by K. C. Julius
Halla stared at him. “Rescue me? I just got you out of a prison cell.”
“Well, yes,” Whit conceded. “These men did, at any rate, although I was in the process of working out the best spell to free us myself when they arrived. But what I meant was, now Cortenus and I can see you safely home.”
Halla laughed. “I don’t believe it! Thank you all the same, but I neither want nor need your help.”
“This is no time to be obstinate, Halla. We’ve endured quite a lot to find you, you know, and I would think you’d be more appreciative. Everyone’s been worried sick since you were… lost.”
“Really?” said Halla. “I would have thought Master Morgan would have come after me himself if everyone was so concerned. What happened there? Did you draw the short straw?”
“No,” said Whit, not meeting her eye. “I asked to be one to find you. I felt… responsible.”
“I don’t see why. You didn’t have anything to do with my getting lost in Mithralyn.”
Whit shifted and stabbed at the ash, prompting a flicker of flame.
Halla felt a slow realization dawning. “You knew I would get lost, didn’t you?” She kept her voice low, with effort. “How?”
Her cousin let the stick fall, then finally met her eye. “I didn’t—that is, I never meant… I should never have misled you…”
“Misled?” She slowly rose. “The cairns—you laid them to deliberately lead me astray?” Her blood came to a full boil. “For a brief moment,” she hissed, “I thought you might have grown up, but now I see you’re still the same selfish brat you’ve always been!” She took a menacing step toward him. “I could have died at the hands of those fairies, or when I fell, and if it weren’t for Mihail and the others, I’d be warming some swine’s bed because of your stupid trick!”
They stared at each other for a long moment across the fire. Whit was the first to look away. “Halla, I—”
“If you think to ask my forgiveness, you can save your breath. It would only to be to ease your conscience anyway.”
“That’s not fair,” said Whit hotly. “But there’s never been any point in arguing with you!” He released a sharp breath. “In any event, it’s in the past now, and soon we’ll all be back in Drinnglennin.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Whit of Cardenstowe. I know I swore a vow, but as long as Urlion lives, I’ll enjoy the life I would have been granted had I been born a son. I’ll spend my days as I choose, fighting for the freedom of the å Livåri.”
Whit dropped his voice. “You can’t be serious. These Lurkers? You can’t trust these people.”
“These people,” she retorted, “have already proven more trustworthy than my own kin.” She reached over and wrested the wineskin from Whit’s hand and took a deep swig. “I expect you’ll be on your way early tomorrow, so I won’t look for you when I wake up. Go find someone else who needs your assistance. Jala avreey.”
Then she stalked to her lean-to, too angry to explain to her cousin that she’d just bid him good riddance.
* * *
Unfortunately, as far as Halla was concerned, Whit wasn’t able to leave right away, for Cortenus had to first travel with Mihail to the coast to organize their passage back to Drinnglennin. When the two men returned later in the day, they were in good spirits; they’d found a ship’s captain in Altipa who cared more for gold than politics.
Cortenus held out a staff to Whit. “I also found this.”
Whit sprang up to accept it. “I don’t believe it! You dared to go back for it?”
“Providently, today marks the start of the fast in Princinae’s honor, and everyone is either at the temple or in their homes. Mihail was kind enough to take a detour. It was still there on the beach, just where the guards had cast it away. This time, their ignorance has proved a blessing.”
Halla polished her sword as Whit heaped words of gratitude on his tutor. When her cousin turned to her, she didn’t bother to raise her eyes. “Go away,” she said.
“Look, I understand that you’re angry,” said Whit, “and you’ve every right to be. It was beyond stupid, what I did, and although I know you don’t believe me, I too have suffered for it.”
“I can imagine.” Halla looked up at the sky as though envisioning his pain. “Put you off a meal or two, did it?”
Her sarcasm was met with no sharp rejoinder. “I just want you to know I’m truly sorry,” said Whit quietly, “and to ask you to reconsider coming back with us.”
