The light in Kalek’s eyes vanished along with his smile. Concern pushed Marnej to step forward between Dárja and the healer.
“She wouldn’t travel alone,” he said, trying to divert the healer’s attention. “I’d go with her. Together we can protect the nieddaš.”
“Is this your idea?” Kalek asked, his voice tight and whittled to the bone.
Marnej hesitated. He’d succeeded in attracting Kalek’s bitter focus and now thought better of it. But before Marnej could speak, Kalek answered his own question.
“No. This is your idea,” he said, peering around Marnej to Dárja. “It has your marking on it—rash and ill-advised.”
The healer’s icy tone made Marnej shiver, but he didn’t dare turn to gauge Dárja’s reaction.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time to discuss this,” said Marnej.
“You are right,” Kalek said. “This is not the time for discussion.” He turned on his heel, grabbed the ewer’s handle, and stalked out of the apothecary, liquid sloshing over the ewer’s lip.
Marnej released the breath he’d been holding.
Dárja rounded on him, her face splotched with fury.
“Is this some revenge for something I’ve done to you? Or are you so weak that you cannot stand up for what is right?”
She moved to follow Kalek.
Marnej blocked her way, contempt vying with anger for control of him.
“For the first time since I’ve been here, Kalek seems to be at ease. Maybe even happy. And you’ve ruined it,” he said, failing in his efforts to keep his tone even. “Don’t you understand? He doesn’t want to lose you. You’re all he has of your mother. All he has of Irjan.”
My father, he silently added.
Dárja met his gaze, her whole being alive with disdain. Marnej reached out to grab her shoulders to shake her, then stopped as she visibly stiffened. His hands paused mid-air, balled into fists before dropping to his sides.
“He thought you were dead. Now you’re telling him you want to risk your life again. How do you think he feels?”
“This is more important than feelings,” Dárja said with contempt, as if he were blind to what was important. “We’re talking about the survival of our kind.”
Marnej took in the set of her shoulders. So like she’d been in the Brethren’s cell—smug and careless of all the love gifted to her. Given the same he would’ve cherished it—fought for it. His envy gnawed at him, hungry and spiteful.
Dárja continued to talk, but her voice became a distant murmur amid Marnej’s turbulent feelings. When he’d heard Dárja tell Kalek her plans, he knew what the healer felt because he’d felt it too, and it had unnerved him. He feared losing her. Her idea was no longer some noble abstraction, and he wouldn’t be able to change her mind. When had he ever been able to do that?
In that moment, Marnej hated her. He hated her because he cared about her and there was nothing he could do to change that.
Dárja paced in front of him. Her arms waved as she mouthed something he’d no desire to hear.
“No, Dárja.” Marnej shook his head. “You’re wrong.”
She stopped her pacing.
“Right now, there’s nothing more important than feelings,” he said, his voice a brutal whisper.
Dárja’s face reddened, a rebuttal ready on her lips.
Marnej left her standing in the middle of the apothecary, sputtering. He had neither the time to argue nor the inclination to absolve her for her singlemindedness. He needed to find Kalek, and stop Dárja from making the same mistake she’d made with Irjan. Most of all, he needed to get away from her.
Marnej made his way through the gathering hall unaware of those around him. At the stairs to the northern quarters, he bounded up the steps two at a time, his mind rehearsing what he would say to Kalek. On the landing, he paused to catch his breath, and it occurred to him that Kalek might take this intrusion badly.
I am like some startled moose charging ahead, he thought, berating himself. But that was what Dárja did to him. She made him crazy. Reckless. Marnej slumped down to the floor, his eyes intent on the shadow cast by the flickering torchlight. His brooding outlook shaped the outlines into an ominous sign. Although Kalek had treated him as a friend, Marnej wasn’t sure he actually was one. Kalek had been close to Irjan, but friendship wasn’t something passed from father to son like land or a trade. And, friend or not, Marnej doubted Kalek would find what he had to say any more palatable than Dárja’s words .
