“The northern trade route isn’t safe,” he grumbled as he continued to saw at her braid.
Marnej had been erring on the side of caution, keeping them to forested paths. He stole only what they needed, and only when he was certain there was no risk. But her impatience grew daily.
“Oh,” Dárja gasped as Marnej severed the last stubborn tendrils of her braid. Her hands went to where her hair had once been. She felt suddenly naked and vulnerable.
Marnej held out her braid in front of her. For a moment, she regarded the long dark coil, then took hold of it, feeling its weight. She picked out a twig from between the plaits.
“Go on,” she said. “Finish it.”
Marnej took small hanks of her remaining hair and cut them off with his knife. When the soft rasping sound stopped, he came around to stand in front of her. He frowned with hands on his hips as he surveyed his handiwork.
“Well, at least your hair will pass for a boy,” he said, “and, if we move fast enough, hopefully no one will take notice of us.”
Dárja stood up from the rock upon which she sat. She took a leather tie from her pouch and cinched the cut end of her braid.
“It’ll grow back,” Marnej said.
Dárja pursed her lips, nodding. Her vision blurred as she thought of Irjan, weaving her hair into plaits for her until she was old enough to do it herself. “So like her mother,” Kalek had often commented. But Dárja saw herself in Irjan’s likeness, her dark hair like his.
She limped over to the supply sack. Her ankle had nearly healed. Even so, she relied on a walking stick to steady herself on the uneven ground. Tucking her braid into the sack, she felt a nudge at her side.
Dárja reached out her hand and stroked the curious horse. In a low murmur she said, “There are no more carrots.” To Marnej, she called out, “Ready?”
Marnej sheathed his knife but made no move toward the horse. “I want to make it to the Pohjola as much as you do. But I don’t think it’s safe to travel out in the open.”
They were back to their old argument. Dárja was convinced the soldiers who tracked them hadn’t made it this far north. Marnej was not so sure.
“How much farther, do you think?” he asked.
His exhausted tone gave Dárja hope that he was finally ready to agree with her plan.
“The voices feel stronger,” she said.
“You’ve been in the Song?” he asked, his expression darkening. “Whenever we make camp,” she said, realizing too late Marnej’s irritation.
He stood up. A mask had fallen across his face. He came forward, held out his hand for her walking stick, beginning the ritual they reenacted whenever they readied to leave. Dárja handed him the stick, wondering if she should say something else.
He drew himself up onto the horse, then held out his hand to her.
“I am not going to walk away and leave you,” she said, the renewed tension between them making her defensive. “I wouldn’t do that.”
Marnej pulled her up to sit behind him. “This is neither the time nor the place for another argument.” He nudged the horse into a walk, threading their way through the dense pine trees onto the trade route. “Besides,” he said. “I could’ve found you. It’s what I’m trained to do—find Immortals.”
Dárja gaped at the back of Marnej’s head.
Before she could retort, he added, “And would it harm you to offer thanks on occasion?”
“Thanks?” she sputtered. Her incredulity nearly left her speechless. “I should thank you?”
Marnej tensed. He craned his neck in all directions.
“What is it?” she asked, looking over his shoulder to scan the road ahead of them.
“Smoke,” Marnej said, letting her draw her own conclusions. “We should leave the trade route.”
Before either of them could say anything else, they heard the fast clip of horses approaching from behind.
Dárja looked back. The dusty yellow of soldiers’ uniforms drew closer.
Marnej swore under his breath.
“Stay or run?” Dárja asked.
Marnej’s mind rebounded between the two options. Neither gave him what he needed. Run and they chase. Stay and they catch up. Gods be damned they were caught either way. He took another look over his shoulder. The outlines of half a dozen men filled his vision.
“Move to the side,” Dárja said, finally. “Maybe if we look like humble Olmmoš, the soldiers will pass.
“And if they stop?” Marnej hissed.
“If they stop, you tell them we’re returning to our farm from the market,” she said in a tight whisper.
