“Emerelle would have died in Vahan Calyd if I had not used the power of the stone. I was too weak to heal just with my own power. I tried! It almost killed me. Ollowain, you saw that for yourself! Creating the firebird drained my powers. How do you think I was able to heal all of you?”
“You healed me with a knife in my throat. What was that? Were the powers of the Albenstone exhausted when it was my turn?”
She shook her head. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “When I use magical power to heal someone close to death, then I reach deep inside them. I share their pain, and sometimes their soul . . . opens up to me. I longed for that, but it could not be allowed to happen in that way. To know you had to be your gift to me.”
“Pretty words,” said Ollowain bitterly. “I only wish they had not been spoken by a thief. How am I supposed to believe you after you took me like this?”
Her head sank. “Yes, how are you supposed to believe me, my white knight? My father told me the story about the Shalyn Falah, about how you fought the trolls and how you refused to murder the princes. He had a lot of respect for you.”
“Of course,” Ollowain sniffed. “Your family respects anyone who opposes the queen.”
“That was before the feud with Emerelle began. And as much as I detested her, I admired you. Always. I avoided ever meeting you, just to preserve my girlish dreams of the white knight of the Shalyn Falah. The first time I ever saw you was in Vahan Calyd. I was in the crowd on the street when someone shot at Emerelle. And I saw how you protected the queen with your own body. In that moment, I knew that you were the same man in real life that you were in my dreams. And I could no longer do what my grandfather had asked me to. You never had to worry that I would kidnap you and take you through the Albenpaths to Arkadien. I can never go back there. Emerelle was supposed to die after she had put the crown on her head. My bird of light was to light up the quarterdeck so brightly that my brother could not miss her. And if he did miss after all, then I was supposed to kill her myself. But . . . I could not go through with it anymore after I saw you. I positioned myself in front of the queen so that my body shielded her from my brother’s arrow. And I sent the bird out to sea. It was not a signal to the trolls and their ships. Don’t get me wrong—I still despised Emerelle. But I could not be party to murdering her, not under your eyes. I . . .” She laughed. “As childish as it is . . . when I discovered that you were exactly as I had always imagined, I wanted you to like me. At any price. I wanted to be yours.”
Ollowain looked at her incredulously. Could he believe her now? His mistrust had been right all along. And at the same time, he had been mistaken. “I should not leave you anywhere near Emerelle again.”
“That is your decision. When I healed her, I was very close to her soul. And it is terrible, Ollowain.” She shuddered, and for a moment, the swordmaster had the feeling that a shadow had touched Lyndwyn’s own soul. She was a schemer, and he did not trust her all-too-childish declarations of love, but the encounter with Emerelle’s soul seemed truly to have frightened her.
“You do not know the queen you serve,” Lyndwyn said. “She is every inch a Normirga. Every sense of ethics or morality is subjugated to one single thought: She wants to protect Albenmark. Somewhere beyond the Albenpaths, a terrible enemy is hiding, one of whom even Emerelle is afraid. She is so intent on defeating him that she is willing to sacrifice anything for that goal. She knew that Vahan Calyd would be attacked. And she knew that she would be severely injured. She accepted all of that to prevent the paths that lead into the future from falling into disarray. Because whether we one day defeat the old enemy or whether Albenmark is completely destroyed is dependent on the lives of only a few. And as far as the war with the trolls, Emerelle wanted the trolls to win at Vahan Calyd.” She paused and peered into his eyes. Ollowain swallowed. “She sacrificed the city and thousands of Albenkin with it! I healed her. Her body no longer shows any wounds, but her soul is a bottomless pit of agony. There is only one reason why she won’t wake up: she is fleeing from what she has done!”
Now Ollowain shook his head resolutely. “Lies! The lies of a thief and murderess!”
Lyndwyn looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were beautiful. They looked so innocent.
“I know you have to see me as a traitor to go on being the white knight of the Shalyn Falah.” She stood up and waded through the shallow basin.
