by K. C. Julius
His father loomed behind her, his boots in hand. Fynn saw how his eyes caressed her, and he felt an unaccustomed stirring of resentment.
“Can I go riding with you?” Fynn asked, his eyes darting between his parents’ faces.
“I am here to mind him, lo´mhara,” said Teca quietly, “and there is much to occupy us.”
Mamma smiled brightly. “You see, my son. Teca needs your help.”
“It’s true, meylys.” Teca nodded toward the oven. “After the tarts are baked, we must string the house garlands. You shall choose the pattern.”
Fynn had always loved preparing the garlands, but now he felt that this, too, was something he’d outgrown.
“You shall come the next time, Fynn,” said Mamma, and he knew she was sorry to disappoint him. She is ever alone, he reminded himself. I shouldn’t begrudge her Father’s undivided attention.
Fynn could be in his father’s company in the town, but his mother could not. In public spaces, she kept a respectful distance from both the yarl and yarla. Some might have believed this was by the yarl’s command, or out of fear of Wylda, but it was neither. It was Mamma herself who had insisted on this. One of Fynn’s earliest memories was of his father objecting to her resolve in the matter. He’d heard Father’s raised voice, and finding his mother’s door ajar, he’d peeked through the crack.
“There’s no reason for you not to be by my side whenever and wherever I choose!”
“Except that you have a lawful wife to whom you owe your first allegiance, my love,” Mamma replied.
“Then I shall divorce her and take you to wife!”
Mamma leaned her head on Father’s chest. “You do me a great honor, Aetheor Yarl. But what you have given me and our son is more than enough for my happiness. And I will not see you and Jered, your firstborn, part ways over me. If you put his mother aside, you will lose him.”
In the end, Father must have seen the wisdom of her words, for there had been no more shouting. And if Fynn sometimes felt sorry for the solitary life his mother led, she didn’t seem to care. She never even appeared to notice the hostile stares from Wylda’s closest circle. And because she kept her distance, she’d never had to exchange a single word with the yarla, angry or otherwise.
Fynn wondered if this was about to change, thinking of what had happened in the square earlier, the wild look in Wylda’s eyes. That was something new, as were her frightening threats.
“Don’t fret, my son,” murmured Mamma, bending to kiss his furrowed brow. “We’ll not be gone long.”
Fynn forced a smile; he’d already decided to keep the disturbing confrontation with the yarla to himself. From the doorway, he watched his parents mount the fine horses Father had purchased in Albrenia with the pelts of Helgrin seals.
“Come, meylys,” Teca called softly. “I need you to test these.” She had taken the tarts out of the oven.
When he looked back out the door, his parents had disappeared from sight.
* * *
They carried the buckets filled with blossoms to the yard, where Teca spread an old linen coverlet on the grass. There were forget-me-nevers, lady’s mantle, saxifrage, wood cranes, Gynna’s ladders, harebells, and rein roses, and their mingled scents sang of summer. Fynn laid the flowers out in the order in which they would weave them, and as they set to work, Teca began to sing, her voice low and sweet. The afternoon slipped away, and before he knew it, they had finished all the garlands.
“Wait here,” said Teca. She disappeared into the coolhouse and returned carrying one more bucket, this one filled with the most beautiful and rarest wildflowers.
“Why didn’t we use these for the garlands?” Fynn asked, lifting a stalk of fairy’s breath from the pail.
“Because I set them aside to make your mother’s crown.”
“And yours!” declared Fynn. “You must have one too, Teca.”
Teca’s blue eyes glowed with pleasure. “As you wish.”
Fynn cocked his head. “You’re very pretty, you know.”
She shook a stem of dwarfbane at him, sprinkling him with water. “Away with you, Fynn Aetheorsen!”
Fynn dipped his hand into one of the buckets and scooped a handful of water back at her.
“Why, you—!”
Fynn scrambled away as Teca leapt to her feet. She seized one of the buckets and chased after him. He circled back and grabbed up a pail as well, and soon they were both sopping wet and breathless from laughter.
