by M. A. Grant
“Awfully quiet,” I mutter to Cybel.
“Agreed.” He scans the space, taking in the faces of the villagers and assessing them for any sign of a threat. Moments like this I remember who trained Keiran to be ever vigilant.
Drest slows his pace, allowing Keiran and Armel to take the lead, and hangs back with us. “Where are all the youth?” he asks quietly.
Until he says it, I don’t realize that’s the missing piece. The hall is filled with Sluagh, some working to put away the day’s wool work, others tending the fires and the cooking. Children run about freely, playing with dogs or each other as they dart around the pillars. The adults are either well into middle age or well beyond. That central group, the young adults like me and Keiran, aren’t present. I tuck that realization away until I can talk about it with Keiran.
The night proceeds normally despite this oddity and the tension brought on by our visit. We’re grudgingly introduced to the other villagers by Atla and do our best to remember names and faces. We fail miserably, but no one minds once we make our offer of tribute to the elders. After that, we’re treated a little better. We’re provided food and drink. Keiran offers to tell stories while everyone eats, but they urge him to sit down instead. He’ll start his recitations after he’s had his meal. I scoot over on the bench to make room for him and relax when his leg presses against mine, warm and solid.
It’s a simple dinner of stewed mutton, but we’re allowed to share the closing treat of roasted apples. Keiran steals the last chunk of apple from my plate, licking the caramelized honey off his fingers with a grunt of contentment that makes my pulse skip.
He looks around the hall. “They don’t seem as upset to have us here.”
“I’m sure our offerings went a long way to soothe their fears that we’re portents of sudden doom,” I mumble.
“Tribute does seem to have that affect,” he muses. “They need it though. Something’s wrong here, but I doubt they’ll tell us what.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “But we can be good guests for the night and do what we can to distract them from their troubles.” I nudge his shoulder. “That’s your cue, poet.”
He grimaces but rises anyway and makes his way back to the small group of elders eating together at one of the central tables. After a moment, the oldest man stands, his hands raised to quiet the hall. Once the murmurs disappear, he announces, “Tonight, we shall be entertained by the seidhr’s poet!”
Some of the older people begin calling out requests. The defeat of the cockatrice. My battle against the nuckelavee. The attempted seduction by the nøkk.
I sputter on a mouthful of water when that one’s mentioned, even as the hall erupts into unexpected, ribald laughter. The old man who called it out grins shamelessly at Keiran, who’s flushed a deep red even his beard can’t hide. “Tell us that one, poet,” he says. “And give us detailed descriptions.”
Keiran looks my way and I shake my head, desperate for him to refuse. I know the version of the story he’ll tell. He’ll say he had wandered away from our Hunt one day, following an otter who had told him to follow it to a stream to find the best fishing spot. On the bank, he discovered a handsome man, dressed in nothing but water droplets, who played a song on a delicate violin to coax him closer. He’ll say he was taken in by the notes, that he drew closer without thought. He’ll say the spell wasn’t broken until the nøkk’s cold hand clamped around his arm and tried to drag him into the water. He’ll say he fought, but would have died if not for the arrival of the seidhr. He’ll say all of that, recite it with the beautiful turns of phrase and gentle self-effacement he always does. He’ll never let slip that he switched our roles in the story. He’ll never tell them that he’s the one who found and rescued me, that he slew the nøkk and kept me safe.
“Surely you don’t want that old tale,” Keiran tries. “Not when I have better stories to spin for you.”
“Like what?” a woman calls from the back, where she bounces a baby on her knee.
“Perhaps you heard of the children missing from Gleann Fo Sgàil?”
The silence lies heavy over the hall, a living, pained thing. Keiran turns, gazing over the crowd. The firelight moves behind him, catching the highlights of his hair, dancing over the metal buckles and the glint of his knives and axes. He’s larger than life in these moments, when the world hangs on his every word. I can’t look away, can only breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest, can only hide in the shadows of my hood, and long for the intensity of his gaze to fall on me.
He bends down to the children nearest him and begins, “Gleann Fo Sgàil was built in the shadow of mountains, tucked into the trees where those stone monuments crashed together. Their village was prosperous and its men industrious. They wandered into the forest and hauled back wood and their craftsmanship was known throughout the lands. One night, the seidhr woke from a strange dream. The trees reached for me, he said to us. They folded me in their arms and buried me in their trunks and I couldn’t breathe. I reached out from the wood and felt a hand clutch mine and pull me free. And when I opened my eyes, I saw my face there. He led us to that shadowed glen. Not a child ran to greet the seidhr. Instead, we were met with birdsong and weeping.”
“Why were they weeping?” a wide-eyed little boy asks him.
“Ah,” Keiran says softly, “you ask the right question.” He kneels down before the boy so they’re equals and asks in his most serious tone, “Have you considered being a poet?”
The boy bites his lip and shakes his head, but even from this distance I can see the wonder and joy shining over his face. Keiran draws him close and whispers something in his ear, something that makes him nod before he sits back down. He never looks away from Keiran, who continues the story.
