will rule.”

  Turella stared at her brother, with his billowing cloak in the still air. “I will take her.”

  Varrick merely nodded. “Remain here for two days. If she decides to come to you, I will bring her. I wish you farewell, sister. Treat my stepdaughter well. If you do not, you will answer to me.” He nodded to her once again, turned on his heel, and began to walk quickly down the wooden dock. Kerek saw him take a stick from his belt and raise it over his head. He saw a wind begin to rise, but it was only around Varrick. It spun around him, making the cloak flap up and down, making the loose sleeves of Varrick’s black tunic billow out. A mist came up suddenly, but it seemed to be only directly in front of Varrick, and he walked toward that mist, into it, and then, suddenly, the mist began to fade, holes appearing in it, the holes spreading, like a fire spreading over cloth. In moments the mist was gone and the night clear again.

  Varrick was gone as well.

  To Kerek’s astonishment, Turella laughed. “He did that when he was naught but a small boy,” she said. “The wizards in Bulgar taught him that.” And she laughed and laughed.

  “But he vanished, my lady,” Kerek said, so frightened he thought he’d choke with it.

  “Aye,” she said. “He vanished. When I came here to wed the king of the Danelaw, he came with me. He’d learned all the wizards could teach him in the Bulgar. He’d heard of the West, of the Druids and their ancient magic. He wanted to visit the land called Scotland and learn the Picts’ ways. I see he stayed. I still can’t believe it, Kerek. Cleve is his son. Those eyes—I am a fool. I should have realized the moment I saw him in York that he was Varrick’s son.”

  “Nay,” Kerek said, and drew her against him. “Ah, you’re wet and you’re tired. This night has been something I don’t wish to repeat, ever. Whilst we wait for Cayman, we must gather up our men again and soothe their terrors. We must see to repairs on the warship.”

  “She makes excellent mead,” Turella said, and giggled against Kerek’s shoulder. />
  She’d giggled? Kerek had never heard a more wonderful sound in his life.

  Captain Torric limped to them, stared at them a moment, then cleared his throat. He said matter-of-factly, “Ragnor slept through the storm, all the lightning, the thunder. He slept through the warship’s crash against the dock. He’s awake now and calling for mead.”

  30

  CHESSA SAT ON Cleve’s lap in the longboat. All the men were huddled around them waiting for Varrick. She saw him first, tall and slim, his head thrown back, that damned cloak of his billowing out and yet there was no wind, not even a small breeze, and she knew that he’d saved her, just as she knew that she must act and she must act now, else they would never have peace. Varrick would always be there, waiting for her. It had to stop.

  When he was nearly on them, she turned on Cleve’s lap and burst into tears. She cried and sobbed and shivered violently, huddling against him, burrowing against him, as if she wanted to crawl inside him to protect herself.

  Cleve, completely taken by surprise, nonetheless gathered her against him, kissed her hair and rocked her, whispering meaningless words to soothe her, but they didn’t seem to. She cried harder and harder.

  Varrick stared at her. He said, “What is wrong? Has something happened to her? Is she in pain?”

  Chessa whispered through her sobs, “I’m so afraid. I thought I would have to go to York. I believed I would have to be his wife. You saved me. All of you saved me.”

  “Chessa,” Cleve began, “it’s all right, sweeting. I’ll protect you always. No, love, don’t cry more, you’ll make yourself ill.”

  As he spoke he looked up. Varrick was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. His expression was cold. He looked more dangerous than his son in that moment. “What she said is nonsense. What is wrong with her?”

  Igmal shrugged and said, “She’s a woman, lord Varrick. She was frightened. The storm you called up terrified her.”

  Varrick continued to frown down at her, a wealth of distaste on his face, but he said nothing more.

  The mist lifted and the air was cold and clear. The waters of the loch were smooth and dark. Chessa looked up to see Varrick coming, a good dozen men trailing behind him. His cloak billowed behind him. She was used to that now. She wondered idly how Argana managed to make the wool so very lightweight.

  They hadn’t seen Varrick in seven days. Argana had come to tell them that Varrick had taken Cayman to Turella in Inverness to return with her to York. “She sang and she smiled,” Argana had said. “She will enjoy herself and she will enjoy this fool, Ragnor, you’ve told me so much about, Chessa. There are depths to Cayman, aye, and she will suit herself.”

  After his return Varrick still hadn’t come to Karelia. Chessa knew that he would come. She wondered how he would look at her now.

  But here he was, on the seventh day. Chessa welcomed Varrick, Argana, Athol, who looked as sullen as a goat deprived of a tough boot, and Igmal, who waved to Kiri, and when the child shrieked his name and ran to him, he threw her into the air and brought her tight against his chest. The other men flowed into the crowd of Karelia people, conversation lively, laughter free, the four Karelia dogs barking in a frenzy, jumping and leaping about all the people.

  Varrick stood off to one side, staring at the people. He wasn’t frowning, nor was he smiling. He heard Kiri say to Igmal, “I just sniffed you and you smell clean. Did you bathe like I told you to, Igmal?”

  “Aye, little one, I bathed not three days ago.”

  “Your bearskin isn’t too bad either,” Kiri said, and smelled it again.

  “Nay, I kept it on and bathed it with me.”

  Kiri laughed and laughed. “I will ask my papas if I can do that as well.”

  It was nearing the winter solstice and yet there was no snow yet, no frigid nights to make everyone’s teeth chatter. Chessa gently patted her swelling belly. It seemed that more and more often the people from Kinloch were here at their farmstead, and why not? she wondered. There was laughter here and fights. There was no magic here, nothing to frighten anyone. There were no billowing gowns or cloaks when there was no wind.