They called a truce and, ignoring their sodden garments, set to work on the floral crowns. Teca skillfully bunched and wove the bright blossoms and greenery into a splendid circlet for Fynn’s mother. Then she guided him through the steps to make another for herself. Fynn chose pink, white, and lavender blossoms for Teca’s wreath, knowing these were her favorite colors. As always, she was patient with him, even when his fumbling fingers crushed some of the flowers and rendered them useless. When at last he set the circlet on her brow, he clapped his hands with delight. “You should see yourself, Teca!”
“Aye, I can imagine.” Laughing, Teca tugged on a damp strand of her hair. “I’m sure I look a sight, even with your fine crown upon my head.”
“On the contrary,” said a familiar voice. “You’re the very picture of a woodland princess.”
They turned to see Lars, one of Jered’s friends, crossing the yard. He came regularly to collect herbal medicine for his ailing mother. Teca’s cheeks flushed and she quickly snatched off the flowered crown and looked down at her dress, still blotched with water stains, its hem smudged with grass and mud.
“’Lo, Fynn,” Lars said, but his eyes were on Teca.
“’Lo, Lars!” Fynn lifted Teca’s arm to show him the wreath. “I made this myself!”
Lars regarded his handiwork. “A fine Midsommer crown for a pretty maid.”
“I told you, Teca!” said Fynn.
But instead of smiling back at him, Teca mumbled something about work to be done, then slipped past their visitor into the house. Fynn wondered what had gotten into her; she’d told him her chores were completed and they could spend the whole day together.
As if reading his mind, Lars shrugged. “Women!” he said. “There’s no working them out.”
Fynn grinned. “Mamma’s gone riding with my father. If you’ve come for a potion, I can bring it over once she’s back.”
Lars seemed in no hurry to leave. He settled himself on the coverlet among the discarded stems and flattened flowers, then drew from his pocket a piece of wood and a small knife. Fynn crouched beside him and watched as Lars began to whittle. Gradually, a broad-faced fish, its tail curving high about its head, emerged before his eyes.
“It’s a whale!” Fynn declared. His eyes widened when Lars handed it to him. “Is it for me?”
Lars nodded. “It is. But I’ll need you to do something for me in return.” He leaned toward Fynn with the air of a conspirator. “Could you ask Teca to come out here, then give me a few moments to have a word with her alone?”
“Yes, surely!” Fynn leapt to his feet and ran into the house.
He found Teca upstairs in her room, tying a fresh apron over a clean smock.
“Lars wants to talk with you.” He dropped down on her bed, swinging his heels as he held out his prize. “Look! He carved me a whale.”
But Teca didn’t exclaim admiringly as he’d hoped. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she reached for her iron collar.
“You know you don’t need to wear that when you’re at home,” Fynn said quietly.
She fitted the collar around her slim neck and snapped it closed. “Why don’t you go check on the fish? I’ll only be a moment.”
Fynn followed her down the stairs and watched her walk stiffly toward the front of the house. Women! he thought with a grin, then helped himself to another puffberry tart on his way out throu
gh the side door.
As he crossed the yard to the smokehouse, he turned a cartwheel that didn’t quite come off. He landed on his bottom, hard, and found himself facing the front of the house, where Teca and Lars now stood close together. Lars had his hands on Teca’s arms.
Curious, Fynn rolled to his feet and started toward them, before remembering he’d agreed to give Lars time alone with her. I didn’t promise not to listen, though, he reasoned.
He edged along the side of the house until he could clearly hear their voices.
“I’ll not be like her,” Teca was saying. “I’ve seen the yearning and the pain, the shame and loneliness she hides from the world. She’s as much a thrall as I am, for all her comforts and her jewels—naught but a pretty bird in a gilded cage. If the yarl were to die in the next raid, she’d be shorn and collared as fast as the yarla could haul her vindictive bulk up the hill!”
