Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  A commotion in the hallway brought Cele’s eyes to the arch just as a young woman rushed in. Wisps of her pale blond hair straggled around her face and neck, escaping intricate braids and sticking to her flushed, tear-stained cheeks. She knelt on the other side of Sevond’s chair and hugged his waist, burying her face in his side.

  “Oh, Master Sevond. Oh!” She wept, her words muffled against his clothing.

  “Aenid! Aenid, my dear. Oh, dear, Aenid,” Sevond murmured, patting the young woman’s back.

  Cele leaned forward instinctively to comfort the girl, then pulled back. She didn’t know her, and the girl obviously wanted Sevond’s touch now, not some stranger’s. It was hard to watch her sob and do nothing, and Cele wondered if she should leave and allow Sevond and Aenid to share their grief in private.

  Sevond continued crooning to the weeping girl. “You cared deeply for him I know, little one. He loved you, too. You were like a little sister to him.”

  Aenid moaned and cried harder. Cele’s eyes grew moist. Her own grief for Sorn seemed shallow, yet she didn’t feel foolish weeping for a man she had barely known.

  Eventually, Aenid lifted her damp face to Sevond’s. Sorn’s father seemed a little more at peace. Perhaps he had needed to comfort someone else. Then Aenid reacted to Cele’s presence. She straightened and wiped her face, smearing the moist evidence of her grief.

  “My apologies—”

  “I’m Celia Mon—”

  They spoke at once, and stopped. Cele smiled at the overlap. Aenid raised an eyebrow.

  “You go ahead.” Cele nodded encouragement to the younger woman.

  Aenid almost looked offended. Her voice was thickened with weeping, but she spoke with composure. “My apologies for intruding upon you. My grief robbed me of proper behavior, I fear. How did you know Sorn?”

  “He was my friend. He saved my life. I’m Celia Montrose.”

  Aenid’s eyes widened, as though startled. “Uncle Dahben spoke of you.” Her voice was odd.

  “Dahben?” Who was talking about her already?

  Aenid gestured impatiently. “Uncle Dahleven. He said Sorn died because of you.”

  So, Dahleven does blame me, despite what he said.

  Sevond gently rebuked the girl. “My dear, he died of wounds won in honorable combat.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said.” Aenid’s puffy eyes were cold.

  Clearly, Cele had overstayed her welcome. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said, standing.

  Aenid stood to face her.

  “He was a kind person,” Cele said, trying to make up for whatever she’d done to offend. “Sorn was my friend, though I only knew him a day.”

  A change in Aenid’s face made Cele pause; the younger woman’s gaze fell to the cuff Cele now wore on her forearm. Aenid’s expression turned surprised, then thoughtful.

  Unexpectedly, Cele found it hard to speak, her throat tight. Her mind blanked; she couldn’t think of anything adequate to say. “I’m sorry.” She left, heading down the long hall to the door. The boy was nowhere in sight.

  Aenid caught up with Cele as she reached for the latch. “Wait.”

  Cele turned.

  Aenid’s tear blotched face blushed red to the roots of her pale hair. “You…you said Sorn was your friend.”

  “Yes. He made being lost in a strange place a little less terrifying for me.” Cele remembered Fendrikanin’s teasing. “I guess he adopted me as another one of his ‘sisters.’“

  Something in Aenid relaxed. “He…he wasn’t in love with you, then?”

  “What? No! Of course not!” Suddenly, Aenid’s question shifted into focus. “You were in love with him,” she said softly. “And he loved you, too, didn’t he?”

  Aenid’s red face blanched white, which sharply delineated a scatter of freckles across her cheeks and delicate nose. Sweat sprang to her brow and upper lip, her eyes lost focus, and she wavered. Cele steadied the girl as she started to slump, and helped her over to a bench, pushing Aenid’s head between her knees.

  “Take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. That’s right. Another one,” Cele directed.

  A minute later, Aenid pushed herself upright. She was still pale, but some color had returned to her cheeks.

  “How long since you’ve eaten?” Cele asked, the professional part of her mind clicking in.

  “Not long. I’d just finished my midday meal when Uncle Dahben…”

  It wasn’t low blood sugar then. It was probably just the shock of the news.