The sight of her standing, naked, aroused him. “Where are you going?” he asked angrily.
“I will now pay my price for the one time I truly deceived you. You know what they say: Passion is one side of the coin, suffering the other. Farewell, my white knight.” She stepped out through the door and was gone.
Ollowain looked at the blindfold floating on the water in front of him. He felt as if he were still unable to see. He was incapable of telling deception from truth. Had she lied to him? Had Emerelle known about the trolls’ attack on Vahan Calyd before it happened? The strange sedan chair seemed to bear out Lyndwyn’s claims. At the very least, Emerelle seemed to know that she would have to flee that night and that she would need a boat. And though he could not then understand her motives, he was certain that Emerelle would only ever act in the best interests of Albenmark.
“Lyndwyn?”
No answer. She was probably right. With eyes that could see, he would never have found himself there with her. And yet everything had felt so right, so perfect. He had never loved another woman with such passion. Her own passion, too, had not seemed feigned. Was she telling the truth? Again and again, her words returned: Passion is one side of the coin, suffering the other.
A TALK IN THE NIGHT
Knowing what was coming, Alfadas could find no peace. He had even considered taking Asla and the children with him to Albenmark and trying to escape the trolls there. But as a human, where was he supposed to go among the Albenkin? Too many knew him. Who would take in the queen’s foster son if the trolls were pursuing her? However he turned things in his mind, his position was hopeless. If Asla stayed in Firnstayn, then she was at least among friends. In the village in which she grew up, she would most easily get through if he did not return.
It was dark when Alfadas made his way down the narrow path that led to the fjord. An unassuming hut close to the water was his goal. Behind the thinly shaved leather that kept the wind out of the only hole to admit any sunlight, a yellow light burned.
Alfadas hesitated for a moment in front of the hut. Was he doing the right thing? He turned his head back and looked up at the stars, as if the answer lay up there. The ghostly green faerylight swept in wide billows across the night sky. Alfadas thought wistfully of the stories his father had told him on such nights, when they had been traveling together. On nights like this, the elves and trolls came to the world of humans, it was said. And this autumn, those stories had come true. His fellowship with the elves had not brought him any luck.
Alfadas made up his mind and stepped to the door of the small hut. He had to get the things in order in this world before he went to Albenmark. Beyond the door, he heard Kalf humming and banging about busily. When Alfadas knocked, the tune fell silent. The door swung open. Kalf looked at him in surprise. The solidly built fisherman was slowly getting older. At his temples, his long blond hair had receded quite a way. Small creases had appeared around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Alfadas knew that he was not exactly the fisherman’s most welcome guest, but he was asked to come in amiably enough. Somewhat embarrassed, Kalf cleared away a few items of clothing that were strewn around the floor.
The small hut was heavy with the intense smell of fish. On the table lay three lithe silver bodies. Their bellies were slit open, and Kalf had already begun to scale them.
“The first salmon,” said Alfadas, surprised.
Kalf grinned like a young boy who had just pulled off a prank. “They got past you this year, Jarl. They came up the fjord with the dusk. It’s still only a few . . . the first scouts of the big migration.”
Alfadas looked enviously at the salmon. The silver harvest had begun, and he had to go away. In the next two weeks, countless thousands of salmon would move up the fjord and then on into the small rivers and streams, all the way up to the mountains. They brought a second harvest to the village. Their delicate pink flesh would get Firnstayn through the winter. Tomorrow, the fires would be kindled in the dark smokehouses.
Alfadas sat down on a stool. Traditionally, whoever caught the first salmon had a good year ahead, so he had come to the right house.
“Kids are well?” Kalf asked awkwardly.
“Yes . . . no.” Alfadas straightened his sword belt. The pommel of the sword was pressing into his side uncomfortably. “Yes, they’re well, but I’m not. I try not to let it show in front of them. I will take Ulric with me tomorrow when I ride to Honnigsvald to assemble the army. I would like to have the boy around me. Kadlin is too young . . . and Asla can’t leave here. The salmon, you know. For the next two weeks, the village will need every pair of hands it can get.” He stared gloomily into the half-burned fire. “I wish I could be here myself.”
