Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “I heard you singing.” Dahleven’s voice was rough.

  Cele grimaced. “I’m sorry. He asked. I didn’t mean to disturb the rest of you.”

  “No. It was…very nice. You…have a good voice.”

  Cele suspected that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but she let it drop.

  Time passed. Cele tried to avoid Dahleven’s gaze, but no matter how their eyes danced away from each other, they kept meeting. Cele lowered her head, pillowing it on her bent arm to avoid staring at Dahleven, but after a bit she felt herself drifting off and propped her head on her hand again. She forced her drooping eyelids wider and tried to focus on Sorn’s breathing. She thought that maybe it came a little easier. After a few minutes she found herself drifting again. She blinked furiously, trying to clear the gritty feeling from her eyes.

  “I’ll watch. We need not both lose sleep.”

  She searched Dahleven’s face, then flicked her eyes away again, feeling guilty for nearly falling asleep. “I said I would stay with him.”

  “You have, and you’ve brought him comfort. But he sleeps now. You may as well lay your head and rest a bit, too. I’ll wake you if there’s need.”

  *

  Dahleven watched Lady Celia’s face relax in sleep. He was grateful for her tenderness toward his sworn brother. He looked again at her hand clasped in Sorn’s. Sorn had very nearly sworn him to care for her earlier, as a man would ask his brother to protect his lady. Dahleven remembered the words of Lady Celia’s song, “We’re snuggled up together, like birds of a feather…” It was a song of courting. Sorn had at last found a woman who saw him as more than a friend. Could such feelings grow in less than a day? Dahleven’s gaze traveled to where Sorn still clasped her hand, and then to the cuff he’d given Sorn that now wrapped Celia’s arm above her elbow. It wasn’t a betrothal band, but it was all Sorn had to give in this place, and rested in that spot. Apparently, Sorn had made his choice, and the lady had accepted.

  Sorn’s breathing came fast and ragged and smelled terrible, though it was hard to separate from the stink of his wound. It was worse than Ingirid had smelled after he and Sorn had thrown his older sister into the sulfur springs. The memory triggered an involuntary smile. He and Sorn had been partners in mischief since they’d gotten lost in the tunnels below Quartzholm together, long before his Talent Emerged. They’d sworn brotherhood in his tenth summer, their difference in rank of no consequence to them.

  Dahleven’s heart felt like a stone ground to dust by Sorn’s suffering. In all the adventures and dangers they’d faced together, he’d never imagined that Sorn could die.

  *

  Cele startled awake as Dahleven pulled her hand free from Sorn’s stiff fingers. Dahleven’s shadow loomed over her as he knelt beside her, the first faint graying of dawn behind him. Sorn’s chest lay still, no longer struggling with painful breaths. He’s gone. She made a short, sad little moan as Dahleven pulled her first to sit, and then to stand.

  She’d known these men for just over a day, but she felt smaller, bereft by Sorn’s death. Cele looked up, into Dahleven’s eyes. The pain there mirrored her own. He put his arm around her shoulders and she felt as though he’d given her permission to share his grief, a permission she hadn’t realized she needed until he touched her and led her a little way apart from the camp.

  His kindness broke her tenuous self-control. Her eyes stung and filled; tears tracked her cheeks. Dahleven hesitated a moment, then pulled her closer. Cele’s arms slipped behind his shoulders. She gasped in damp, sobbing breaths, feeling as though something in her chest might explode and suffocate her. Fear and loss crashed in on her. She was so far from home. Her mother was dead, Jeff was gone, Elaine was beyond reach, and now Sorn was dead, too. He’d offered her friendship. His easy, instinctive gift for putting her at ease had made this strange world easier to bear. Conflict twisted and knotted her heart. She wanted Sorn to still be alive, but she was relieved his suffering had ended.

  Cele pressed her face against Dahleven’s chest and shivered in his arms.

  Fender brought a blanket and draped it around her. Dahleven continued to hold her, rubbing slow circles on her back. The pressure in her eased, and she drew a deep, shuddering breath. She could hardly think. She sniffed wetly, then pulled away enough to free one hand to wipe tears from her face. She was embarrassed at losing it, but surprised and grateful for Dahleven’s kindness.