  “I suppose I’ve been anxious since Sorn left.”

  A little bell rang in the back of Cele’s mind. “Were you and Sorn…? Could you be pregnant?” It could be something else, her professional mind said. Just the shock of Sorn’s death. But her instincts said otherwise.

  A light came to Aenid’s face. “I’ve been hoping. It’s been over three months since my last courses, but I’ve never been regular. I’ve prayed that Freyr blessed us, but I’ve been afraid to believe it.”

  Cele blinked, nonplused. The father of her unborn child was dead, and Aenid was happy and eager rather than afraid of the prospect of raising a child alone. “How long were you and Sorn lovers?”

  Aenid looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “Five months. But I’ve loved him forever, I think.”

  “Sevond doesn’t know about you and Sorn, does he?”

  “No. Oh! I should tell him!” Aenid jumped up. “He’ll be so happy!” Then she paused, a shadow darkening her joy. “If I am truly with child. If not, it would be cruel to add to his sorrow.”

  Cele nodded. A lot of early pregnancies ended in miscarriage. “Why did you keep your relationship with Sorn secret?”

  “We were afraid Grandfather wouldn’t approve.”

  “Why? What could anyone possibly have against Sorn?”

  “He was only a carl—a freeman— and he wasn’t landed.” Aenid’s voice said she thought she was stating the obvious. “Being with him wasn’t a problem—I’m of age after all. But we wanted to marry, so we kept to ourselves. We were afraid that if Grandfather found out, he might try to arrange a marriage for me. There have been offers aplenty. I’m the Kon’s granddaughter after all. At least, until the next election.” Aenid’s voice was bitter.

  Aenid is Neven’s granddaughter? And Dahleven is her uncle. And Neven’s son. Cele wrenched her mind away from that fact. It didn’t matter what or who he was. “Election?”

  “For the Konship, of course.”

  “I thought that was hereditary.”

  Aenid stared at her as though she were demented. “The Jarldom is hereditary, but the Jarls elect the Kon of Nuvinland from among themselves every five years. Grandfather has been Kon for nearly twenty. Jarls’s sons and brothers and cousins and nephews who don’t even know me have asked for my hand, just because I’m the Kon’s granddaughter. Sooner or later, he’ll say yes to one of them. Sorn and I were hoping for later.”

  “Would he do that? Marry you off against your will?”

  Aenid looked down at the floor. “No, probably not. But I don’t think he would have let me marry Sorn, either.”

  “Well, he can hardly pressure you to marry now.”

  “Why not?” At Cele’s raised eyebrows she added, “Many men are happy to have proof their betrothed wife is able to bear healthy children. But he’ll probably wait until the baby is born.”

  Cele nodded, suppressing a frown. Was that all Aenid was to Neven, a brood mare to be sold to the highest bidder? “Are you all right now? You probably want to spend time with Sevond.”

  “Yes, I’m well.” Aenid laid a hand on Cele’s. “You won’t tell Grandfather? Not until I’m sure?”

  Cele clasped Aenid’s hand in both of hers. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Neven anything.”

  Thora waited for Cele in the hall. Cele’s shoulders relaxed a little. She was grateful the older woman hadn’t accepted dismissal. She really didn’t want to test her memory of the way back to her
room just then.

  She followed her escort? maid? guard? down the hall, trying to memorize the twists and turns of their route. Two doors on the right before the left-hand turn, then a gradual curve to the right and a flight of stairs. All the while, that odd sensation she’d experienced before insisted that her destination was above her, first to the right, then ahead, then to the left as she and Thora wended their way through the halls. The keys hanging from Thora’s waist chimed together as she moved briskly.

  They turned onto the mezzanine, where there were more people. Cele had lost track of how she got there. She tried to mentally retrace the last few turns in their route but a servant bustled by with an armload of linen and Cele barely stepped out of the way in time to avoid a collision.

  “Watch yourself, Bergid! You nearly knocked Lady Celia off her feet.” Thora rebuked the girl.

  The young woman stopped and turned, her face tight and apprehensive. She bowed as best she could with her arms full. Another servant carrying a chest sidled past, hugging the wall.