Kalf took his knife and sliced one of the large salmon into pieces. He pushed the chunks onto a spit, which he hung over the fire. Both men fell silent. Salmon fat hissed as it dripped into the coals.
Alfadas was grateful that Kalf did not plague him with questions. The fisherman took a hunk of bread out of a linen sack and set it on the table. Then he filled a plain wooden mug from a pitcher.
“I’m here because of Asla,” said Alfadas, breaking the silence.
Kalf’s clear, blue eyes narrowed. “Ah.” That was all he had to say to that.
Alfadas knew that if he had not come to Firnstayn that late-summer day eight years earlier, then Asla would have married Kalf. The fisherman was jarl himself back then. And Kalf was popular in the village, although—or perhaps for that reason—he was a man who generally said little.
When Alfadas had come to Firnstayn with his father and the elves, Asla had fallen under the stranger’s spell. Night after night, she had hung on every word he spoke as he sat by the shore or the fire and told all the curious listeners about the adventures he’d had with Mandred and the elves.
But since then, the stranger’s spell had turned into a curse. That was what stood between him and his wife, more than the king’s long military campaigns, which often took him far away for many moons at a time.
“Will you keep an eye on Asla?” Alfadas spoke very softly. He had to overcome a great deal just to get the words out.
Kalf still loved Asla. He could have had any young woman in the village. Even today, older though he was. His popularity was undimmed, though they no longer elected him to be jarl.
But the fisherman had preferred to stay unmarried. Alfadas was certain that if not for Asla, he and Kalf would be friends. He had a lot of respect for the big man, even if he did not like to see him at his house.
Kalf peered at him. “Asla is a woman who can look after herself very well, Jarl. You know that.”
“I have never been away in winter.” Alfadas thought of how, in recent winters, he had sat by the fire through the dark days and whittled wood. Or how he and Ulric had leaped over tables and benches in wild duels with the wooden swords he carved. Winter had always healed the wounds of summer. He had lain entire nights with Asla in his arms and listened to the howling of the storm winds. And they had loved each other. Almost every night. In winter, he could be for her the man she wished him to be.
“It will be hard for Ulric.” Alfadas’s voice sounded as raw as it sometimes did in the mornings, when he had drunk too much mead the night before. “He had been looking forward to the winter with me. I promised him that I would take him hunting in the mountains. Will you teach him how to hunt, Kalf?”
The fisherman smiled amiably. “You don’t learn to hunt in a single winter. I’ll be happy to take him stalking with me. But don’t worry. You’ll still have plenty to teach him when you come back.” Kalf took the spit from the fire and laid it on the table in front of Alfadas. “You did not catch the first salmon of the season this time, but it would be my pleasure if you were the first to taste the fruits of the silver harvest.”
Alfadas appreciated the gesture. He cautiously bit off a piece of the hot fish. It was deliciously juicy. Fat ran from the corners of his mouth.
Kalf ate, too. “It’ll be a good year for the fish,” he announced, both cheeks full.
Alfadas nodded. Had Kalf not understood what he was hinting at when he mentioned hunting? No man on the fjord would ever ask another to teach his son the art of hunting, unless . . .
He could not avoid speaking candidly. Hints were out of place here. He would find no peace if he could not know for certain that Kalf had understood him.
“Every victory is paid for with the dead,” he said abruptly.
Kalf simply looked at him and kept eating.
“If something happens to me, I would like you to look after the welfare of my family! I know that if you raise my son, he will become a good and decent man. I am sure Asla thinks the same.”
Kalf pushed the fish on the spit aside. “You are the best sword fighter in the Fjordlands. Who do you think can beat you?”
“Where we are going, I was never more than a talented student. Marching to war against the trolls is as insane as if I ordered you to catch a falling oak. It does not matter how skillful or strong you are, the trunk of the tree will crush you to pulp if you get in its way. That’s how it will be if we stand in the path of the trolls.”