Kalek will never want Dárja to go, he thought. The chance of losing her again was too much to consider. Marnej understood that. We all want to hold on to the gifts that we are given. He didn’t want to give up the life he’d built among the Immortals. He wanted to safeguard his feeling of belonging, as tenuous as it was. But without Dárja what connection did he have?
Marnej briefly wondered what his father would’ve done. Maybe Irjan would’ve been able to talk some sense into her. But he doubted it. He recalled how she’d come charging after Irjan the one and only time he had encountered his father.
On one of the rare occasions when they were not at odds, Dárja had explained the circumstances of their unforeseen meeting. But, even now, Marnej questioned whether the gods had been testing him. That day, he’d heard the voices and felt the presence of something beyond his vision. But he’d never expected to see an Olmmoš ride out of the air on a binna, trailed by Immortals.
Dárja had said that they had been traveling north to the Pohjola to escape the Brethren when Irjan had bolted from her side. Marnej had never shared with her the fact that he had been actively seeking out the Immortals. Instead, he let her believe that chance or the gods had brought them all together.
Marnej closed his eyes, conjuring Irjan’s likeness as he had on so many sleepless nights. His long, dark hair streaked with grey, eyes pleading even has he widened his stance to fight.
The weaver’s door opened, startling Marnej awake, the unnerving memory of his father’s soft, fierce voice in the forefront of his thoughts.
I cannot undo the past, but I beg you to believe that I have only loved you and tried to protect you.
Kalek emerged, his disapproval evident. “If you have come to convince me of Dárja’s plan, you have wasted your time.” He walked past Marnej without waiting for a response.
Marnej jumped to his feet and ran after him. “I don’t want her to go either,” he said, speaking to the healer’s back as they descended the stairs. “But she’s determined to carry out this plan. Isn’t it better to support her than to let her go on alone?”
The stairs protested under Kalek’s weight.
Marnej followed on his heels. “You know that’s what she’ll do. And, she won’t be alone. I’ll be with her.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Kalek rounded on Marnej. “You think you can solve our problems by venturing out?”
Marnej was ready to repeat the words he’d practice. But facing the despair he saw in Kalek’s eyes, he couldn’t give voice to them. Nor could he back down. “Is there another way?” he asked, frustration coursing through him.
Kalek shook his head, but Marnej couldn’t tell if it was to deny the possibility or register his disgust.
“Why do the nieddaš even need to travel to their Origin?” he asked, feeling like a badger who has been cornered. “Can’t they just give birth here?”
“It is our way,” Kalek said, turning to leave.
Marnej stopped him with an outstretched hand. “But why?”
“It will take more time to explain than I believe you have patience for,” the healer said, pulling away.
Marnej jumped in front of Kalek. “Fine, then,” he said. His need to find a solution had made him rash. “Can the nieddaš and the old one travel together?”
“I do not know, Marnej,” Kalek said, his exasperation shattering his calm demeanor. “What do you want from me? This has been our way for untold generations.”
“I don’t know,” Marnej
admitted, his desperation brimming over. “But Dárja can’t just sit here and watch her friends go out and never come back. It’s like watching the condemned. She was trained to fight. And honestly, it’s all I know how to do too.”
“And you will fight your people?” Kalek asked, looking doubtful.
“Who are my people, Kalek? There’s only Dárja!”
Dárja muttered to her herself as she picked up her furs and readied herself to go out into the woods where she could find some sense and order.
“What is all the noise?” Okta called out behind her.
Dárja considered leaving without answering, but she had no quarrel with Okta.
“I’m going outside,” she said, sliding her arms into her furs.
Okta picked up his writing materials. “Not before explaining why you are clomping about my apothecary. You are talking to yourself as though you disagreed with your own answers.”
Dárja’s anger flared, then gradually faded away. She’d wanted to speak with Kalek before bringing the matter to Okta and the Elders. But Kalek refused to listen, and Marnej’s accusation that she was thinking only of herself had stung.