  “No harm done,” Cele said. The girl’s face relaxed. She bowed again, then hurried on.

  “That’s hardly the point, my lady. The girl should be more careful. We’ve a houseful of nobility gathered for the Althing. If she doesn’t watch herself, the person she runs into next may not be so generous as you.”

  As they turned to continue, Cele noticed a tall, dark-haired man without the ever-present hawk crest on his shoulder observing their exchange with the servant. Cele felt self-conscious. Did she appear so out of place that she drew attention?

  Cele ran her hand over her skirt and gathered a fold of cloth in her fingers, savoring the soft hand of the forest green fabric of her dress. Intricate embroidery at the hem gave weight and substance to the skirt. She was beginning to get the hang of walking in it. Thora had braided her hair and pinned the looped and swirled plaits in an elaborate pattern similar to the styles on the better-dressed women they passed in the hallway. Cele knew she looked good, but the man’s gaze was more watchful than admiring as they passed him leaning against the mezzanine railing.

  Thora seemed not to have noticed him. “Come, my lady. We’ve got to get you dressed for the Feasting tonight.” Thora led her up a flight of stairs and down another hall. “It’s fortunate we got you in and out of the baths already. There will be a press in there now.”

  A feast? “What are you celebrating?”

  Thora’s eyes widened. “Fanlon’s Feast, of course.” At Cele’s blank expression, Thora looked incredulous. “You’ve not heard of Fanlon? How could that be?”

  They stopped in front of a door Cele recognized as her own. The older woman unlocked it with one of the keys hanging from her waist and ushered her in. “How is it you’ve never heard of Fanlon, my lady?”

  Cele shrugged and shook her head. She didn’t want to go into the whole story about her transit to this world again. “I’m from a long way away. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “No need. You’ll hear the story tonight; the bards always tell it.” Thora went to the closet where she’d stored Neven’s gifts, then withdrew a red gown heavy with gold embroidery around the low neckline and hem. Slit sleeves of gauzy white cloth with gold and red decorative stitching flowed from the shoulders nearly down to the floor. “This will do very well, indeed.” Obviously, Thora was still impressed with the elegance of the clothes Kon Neven had sent.

  Cele reached behind her neck to unfasten the buttons closing her dress, but Thora brushed her hands away after laying the red dress on the bed.

  Cele hadn’t been dressed by someone since she was three, but remembering Thora’s expression of hurt when Cele had said she’d bathe herself, she decided to let Thora have her way. To cover her awkwardness, she asked again, “Please, tell me about Fanlon and the Feast.”

  Apparently, Thora had only been waiting for a little encouragement. “Well, it won’t be as pretty as the bards tell it, but I can acquaint you with his story.

  “As everyone knows, Lord Fanlon was born nigh onto two hundred years ago, heir to the Jarl of this very province.”

  “Like Dahleven?”

  “Yes. Just like Lord Dahleven. In that time, the Jarls were a contentious and quarrelsome lot, long descended from the adventurers who had left behind the settlements of the First Families in Nuheimjord.”

  “The First Families?”

  Thora paused in her unbuttoning and spoke as though to a dim-witted child. “Those who crossed the portal from Midgard, some eight hundred years ago.”

  Excited, Cele turned to look at Thora. “Your people came through a portal? Gris said something about that. Could I go back that way?”

  Thora shook her head. “No one has ever returned to Midgard, my lady. Who would want to?”

  Disappointment washed away Cele’s excitement. “I would.”

  “I’ve heard no tales of anyone passing back over the bridge, my lady.” Thora’s voice was kind as she turned Cele and resumed her unbuttoning. “But I’m not privy to the deeper secrets and magicks. You should ask Father Wirmund, the Overprest. He’ll be at the feast tonight. He would know.”

  Cele nodded. “Please go on with your story.”

  “Well, those Jarls had Great Talents back then, and they could do such things as shape stone, call the winds, or bring the mortally wounded back from the brink of death. But they used their Talents in endless bickering and war.

  “To increase their holdings and keep the Talents of their children growing stronger, they married carefully, choosing their wives for the sake of their Talents as though they were breeding sheep or cattle. New and stronger Talents sprang up, but not the wisdom to use them well.” The multitude of tiny buttons undone, Thora slipped the dress off Cele’s shoulders. “When one young Jarl came into his Talent and used it to shake the earth so that all in his opponent’s province was destroyed, Lord Fanlon decided he must act.

