He banged his fist on the work table, scattering Kalek’s weight stones across the worn wooden planks. The healer swore under his breath, then gathered the burnished stones together again. Their cool heft in his hand was soothing. They had been given to him by his master when he had finished his training. Okta had given them to Kalek when the almai had recovered from the wounds he had sustained aiding Irjan’s failed rescue of Marnej.
Foolish and foolhardy, Okta thought, shaking his head at the memory. He had almost lost Kalek. But he could not hold it against the young almai for helping a friend. If any should carry the blame, it should be Okta. He had been the one to involve Kalek in the first place. He could not fault the almai for the bond that had formed with Irjan. Okta rolled the smooth stones in his hand as he paced the room.
Back and forth he measured the distance from hearth to sickbed, his heart finding reasons not to tell Kalek, while his mind argued to tell the truth. Gods help me, he thought in silent exasperation. He had not been this conflicted since he had sent Kalek out to find the newly born Dárja and had not told Einár nor Mord. Mord. The name clung to his thoughts like a burr. He and Mord had fought together in the early battles against the Olmmoš. They had both been young almai recently returned from birthing. When the Elders asked them to become Taistelijan, they had not hesitated. Inexperienced but eager to serve their kind, they had fought side by side until the battles ended and their lives diverged.
Okta had been grateful to be apprenticed as a healer. Violence and death had taken a toll on him. But Mord remained a warrior at heart until the end. Now he was gone, as were most, if not all, of the Taistelijan. Killed in the last battle.
So many lost, he thought, wondering if he could have done anything to change the outcome.
With a bang and a clatter, Kalek entered the apothecary, interrupting Okta’s pacing and ruminations on a past he could not alter.
“Gods be cursed,” Kalek called out, “Who placed the chair so close to the door?”
“I am sorry, Kalek,” Okta apologized, moving toward his limping assistant. “I must have done it when I stood up.”
Kalek rubbed his hip, promising Okta he would be fine. Then he smiled, but the dark circles beneath his eyes haunted his features. “That will teach me to come charging in here with speed behind me.”
Okta pulled his chair closer to the work table as Kalek began to scan the jars.
“How were your visits?” he asked, searching for a way to broach the true topic that preoccupied him.
“They are improving, with the exception of Ávrá,” Kalek said, seemingly distracted.
“Do you have pressing matters at the moment?” Okta asked, almost hoping the almai would say yes.
Kalek turned. “No. Why?”
Suddenly, Okta could not make himself speak. His mind raced for a suitable answer. “I need you . . . I need you to help me forage for ránesjeagil.”
Kalek reached for the jar. “Do we not have enough?”
“We have some,” Okta interrupted. “But gathering more now while the weather is mild would be prudent.”
“I will go then,” Kalek said, turning. “There is no need for you to go out in the snow.” He started for the rack that held his furs.
Okta swore under his breath. His ruse was going all wrong. “I have not seen you much in the past few days, and I would relish your company.”
Kalek eyed him from the far corner of the room. “Well, make sure to take an extra layer. I do not wish to add you to my list of the sick.”
Okta took the furs Kalek held out. “No. There is no time for sickness now,” he agreed, putting on one set of furs and then the other.
Once outside, Okta breathed in the freezing air. It cleared his mind of any lingering doubts. He’d had a long, full life. One with regrets, but, then again, who did not have regrets? He had also experienced great happiness, primarily due to his calling as a healer and his friendship with Kalek. But his end approached, and that too was part of being a Jápmemeahttun.
“Kalek, I had another purpose in wishing to be out here,” Okta began, observing his apprentice with a sidelong glance. “I wished to speak to you without interruption.”
“Hmm.” Kalek answered, scanning the snowy ground for the grey, reindeer lichen.
“Our time together has made me happy,” Okta said, though each word pulled him apart a bit more. “There is no one I value more in this life than you.”
Kalek’s head shot up. “What are you trying to say, Okta?”
The old healer hoped his eyes reflected his acceptance, his willingness to fulfill this last role. “There is no easy way to say this. I will be going to my Origin soon.”
Kalek stopped. “Soon? What does that mean?”
“It means I will visit the Council of Passings at the new moon. I expect to leave before the quarter moon.” Unable to bear Kalek’s stunned expression, Okta turned his attention to the distant horizon, where the sliver of the wintry sun was already setting.
“How long have you known?” Kalek asked.
Okta winced. The question was a dagger to his heart. “Too long,” he admitted, then paused, summoning his courage. “I told myself I feared hurting you. I feared your reaction. The truth is, I feared my own heartbreak, having to admit that I will no longer wake to see your face.”
With growing sadness, Okta watched Kalek’s broad shoulders droop, and his head bow. Okta said, “I thought, if I told you earlier, the knowledge would be a burden,” he endeavored to explain. “You have been in brighter spirits since Dárja’s return. I did not want to darken your days needlessly.”
Kalek kept his head bowed as Okta struggled on. “I am sorry for making that decision, one which so deeply affects you. I have made too many of those in our time together. I hope you can forgive me for all of them.”