“If I say that they’ll search us for coin and kind,” he said, knowing too well what Believers’ soldiers were like. “I’ll tell them we’re headed north to look for work as herders.”
“And if they don’t believe you?” she asked, her voice trailing off.
“Then we’ll head into the woods,” he said, silently adding, and hope we can hold them off in a fight.
Marnej slowed the horse to a walk. He eased the animal to the side, as if he were expecting to give way to those going much faster.
The riders came upon them four astride in the lead and two following. Marnej willed them to pass, but his training made him keen to observe the threat they posed. The four soldiers in the front were older, their faces hardened by many seasons of snow. The two in the rear were young, nearer to his age.
Of the two closest soldiers, one wore his blade on the right and the other on the left. It was this second soldier that concerned Marnej. In one motion, the man could swing around to slash both he and Dárja.
“How far to the travelers’ hut?” one of the men called out.
Marnej turned, noticing Dárja’s sidelong glance. The soldier who’d asked the question had a scar across the lower part of his face that looked fresh.
“I don’t know,” Marnej said. “We are ourselves traveling north.”
The soldier with the scar eyed him. Marnej was relieved that Dárja did not meet the man’s gaze.
“Our farm lies far to the east,” Marnej said.
One of the seasoned soldiers sniffed. “Návrrás farmer.”
“Turnips,” the youngest soldier said wistfully.
“I wouldn’t mind some turnips,” said one of the older men, his eyes appraising both Marnej and Dárja.
Marnej hunched his shoulders. He furrowed his brows, hoping he looked sufficiently cowed. “I’m sorry, honored soldiers. My brother and I have no food.”
“That’s a big sword for such a young lad,” the scarred one said, edging his horse closer.
“It’s our father’s,” Marnej said, sensing Dárja stiffen behind him. “He died in the battle. It’s all we have left of him. I let my brother carry it so he feels better about traveling so far away from our farm.” Marnej felt that he rambled but he could think of no other way to diffuse the situation. “We’ve got a mother and younger brothers and sisters to care for. We’re hoping to get taken on as herders.”
The soldier glanced at the blade again and then at Dárja. He flicked his horse’s reins. The animal started, jumping ahead of the others. Over his shoulder the scarred one said, “Take comfort that your father rests with the gods.”
He may have said more, but his words were lost in the sound of the soldiers setting off at a trot.
Marnej slumped back into Dárja, releasing the breath he’d been holding.
“What was that ‘honored soldiers’?” Dárja mimicked him. “I would’ve shoved my knife into his belly and given him another scar. One to remember the Jápmemeahttun.”
Marnej straightened. He guided their horse toward the woods to their right.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Her mocking had turned into alarm.
“We need to get off the trade route.”
“No. We’re close,” she insisted. “We fooled them.”
“For now.”
“We can do it again.”
“Why are you su
ddenly in such a hurry that you’re willing to risk ending up back where we started?” Marnej demanded.
“Why can’t you just go along with me instead of always questioning me?” Dárja spat back.
Marnej led the horse into the pines.
“Can’t you feel the pull?” Dárja’s question trembled with desperation. “Can’t you sense we’re near?”
“You’re giving me too much credit,” Marnej said evenly. “I don’t spend my time in the Song like you do.”
“Stop,” Dárja ordered. “Get off the horse.”
“Why?” Marnej hedged.
“Because I’m tired of reasoning with the back of your head.”
“I’m not getting off the horse” Marnej said.
“Why? Because you think I’m going to race off with it?”
“Maybe.”
Dárja shifted. “Maybe I will.”
Marnej turned around to look at her. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting off the horse.”
“But the soldiers could come back.”
“If they do, they’ll find two brothers having an argument because one of them is so sow-headed he won’t listen.”
Marnej watched Dárja as she slid off the horse. “Give me one reason why we need to risk our lives on the trade route, when we could go through the forest and be safe.”