Halla returned to rubbing the oiled cloth over her sword. “No. I’ve made my choice.”
“Then… I wish you well, Halla.”
His acquiescence surprised her. “I wish the same for you,” she replied stiffly.
Whit gave a small nod. “It’s a small recompense for failing to bring you home. I’m sure once Master Morgan learns of this, I’ll need all the wishes I can get.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “Halla?”
“What?”
“I mean it. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
* * *
Halla sat gazing at the sword in her hands for some time after her cousin and his tutor had ridden out.
“Are you wishing you’d used it on him?” Mihail asked, hunkering down beside her.
She gave him a faint smile. “Perhaps.”
He laughed. “Well, we’re breaking camp to ride north. Our main base is in the caves at La Salta, near the Gralian border.” He dropped a bulky package on the ground before her. “It seems Nicu’s decided to trust you.”
Halla gave him a questioning look, then tore open the parcel. In its folds lay a ruffled gown, a pair of dainty kid slippers, and a lacy shawl. “What does he expect me to do with these?” she demanded with a scowl.
“Not entertain him, Åthinoi, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’re to be a decoy while we fan out through the market to spread word to our people who’ve been enslaved.”
“I see. So I am to play-act instead of fight?”
Mihail rocked back on his heels. “We’re all actors on this stage. As a matter of fact, Nicu was once one by trade.”
“So what role,” said Halla, thrusting the parcel aside, “will he be playing?”
“The same as me,” Mihail replied. He rose and swept into a mocking bow. “We’re all to have the honor, my lady Åthinoi, of serving as your slaves.”
Chapter 34
Fynn
In a daze of grief, Fynn watched Teca draw the white linen cloth over his mother’s still face. He offered no resistance as she then removed his tunic and exchanged it for one of coarse wool. Only when she clasped the iron collar around his neck did he raise his questioning eyes to hers.
“Trust me,” she said.
But when she tried to draw him across the wide porch, Fynn hung back.
“Mamma—”
“She is gone, meylys. There will come a day when we can properly grieve for her, but that time is not now. Now, you must be as brave as the yarl. Our lives depend upon it.” She tugged gently on his hand.
“Wait!”
Pulling away from her, Fynn ran to the shed where his mother kept her stores. He had watched her put away the ugly, dried mushrooms Old Snorri had brought her, still wrapped in the twist of cloth. He grabbed the small parcel and thrust it into the pouch he wore under his tunic, then ran back to Teca.
Screams rose up to them as they headed down the trail toward town. All the while, Teca quietly gave him instructions, but even though he heard her words, they made no sense. “Do you understand, Fynn?” she kept repeating. “It is what your mother wished.”
Through the trees, smoke rose from the town center, as did the agonized cries of those trapped by fire. Teca turned away from the chaos toward the harbor, past the grounds where the Midsommer pole still stood, its fluttering ribbons now faded. Nearby, a gr
oup of men were spinning a naked woman between them, prodding her ample rolls of flesh with staves. It took Fynn a moment to recognize their captive as Wylda.
A few of the raiders looked their way, but although her grip threatened to break Fynn’s fingers, Teca neither quickened her pace nor faltered. “Keep your eyes ahead,” she breathed.
But Fynn couldn’t help himself. Wylda had killed his mother, and now she was to get her just deserts.
As he watched, she broke free of her tormentors and careened toward him, her fingers curled like talons. “There is the yarl’s son!” she screamed. “Kill him!”
Fortunately, it seemed her attackers didn’t understand—or perhaps they didn’t care. One of them grabbed her braid and wrenched her to the ground. Fynn looked away as the man fell upon her.
It was not long after that when they encountered their first corpse. It was sprawled across their path, and flies had already begun to gather on the wide, staring eyes, and on the dark stains of the man’s tunic.
“It’s Otkell!” Fynn cried, and he would have knelt by his brother’s friend had Teca not held him so tightly.
She stood over the body for a moment, then spat on the dead man’s upturned face.