“The weeping was for their deep loss. The children had been stolen in the night and their parents cried and beat their chests and begged for our help. Hearing this, our seidhr knew his arrival was blessed by the gods. He took up his spear and took to the woods, and we followed in his wake. His steps made no sound, for he was as fleet of foot as a fox and he darted in and out of darkness with the creature’s grace.”
Keiran’s dark gaze lands on me and his lips curve. “Never has a more beautiful man trod this earth. Never has a braver warrior answered his people’s call.”
What? I sit up, shocked back into full attention. That’s not part of the story. It’s never been part of the story before. Keiran’s already looked away, but his words remain, lodging in my mind and clawing their way deeper, toward my heart. Dimly, I listen to the rest of his recitation. He tells of our battle against the kerling, the old hag who had taken the children and hidden them to be her meals in the lean months. He tells how we battled until dawn, when the sun’s beams turned her stone. As he speaks, embellishing the truth, I remember the aches of the battle, how it only lasted minutes, but seemed to last all those long hours. And he tells how we found the children inside the tree trunks and rescued them from their prisons.
When he finishes, there’s no applause. Someone cries quietly and several couples lean together, clutching each other for comfort. Now Keiran seeks me out. Worry wrinkles his brow.
I give a faint shrug. I don’t know what’s going on either, I try to tell him.
He answers back with a tilt of his head. Now what?
Our silent conversation is interrupted by one of the villagers, who stands to face Keiran. “Can he do it again?” the older man asks. His voice is somber, tight with an unwelcome emotion.
“Can the seidhr find our children?” the woman beside him asks.
Keiran steps aside so I can answer them directly. I lean forward and know the illusion of my helm will catch the light, will cast my horned shadow tall against the wall behind me. “Your children are missing as well?”
“Aye. They were asked to help with the harvest in the neighboring village. They left a fortnight ago
and haven’t returned.” The woman glances at the man and her lower lip begins to quiver. “Yesterday, my husband rode out to check on them and their progress. They had never reached the other village.”
“There was no sign of them,” he adds hoarsely. “No one had seen them. No prints on the road. They vanished into the air.”
Murmured grief and sympathy echo through the hall. Before it fades out, another man says, “We sent word to huscarl Chayka. She promised to ask Thegn Aage for help, but nobody’s come.”
“Must be too busy enjoying the comfort of Eyjar to aid us!” someone else complains, and my gut pitches from the accusation. Surely Aage wouldn’t ignore their suffering. If he knew what was happening here, surely he’d send his righthand Breoca, or other attendants, to help. Before I can bend the truth and claim he sent us, another woman, a grandmother holding her granddaughter in her lap, lifts her chin and stares at me.
“Will you dream on them tonight?” she asks me. “Will you ask the gods for guidance?” She ignores the other villagers’ grumbles that the gods aren’t listening and continues, “We can ask no more than that.”
No wonder everyone was so suspicious of our arrival. A third of their population goes missing and, shortly after, a portent of doom rides into their village. The missing fae can’t be dead. If they were, shades would have descended on this hall while I sat and ate. So what could have happened?
“Seidhr.” Keiran’s soft call reminds me to answer.
I stand, filled with the sudden urge to pace, to go chase this strange lead, to do something to try to help these people. It’s a foolish desire, one we can ill-afford with winter’s approach and our need to reach Eyjar. Keiran would urge me to remember our true purpose and to not allow myself to be distracted so easily. But Keiran would also have the sense to keep an ear open for any news as we continued our journey.
“Tonight,” I say, searching for the right words, “I will pray to the gods for wisdom.” I lift a hand to the man who asked for our help. “Tomorrow, can you lead me to the path they took out of the village?”
“Of course, seidhr,” he promises. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go there.”
“Thank you. I’ll take my leave of you now and go about my work.”
The villagers murmur their thanks. Keiran comes to my side, moving so close my shoulder presses against his chest. He leans in and whispers, “You aren’t planning on sneaking out, are you?”
“No,” I whisper back, probably a little hotter than I should. “I was going to try to sleep. Think you can keep the crowd entertained without waking me?”
He makes a face. “As long as they don’t ask for the nøkk’s tale again.”
“Goddess, no.”
He brushes a hand against my arm. “Atla’s waiting for you. I’ll find you after I’m done.”
Atla leads me out of the main hall and into a small antechamber. She pushes open the next door and gestures me to precede her into the room. It’s small, with a decently sized bed tucked into a corner. Furs and woven blankets cover its surface and the exhaustion of the last few days hits me all at once. Herne and the hunters, all I want to do is burrow into that pile and sleep until dawn.
“There’s water for washing on the table,” Atla says. “The tallow in the lamp’s fresh, so it should last you a long while if you need it. I’ll tell your poet that he can start the fire if the room is too cold later tonight.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, already moving in a daze toward the table. Just a quick splash of water to the face, enough to make me feel vaguely clean after the day of riding.
“Did you mean it?” Atla asks suddenly.
“Mean what?”
“I don’t mean to disrespect you, but... Did you mean that you’d try to help us find them?”