“Teca—”
“Listen to me, Lars. You asked me why I’ve refused you—and I’m telling you. Jana’s only chance of surviving Aetheor requires the yarl to live long enough for Fynn to take up arms. Perhaps if the boy can make a name for himself in battle, a warrior’s reputation might protect his mother from the yarla’s wrath in the case of Aetheor’s demise. Of course, it’s also possible that when the bloom goes off the rose, Aetheor’s ardor will wane. Either way, Jana’s and the boy’s freedom, and likely their lives, hang ever by a slender thread. As mine and our childrens’ would, should we pursue this mad notion of yours.”
“But it’s different for us,” protested Lars. “I have no wife. And you said yourself Jana might free you if I asked for you.”
“I should never have suggested that possibility. It was wishful thinking on my part, when my heart clouded my mind. Even if she let me go, there’s no way forward for us.”
“I love you, Teca.” Lars spoke softly, but Fynn wouldn’t have been more surprised if the man had shouted.
“I know you do, and I love you, too. Enough that I’ll not shame you. You’d never live down taking a thrall to wife, Lars Gormensen, and I’ll not be your mistress, nor bear your children into a half-life like her poor laddie, no matter how fiercely love burns between us.”
Fynn felt a thrill of alarm as Lars pulled Teca hard against him. “I can make you mine and get you with child. Then your mistress would have to give you up!”
Teca pushed back from him and gave him a long, steady look. “Aye, you could. Or you could buy me and have your way with me. And provided you don’t kill me in the process, no one would care. But I’ll fight you, Lars, with every scrap of strength I have. You’ll get no joy from it—unless, of course, that’s how you like it.”
Lars shook her then, and Fynn could see tears in his eyes. “You know that’s not what I want! Damn you, Teca! Before the gods, I would free you and do you honor.”
Teca raised her gaze to meet his. “Aye, I believe you would, Lars. But then I would bring dishonor to you—which is why you’ll let me be.”
She shrugged out from under his hands and stepped back.
Lars said her name as he moved toward her, but she raised her hand to forestall him. As they stood facing one another in tense silence, Fynn thought he had never seen any two people look so stark and pained. Then Lars’s shoulders dropped and he turned and stalked to his horse.
It wasn’t until he had ridden out of sight that Teca began to cry. She sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands, and her muffled sobs were heartrending.
A tear ran down Fynn’s own cheek, but for whom he wept, he could not be sure.
Chapter 9
Fynn sought the solitude of his room after that, and he didn’t leave it until he heard horses in the yard. Descending the stairs, he followed the sound of his mother’s laughter and the low rumble of his father’s voice out to the veranda.
Shadowed in the doorway, Fynn took a moment to study his parents. Mamma was curled beside Father on the high settee, her slender fingers tracing a new scar on his hand as she nestled in the crook of his powerful arm. Her fair skin was sun-kissed, her long hair tousled. In repose, Father looked almost boyish as he gazed fondly down at her. He lifted her hand and brought it tenderly to his lips.
Then Mamma saw Fynn. She gently tugged her fingers from Father’s grasp.
“Come, meylys, join us! We’ll raise a glass together in honor of the old year’s passing.”
Fynn accepted the goblet she passed him, feeling pleased to be included. He’d tasted mead before from Jered’s cup, but this was the first time his mother had offered it.
“You’ve grown a lot over the springtide,” said his father, appraising him. “You’ll be a tall man, just like your brother. A man can be proud of such sons—praise the gods!” He raised his glass, and Fynn proudly returned his salute.
“Why so solemn, my son?” asked Mamma. “You’re looking quite flushed. Are you unwell?” She bent to kiss his forehead.
“Leave the boy be, woman,” chided Father affectionately. “It’s just the Midsommer sun on his cheeks.” He raised his glass to her. “Let us drink to the new year and rewarding plunder ahead! Kippskal!”
He tipped his goblet back and drank deeply. Mamma took only a dainty sip from her own cup, but Fynn followed his father’s lead and drained his glass, choking only a little on the sweet, strong liquor.
