Though the man’s raven eyes held him in their sway, Niilán gathered together enough presence of mind to ask, “How do I know you speak the truth?”
Áigin stepped aside, clearing the path in front of Niilán. “Come with me now. Hear these same words from the High Priest himself.”
Bávvál leaned back in his chair, pulling his furs tight around his shoulders. The previous night’s fire had died down to embers and he had banished the servant who had brought more wood.
“You acted without orders,” he said to Áigin.
“I often act without orders,” the wiry spy admitted, “but always with my Vijns in mind.”
From any other, this kind of fawning would have been irritating, but coming from Áigin the flattery was amusing. Almost.
Bávvál sprung from his chair to stand directly in front of his spy. “This altruism is a fine show for an audience, but I know you prize secrets above all else.” He circled the man. “What have you kept from me? What angle do you see that I do not?”
Áigin stood impassive. Neither interest nor offense registered on his face.
“Niilán is a seasoned soldier who fought in the battle, and has the allegiance of those closest to him. He will not underestimate the Piijkij,” Áigin calmly rephrased his earlier reasoning.
Bávvál sniffed. “Misguided as his actions were, they showed initiative.” He tapped his fingernail lightly on the carved edge of the desk. “And the regiment’s commander?”
One corner of Áigin’s thin lips curled. “He has joined the council as their military advisor.”
“Lies and deceit are the domain of the Court of Counselors,” Bávvál agreed. “Not my army.”
“I took liberties in what I offered him, but felt they were appropriate for your needs,” Áigin said, his tone blithe.
“Quite,” Bávvál said. He walked backed to his chair, dragging his finger along the length of the desk. “In the future, act with more care. I value you, Áigin. I would hate to lose you.”
Bávvál sat back down, certain that his point had been made. “I am encouraged to hear that you have confidence in your new man.” He wiped the beeswax polish from his fingertip. “Because I have just received word that the messengers from the Skaina outpost were attacked and killed.”
“Skaina? That’s on the western side of the far northern border of the Pohjola,” Áigin said. A furrow creased his wide forehead. “There’s proof that it is the work of the Piijkij and not banditry?”
“They left one rider alive to deliver their message,” Bávvál said, keeping his tone mild.
Áigin’s leathery skin blanched.
Bávvál took pleasure from the fact that he had caught his spy unaware. It was a rare occurrence. At any other time he might have enjoyed gloating, but this was not the moment.
“The first of many to come,” Bávvál said. “Their words.”
“The temple outposts must be strengthened,” Áigin said promptly.
“But not at the expense of the Stronghold,” Bávvál warned. “I have no wish to find myself at the end of their blade because we rushed off to protect the borderlands.”
“We can use Niilán,” Áigin said. “His regiment can escort reinforcements to the temple garrisons as he roots out the remaining resistance. The soldiers stationed at each temple need only a few experienced men to lead,” Áigin added, engrossed in problems and possibilities. “The new soldiers who have joined will have no direct knowledge of the Brethren, but they will learn by experience or example.”
Satisfied with the overall plan, but not wanting to inspire his spy to further liberties, Bávvál said in his most imperious tone, “Send another regiment south. I do not want Niilán’s chuoði to wander there when the attack was in the north.”
“Of course, my Vijns,” Áigin said, without a trace of wit, then bowed. “I will see to it at once.”
“And the Jápmea female and that halfling Piijkij,” Bávvál said in passing. “You will see to them. Won’t you?”
Áigin’s lips twitched. “Assuredly, my Vijns.”
“The gods thank you,” Bávvál said.
Áigin bowed. “As I thank the gods.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE PLEASANT SMELL OF simmering herbs permeated the air of the apothecary as the healers worked in companionable silence. Okta paused with the pestle in his hand to observe his apprentice, who in truth had long ago become a master healer. Kalek’s devotion, however, made it all too easy for Okta to forget that in favor of old and comfortable habits.
