by K. C. Julius
With a sigh, Fynn climbed the stairs to the rooms where he and Teca slept. Feeling emboldened by the ale, he slipped into Teca’s room, knowing she would be at the bathhouse at this hour. He crept to the panel on the floor beside her bed, installed there so that Teca could hear her mistress call if she was needed, and slid it open.
His father’s voice drifted up to him. “They suit you well, although your eyes are brighter than any jewels.”
“The necklace is beautiful, my love,” his mother replied. “You are too good to me.” Fynn imagined her lifting her small looking glass to admire this latest gift.
“You are too good for this world,” his father murmured. “Ah, Jana! How I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.”
There followed a moment of silence. Kissing, no doubt, thought Fynn indulgently.
“How have you and the boy fared this spring? You must tell me if there have been any more mishaps, Jana. I don’t like to learn of them from others.”
Tell him about the dead hens, Mamma, Fynn silently urged, but he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t.
“All has been well. We only missed you to make life complete. Fynn’s growing like a young sapling. He’s such a sweet child.”
Fynn smiled at that.
“I’m pleased to hear you haven’t been further disturbed, for I’ve a mind to take Fynn with me on my next voyage. Who knows? It may even be to Drinnglennin. It’s been over ten years since we sailed across the Erolin Sea, and reports come of troubled times there.”
A voyage? It was all Fynn could do to keep from shouting out in his excitement.
“I beg you, my love, don’t take him raiding.”
Fynn’s heart sank.
“He’d be kept out of harm’s way. The boy’s nearly twelve years of age, Jana. I took Jered along for his first glimpse of battle when he was nine.”
“But that was Jered. Even before he was ten, he stood a full head taller than all the other boys his age. Fynn is different. Give him a few more years before you take him to war. Please, Aetheor.”
A few more years?
Fynn willed his father to protest. Instead, Father laughed.
“I’ve never been able to refuse you anything, Jana of the Isle, not since that first day when you braved my raiders to stand before me. I half-believe what they say of you is true. You’ve bewitched me, and I’ve no will to resist.”
The unhasping of buckles and the slither of silk informed Fynn of what was to happen next.
Glumly, he slid back the panel and went in search of Teca. He met her in the yard, her short hair still dripping from her bath.
As always, she was reassuring. “Your first raid with your father cannot be far in the future. In the meantime, you’re a comfort to your mother in a land where she has few friends. Of course she doesn’t wish you to leave her side.”
“But I’m the son of the yarl!” Fynn grumbled. “It’s my duty and my right to fight beside him in battle!”
Teca’s expression sobered. “You’ve but eleven winters under your belt, my friend. In Langmerdor, you’d still be in the nursery. Childhood is fleeting enough, Fynn. Don’t be in such a rush to end it, and perhaps your life as well, by sailing off to war.”
But Fynn’s mind was full of daring adventure, and her counsel was lost on him. That night he slept on the veranda, and dreamt he was on a strange ship, propelled by a great sighing wind over the crested waves.
Chapter 2
When Fynn woke, there were wisps of mist on the meadows below, and the late spring sun was already mounting the trees. Thinking he might sleep again, he tugged his furs closer, but then cast them aside when he remembered what day it was. The day before Midsommer’s Eve.
Today the bonfires would be laid in preparation for the morrow’s revelry, which would last throughout the day and the short, bright night. Hopefully the northern windlights would be visible, promising a fruitful harvest.
Many believed the flickering skylights were the lingering breaths of dragons that had once soared over the Known World, but Fynn favored Old Snorri’s explanation, which supported the legend that the forefathers of Aetheor descended from Ulfa, the great she-bear of Arktisk, from whom they had suckled the milk of courage.
“The dancing windlights are the songs of our ursine bloodlines made visible,” the old taleweaver had once proclaimed. “And in your dreams, one day you may hear the music.”
Perhaps Fynn had heard this song in the great wind in his dream.
The sound of light footsteps meant Teca was already at her morning chores. Soon she came to him on the veranda with a bowl of berries and some fresh cream for his breakfast.
“It’s nearly Midsommer!” Fynn cried in greeting.
“Shhhh!” Teca put a finger to her smiling lips. “The yarl and your mother are still asleep. And yes, I know. Today I must go to town and help prepare the frames for the garlands. Later we can find some birch boughs to lay aside our door, and then we’ll gather flowers for the wreaths.”
“And will you put seven blossoms under your pillow to bring you dreams of your future husband?” Fynn fluttered his eyelids at her and clutched at his heart.
Teca gently swatted him on the head. “That’s no one’s business but my own!”
“’Tis a bright summer morn!” declared Father from the threshold, his long arms stretched high and his hair tousled.
They both turned at the sound of his voice, and Teca bobbed respectfully. “Good morning, Aetheor Yarl.”
Father frowned. “I’ve told you many a time, there’s no need to curtsey to me like some Drinnglennian lord. We don’t hold with those ways here in Helgrinia.”
Teca automatically dipped again in response. She was blushing as she slipped past him into the house.
“Old habits die hard,” observed Father mildly. “Good to see you up and about, lad. I’m thinking we might do some fishing and have a morning swim. I’m yearning after some sweetwater fare from the river.”
