“But you said Irjan was in prison,” Marnej argued, “Why would I be treated differently?”
Dárja wanted to tell him to sit and drink his tea. She opened her mouth, then shut it, as her sense caught up with her. Her own feelings toward Marnej a might’ve changed, but she couldn’t be sure what the others would say or do were they to know about him.
Her hesitation put Marnej on his guard. He strode toward the door that led to the herb garden.
“They won’t put you in prison,” she called after him, projecting confidence she actually lacked. “Kalek’s right. The war’s over.”
Marnej circled back. “Then where’s my father?”
Dárja didn’t know where Irjan was. But she wasn’t about to admit that. Nor could she admit that she wondered what was taking Kalek so long to get him. “Irjan will be here,” she said. “He will be here soon.”
Marnej took up his pacing again. “Just as likely, he’ll return with guards to haul me off.”
Before Dárja could argue, Marnej’s words tumbled out of him, his stride acting as a counterpoint.
“I didn’t travel to the ends of these lands to find myself in a cell next to my father.”
Dárja leapt to her feet to stand a breath away from Marnej’s face. “What will it take? Do you want me to go the prison and prove Irjan isn’t there? Or do you want me to promise that I’ll go in there with you? Because I’ve been in a cell. I’ve been a prisoner. Have you?”
“I don’t need to be here,” Marnej said, heading to the garden door again.
“Fine!” Dárja shouted. “You go out that door. I’ll go out this one.”
Dárja stood in the door frame, one foot in the apothecary and one in the torch-lit passageway. Marnej’s scraggly jaw tightened, as ugly as it was obstinate. Let him rot with the rest of his kind, she thought. He’s not my responsibility. I saved him once. That’s enough.
Marnej glared at her. His distrust was as plain as any feature on his dull Olmmoš face. Dárja slammed the door to the apothecary shut, cutting off the view, then turned and ran, a fresh wave of pain adding to her anger and her doubt. She was finally home, finally safe. Why couldn’t he just hold his tongue?
In truth, she didn’t know where Irjan was. Being part Jápmemeahttun had afforded him some privileges. However, he was part Olmmoš and a Piijkij. Perhaps even after all these seasons of snow—after the war—they still considered him a threat. Dárja hurried along the corridor toward the gathering hall. She heard her name being called, like a fly buzzing her head. Rather than stop, Dárja ran. She focused on how much farther she still had to go to reach Irjan’s quarters. Cell, she reminded herself.
Arriving at the prison corridor, she saw that no torches burned and no guards stood sentry. Winded and flustered, Dárja waited until her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Then she edged along the familiar passage stalked by a growing sense of apprehension. Throughout the journey home, she’d prayed to the gods. She’d made bargains with them. She’d promised anything and everything, if she could only make amends. Now, standing mere steps away from what she professed to want, she faltered. Dárja rested her palm on the door and felt the solid grain beneath her hand. She’d believed her anger justified, but she’d been a coward.
Dárja held her breath as she banged her fist on the stout wood. The door opened with a creak. She pushed harder and the door swung wide. The cell was empty. Her heart skipped a beat. Was Irjan free? Was he somewhere in the sanctuary? Maybe he was eating or with the binna. Happy memories of gangly-legged reindeer calves, with their soft ears and noses pressed into her hands, came flooding back.
Wherever he was, her bieba walked free. Dárja chided herself for letting Marnej plant doubt in her mind. Gods, he was able to bring her to madness faster than anyone she’d ever met. Still, she had to agree that he’d been right to question his safety. She wouldn’t have walked into the Brethren’s embrace upon his word of welcome alone. But she’d expected that kind of faith from him. Dárja retraced her steps with a new wave of anxiety. She needed to make sure that Marnej was, in fact, truly safe and welcome.
Marnej crossed the apothecary. He followed Dárja out into the passageway, cursing her the whole way for being so stubborn. She’s worse than an ox stuck in mud, he mumbled under his breath, then stomped down the corridor, rehearsing what he would say when he caught up with her.