In his long life, Okta had trained many healers, but he had decided that Kalek would be the one to replace him. He acknowledged the almai’s reluctance to step forward, and he accepted the role loss and heartache played in his hesitancy. But there would come a time, very soon, when he would no longer be there for his assistant, and he needed to prepare Kalek for that eventuality. For the time being, however, he was willing to let Kalek be.
Okta resumed grinding dried berries into powder, his thoughts upon the work at hand. Then a sharp pain, like a knife to his side, ripped the breath from him. He let drop the pestle into the mortar’s bowl to steady himself with both hands on the work table. Okta had counseled enough patients in his long life to know what was happening to him. His end time drew near. It would be useless and foolhardy to believe otherwise. When the pain released its grip on him, he slumped against the table’s edge, weak and dizzy.
Through his haze, he heard Kalek call his name. Then Okta felt two hands guiding him to sit. When he could focus once again, Kalek knelt before him. His pale face was as white as the snow falling outside.
“Are you unwell?” Kalek asked, his care at once touching and worrisome.
Okta patted the almai’s shoulder, feeling the sharp angle of bone. “I am fine. Just a meal that is not sitting well with me. And, in that vein, when did you last eat?”
Kalek shrugged off the question.
“You could do with a little something,” Okta said.
Kalek stood. “What do you mean?”
“You are too thin, Kalek.”
The young healer shrugged again. “I find that I am not hungry,” he said, then added, “Do you want me to make you some salmonberry tea?” And without waiting for the old healer to answer, Kalek went to the work table and began to shift jars around until he found what he wanted.
We are both hiding the truth, Okta thought, then softened his judgment. They were both at the beginning of a long and difficult journey, and a little tea never hurt. He smiled, “Yes, some salmonberry tea would do me a world of good.”
“Has Dárja spoken to you?” Okta asked, rubbing his gnarled hands together, trying to rid himself of their unnerving tingle.
“Mmm. We talk every day,” Kalek answered, dipping the wooden ladle into the warming water.
“What does she say?”
Kalek sighed, turning to hand Okta a small steaming bowl. “Mostly we talk about Irjan.”
Okta accepted the bowl with a nod, blowing across its surface to cool it before taking a sip. As he did this, he considered the best way to proceed.
“Does she still blame herself?” he asked.
“She knows she is not to blame,” Kalek said, sitting down opposite Okta. He picked up a basket of unfinished poultices. He rooted around until he pulled out a needle and spindle of thread. “But knowing and feeling are very different. I believe she still feels responsible.”
“Has she mentioned what she plans to do?” Okta inquired, sipping his tea.
“I do not understand,” Kalek mumbled, the thread now stretched between his teeth to cut. When the string broke he continued, “What do you mean by plans?”
“Kalek, she cannot continue as she has been,” Okta said.
“I agree,” Kalek said, his eye squinting to thread the needle. “That is why I think she should take up her sword practice. She could train with Marnej.”
Okta brought the bowl to his lips and sipped the tea before he suggested, �
�Perhaps her skills would be better served under your tutelage.”
Kalek tied off the knot. “I am hardly equipped to oversee her fighting skills,” he said, beginning to stitch a poultice closed. “At best, I was adequate with the sword.”
Okta shook his head. “Hardly true.”
Kalek was about to protest, but Okta raised his hand, his stamina waning. “I am not suggesting you instruct Dárja in her sword work. I am asking you to guide her in the art of healing.”
Kalek looked up, his sewing forgotten.
“The time for fighting is at an end,” Okta explained. “There is nothing left for us to fight over. We are defeated, but we must continue on.” He paused, knowing Kalek would rather avoid this topic, just as he had avoided counseling the nieddaš who were preparing to birth. For too long now, Okta had allowed his apprentice to shirk that responsibility out of compassion, but this duty could not be dismissed.
“Dárja needs to have some part to play because there are no more battles for her to fight,” he said.