Kalek drew a shuddering breath. He looked up, opening his arms to Okta. “There is nothing to forgive. You have given me the chance to watch Aillun’s mánná grow and to know the love and friendship of an Olmmoš.”
Okta lingered in Kalek’s embrace, its solace as profound as any he had experienced in his long life and his many loves.
He stepped back to hold his apprentice at arm’s length, knowing more needed to be said.
“You have neglected to mention the sadness and the heartache of which I am also party to.”
Kalek shook his head and smiled weakly. “There would have been sadness regardless.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE NOAIDI WAITED UNTIL the Elders had settled before addressing the two before him.
“Dárja, the eighteen seasons of snow you have experienced are but a small part of your life,” he said. “Yet you have made those of us who are many measures older stop and reflect. You were right to challenge me. To be Jápmemeahttun is to transform. But our ways make us who we are. You and Marnej are too young to understand the importance of ritual and practice.”
Seeing the nieddaš’s readiness to argue, Einár raised his hand avoid a debate. “I do not say we must follow our traditions to our end, but their value cannot be overlooked. Neither you nor Marnej are truly Jápmemeahttun and so perhaps you cannot fully understand what that means.”
The unequivocal tone of the pronouncement had an immediate and sobering impact on the young petitioners. Dárja’s once-eager expression now matched Marnej’s grim determination. Einár had no wish to hurt these two before him, but he needed them to acknowledge their place among their kind.
Turning from the chastened pair, Einár glanced to the other members of the Council of Elders. They nodded their approval. He was mindful of the concessions they had made, and the tenuous nature of their support.
He cleared his throat. “You may escort the life bringers,” he said, catching the sidelong look Marnej gave Dárja.
“But you must adhere to our traditions,” he continued. The other Elders murmured their agreement.
“Dárja, you will escort the nieddaš, and Marnej, you the boaris. You
may not travel together. You will see the life bringers to their Origin and then withdraw. The life force of the boaris is powerful. It is meant to assist the nieddaš to give birth and transform to almai. The ritual is sacred and not meant to be shared.”
Einár addressed the frowning Marnej directly. “You had no part in what happened with Aillun and Djorn, but here you do. Our ways must be respected.”
The young Olmmoš nodded, his mouth a hard line.
Einár looked to Dárja, “Do you understand and agree?”
She met his gaze unwaveringly. “Yes,” she affirmed, then asked, “Will we leave soon?”
“That is for the Council of Passings to decide,” Einár said, perplexed by this unlikely pair in front of him. They looked like mánáid to him, yet much had happened already in their short lives. More than what many of their kind experienced in ten measures. They were linked in ways few would understand, in ways that perhaps even they did not realize.
Dárja and Marnej moved to leave, prompting the Noaidi out of his thoughts. “You both risk much. Let us pray the Song holds you and all are returned safely.”
“They agreed,” Dárja said, sounding surprised. “I’d hoped . . . but I didn’t think. . .”
She mumbled something Marnej couldn’t hear.
“It’s what you wanted,” he said.
Dárja didn’t register his comment. She shook her head. “I didn’t think they would agree,” she said. “I wasn’t . . .” she began, then stopped, seemingly lost in thought.
Marnej wanted to point out that she’d gotten her way, just as she always did, but there was something about Dárja’s eyes and how they’d lost focus that made him stop. She’d barely been able to contain herself before the audience with the Elders and now she stood motionless.
For his part, Marnej was relieved to have the Elders’ support. It saved him from having to choose. If they succeeded in this foolhardy quest, Marnej hoped he might be welcomed back among the Immortals. He wanted to make a life for himself as his father had done. But Irjan had Dárja, he reminded himself. And I have the forge, he thought, claiming his place, even if Úlla complained about his presence.
The thought of Úlla chased away any notions about his future. She would be leaving at some point to give birth. He couldn’t imagine working in the forge without her. She was as much its heart as its fires. If she doesn’t come back . . . he began to worry, then reaffirmed that she would come back. They would all come back.
“There’s much to do before we leave,” Dárja said.
Marnej returned to the present, realizing they still stood outside the Elders’ chambers.
“What?” he asked.
“I said there’s much to do before we leave,” Dárja repeated. Her voice had regained some of its confidence. She’d fixed a smile upon her face but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m glad the Elders saw reason. I know we can protect the life bringers.”
Dárja began to prattle on that they were doing what was right. How the only thing that mattered was protecting the nieddaš. How this was the only way. All the while, Marnej studied her.
Her hair had grown out from the shearing he’d given her on their journey north. However, it would be some time before she could braid it again. Right now, her short, wavy tresses bounced along with her insistence. And this, more than anything the Elders had said, drove fear into his heart.
Suddenly, he needed to get away from her as quickly as possible, before the dread and worry drove him to say something he couldn’t take back. “I need to go. Úlla’s expecting me. We have a lot of work to do today.”
“Oh,” Dárja said. The single word stretched out in disappointment. “I thought we would tell Kalek and Okta together.”
Marnej looked away. “Later.”
When she didn’t answer, he was forced to look back. The lines around her mouth had hardened. Her smile was gone.
“I should go,” he said, taking a few steps away from her, before breaking into a jog. Then, when he was sure Dárja could no longer see him, he slowed to a walk.