  Dahleven pushed her far enough away to look at her. He gave her a bleak half-smile, and with both hands on her shoulders, he pushed her gently down to sit on a rock. He pressed some dried fruit into her hand and put a waterskin by her. “Try to eat something. We must attend to Sorn.” Then he walked away.

  Cele felt calmer after her tears, though an ache still filled her chest. Part of her mind was appalled at breaking down, but she was too numb to worry about it. She couldn’t eat, but Cele sipped the water while the sky slowly brightened and the men built a cairn over Sorn’s body. The stones made an empty clack as they set each one in place. The lonely sound went on and on. Cele tried to shut it out, but it penetrated, echoing in her head. Then they finished and there was silence. The sun gleamed obliquely over the mountains, filtering through the scrub trees on the ridge above. With the last rock laid over Sorn’s body, the men gathered close and began to sing.

  Sunbeams shafted through the trees in a shallow angle as their voices rose and fell, blending in a powerful rhythm that Cele felt in her heart. The beauty of their deep male voices carried her with them and closed her throat again with tears of longing. They sang of the brotherhood of men striving for a common goal, the exultation of vanquishing a foe, the need to protect hearth and family, the desire for a woman, the love of children. Cele felt it all. It felt right; it felt whole, and she wanted to be part of it, to belong to it.

  Then they fell silent.

  For a moment it seemed as though the whole world stopped. Then the gathered men moved apart and began breaking camp. Their actions were quiet and purposeful, but the sudden movement in the new silence jarred after the ceremony.

  Cele felt as though she’d stepped outside of time and the activity of the men around her had nothing to do with her. Sooner than she expected, Dahleven pulled her to her feet. The company moved on, leaving Sorn behind, under his blanket of stones.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The route Dahleven chose grew steeper, but his Talent assured him that he led his men rightly. It pulled at him, strong, while he concentrated on his goal, more like a niggling, half felt itch when he thought about other things. To be sure, there were many right paths, but he concentrated on finding the quickest. If Sorn had still lived, he would be seeking a different, easier route; men couldn’t carry a litter when they climbed as much as they hiked. Now, with no litter, they could travel a more direct, more difficult path, and make up the time they’d lost.

  They needed the speed. The Althing would open in three days’ time, at Fanlon’s Feast. The Jarls would be discussing the danger to Nuvinland’s borders, and how best to meet it. He and his men must get home with the information they’d gathered if Nuvinland was to avoid war with the Tewakwe. There was no glory to be won in fighting the wrong opponent. But he would gladly have sacrificed the time to have Sorn still with them.

  Dahleven reproached himself for the selfish thought. Sorn’s death wound, honorably gained in battle, entitled him to feast in Valhalla. Even walking the misty ways of Niflheim until the return of Baldur would be a better fate than the agony of a belly wound. He wouldn’t call Sorn back to that.

  Dahleven’s heart clenched in a tangle of pride and anger and guilt. Sorn had stood his ground before the onslaught of the Tewa’s bladed club, defending Lady Celia. He’d fought valiantly, vanquishing his attacker, refusing to succumb to his wounds until the threat to her had passed. If not for her, Sorn could have given way, defended himself with greater flexibility. He might still be alive if Dahleven hadn’t put the lady in his charge.

  Dahleven wouldn’t
risk more of his men to protect her. He’d watch the lady himself rather than assign her to another. Fendrikanin or Ghav would make more sense as a chaperon, but he wanted—no, needed—to keep a close eye on Sorn’s betrothed himself.

  Dahleven turned and reached down to help Lady Celia scramble up the steep slope. Her firm grasp closed on his wrist as he held hers. Her face contorted with effort and she grunted softly as she pulled herself up the rock. Dahleven put his other hand under her arm to help and she nodded her thanks. There were smears under her eyes where she’d wiped away tears when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  The image of her hand clasped in Sorn’s rose in his mind. It seemed unlikely that deep affection could grow in so short a time, but her broken-hearted sobbing had confirmed it. In less than a day, Sorn won her heart and then broke it by dying. The skalds will tell the tale. The thought was spiked with frustration and anger at himself. I won’t be jealous of him. Not over her.