  “He called the Jarls together under the truce of the Althing. Then, with his own hand, Lord Fanlon dosed the guests with a sleeping draught, sacrificing his honor to save all he held dear. The Jarls fell into a deep sleep, and then he and his brother Arn, a priest of Baldur, combined their Talents. Lord Fanlon had the Viking Talent: Borrowing. Keeping was his brother’s Talent. In a Great Working, Lord Fanlon took all the Great Talents from the Jarls and their men, and Arn contained them in crystal, hidden deep within the mountains. But to make the Keeping permanent, Arn had to die in the Working.” Thora held the red dress for Cele to step into.

  Cele paused with one leg raised. “Die! Why?”

  “I told you, my lady. To make it last.” Thora used the dress to gesture that Cele should step into it. “Great magic requires a great sacrifice. Otherwise, the Working would have failed when Arn’s attention faltered, and the fractious Lords would again have had possession of their Talents.”

  Cele slipped her arms into the sleeves. Her horror must have shown on her face.

  “Lord Fanlon was no more happy with the idea than you, and almost put an end to the plan when Arn told him this, but Arn insisted on his right to serve the needs of their people. Seeing no better path, Lord Fanlon was persuaded.” Thora began threading the gold laces on the front of Cele’s gown.

  Cele tried to ignore the awkward feeling of being dressed like a doll. “What happened?”

  “When the Jarls awoke and learned what had happened, their anger knew no bounds. They declared Fanlon Oathbreaker for violating the truce. Even his father called him Outcast when he learned what his sons had done. The Jarls drew arms, and in the fighting, Lady Sigrid, Lord Fanlon’s beloved wife, was mortally wounded.” Thora paused again, pulling tight the gold ribbons.

  Cele was about to urge her on when the maid continued.

  “Seeing this, the Jarls expected Lord Fanlon to release the Talents, for all knew of his passion for her, and one of their number had possessed the Talent of Healing those near death.

  “Fanlon held his beloved in his arms as her life slipped away, d
rop by drop. At first, they clamored for the release of their Talents, promising the restoration of his wife and forgiveness of his betrayal. He looked at them with dry-eyed grief carved on his stony face. ‘No man has the right to buy his happiness with the sorrow of others,’ he told them. ‘Our people deserve the peace and safety we have taken from them with our endless wars. They shall have some measure of it now.’ The Jarls fell silent, and when Sigrid released her last breath, the Jarls were stunned by Fanlon’s sacrifice.”

  Cele blinked away tears.

  “One by one, the Jarls swore to support the Alliance, though it took some of them a year or more to come to it. And though he had violated the truce of Althing, none called for the Outcasting of Lord Fanlon. Within a year, he took his father’s place as Jarl of Quartzholm, and then as Kon of Nuvinland.

  “Lord Fanlon, realizing that eventually Great Talents might develop again, and that even normal Talents could be used to great harm, did another Great Working, his last. He poured his Viking Talent into another crystal and bequeathed it to the priests of Baldur to use for taking the Talents from those who misuse them. But he feared even a priest might be led astray by the power held in the single crystal, so he shattered it, and in doing so, died to make it permanent. The shards and the power were separated and shared among the priests.

  “Now, when someone is judged by the Althing to be Outcast, a group of priests must gather and work together to take the Talent from the offender.

  “And that is how Lord Fanlon became known as ‘Fanlon the Great.’ Since that day, the Jarls have married for political alliance, wealth, and love, but not to breed their Talents.” Thora tied the golden ribbons and tucked the ends down between Cele’s breasts.

  Cele felt a little squeezed.

  “Now bend over and plump yourself, my lady,” Thora urged.

  Cele did as commanded, lifting her breasts to fill the low neckline.

  “The Althing is always opened, now, with a Feast of Fanlon, honoring him who brought us to together in Alliance,” Thora finished, putting a drop of fragrance between Cele’s breasts.

  Cele felt like her bosom was being offered on a platter. “That’s quite a story.”