Fynn scrambled to his feet. “I’ll get my line. Are Jered and Mamma coming too?”
His father shook his head. “Your mother needs time to prepare for the Midsommer fest, and I imagine Jered will spend the day with his friends, laying the bonfires. It will just be the two of us, unless you want to ask someone along?”
Fynn thought fleetingly of Einar, but he rarely had his father all to himself. And perhaps while they fished he could find a way to convince him to take him on his next voyage—despite Mamma’s objections.
Though that would be difficult, seeing as he wasn’t even supposed to know that discussion had taken place.
They ambled together to the river, now swollen with spring melt, and followed it until they came to a place where the water ran shallow and swirled with eddies. Here they cast their lines, and began almost at once to hook and flip the running greylings onto the grassy riverbank. As always, Fynn had to quell a queasy sadness as he helped his father deliver the swift blows to end the creatures’ frantic gyrations before slicing through their gills to bleed them out. Their bright eyes glazed over so suddenly in death. He murmured a quick prayer to Leh, the owl goddess who led souls to Cloud Mountain, and hoped it wasn’t blasphemous to call on her for the spirits of animals.
“It’s hardly sport,” said his father, surveying the pile of carcasses after an hour’s fishing. He dropped down on the grass and rifled through the basket Teca had packed. “Let’s see what your thrall has provided in the way of refreshments. I’ve yet to breakfast, and I’m hungry as a winter wolf.”
Teca had been more than generous with their larder. There was sweet pickled herring, yellow butter, brined eggs, and still-warm-from-the-oven flatbread. Father opened a small flagon of berry schnapps, and Fynn partook of fresh buttermilk.
Once they had eaten and drunk their fill in the warming sun, Father pulled off his leather boots and
raised a quizzical eyebrow at Fynn. “Well, what are you waiting for, lad?”
Fynn set down his cup. “You were serious about the swim? It’s not yet Midsommer’s Day! The river will be—”
“Freezing!” agreed his father, grasping hold of Fynn’s tunic and tugging it over his head.
They trundled into the river together, Fynn whooping from the cold as the icy water swirled around his knees and numbed his feet.
“All the way now!” commanded Father, and he fell backward into the water with a shout.
Fynn plunged in after him and came up sputtering. The shock of the cold had driven the breath from his lungs.
Gasping, they clambered back onto the bank. Fynn’s feet were blue and his teeth chattered. They rolled on the grass to dry themselves and warm their blood, but it wasn’t until they’d trekked all the way home with their catch that Fynn stopped shivering.
“A productive start to our day,” pronounced Father, depositing the fish near the kitchen door. “Thrall!” he called into the house. “We’ve fish for gutting and frying and salting and drying!”
“Her name is Teca,” said Fynn, thinking he’d forgotten.
Father ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Her name’s of no account to me. Perhaps one day she’ll buy her liberty or have it granted, but until then, she’s just a thrall.”
Fynn’s smile faded as he saw Teca standing in the doorway. She had surely overheard. Just a thrall.
She ducked her head as she slipped past them to select several fish to set aside for their dinner. Then she hefted the net and carried it to the brining barrels beside the smokehouse.
“Best get out of those wet clothes,” said Father, tousling Fynn’s hair. He stripped off his own damp tunic as he headed into the house. Fynn heard the door to his mother’s chambers open and close.
He turned to Teca, who was bent over the brining barrel, removing the fish that had been soaking in the tuns so she could replace them with the morning’s catch.
“Do you need some help?”
She waved him away without looking up. “Do as the yarl says.”
Fynn wrestled out of his wet shirt, then followed Teca into the smokehouse, where she hung the brined fish over the brick-lined pit. He studied the firm set of her mouth as she lit the fire, and waited patiently while she tossed sawdust on it—sending up curls of fragrant smoke—before drawing the tenting curtains around it.
Finally she met his eyes, and her expression softened. “You can help me by adding a few more woodchips to the fire in a few hours’ time. I’ve got to go to town now, to rehearse for the Midsommer revel.”
Normally Fynn would have teased her over her love of the spectacles in which thralls were allowed to perform on fest days. But now he couldn’t think of what to say. Surely his father’s words had stung her.
He lingered in the yard as she headed out along the path, and as she drew her iron from her apron pocket and fastened it around her neck, he wondered, for the first time in his life, what it would be like to wear the iron collar. Not just how it would feel, but how he would feel about it, knowing it would define him for life. In Restaria, everyone, from the yarl down to the thralls, kept their place. Exceptions were extremely rare—such as Arbeit, the thrall whom Gorman Vorsiksen released before he died. Rumor had it that Arbeit was actually Gorman’s own son, got on one of his Gralian thralls. Yet even after his release, Arbeit continued to work for Gorman’s other, legitimate sons, and he was never treated as part of the family. His liberty had not made him one of them.
Fynn wondered if his mother might ever release Teca. If she did, would Teca stay with them? What if she wanted to return to Drinnglennin? She must have a family there—a mother and father, maybe sisters and brothers as well. He realized he didn’t even know how old Teca was. Perhaps around twenty? He recalled his mother saying she’d been a young girl when she was captured. She’d been with them all Fynn’s life, yet he knew so little about her.