“Ho ho!” laughed Father, slapping him on the back. “You’re a true Helgrin warrior in the making!” With one hand, he pulled Fynn up to sit between them.
It felt as though sunlight itself coursed through Fynn’s veins. The evening shimmered under a sky so blue it took his breath away, and the hanging garlands scented the air with summer’s promise. Teca’s wrong, he thought. Aetheor Yarl will never fall in battle. He’ll always be here, to keep us as safe as we are right now.
Still, when Teca appeared to announce dinner, he couldn’t help but notice her pallor. He felt a pang of regret for her, but he pushed it aside. He didn’t want to dwell on what he’d witnessed between her and Lars. Tonight was a night for celebration! So he waited until his parents left the veranda and then gulped down the remaining mead in his mother’s goblet.
The table had been laid in the garden. Their morning’s catch, lightly charred and seasoned with dill and aquavit, was moist and tender, and Fynn ate two fish, washing the succulent pink flesh down with his watered wine. When he boldly held out his empty goblet for more, his father poured him an undiluted measure. They both ignored the faint line of concern creasing Mamma’s brow.
She needs to understand that I’m nearly a man, Fynn thought crossly.
He swept up the goblet with what he’d meant to be a bold flourish, and the wine sloshed onto his tunic and the tablecloth, staining them both bright red.
“Steady there,” laughed his father, taking the goblet from his grasp. “Perhaps you’ve had enough. You don’t want a sore head for the Midsommer fest tomorrow.” He tossed back the wine remaining in the cup and stretched his long legs before him. “A fine supper,” he declared, slapping his hands on his firm stomach. “Now, I must be off. There’s still much to see to in preparation.”
With a smile, Mamma lifted her face for his kiss. “Until we meet again.”
His lips met hers, and then he started across the yard. “You’ll be at the rites, surely?” he called back.
“We’ll be there!”
As was her habit, Mamma rose and watched until he disappeared down the path. But Fynn noticed that her smile didn’t quite light her lovely eyes. Does she always look so sad, he wondered, when Father leaves?
He thought of what Teca had said to Lars. The yearning and the pain, the shame and the loneliness she hides from the world … naught but a pretty bird in a gilded cage. His glow was replaced by a gnawing uncertainty. He barely registered his mother’s caress on his cheek as she passed into the house, the train of her white gown trailing the grass
behind her.
When Teca came to clear the dishes, Fynn crept up the stairs and slid open the panel in her room.
It wasn’t long before he slid it closed again and crawled into his bed, where he lay wide-eyed and wakeful, the echo of his mother’s weeping still ringing in his ears.
* * *
Awakening with a terrible thirst and a pounding head, Fynn sat up slowly and rubbed his bleary eyes. Then he saw the blood spreading across his shirt.
“Help!” he cried. “I’m dying!”
He heard Teca’s feet hit the floor in the room next door. She ducked into his chamber, her face ashen, and fell to her knees at his bedside. But after she bent over him and sniffed at his blood-stained tunic, she lightly cuffed his ear.
“It’s wine, Fynn.”
Only then did he remember the sloshing goblet at supper. “I need water,” he croaked.
Teca poured him a cup from the ewer, then another when he’d guzzled down the first. “Haavya Midsommer,” she said dryly.
Fynn attempted a smile. “Haavya Midsommer.” Together they pulled off his soiled tunic, then he fell back on his pillow with a groan.
Teca pulled his coverlet up to his chin. “Go back to sleep,” she ordered. “Otherwise you’ll never make it through this coming fest night.” She slipped out the door, closing it silently behind her.
The next time Fynn woke, he felt better. Still, he gulped down the rest of the water at his bedside before heading downstairs, where the distant piping drifting through the open doors signaled that the festivities were underway.
Teca was sweeping the veranda. “Ah, he rises at last,” she said. “I was worried you’d sleep right through the day. Einar’s been here twice already, and your mother is awaiting you to go down to the town. There are tarts in the kitchen if you want one. But don’t eat too many,” she called after him as he turned back into the manor, “or they’ll slow you down for the wheeling!”