Fynn’s heart twisted in horror—and then he understood. “It was Otkell who… hurt you?”
Stiffly, Teca nodded.
They were soon in sight of the docks, which teemed with their enemies hauling booty and livestock to their ships, already low in the water. Scores of thralls were also there, being herded into boats and ferried to the round ships.
Teca held him back. “Not yet, Fynn. We must wait here until the last of the thralls have embarked.”
Fynn swallowed hard as the contents of his stomach rose in his throat. He was about to submit to his father’s enemies. If I weren’t such a coward, he thought, I’d fight them instead.
As if reading his thoughts, Teca whispered, “This is no time for heroics, Fynn. Both our lives depend on you playing your part. In honor of the love your mother bore us, you must do as I say. From now forward, I am your mother, taken from Drinnglennin while I was carrying you in my womb. This is the story that will get us aboard one of those ships—any ship except the ones the thralls are boarding—and home to Drinnglennin.”
Home? Drinnglennin may once have been Mamma and Teca’s home, but it was never Fynn’s. Still, if he was ever to see his father again, he would need to survive. Already the Gragas was sailing south to warn Father of the attack; perhaps his fleet would intercept the Drinnglennian ships while they crossed back to the Isle. If that happened, Fynn would be the first to take up arms.
There will come a time for revenge as well as grieving.
* * *
Once the last of the thralls had boarded, Teca led Fynn to the docks. She made straight for a narrow-faced man wearing a helmet crowned with a silver boar.
“I beg you, sir, to help us,” she called out. “We are at your mercy.”
She’d made her plea in High Drinn, and it caught the man’s attention. Fynn recalled her love of play-acting. Hearing her impassioned cry, Fynn remembered a line from Gundrund’s Woe he’d heard her rehearsing the day before Otkell had quenched her bright spirit. “Adapt and survive, for if we resist change, we shall perish!”
Fynn saw the blood of Helgrins on the man’s boots, and he weighed his chances of pulling the Drinnglennian’s sword free of its scabbard and running him through. His hands itched to try, fury and grief colliding within him at the loss of all he loved.
“Fynn?” Teca’s voice was no more than a breath in his ear, but it conveyed her longing to survive.
Tugging his hand free of hers, Fynn stepped forward to meet the advancing enemy. “Sir,” he said, in his purest Drinn, “my mother and I seek succor.”
For a few lurching heartbeats, Fynn wondered if the officer would cut them down where they stood.
Instead, the man reached out and patted his shoulder. “We’re here to liberate our people, lad, as well as to punish these heathens.” He shifted his gaze to Teca. “But how did a gentlewoman such as yourself come to be taken? I pray you are… unharmed, my lady?” His fair skin flushed as his eyes flicked back to Fynn.
“You know well what I have had to endure, sir,” said Teca, her sweeping lashes lowered. “Pray, let us not speak of it. My son and I wish only to leave this gods-forsaken place and return to our homeland.”
“Yes, yes,” said the knight, “but the boy… do you… is he not of…?”
Teca lifted her chin in a show of indignation. “He is a son of Drinnglennin, sir!”
“Of course,” agreed the knight hastily. “I shall arrange for you to be taken to one of the ships at once. Perhaps I might offer you the use of my cabin, my lady? Unless you would feel more comfortable among the other women? In which case, I will—”
Teca laid her hand on the man’s arm. “You are too kind, sir,” she said, her smile as honeyed as her speech. “We accept the offer of your cabin with gratitude. I’m sure my father will handsomely reward you for your protection. If we may proceed to the ship immediately, we would be obliged.”
“I understand, my lady,” said the knight. “May I ask who your father—” The sound of boots behind them brought him to soldierly attention. “Commander Vetch!”
Fynn looked back at the bald-headed man striding toward them, whose face was suffused with anger. Teca pushed Fynn behind her, but the man simply reached around her and hauled him forward.