  Chessa smiled toward Varrick, squeezing Cleve’s hand. What would he do? Had he finally given over? Was he finally ready to leave her alone?

  “Welcome, Father,” Cleve said. “Chessa believed you would come. The women are preparing a feast. If you would like to send one of your men back to Kinloch to fetch the others, you should do it soon.”

  Varrick gave his son a superior smile. “There is no need for that.” He pulled the burra from its sheath at his belt. “I will call them with this.” He lovingly stroked the burra and stood back. Then he looked at Chessa, his eyes on her belly, and there was uncertainty in his eyes, and determination as well. She sighed to herself. Her bout of hysteria after her rescue had done no good. She crossed her hands over her chest and yawned. Varrick still stared at her, and now there was anger in those strange eyes of his. She’d wondered several times when she’d angered Cleve if his golden eye grew more enraged than his blue one. When she’d told him that, both of them forgot their argument in their laughter.

  Varrick walked to the edge of Falcon Ridge, the only high strip of land at Karelia. He performed nicely, bringing thunder and cold white streaks of lightning. He didn’t bring rain, for which all the people were profoundly grateful.

  When he finished, he turned. He froze. No one was even looking at him. Igmal was showing Kiri how to toss the knife he’d carved for her. Other children were looking on, begging him to teach them as well. Three of his men—his men—were drinking and poking each other. Several other of his men were speaking to Karelia men, formerly his men, none of them even looking toward him. His two younger sons were throwing stones into the loch, seeing who could throw the farthest. Argana, silent, obedient Argana, was speaking to Chessa and several other women. They began to laugh at something Argana said. Argana saying something funny?

  None were looking at him except for one dog, who sat on his haunches, his head to one side, staring up at Varrick.

  Varrick strode to Chessa. “Come with me.”

  She smiled up at him. “Did you call the rest of the Kinloch people?”

  “Aye, I called them,” he said, and she heard the child’s temper in his voice.

  “Good,” she said. “That stick is a handy tool to have about. I’ll tell the women to prepare more boar steaks. Also, Cleve and his men brought in more than a dozen pheasants this morning. We’ll have a fine feast.”

  “It’s called a burra. I told you to come with me.”

  She never let her smile slip. “I forgot. You wish to speak to me now? I’m so busy, but, ah, very well, Varrick.”

  She walked beside him into the farmstead. Unlike Kinloch, there was no raised dais here, just a long room filled with the smell of roasting pheasant, baking bread and the soft smell of rising smoke, a narrow blue line streaking upward. Varrick strode to the table and climbed up upon it.

  “Be careful, Father,” Cleve said. “The table doesn’t always hold itself straight.”

  “Aye,” Igmal said, grinning. “Cleve didn’t cut all the legs evenly.”

  Cleve poked him.

  “Be quiet,” Varrick said. “Come here,” he said to Chessa.

  “I hope you don’t want me to climb up on that table,” she said, and rubbed her stomach.

  He frowned at her, and she would have sworn he growled.

  He climbed down. He withdrew the burra from its sheath and handed it to her. “Take it. Take it and tell me what you feel, what you see.”

  Slowly, she reached out her hand and took the burra from him. She cried out and brought her other hand up to help her hold it. “It’s so heavy,” she said, and quickly lowered it to the table. She still held it between her hands, but let its weight rest on the tabletop.

  Varrick didn’t move.

  “It’s hot, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, it’s just very heavy, so heavy tha
t I know I can’t hold it.

  “It’s cold now, isn’t it?”

  “Cold? It isn’t cold at all. It just feels like wood, very heavy wood that’s got something else inside it to make it so weighty.”

  “What do you see?”

  She looked down at the burra. “Circles and strange squares. The paint looks faded as if it will flake off very soon now. It looks old and strange. It’s very heavy, Varrick. Won’t you take it back? I don’t like it.”

  He looked baffled, then angry. “Damn you, I asked you what you saw, not what the burra looked like.”

  “Saw? I saw nothing, save the table and I’m worried that it won’t hold all the food we’re preparing.”

  He grabbed the burra from her and shoved it back into its sheath. “It’s the babe,” he said. “Aye, it’s the babe. It’s stolen your powers.”

  “What powers?” she said. “You have the powers, Varrick, not I.”

  He sighed deeply and called out, “Argana, bring me a goblet of mead.”

  There were still the remnants of laughter in her voice when Argana called out, “I can’t, Varrick. My hand is filled with cabbage.”

  He turned slowly to see his wife of eighteen years cutting huge chunks of cabbage and laying them onto a large wooden platter. “Athol,” she called out. “Take your father a goblet of mead.”

  “I’m a man, Mother, not a slave.”

  “I’m a woman, Son, not a slave. That has nothing to do with anything. I’m busy, as are your brothers, if you’d bother to notice. You are doing nothing at all. Your father deserves obedience from all of us. Do as I tell you or you won’t have dinner with us.”

  To Chessa’s utter delight, Athol poured a goblet of mead and gave it to his father. He didn’t do it with pleasure, but he did it.

  This, Chessa thought, holding perfectly still, not about to draw more attention to herself, was surely the beginning of the end for Varrick’s reign of terror and silence.

  The feast went very well. There was plentiful food, more laughter than Chessa had heard since leaving Hawkfell Island. Chessa remembered the tale and riddle Laren had spun about Egypt for them all and that weasel Ragnor had answered. She told all the people the story, put the riddle to them, and it was Athol who answered it. No one could believe he’d answered it correctly and they hadn’t been able to. Perhaps, she thought, there was a bond between Athol and Ragnor. She decided she would have Varrick send Athol to York. He could befriend Ragnor.