Dárja’s short, uneven mop of hair momentarily blocked her hateful glare. But hostile eyes had watched Marnej his entire life. They had peered out of the Brethren faces of boys and men alike, making hallways feel dark and crowded and food taste like sand even when he was hungry. The constant scrutiny had made him quick to anger, merciless in fights, and resentful of his wounds. And all because he was Irjan’s son.
If only his father hadn’t betrayed the Brethren’s oath.
If only. If only. If only.
Marnej had lived his whole life wishing for another one. And now that there was one waiting for him, with the Immortals, with his father, all he could think was, What if?
What if Irjan’s not to blame?
What if I’m not worthy of his love?
Dárja brushed the hair from her eyes. Their dark intensity bore through him, condemning him, confirming his worst fears.
“You can come with me,” she said. “But you can’t stop me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN THE FIVE DAYS since Dárja’s outburst, she and Marnej had not spoken about what had happened. In fact, they rarely spoke, keeping to topics of food and shelter, of which they’d found far less than they’d hoped. Neither of them considered sleeping rough under the twilight sky a hardship, but food, particularly meat, had been scarce. Still, Marnej was surprised when Dárja agreed he should try and get them food at a travelers’ hut. He wondered if her new affability was the result of hunger or a heavy conscience.
Probably hunger, he thought.
“I’m just going to see if they have any food to spare,” he said, handing her the reins. Dárja took them without comment. Her gaze remained fixed on a point beyond the travelers’ hut. Taking a chance, Marnej asked, “Will you wait here?”
Dárja’s attention snapped back to him. Her dark eyes were guarded, as if she’d suddenly been backed into a corner. Then, with a sullen shrug of her shoulders, she said, “Yes.”
Dárja claimed to steadfast and true, but Marnej wondered if she’d come upon a moment of doubt as he had. Perhaps she’d succumb to the pull of the Song she’d spoken of, the one he couldn’t feel. He left her to her conscience and crossed beyond the stable to a door cut into the sloping sod roof. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want her to know the depth of his concern.
Marnej pushed aside the thin linen curtain meant to keep out flies. He ducked under the doorframe. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Then another to get accustomed to the smoke. The cramped room had a bright fire going, over which hung a pot of some kind of soup.
A round woman with an equally round face came toward him. She wiped her hands on her apron, streaking its rough surface with blood.
“Here for food?” she asked, hands on her wide hips, “or something to drink?”
Aware of the woman’s frank appraisal of him, Marnej decided against asking for food right away.
“News, if you have it,” he said, noting they were alone.
The hutkeeper raised an eyebrow. She took hold of a wooden spoon and began stirring the soup. The weak aroma hinted at a thin, watery broth with little to recommend it. Still, to Marnej’s starved body, it was enough to make his stomach growl.
To hide the tell-tale sounds of his hunger he said, “I heard thieves have been seen nearby.”
The woman stopped stirring. “Likely. We don’t take much notice up here in the north.
“Soldiers passed my brother and me several days back.”
She laughed, more disgusted than amused. “Several days back and many leagues south. We’ve no soldiers in these parts. We’re left to sort things out for ourselves.” She paused. “But, if you’ve heard word of thieves, then keep your wits about you.”
Marnej sensed a softening in her demeanor. He hoped it was an opening for his real need.
“Would you happen to have any food to spare?” he asked, then, seeing the woman’s cagey expression, promptly added, “Not for myself. It’s for my younger brother, waiting outside. We’ve had no food for days, and I’m worried he’ll starve before we make the Pohjola.”
“I doubt that,” she sniffed. “You can pitch a pinecone from here and hit the Northlands.”
“But,” Marnej began.
“Either you’ve got coin or kind to pay for food, or you don’t. Here in the north we don’t dole out charity to strong men who can work.”
Marnej was about to object, but the woman raised a finger, warning him, “Not even if they have a starving little brother waiting outside. If you’ve got nothing, you get nothing. Now I’ve given you valuable advice. Use it wisely.”