She couldn’t have gotten this far ahead, he thought as he jogged around another corner. His next thought vanished when he came to an abrupt stop in a large, open hall. Marnej gaped at the scale. Based on the apothecary, he’d expected all the rooms to be small and cozy. A ridiculous assumption. Why would Immortals limit themselves in any way? Still, the wide expanse stretched the bounds of his imagination. The ceiling appeared to be supported by immense trees. Staring at them, he realized they weren’t actual trees but towering, lifelike carvings. And among the carved trees stood the Immortals.
Marnej looked from one face to another, unable to do anything but blink. Women and children stared back at him. The women varied in age, but none were grey-haired. Marnej momentarily wondered if the Immortals aged at all. Then he saw several white-haired men standing off at the far side of the hall. Wizened and stooped, they appeared ancient beyond all measurable time. Then it struck him there were no younger men, like himself, or like Kalek, nor boys for that matter.
The women whispered among themselves. Some began to retreat, drawing the younger ones to them. He scared them, even though they greatly outnumbered him. Still, they might see their advantage and come at him as an angry mob. Marnej took a step back, then felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled to face Kalek.
“Let us return to the apothecary,” Kalek said with more concern than his demeanor belied. Guiding Marnej away from the hall, he added, “I have brought you and Dárja food.”
Marnej accepted Kalek’s counsel gladly, but he also made sure they weren’t being followed by the others.
“They’re afraid of me,” he said, peering back over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Kalek said without turning or stopping.
At the apothecary, the healer stood aside and waited for Marnej to enter first. Suspicious, Marnej rested his hand lightly on his miehkki. The weapon’s heft comforted him. He cast an eye about the room. Empty, as he’d left it. Kalek closed the door, and Marnej spun on his heel, still on the defensive.
“You should eat,” Kalek said, placing a platter of food upon the long work table.
If Kalek had noticed Marnej’s hand upon his sword, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he motioned for Marnej to sit. “Where is Dárja?”
Marnej eyed the dark bread and pungent cheese. Hunger gnawed at him as he noted with particular interest a roasted leg of some small fowl.
“Dárja left to find Irjan,” Marnej said. “I tried to follow but . . .” He left off unable to explain. What should he say? He couldn’t tell Kalek that he and Dárja had fought because he didn’t trust the healer. Marnej sat down on a stool and stared at the food. His fingers eased over to the platter. He picked up the fowl by the bone. It was still warm. Marnej’s mouth watered and his mind swam with want, with weakness. His stomach, however, churned. He slowly placed the meat back on the platter.
“I’m only one man. Yet, they’re afraid of me,” he said finally.
“You are like your father,” Kalek said, his tone not unkind.
Marnej rubbed the smooth wood of the table. “Because I’m a Piijkij?”
“Yes, that.” Kalek said.
The grim set to the Immortal’s features told Marnej there was more to it.
Then it came to him, and he felt himself redden. “It’s because I’m here. Because I am within the Song of All,” he said. And it occurred to him that, at some point he’d begun to think of himself as Jápmemeahttun.
Kalek’s broad brow furrowed. “I thought the Elder’s visions concerned your father. Now, I believe they spoke of you.”
Marnej’s throat tightened. “What did they say?”
>
Kalek exhaled, his eyes downcast. “They said that our undoing walks among us.”
Marnej reeled back as if he’d been hit. He slumped against the table, the food forgotten. He searched for the conviction to defend himself, to tell Kalek it wasn’t his choice. But he’d heard the voices. He’d used his skills to seek out the Immortals.
“I’m no threat to you,” he said, as much to assure himself as to convince Kalek who sat as still as stone, observing him.
“I hope that is true,” the healer said, taking another deep breath. “But then . . . perhaps the worst has been done.”
Marnej flinched, truth cutting deep. “I did what I was trained to do,” he said. “But that’s over now.”
Kalek pursed his lips and nodded.
“Am I truly welcome here?” Marnej wondered out loud.
The Immortal met his gaze directly. “I say you are welcome. What others might say remains to be seen.” Kalek paused, his features softening. “We have all lost so much.”
“Then I’m not welcome,” Marnej said, getting to his feet.
“I didn’t stand beside your father all these seasons of snow to cast you out now.” Kalek said. “Sit.”