Kalf frowned. “You should tell that to the king.”
“He knows it.”
The fisherman shook his head. “That makes no sense.”
“He wants to get rid of me, Kalf. Me and many more of his fighters.”
“You have never been beaten, Jarl. Why should he send you to your death? He would only be hurting himself if he sacrifices you. I am certain you will return.”
Alfadas sighed. Kalf had every reason not to be unhappy if he did not come back. It was he, after all, who had knocked the fisherman’s life sideways. And now here was Kalf, trying to encourage him. He had come to the right man!
“I know you still love Asla.”
“What’s that got to do with your war?”
“If she needs help, be there for her and the children. That’s all I want to ask.”
“I always have been,” said Kalf gently, and his tone made Alfadas wince inwardly.
“And you’re right. I am damned hard to kill. Don’t forget that.”
The fisherman smiled disarmingly. “I’m not the one you have to convince of that.”
Alfadas had a lump in his throat. The goddamned son of a bitch! He had every reason to wish the jarl dead. Alfadas opened the leather pouch on his belt. He took out the shriveled foot of a bird, as big as a child’s hand, and laid it on the table.
“What is that?” Kalf asked in surprise.
“The secret of why the fish always bite better for me than for you. It comes from Albenmark. My father gave it to me. He won it from a manhorse in a bet. I don’t know what kind of bird it comes from, but it attracts fish. You only have to hang it in the water, stand still, and wait a little while.”
Kalf took the foot, turned it in his fingers, and looked at it from every side. “And there I was railing against the gods because you were even a better fisherman than me. Don’t expect me to return it when you come back next spring.”
There was something infectious about Kalf’s confidence. “I’ll just bring a new bird’s foot with me from Albenmark. Don’t think I’m going to let you become king of the fishermen without a fight.” Alfadas laughed. But the fear suddenly returned. It sat in his belly like a heavy block of ice.
REBELS, FARMERS, AND A FEW GOOD MEN
There’s that woman again,” said Ulric quietly. The boy was sitting on the saddle in front of Alfadas and pointed to a slim figure standing some distance ahead of them in the shadow of a birch tree. Alfadas and Ul
ric had almost reached Honnigsvald. Silwyna had followed them the entire way.
“How can she be as fast as us on a horse?”
“Silwyna is Maurawan,” Alfadas explained. “She is one of an elven folk that lives in the forests. She is very skilled in finding shortcuts, and we haven’t exactly been racing along.”
“She isn’t running ahead of us this time, Father. What does she want from us?”
“We will ask her.” The elf woman waited for them, leaning against the pale birch trunk. Her heavy braid was wrapped around her neck like a snake. She was now wearing trousers and a shirt made of light-colored leather. The torn clothes she had been wearing when she came to the Fjordlands were gone. Alfadas recalled ruefully that she had once given him a leather shirt. It had special fringes that stopped water from penetrating through the seams. It seemed such an endlessly long time since they had roamed together through the forests of Albenmark.
“You sit a saddle well, young man,” said the woman pleasantly as they rode up.
“My father is going to give me a pony when we get to Honnigsvald,” Ulric declared proudly. “Why are you following us? And why aren’t you with your queen, like Yilvina?”
“I’m going to help your father when he chooses the fighters who are going to go with him. Besides, they should get to see an elf woman at least once before they enter my land. When it comes to the queen, one bodyguard is more than enough for someone resting in the house of a friend. We would be insulting your parents if the queen was constantly surrounded by armed guards. We are not among enemies here, after all.”
Ulric nodded. “Why do the elven women fight? They don’t do that here.”
For a moment, Silwyna seemed insulted. “Among elves, there are so few men that they couldn’t win without the help of the women,” she finally answered archly.
“Does that mean you have a lot of wars?”
“That’s enough, Ulric,” said Alfadas. “It isn’t polite to interrogate someone like that.”
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