  As soon as she was steady, he released Lady Celia and resumed the climb. He relished the punishing physical demands of the mountainside. It held back the stabbing sense of loss.

  And what of the lady? Her grief for Sorn seemed genuine and deep, but what was her part in all of this? It was too much of a coincidence that she appeared in Renegade territory just as Nuvinland was facing the possibility of war, instigated by an unknown enemy. Was she truly an innocent? How far should he trust her? Could he trust her at all?

  Sorn did.

  Sorn. His loss cut sharp and deep. Pride in Sorn’s honorable death carried him only so far. After that, the pain took over, slicing like shards of obsidian.

  *

  Cele grunted as she pulled herself up the steep slope. She was grateful for the hard pace and difficult terrain. It kept her from wondering why Dahleven’s face clouded when he looked at her, and it kept her from thinking about Sorn. She had to concentrate on every step to keep from falling on her face or tumbling back down the craggy hillside. When, exactly, do foothills become mountains? She’d bet they’d made the transition.

  The trees grew taller and closer together as they climbed, and the low brush grew thicker. Dahleven was often by her side, giving her a hand up over the awkward spots or holding branches aside so she could pass more easily. Why did he stay so close when he frowned every time he looked at her? Did he blame her for Sorn’s death? He’ll have to get in line.

  Cele felt the bracelet Sorn had given her hug her bicep. No matter what he’d said, Sorn had died because of her, because he’d been protecting her. He might have died anyway if she hadn’t been there, but he also might have been only wounded, like Kep. He might not have been hurt at all. Instead, he was dead.

  The day wore on and the air grew cooler as they climbed, but it was bone dry and the company was short of water. Cele tried to keep her mouth shut and breathe through her nose, but the hard climbing forced her to gasp, parching her tongue till it felt like paper. She tried to imagine eating an orange to trick her mouth into moisture, but she was too tired and too dehydrated. They wouldn’t reach the spring until the evening. They’d lost time yesterday, slowed by carrying Sorn’s litter, and more that morning by burying him.

  Cele’s head throbbed. Her world narrowed to nothing more than thirst, moving forward, and the raw ache of Sorn’s death.

  At last, Dahleven called a rest. They paused in a narrow defile, perched in a stair-step fashion on the slope. Falsom had recovered and sat at the top of the “stair,” watching their back-trail. They traveled all together now since the rocky ground wouldn’t raise a dust cloud that would reveal their location.

  Cele sat on a narrow shelf beside Dahleven and shook her head when he offered a strip of jerky. She didn’t have much of an appetite, and she didn’t think she could chew the desiccated meat. She closed her eyes, exhausted in body and heart. She could rest her body, at least. A moment later, she felt dried fruit pressed into her hand. She opened her eyes.

  “You must eat.” Dahleven looked at her with a surprising mix of pity and concern. His deep voice was soft but firm.

  Cele started to refuse, but she knew he was right and took a small nibble. The deep red flesh of the fruit still had a sharp tang; her mouth tickled and started to water. Maybe she could eat after all.

  She looked out at the landscape spread below. It had a rugged, unforgiving beauty similar to the mountains back home.

  Home. It almost seemed unreal to her now. So much had happened in so short a time. It filled her mind, crowding out the details of her former life. Supermarkets and rush hour and performance reviews seemed vague and unreal compared to hiking till her bones ached and holding a dying man in her arms.

  Too soon, Dahleven called for them to resume their trek. At least the air had lost its oppressive, strength-sapping heat. Cele sensed urgency in Dahleven, but he never failed to pause and offer help over the rough spots.

  She hardly knew what to make of him, now. He was still stern and brusque with his frowns and his orders to eat, but underlying that she glimpsed something else. Losing one of his men can’t been easy for him.