Kalek’s fingers played with the edge of the poultice. “Do you believe she will accept the role of a healer?”
“I believe she will if she is led in that direction,” Okta said.
Kalek stiffened, dropping the poultice into the basket at his side. “You are asking me to meddle in affairs that are not mine.”
“It is your affair,” Okta said sternly. “It is my affair. It is yours. It is all of ours. Dárja needs a purpose. We all do. She has made herself into a warrior, but that cannot sustain her here with us. Unless we can give her something that will fully engage her, she will fall victim to discontent.”
“And you think that being a healer will forestall that?” Kalek asked, his doubt verging on disdain.
“I believe that learning to heal others will help Dárja to heal herself,” Okta said, softening. “But I do not believe she will come to this understanding on her own. The darkness surrounding her clouds all other possibilities.”
“Why must I be the one to lead her in this direction?” Kalek objected. “Why not you? You are the teacher. I am your apprentice.”
“Because I am in need of her forgiveness and therefore cannot be heard,” Okta said. “Besides, more than any of us, you have shared her life, and you are ready to be a teacher.”
Kalek’s expression drifted from denial to defeat. When the almai exhaled a long slow breath, Okta knew that he had managed to convince his apprentice of his point, but worried that he had pushed him too far. He was not proud of what he had done, but it had been the right thing to do.
Okta had always tried to do what was right. Viewed from the present, some of their kind would say he had been wrong. They would judge him for bringing Irjan to them and would even blame him for the war. In his darkest hour, Okta had blamed himself as well. But when he surveyed his actions, he saw life emerging from death. He saw the very spirit of the Jápmemeahttun.
Once, when he was young and rash, he had believed victory was possible and noble. Now he knew that even if they had won the battle against the Olmmoš, it would have been no victory. A victory is an end. And as Okta saw life before him, there was no end. There was only the cycle of life and death, where one gives way to the other endlessly.
Okta studied the serious face of this fine, honorable almai he had called for so long student and friend. Soon, Okta would head out for his Origin like countless old ones before him to offer the service of life bringer, and Kalek would carry on the art of healing, gaining knowledge and imparting wisdom until his own time came to return to his Origin. The beautiful simplicity of their lives had worked for as long as Guovassonásti had shone upon their lives. Okta then thought of Dárja and Marnej. They were a wondrous unknown. He regretted that he would not witness their lives unfold.
Okta finished his tea, then placed the bowl upon the work table. “I am in need of a rest,” he said, his heart at once sad and grateful.
When a low rumbling snore came from the adjoining room, Kalek let himself consider Okta’s suggestion. The idea of Dárja training as a healer had much to recommend it, provided she wanted to.
But what will she do when the other nieddaš become guide mothers? he wondered. He supposed that there was nothing to prevent her from becoming a biebmoeadni. After all, Irjan had been Dárja’s bieba. But for their kind, the role of guide mother was meant to prepare a nieddaš to give birth. It was a way of lessening the sorrow of giving one’s birth child to the care of another to become almai. At least that was how it had been for him.
Kalek’s guide child, Kearte, was a mature nieddaš when he returned from his Origin with his birth child. Irjan had once asked if Kalek had found it hard to give Ravna over to her guide mother. Kalek had truly searched his heart before he answered. He’d had no misgivings. Still, Irjan’s question had made him aware of his own assumptions. From a distance, he had watched Ravna grow up. She had a devoted guide mother and a loving world of friends. As far as Kalek could see, she had no need for him.
Whatever loss Kalek had felt giving over his birth child had been short-lived compared to the physical changes that followed the birth. He had endeavored to explain this to Irjan but the gap in their experience had been too great. Irjan had been born a male and had grown up to be an Olmmoš man. He had never been a female, nor given birth, nor endured the change. Irjan had accepted the role of guide mother, but Kalek doubted he appreciated the true meaning of being a biebmoeadni. In his most truthful accounting of this man he had loved, Kalek knew that Irjan had never relinquished his role as a father to the son he had lost.