With her hands back on her hips, Marnej knew he stood a better chance of milking a bull than changing this woman’s mind. He ducked back through the curtained door, squinting into the light that streamed through the trees. He looked to where Dárja sat upon the horse, and couldn’t help but notice that even with her mop of cropped, dark hair, there was no way to mistake her for an Olmmoš, let alone his little brother. The curve of her waist and hips was apparent even with her shapeless tunic. And the muscle of her arms and shoulders rivaled his. Marnej mumbled his thanks to the gods who, so far, had kept fortune on their side.
“No food,” he said. “No soldiers either.” He signaled to her to scoot forward so he could get onto the horse.
“You ride in front,” she said, shifting back. “I’m sore from sitting on the shoulders.”
“Withers,” Marnej corrected her.
“Withers,” she repeated, holding out the reins.
Marnej patted the stalwart animal, offering the horse praise before saying to Dárja, “You ride. I’ll walk. The hutkeeper said we’re very close to the Pohjola.” He said the last part as if in passing, then waited to see her reaction, knowing that getting to the Northlands was all Dárja cared about.
Still, it stunned him to hear her state matter-of-factly, “I know.”
Marnej removed the saddle blanket from the horse’s back, then slipped off the bridle as Dárja stroked the animal’s neck. She leaned in close to whisper something he couldn’t hear, then she patted the horse’s flank. It didn’t move. Instead, it turned its eye to Dárja and circled around her.
“Go on,” she said aloud, shooing the animal off.
The horse shook its head, its forelock coming to rest across one eye.
Dárja stroked the animal’s long arched back. “There are none of your kind here,” she said softly. “You’re free. Go. Find them.”
The horse nickered, then started off at a trot.
“I hope you’re right about this,” Marnej said, watching their mount disappear into the distance.
<
br /> “We won’t need him,” Dárja said. “We’re close.”
Marnej regarded the green rolling hills, spare of trees, but dotted with red and yellow, where berries peeked out in the scrub-covered landscape.
Dárja held out her hand to him. “Close your eyes. Find the Song.”
Marnej did so, but was uncomfortably aware of Dárja’s hand in his, remembering when she had first held it like this. She had said, “Listen to the voices. Call to them. They’ll guide us back to our kind.” Our kind, he repeated to himself.
Dárja had called the Pohjola home. She’d said they were going home. And they were almost there. And yet, Marnej couldn’t believe he had a home, not when so many doubts scurried about in his mind like mice in an autumn field.
Dárja’s hand suddenly felt hot in his. When sweat made their grip slick, Marnej thought she would slip out of his grasp and disappear, leaving him alone. He tightened his hold on her hand, crushing the bones, then loosened his grip, fearing he’d hurt her in his panic. Marnej took a deep shuddering breath and tried to release it slowly. He felt her fingers intertwine with his. His heart raced. It seemed a lifetime since he’d entered the Song of All.
Marnej pulled his attention inwards. But it was as if he was tethered to a stubborn beast. Gradually his heart slowed as he listened to the sounds that were both a part of him and outside of him. When his shallow panting eased, he began to feel light, full of air. A peaceful stillness beckoned him to lie down and surrender to visions just beyond his reach.
In an instant, the stillness shattered into a thousand different voices. The cacophony drove Marnej to press his hands to his ears in a futile attempt to block out all the competing fragments. The abrupt knowledge of what the earth feels, what the wind hears, and what the air believes stirred within him. He gasped, begging the gods for mercy. All those voices, vying for attention. It was too much.
Marnej opened his eyes, ready to run, and staggered forward. Dizziness pulled him down. He shook his head to focus, but his vision blurred. He took another step, and stumbled. Still the voices surrounded him, filling his head. He searched for his own thoughts in the maelstrom that had taken over his mind. But the other voices were stronger than his own. Then with devastating clarity he heard:
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