Marnej sat back down, aware of the weariness in the healer’s eyes.
“You and my father are friends?” Marnej asked hesitantly.
The Immortal shook his head. “No. We are something beyond friends. A friend you make by choice. Your father and I are joined by something much stronger than a choice.”
Kalek’s broad shoulders seemed to sag, as if he’d been fighting some unseen battle and had finally lost.
“How did you meet?” Marnej asked, breaking the silence that had stretched out between them.
“I killed one of your kind, before he could kill your father,” Kalek answered dully.
This made no sense to Marnej. “A man was going to kill my father? An Olmmoš?”
“No, a Piijkij,” Kalek corrected him. “Irjan tried to stop the Brethren from taking you, but he was too late. They had laid a trap. Your father was fighting one of your Hunters and he lost his balance. He looked to be finished. I stabbed the Piijkij through the back with my sword.”
Kalek’s pale eyes dared Marnej to comment.
Marnej glanced away. A moment passed. “Vannes. You killed Vannes,” he said, remembering the story from his boyhood. “It was further proof of my father’s treachery.”
“Your father might have been a traitor to the Brethren, but he never betrayed what he valued most.”
Marnej did not need Kalek’s pointed look to know what he meant. He’d already heard Dárja argue the matter more than once. Still, he couldn’t believe he’d always been his father’s sole concern. His heart might wish it to be true, but his mind dismissed it as impossible. A man who cared so much for his son didn’t leave him alone.
“You should eat,” Kalek said, pushing the platter closer to Marnej. “You have had a long journey.”
Under the healer’s watchful insistence, Marnej took a tentative bite. He didn’t think he would have the stomach for food, but the taste of the fowl with its thick layer of vuodja and dill reawakened his hunger. The butter had cooled, coating his tongue in delicious fat and bright herbs. Marnej tore off a piece of rye bread to sop up the juices that had pooled. His hand was halfway to his platter when the door opened.
Marnej dropped the bread, and jumped to his feet, grabbing hold of the knife at his belt. A stout, old man stopped abruptly. His bushy eyebrows arched like an angry marten.
“Put that away,” the old one glowered, shuffling into the apothecary. “I have not lived this long and made the mistakes I have to feel the blade of an Olmmoš whelp. Even if he is one of us.”
Taken aback, Marnej did as he was told but didn’t sit. Kalek got up to close the door behind the old one, who walked to the fire and seated himself with an audible sigh. Marnej waited for one of them to say something. Kalek, however, wordlessly prepared a cup of hot water and herbs. The ancient one took the cup with a nod of gratitude, then sipped cautiously, watchful. Marnej fidgeted with his belt, growing increasingly resentful of the scrutiny as a thick silence descended upon the room.
Marnej was about to burst at his seams with restlessness when Kalek saved him by saying, “Okta, this is Marnej. He has returned with Dárja.”
The old one said nothing.
Marnej wondered if his ponderous pace was a sign of dotage or something innate to the Jápmemeahttun elders.
“Dárja is with us?” Okta asked, his voice as slow and even as melting snow.
“Yes,” Kalek said.
“Where is she?”
“She went to find my father,” Marnej blurted, unable to control his impatience.
Both Immortals favored him with a hard look, then seemed to share a silent understanding.
Marnej sat taller in his seat. “I brought Dárja back,” he said. “I’ve proved my goodwill.”
Okta kept his eyes on Kalek. “How long has she been gone?”
“Not long,” Marnej said, his indignation wavering in the face of the old one’s intensity.
“If it were only a matter of time,” Okta said.
“What do you mean?” Marnej demanded, his voice rising.
Okta regarded the cup in his hands, but did not take a drink.
“I will inform Einár,” he said finally.
Kalek inclined his head. His long hair hid his expression.
Once again Marnej’s hand drifted to his blade. “Who is Einár? And, what must you tell him?”
“Gods intent be known!” Okta snapped. “Stay your hand! Do not think I am so old I cannot see what you are doing. I have seen more battles than you can imagine in that young head of yours.”
Marnej moved his hand from his waist, chastened.
Okta stood up, followed by Kalek.