Marnej didn’t really want to go to the forge. It was true there was a lot of work to do today, but he was reasonably certain Úlla had no wish to see him. She’d been avoiding him since the night she’d shared her secret. And now, he felt torn as to whether or not he should tell Úlla that Dárja would be her escort. If Úlla didn’t want to think about returning to her Origin, then he didn’t want to be the one to remind her.
Gods! Why can’t it be easy? he agonized. It was never this difficult with the Brethren. They’d been cruel and demanding, but he’d never had to worry about another person’s feelings. Here, among the Immortals, he was trying to balance everyone’s feelings and failing. Kalek’s angry because Dárja wishes to leave. Úlla’s upset because she must leave. Dárja’s disappointed that I’m not excited. And me? What did he feel? He no longer knew.
Marnej walked on, blaming himself for something he couldn’t control or change. His feet, by habit, carried him to the forge. When he realized where he was, he stopped. Úlla stood by the grindstone, a scythe in her hand.
“I was beginning to think I would need to do all this work myself,” she said, without looking up.
Marnej took a smock from the peg, then slipped it over his head, tying the leather strips in the back as he moved to the forge. The fire was out.
“Should I get the fire started?” he asked.
Úlla picked up a smaller whetstone, “Yes. The others will be here after their meal.” She honed the scythe’s edge, not bothering to look at him.
Marnej began to load the furnace with wood, layering it as Úlla had instructed him. He used pine and pitch to get the flames burning high and hot. It would take time for the wood to die down to coals, and he was grateful that he would need to watch it. The task would keep him occupied and away from the apothecary.
Marnej piled more logs by the forge. He hefted as much as he could carry each time. The effort helped to consume the anxiety that had been building within him since leaving the Elders. He stacked more wood on the fire, then shifted around to work the bellows. The flames roared upward, forcing Marnej to jump back and shield his face.
“Have a care or you will lose your brows,” Úlla said, coming to stand beside him.
Her proximity made Marnej uncomfortably aware of the heat within him.
“More air,” she said.
Marnej worked the bellows again.
“Good,” Úlla said, her eyes on the flames.
Marnej moved to get more wood, but Úlla’s calloused hand stopped him.
“Have they decided?” she asked.
Without meeting her eyes, Marnej nodded, then he faced her, knowing that Úlla deserved more. “They’ve agreed to let Dárja and I escort the life bringers.”
Úlla’s grip slackened. A long breath escaped her.
“I didn’t know if I should say anything,” he said, unsure what was expected of him. Frustrated by it all. “You’ve been avoiding me. I didn’t want to upset you.”
Úlla’s head shot up. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”
“I haven’t told Dárja you will be traveling,” he interrupted. “I haven’t told anyone. The Noaidi said the life bringers are to travel separately and withdraw once the ritual has begun. I don’t understand why. And please don’t say it’s ‘our way.’ It makes no sense to me. We’d be safer if we all stayed together.” Marnej hesitated, aware his hand was now on Úlla’s arm. “No one knows that I share your secret.”
Úlla started to say something, then pulled away when the other smiths entered the forge. As she passed her work bench, she grabbed a sheathed dagger and began to fasten it around her waist, then stopped. Úlla looked at Marnej, her bearing both defiant and imploring, then turned away. Her long braid swayed against the back of her leather gilet as she strode out of the forge.
Marnej bit his cheek. He couldn’t call after her, and he didn’t want to go running after her. He sat down before the bellows, kicking a
n errant ember which sparked, then sputtered and died. Despite the heat of the forge, a cold chill ran down his spine. He tried not to read it as an ill omen.
Dárja walked slowly back to the apothecary. Marnej’s reluctance to tell Kalek and Okta had added to her disquiet. She wanted to be angry with him for his inconstancy but couldn’t quite coax the resentment required. Particularly when doubt gained more ground with each step she took. It was more than confronting Kalek and Okta. She’d already spoken to them about her intention. It was something the Noaidi had said that shook her to the core.
Neither of you is truly Jápmemeahttun.
Dárja had always had misgivings about her place. She’d always felt different than the other nieddaš, but she’d had Irjan and Okta and Kalek and she’d never doubted she was Jápmemeahttun. She was born of Aillun, who had given her a part in the Song of All. She’d fought alongside the Taistelijan, her heart as determined to defeat the Olmmoš as any of her kind. She’d known she wasn’t like the others, but she’d always considered herself Jápmemeahttun. And yet, the Noaidi had said she was not. He’d said it with a surety that made its impact all the more wounding. It was as if the Elder had witnessed all the moments where she had felt herself at odds with the others and had tallied them against her.
A sinking sensation took hold of Dárja. She halted midway through the gathering hall, her knees shaking. Conversations swirled about her. Dárja looked around at faces she’d known her whole life.
“Is it true?” someone asked.
Dárja reeled, almost losing her balance, her heart racing. A cold sweat had broken out across her chest. Her hand instinctively went to her belt until she focused on Ello’s wide-eyed expression. Dárja dropped her hand at once, aware she’d been reaching for a weapon she didn’t carry.
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