  Cele drank the last of her water at the mid-afternoon break. It was only a swallow, and she was too thirsty to hold it in her mouth first. She swallowed convulsively, and the liquid ran down her throat and was gone. She up-ended her squeeze bottle again in a forlorn hope for a few more drops.

  “Here.” Dahleven stood before her, holding out one of his botas.

  Automatically, Cele took it. It was about a quarter full. His other bags hung light and flaccid from his shoulders. This was his last water.

  Cele’s throat ached for a drink, but she thrust it back at him. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Dahleven shook his head and pushed the bag back at her. “We share on the trail. Drink what you need.”

  She wanted it too much to argue. Pulling the stopper, Cele tipped the bag to her lips. The water tasted stale and flat and delicious. She closed her eyes and savored it, rolling it around her tongue before letting it slide soothingly down her throat.

  Somehow, she made herself stop at only two swallows. When she extended the bag again to Dahleven, he gave her a small smile as he took it, then drained the last of the precious liquid. A moment later, he gave the signal and they were climbing again.

  Dusk came early, the sun’s low slant cut off by the folds of the mountain’s ridges. The short rations had sharpened Cele’s strange certainty that water was ahead. She knew where the spring was before Fender told Dahleven, before they heard the first musical cascade of the rill. It pulled at her, like a thousand painless hooks in her skin. Despite her fatigue, her pace increased, matching Dahleven’s. On the other side of a rare flat space a broken rock face rose. There, tumbling over the rocks was one of the sweetest sights she’d ever seen. Crystalline liquid eddied in several small pools before it ran off the stone and disappeared into the soil at the base of a huge tree with quivering leaves.

  Cele started forward, but Dahleven put out his left arm, blocking her while he scanned the area and the heights above. Fender went forward while Dahleven signaled to the others. Two men disappeared down their back-trail, while three others climbed to vantage points above the stream. Fender knelt by one of the small pools and brought the crystal liquid to his lips in his cupped hands. A moment later, he turned and smiled, moisture dripping off his sandy beard.

  “It’s safe.” Dahleven stepped aside and drew Cele from behind him. “Stay here.” He went forward and knelt next to Fendrikanin at the stream. Taking something from the pouch at his belt, he cast it into the stream, murmuring the same words as he had at the last spring. “Accept our gifts in return for your bounty.”

  Who is he talking to? she wondered, but when he returned to her, her mind jumped back to what he’d said before. “What did you mean, ‘It’s safe?’ The water?”

  He shook his head. “Partly. Our enemies could have fouled the stream. But my main concern was ambush. Thirsty men are often careless.”

  A shiver ran up and
down Cele’s back. She never wanted to hear the sounds or see the results of battle again.

  Ghav gathered skins from the other men and helped Fender fill them. She noticed that neither Fender nor Dahleven drank.

  Dahleven held out his bota bags to her. “They’ll finish more quickly if you help them, Lady Celia. The sooner the skins are filled, the sooner we can all drink.”

  “Of course.” Cele took his waterskins and her own to the stream. Light danced on the clear shallow flow and struck sparks from some of the stones in the streambed. They looked out of place. She started to reach for one but Ghav stopped her.

  “Leave it be, Lady. ’Tis a gift for the sprite.”

  Is he kidding? “The sprite?”

  “She who lives in the stream, of course. Fill your bags so we can all slake our thirst.”

  Ghav’s words about a sprite made no sense, but she understood about thirst. As she plunged the neck of a bota into the cold current, Cele’s dry mouth pinched and watered. She marveled at the men’s self-discipline. No one drank until all could drink. The liquid comfort was so close, only an arm’s length away, burbling and laughing over the rocks, teasing her fingertips with its cool moisture. Her parched tissues ached with anticipation, and quick on the heels of her thirst came a sharp stab of hunger. She filled another bag and tried to ignore her body’s demands. Ghav and Fender weren’t slaking their thirst, and neither would she, not until the rest could drink, too. She didn’t want to seem weak or sacrifice whatever respect they might have for her. She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did. If they could do it, so could she. And once her mind was made up, waiting to slake her thirst became easier.