Marnej sprang to his feet. “Why are you both uneasy? And don’t tell me that you aren’t. I know you are. Is it my presence?”
“You are like your father,” Okta said, his tone sharp.
Before Marnej could opened his mouth to object, Dárja exploded through the door.
Her smile slipped, but promptly returned. “Irjan’s not in prison,” she said triumphantly, addressing Marnej directly.
Then she saw Okta, and her smile became radiant. She ran to the ancient healer and embraced him tightly about his waist. Okta hugged her to him, his eyes closed and his brows furrowed.
Kalek’s expression darkened, causing a chill to pass through Marnej’s body. All at once, he wanted to leap forward to face the specter that had entered the room. Then some part of him shrank from it, as if he lacked the strength to withstand it. Marnej stood still, waiting for his world to be turned on its head once again.
Dárja released her grip on the old Immortal. She stood back, smiling. “Where’s Irjan?”
Okta took hold of Dárja’s hand. “Irjan is dead,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“WHERE IS HE?” DÁRJA repeated.
“Irjan is dead,” Kalek said.
Dárja’s focus slipped past Okta, who still held her hand in his.
Pity tugged at Kalek’s noble features, turning his face into a grotesque mask.
Behind him, Marnej held her gaze, transfixed. His eyes were wide like a hare caught in a trap. She watched with fascination as he swayed. He’s going to fall, she thought in some far-off part of her mind.
Kalek reached out to brace him, but Marnej staggered back against the table, breaking the spell.
Dárja snatched her hand from Okta’s. “How did he die?” she asked, her voice overriding an internal scream.
“He died on the battlefield,” Okta said with cool acceptance.
Dárja glanced at Kalek for confirmation.
Kalek sat with his head in his hands, his long fingers snaked up into his hair.
As Dárja looked back at Okta, a sequence of events took shape in her mind, making terrible sense.
“It�
�s my fault,” she heard herself say calmly.
Three sets of pale, ghostly eyes fixed on her, boring into her.
Irjan’s dead, she silently repeated, the reality of it sinking in. She would never have to face the possibility that he wouldn’t forgive her for the terrible things she’d said to him.
“Irjan chose his destiny,” Okta said. “He chose to fight and die among us. He believed a debt was owed and wished to repay that debt as a free man. If you need to place blame, then blame us for giving Irjan that which he asked.”
She would never have to watch Irjan choose Marnej over her.
“I said many things I regret,” Okta continued, “Your young heart should not take on the burden that those older and wiser should carry. I am the one that bears the responsibility. Not you. Not Kalek.”
She would never have to share Irjan with Marnej.
Okta turned from her, easing himself onto a stool. “Events were set in motion when you were born,” he began, then paused before adding, “Irjan acted as he thought best. As did I.”
Kalek stood, then stepped to Okta’s side, placing a hand on the old healer’s shoulder.
“I cannot say I would have acted differently knowing what has become of us all,” Okta said. “But I can say I regret the pain it has caused.”
Irjan would always be hers.
A surge of relief coursed through Dárja followed by immediate guilt. She glanced over at Marnej. He had watched her day after day on their journey home. He’d learned to read her as well as he could read the tracks of men and animals. He knew. She was certain of it. He knew that she took comfort in the thought Irjan would always be hers and never his.
Blood pounded in her ears. A dull ached had settled behind her eye.
She began to shake.
Stop it, she told herself. But the trembling continued, moving from her knees to her chest. She fixed her mind on the scent of bitter herbs.
“It is time to rest,” Kalek said, but his voice seemed far off and weak compared to her own, which continued to shame her with craven satisfaction.
Kalek guided Dárja to Okta’s pallet. He helped her down onto the furs, resting her head upon a brushed, woolen pillow. He sat beside her, shaken by how much she had changed. It was more than her close-cropped hair and Olmmoš clothing, or the fact she was dangerously thin. Hair grew, clothes could be replaced, and bodies could be restored with food and rest. Kalek could address these outward signs of Dárja’s trials and hardship. It was the change in her spirit, however, that frightened him. Spirit could not be mended easily, especially if she did not wish it.
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