“I’ll ask Mamma,” he muttered to himself. But then he remembered his father was with her.
Dragging his wet tunic behind him, Fynn went to his room to change, after which he decided to go down to the town and watch Jered and his friends lay the Midsommer bonfires. This year, he’d jump over their embers three times for luck, just like Jered did, and maybe when his father learned of it, he’d see Fynn was old enough to sail with him, whatever his mother thought.
* * *
In the muddy town square, Fynn heard someone call his name, then spied Einar weaving toward him through the throng.
“Come quick!” Einar exclaimed. “They’re putting up the majstång!”
On the fairgrounds, the men were raising a green-garlanded pole festooned with long, colorful streamers to honor summer’s advent. Last year, Fynn had joined the other children weaving around it, his mother guiding him. But this year, he decided, he would stand aside. It was time to leave behind such childish play.
“Will you dance?” he asked Einar.
Einar made a face. “Not if I can help it. Last year I got all tangled up and nearly ruined everything. Maeva says I’ve two left feet and am likely to trip over my own shadow.”
Fynn grinned. Maeva was Einar’s eldest sister and his most relentless critic. She didn’t reserve her sharp tongue for her brother alone, either; Fynn had often felt its edge.
“Let’s go to the Grove,” Fynn suggested.
“The Grove?” Einar cast him a curious glance. “Why do you want to go there?”
The truth was, Old Snorri could often be found in the sacred place, and Fynn wanted to ask the taleweaver about the ship in his dreams. But he was hesitant to say so, in case Einar thought he was being fanciful. “Because no one’ll be there today,” he said. “We can have it to ourselves.”
Einar shrugged. “All right then.”
The Grove lay to the north of the town in Ravensfel Wood, but to reach it they had to backtrack through the market square and cross the old stone bridge spanning the river.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Einar said when they reached the far side of the Ylve.
Fynn kicked a stone at his feet. He’d been thinking about Teca. “Did your cousin give your grandfather a new thrall, like you thought he might?”
“Three, but they weren’t a gift; Grandfather had to buy them from him. A woman and two boys. We need new laborers on the farm, since Frathin and his wife are too old to be of much use anymore.”
Fynn received this news solemnly. “What will happen to them… your old thralls?”
Einar shrugged. “I guess they’ll be put out.”
“To die, you mean.”
Einar gave him a queer look. “Grandfather says they’re just extra mouths to feed now. What are you on about?”
Fynn felt a sudden anger surge up inside him. “You’ve known Frathin and Riva all your life! They’ve cared for your family, cleaned and cooked, planted and harvested for you. Doesn’t it matter that they’ll likely freeze to death by Yuletide?”
“They’re thralls, Fynn. It’s not like they’re…”
“What? People?” Fynn demanded. “But they are! They’re not Helgrins, it’s true, but they were once freefolk of someplace. Gral, or Drinnglennin, like my…”
In the sudden silence, the wind whispered through the dense branches of the dark firs.
“Fynn, I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind,” Fynn muttered.
They continued in silence to the Grove. The wide clearing, where the people of Restaria would assemble to perform the age-old Midsommer rituals, was flooded with sunlight. As they entered, Fynn could almost hear the chanting, the fearful mewls of the young deer, and smell the pungent blood spurting from its neck. His stomach churned at the thought, and he kept his eyes averted from the pitted surface of the great stone table, now scoured clean.
He approached Wurl,
the great oak that served as the sacred gateway through which Helgrin souls climbed to Cloud Mountain. Resting his hands against the deeply ridged bark, he looked up at Wurl’s unfurling leaves, whispering in the breeze as if they had secrets to share, then laid his cheek against the tree and closed his eyes. He imagined the treeblood flowing at the giant oak’s heart, mingling with the water its roots drew from deep below the soil. He pressed close against Wurl’s mighty girth as if bound to the great tree, spirit to spirit.
It was his own private ritual, for he came often to the tree shrine, drawn by its mystery and beauty.
But this time—for the first time— Fynn sensed a presence, deep within its core. He yearned toward it, willing the great tree to speak to him in words he could comprehend. The presence deepened, encircling him, cleaving him to the grooved bark, as though to tattoo him with its imprint.
A hand fell on his shoulder. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to see Einar frowning at him.
“What?”
“You were… gone.” Einar’s voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. “I called your name over and over. I thought for a minute your spirit had flown to Cloud Mountain and left your body behind. But it… You didn’t, did you?” He laughed shakily.
“Of course not.” Fynn gave his head a slight shake to clear it. He hadn’t heard anything.
“Come look what I found.” Einar pulled him to the stone table and pointed at the grass beneath it. Several clusters of creamy spores, covered with oozing red dots, had sprung up from the mossy soil. “What do you think they are?”
“I… don’t know.” Fynn couldn’t help but wonder if the ugly things had sprung from drops of sacrificial blood.
As if confirming his fears, a low voice behind them said, “Those are bloodteeth.”