“This whelp is the yarl’s!” Vetch declared. “You’ll feed the fishes tonight, you heathen pup.” He signaled to one of the men accompanying him, and a cloak was brought forward, its pockets bulging with stones.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Teca imperiously.
“My lord,” said the narrow-faced man, “the lady comes from a noble Drinnglennian house. This boy is her son.”
“What tale did the wench feed you, Rewan?” said the commander with a sneer. “I’ve been informed she’s the willing whore of Aetheor, and the boy his bastard. Put the cloak on him.”
Someone had betrayed Fynn’s identity and lied about Teca’s. Fynn didn’t need to wonder who that might have been.
He struggled in vain as his hands were pulled behind his back and bound, then he slumped under the dragging weight of the cloak as it was placed over his shoulders and tied at the neck.
Teca’s face was as pale as milk. “Whoever told you this lie seeks to deceive you! I swear on the heart of Styra, I never willingly submitted to any of these barbarians. The boy was conceived in Drinnglennin.”
“Where apparently you were someone else’s whore,” said Vetch. He jerked his head toward the water. “In he goes.”
Fynn’s throat closed as he was shoved to the edge of the dock. It had been horrible when Einar held him underwater. He didn’t want to die in the cold sea.
“My son is a full-blooded Drinnglennian! I swear it by all the gods!” Teca cried. She fought to get free of Vetch’s grasp to reach him.
“As would any mother, even of a bastard,” scoffed the commander. “What faith can we place in such an oath?” He looked down his hooked nose at Fynn. “Do you deny, bastard, that you’re the get of the cur Aetheor Almunsen?”
Fynn glared into the man’s pale eyes, his anger roiling over his fear. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t deny his father, even to save his life.
Teca must have realized this as well. “Ask him,” she pleaded, “to show you what he wears around his neck!”
“No!” cried Fynn.
But it was too late. The commander reached out and pulled the chain free of his tunic. For the first time, Fynn saw the pendant clearly. It was in the shape of a creature with no head, just a dog-like rump with a knotted tail, and instead of paws, its legs ended in cruel talons.
Vetch’s hand closed over it. “Leave us!” he said.
&
nbsp; Sir Rewan and the other men obeyed.
The commander forced Fynn’s chin up so that their eyes met. “Where did you get this?”
Teca shook free of Vetch and wrapped her arms protectively around Fynn. “It was given me by his father, my lawful husband, for our son to wear.”
Vetch glared at them both for a long moment. Then he thrust the pendant back inside Fynn’s tunic. “Keep it hidden,” he said, “and speak of it to no one.” He drew a knife, and brought it to Fynn’s throat.
Teca drew a sharp breath, and despite himself, Fynn closed his eyes as he felt the cold blade against his skin. There was a tearing sound, then the cloak fell with a thud at his feet.
With a whistle from Vetch, Sir Rewan returned to his side. “Take the lady and her son to the Princesca—my quarters,” the commander growled.
“At once, sir.”
“And set a guard,” Vetch muttered. “No one is to go near them.” His malignant gaze swept over them. “No one,” he repeated, then stalked away.
Fynn’s heart felt like a stone in his chest as he lowered himself into the boat. He sat with his back to the ruin of the only home he had ever known as Sir Rewan rowed them toward the enemy’s flagship. The slip of the oars through the water echoed the refrain inside his head—Mamma, Papa, Jered.
Beside him, Teca stared silently out at the open sea.
* * *
“You did well, Fynn.”
They had been left alone, locked inside Lord Vetch’s private quarters.
Fynn rounded on Teca. “You did well, you mean. You would have had me deny my father!” He tore the iron collar from his neck, and it hit the wall with a sharp clang.
“I’m sorry, Fynn, truly I am. But I promised your mother I would see you safely away. Try to understand.”
“I understand that you wanted to save yourself.”
“Us,” amended Teca, her eyes glistening with tears. “I wanted to save us both.”
“For what? Where are we to go, when we get to Drinnglennin?”
“To your mother’s people. Jana—”