But what did he know? She knew she could help.
Okta scanned the vellum before him, then looked expectantly at Dárja, “Well?”
Dárja laid her furs down. She took a deep breath as she straightened. “I wish to escort the nieddaš to their Origin,” she said. “I want to protect them.” Dárja stood still, wound tight like a rope, waiting for the old healer’s reaction.
Okta placed the vellum aside. His lined and weathered face was inscrutable.
“I told Kalek. I had hoped to enlist his help in convincing you and the Elders,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.
Okta’s bushy brows drew together. “What was his reaction?”
“He refused to listen,” Dárja said, her exasperation barely restrained by her desire not to anger Okta, who, at least, seemed willing to hear her out. “He called my idea rash and ill-advised.”
Okta snorted. “The mark of Irjan remains.”
Dárja started at her bieba’s name. “Irjan would have understood,” she blurted out, silently daring him to contradict her.
The healer raised his hands in surrender, then sat down, and regarded her. “Tell me then.”
“So you too can say it’s ill-advised?” she challenged.
Okta shook his head. “No. So I can understand and share my insights.”
“You’ll listen and help me?” she asked haltingly.
“I will listen and tell you what I think,” he corrected her.
Dárja came and sat opposite Okta by the fire. The warmth worked its way into her taut muscles, entreating them to relax. “I wish to travel with the nieddaš to their Origin,” she said. “I think the strength of two voices can keep us hidden within the Song of All. It worked with Marnej and me. Even at great distance.” Dárja paused, doubt sidling in as she considered the other possibilities.
“And if that fails,” she said, “my blade can protect us on the journey.”
Okta rubbed his gnarled hands together, then held them before the fire. “But the nieddaš is only half of the pair,” he pointed out, not unkindly.
“Marnej will travel with the boaris.” Dárja instantly assigned Marnej the role, even as she doubted his commitment. Maybe another almai or Taistelijan would stand in his place if he proved unwilling. “He can protect the old ones.”
Okta sniffed as if insulted. “He has agreed to this?”
“Yes. He told me he was better suited to wielding a sword than hammering on one,” Dárja said, crafting as truthful an answer as served her purpose.
Okta let out a mirthless laugh. “I do not doubt his words.”
“Well?” she asked, her knee bouncing as she waited for the old healer to continue.
Okta sighed. One hand absentmindedly stroked his short grey beard.
Dárja was on the verge of leaping to her feet and declaring she didn’t care what he thought, what any of them thought. She would protect the nieddaš.
“My selfish heart tells me to agree with Kalek,” he said finally. “Your plan is incautious. We risk losing more than a nieddaš and a boaris. We risk losing you and Marnej.”
“But we are already losing more than just a nieddaš and a boaris,” Dárja argued. “Every time one of them leaves, never to return, we lose another piece of our future.”
“Yes, Dárja,” Okta agreed. “We are losing our future. But it is not your future, nor is it Marnej’s. You both have destinies beyond what any of us can see, maybe even imagine.”
This time Dárja did rise to stand. “I have no future outside of those who are around me!”
Okta placed a hand on her arm, his touch gentle but firm. “I have told you what my selfish heart thinks, the one which wishes to keep you and Marnej safe. The one which wants, more than anything, to protect Kalek from further heartbreak.” The old healer spoke with weariness flagging each word.
Dárja faltered as she saw Okta clearly for the first time since her return. This was not the conspiratorial healer who slipped her honey-in-the-comb. Nor was this the voice of the hard truth she had railed against. Okta was a boaris, wise and worn by measures of time. Dárja didn’t even know how many times Guovassonásti had shined upon him or how many seasons of snow Okta had seen. He’d always just been there.
“Okta, you know this is the right thing to do,” she said, as the healer’s gaze slowly turned away from her. “It’s the only way.”
When he did not respond, she offered her final gambit. “It’s what you would’ve done.”
Okta looked back to her. His milky eyes glinted with firelight and indignation, “Once, maybe. But look at the price we all have paid.”