“Of course. The Hunt and I will do all we can.”
She fiddles with the brooch on her apron for a moment. I wonder if I should try to convince her further, but she gives a decisive nod and sweeps from the room. “Sleep well, seidhr,” she calls to me as she closes the door.
Alone at last. I shed my glamour, sighing when the magick dissipates and lifts its pressure from my neck and shoulders. I untie my cloak and let it fall to the ground, where I’ll pick it up in the morning. I toe off my boots as I splash around in the water, then drag off my shirt and toss it over the edge of the table. There. Evening ablutions complete.
The bed is comfortable. I sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress before dragging half the pile of furs over me. Keiran won’t mind. He tends to run warm and when we share a bed, he usually sleeps on the outside of the blankets. The anteroom catches most of the noise from the main hall; only bits and snatches of Keiran’s voice reach me as I begin to drift off. On the table, the lantern burns steady. When I force my eyes open again, there’s no sound of storytelling. My head’s fuzzy, and my body too heavy to look up when the lantern’s light begins to gutter from a gust of cool air. Keiran must have slipped into the room. With him here, there’s no chance of nightmares visiting tonight.
Chapter Seven
Lugh
The spring sun has transferred its heat into the fields at last. As I follow behind Bos with the plow, the warmth of the churned earth soaks into my boots, and I smile at the faint touch of natural magick waking under me, stronger today than it’s been for a long time. The time’s good for planting. We may even have a surplus crop this year, if we can stay in tune with this magickal flow. Finally, we might be rewarded for our devotion to the land.
“Odhrán,” my mother calls from the house. Her voice is tight and worried and she wipes her hands on her apron while watching the edge of the forest.
“Yes, Mother?”
“He left again,” she says. “He took a satchel this time.”
I pull on the ropes for Bos’s yoke, bringing him to a stop. Of course Ingjaldi would sneak off now, when my back is turned. After his last attempt to get away and the beating I gave him for it after I dragged him home, it makes sense that my little brother would rely on stealth this time. “I’ll take care of it,” I call to her, hoping it puts her mind at ease. It must, since she disappears back inside a moment later.
Damn it, I have to put away Bos before I can follow Ingjaldi to the woods and he’ll probably be long gone by then.
Igna appears at my elbow. The smudge of dirt on her cheek matches the patch of dirt on the back of her hand, probably from her work in the garden out front. She crosses her arms and glares up at me with all the authority a little girl can muster. “You need to go after him, Odhrán,” she says. “He didn’t just take a satchel. He took the loaf Mother made this morning, and some cheese, and...” Despite her glare, her eyes tear up. “He took the knife too.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from swearing. Over the years, we’ve had to barter a number of things to stay afloat, but Father’s knife was sacred. This is too far. Brother or not, Ingjaldi will face the consequences of his actions. “Can you manage Bos?” I ask Igna. I’ve been teaching her how to manage the giant oaf of an animal, but am still worried about leaving her alone with him.
She nods and holds out her hands. “I’ve been practicing, you know.”
“Have you?” I ask, handing over the leads.
“Don’t get angry with me. I make sure Mother knows in case anything happens.”
I pat her head, proud of her initiative. “Good. Finish this field and make sure he’s cared for before you put everything away. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She hugs me. “Be safe,” she whispers into my stomach.
“Always, little one,” I promise.
The woods are dense and shadowed despite the rising sun. I found the footprints on the road and followed the trampled grass past the tree line. Ingjaldi isn’t alone. Ahead, I hear the murmur of voices. I recognize them all and my anger grows, giving me the strength to push past the
saplings and the undergrowth. I stumble out into the center of a small copse and am greeted with the shocked expressions of five of our village’s young men and two young women. All are dressed for travel, all carrying satchels or bags laden with supplies. Ingjaldi gapes at me and clutches the satchel tighter to his chest.
“Well, well, well,” I say into the loaded silence, “how nice to see you all here.” No one speaks. I’m not surprised. I’m their elder by several decades and all of them were children more prone to daydreams than the practical matters of survival. “I’m sure your families are looking for you. You should get home.”
No one moves.
“Wh—what are you doing here, Odhrán?” Ingjaldi stammers. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Not without Father’s knife.” I hold out my hand to him. “I don’t give a damn if you walk away from our family for good, but you will not take that with you.”
“I can’t give it to you. Please, Odhrán, trust me and go.”
Ingjaldi has never been a good liar. Something in his tone, the high note of fear, gives me pause. I drop my hand. “What kind of trouble have you gotten into?”
One of the other boys—Sigund’s grandson—gathers his courage and steps toward me. “No trouble. We’re going to save our village, and all the rest of our people.”
“And how will you do that, Knut? How will you save anyone when you won’t even stay at home to help your grandfather survive the winter?”
He shrinks back at that and I stare down the rest of them. They wilt under my gaze, but not a single one of them takes a step toward home. So be it. I turn back to my brother and my heart breaks with the knowledge that he’s beyond my reach now. “Ingjaldi...the knife?”
“I can’t,” he whispers. “There’s always a cost to freedom.”