In some ways, Dárja was more like Irjan than her birth mother, Aillun. Dárja would likely never give birth, nor go through the change. The thought that she would never sing her child’s song pained Kalek. As did his recollections of Aillun, who had been very young when her time came. Too young, he thought. She had only been a guide mother for a short while, and he had been too blind with love for her to see what was happening until it was too late. He would not make the same mistake with Dárja. He had seen her potential for bitterness in the way she watched the other nieddaš, and without something to fully engage her, Dárja’s discontent would grow and fester.
Kalek knew he had to do something. He had to figure out some way to talk to Dárja, without manipulation, and without touching on subjects he would rather have left unmentioned. Kalek put the finished poultices on the table. He turned his attention to the fire where the herb tincture had reduced greatly in his absence. Stirring the remaining liquid, his mind was absorbed with the problem of how best to deal with Dárja.
“I think you’re burning that,” a voice said.
Kalek reeled around. His resolve drained away like the tincture dripping from his spoon at the sight of Dárja.
“I did not hear you enter the apothecary,” he said, his pulse quick and guilty.
“Clearly,” Dárja said, inspecting the pot over the fire.
Kalek strained out the softened root.
“Are you making an urtas remedy?” she asked, sniffing. “Because this smells more like boiled frog than angelica root.” She screwed up her face in disgust.
Kalek pulled the pot off the fire. He waved his hand over the boiling mixture, as if the little breeze he created might actually cool the tincture before it was ruined.
“What are you doing here?”
“Where else should I go?” she asked.
Her petulant inflection felt accusatory to Kalek’s sensitive ears.
He wrestled with what to say, and his renewed discomfort made him anxious for any available answer. “Go . . . go practice in the woods with Marnej,” he said more sharply than he had intended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DÁRJA TRUDGED ALONG THE overgrown forest path. Her skin burned with humiliation after her banishment from the apothecary. All she’d done was point out the tincture was scorching. Kalek should have offered her thanks instead of treating her like a misbehaving mánná—she was no child.
&
nbsp; I should’ve returned to my room, she thought. Marnej could be anywhere out here and the longer she walked, the more she wished she hadn’t stormed outside without her hat and gloves. Dárja blew on her hands, then stuck them into her armpits. Without her arms out to balance her, the boggy path became more treacherous, adding to her ill humor.
I’m only going as far as that pine growing out of the rock, she told herself. If she couldn’t see Marnej from there, then she would turn back. Dárja felt a prick of guilt. She hadn’t seen much of Marnej since they’d arrived in the Pohjola. She’d left him on his own to figure out how to be among their kind. She knew it could not have been easy, not when most of them would blame him for what they’d lost in the battle. But she’d had her own struggles. Not only was Marnej a reminder that Irjan was gone, but his presence would not let her forget that she had taken comfort in the fact she would never have to share Irjan with him. If Marnej knew this, he’d hate her. Likely, he already hated her because she’d had his father’s love when he hadn’t and never would.
Dárja reached the tree in the rock, then turned on her heels without looking up.
“Hey!” Marnej’s Olmmoš voice called to her.
Dárja twisted around. In the distance, she made out his figure sitting by a large snow-dusted spruce.
Dárja stood still, her feet sinking into the mud. I should never have turned around, she thought. Now she couldn’t go back, at least not without Marnej knowing she’d seen him and had chosen to ignore him. She took a step out of the mire toward Marnej.
“Your limp is gone,” he said when she got close enough that he didn’t need to shout. Dárja tensed, hearing censure for her absence. He didn’t move from where he sat, and from his expression, she couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or annoyed to see her.
“What are you doing sitting under a tree?” she asked, deflecting her thoughts from her failings.
Marnej squinted up through the branches. “Just listening to it. It takes me a while to sort out all the songs, to focus on just one.”
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