Dárja fought the urge to shrink back from the old healer’s rebuke.
“You believed you were doing the right thing! Just as I do,” she said.
“And what price are you willing to pay?” he challenged, his voice harsh and ragged. “Have you thought of that?”
“I’m willing to lay down my life,” she said, her body alive with the urgency of her calling.
“But what of Marnej? Are you willing to lay down his life as well? Because if he journeys out he does so for you.”
Dárja froze. She had no answer. She’d never considered Marnej’s actions to be anything other than of his own making.
“And Kalek. Are you willing to break his heart? Are you willing to feel yours broken again, just as it was with Irjan?” Okta continued. “You are more than an apprentice to Kalek. More than some memory of Aillun. You are a piece of his soul. I watched him struggle to live, believing you were dead.”
“I can’t live like this, Okta,” Dárja interrupted. “I can’t live knowing that Lejá is out there on her own. And one day Tuá, Ravna, and the others will follow, likely never to return. I can’t remain safe while they are not, and I can’t remain here when I have the skills to protect them.”
Okta released a long, slow breath. To Dárja it seemed as if he were letting go of something deep within him. For a long while they sat quietly. Dárja had no more arguments to tender.
“You are right,” he said at last. “This is something I might have done. I cannot stand in your way.”
“But will you help me?” she asked, her voice yielding and uncertain.
“I will not try to change Kalek’s mind. If that is what you want of me,” he said. “But if Kalek agrees, I will help you speak to the Elders.”
The tension that had kept Dárja coiled and anxious drained from her body. She had fought and won a major battle.
Inhaling the scent of warmed herbs, reminded her of her reasons, she said, “You know you couldn’t have stopped me.”
Okta nodded. “Just as we could not stop Irjan, and it almost cost Kalek his life.” Okta pushed himself up to stand. His bones popped along with the fire. “Do not make that same mistake.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
> BÁVVÁL STOOD WITH HIS arms outstretched. Deft hands fitted him for his ceremonial robes. Advisors and supplicants milled about, alternately presenting reports and vying for the High Priest’s favor.
“I am done listening to these matters,” Bávvál said, stepping off the dais. The acolyte serving as his dresser followed and fussed. Bávvál shooed him away with an impatient wave. “Rikkar, you will remain.”
The room quieted. All eyes turned to the man singled out. Envy and scorn flashed across some faces, then vanished behind facades of piety and disinterest.
Bávvál enjoyed these moments of insecurity he witnessed. A touch of discord proved useful among those who sought further power.
“Usher them out,” Bávvál ordered the fresh-faced acolyte standing by the door, then met his spy’s gaze briefly.
Áigin slipped into the stream of exiting notables. He would report anything he heard, if only to show off his skill at unearthing well-guarded secrets.
When the door closed behind the last shuffling petitioner, Bávvál raised his arms to allow his dresser to tie a thin band of red around the waist of his yellow robe. The red of man’s blood encircles the gods’ golden light. The High Priest mused upon the truth of this middle line of the Believers’ Verse as he dropped his arms.
From the corner of his eye, he observed the lone counselor. Rikkar had looked back to the door more than once.
Bávvál wondered what preyed upon the man’s soul. What is he hiding?
“Rikkar.”
The counselor flinched at the sound of his name, then he bowed his downy head.
“My Vijns,” he greeted the High Priest with deference, but his eyes scurried about the room like a frightened mouse.
Bávvál said nothing in return, choosing to scrutinize his counselor as he made him wait. He knew the man’s thoughts ran between possibilities of reward and punishment. Bávvál had always been able to see right through Rikkar. Even when they were both young acolytes. Rikkar, the child of faith. Himself, the child of ambition. His counselor finally looked up from his pious examination of the ground to meet the High Priest’s frank appraisal. Even after all these seasons of snow, Bávvál still found Rikkar’s icy blue eyes disturbing. They were the last remaining vestige of the fanatical priest he had once been.
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