Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “It’s a proud heritage. Lord Dahleven is heir to a great Family.”

  “Dahleven is descended from Fanlon?”

  Thora looked at her as if she were pulling a poor joke. “Of course! Through Kon Neven and sixteen generations of Jarls.”

  No wonder Dahleven thought he had the right to play around with her. He was a prince, or whatever they called the son of a Jarl or a Kon. He thought he could get away with whatever he wanted. He probably could.

  Cele turned in front of a mirror and the hem of her dress swirled around her ankles, revealing her matching red slippers. Though the clothing here looked strange compared to what people wore in Tucson, it certainly looked good on her. No one would look at her legs and think she was half-dressed now. Her breasts, maybe. Dahleven, eat your heart out.

  “The red looks well on you, my lady,” Thora said. “You’ll not be left sitting when the music begins.”

  “Thank you.” Dancing? I can barely walk in these skirts.

  A brisk tattoo summoned Thora to the door. She opened it a modest amount, then wider as she curtsied the visitor in. “Lord Ragnar! Be welcome.”

  A young man about Cele’s age stepped into her room and lifted Thora out of her curtsy. He wore an embroidered gray velvet tunic over a satiny gray shirt with a high collar and full sleeves. His dark gray pants were tucked into high gray boots. A small bag of rich purple velvet hung from a wide purple ribbon around his neck, the only color on his person. “It’s Ragni, Thora, as you know all too well. I’ve told you often enough. You don’t want to give Lady Celia the wrong impression of me, do you? ‘Lord Ragnar’ sounds so pompous.”

  The tall young man turned his smile on Cele. He was slimmer, but something about the shape of his gray eyes and the cut of his high cheekbones echoed Dahleven’s. He came forward and honored her with a slight bow. His gaze hesitated for a moment on Sorn’s cuff, but then he focused his attention on her face. “Lady Celia Montrose, it is a pleasure to meet you. If I’d known there were such treasures to be found in the drylands, I would have gone there myself, rather than leaving such adventures to my brother.” He lightly touched her right arm above the elbow.

  For some reason Ragni’s gesture felt suggestive. “Your brother?” Cele shifted, breaking the contact. Ragni withdrew his hand and she wondered if she’d imagined the feeling of familiarity.

  “Dahben. Lord Dahleven, rather. I suppose I shouldn’t call him by his childhood nickname.”

  “That’s what Aenid called him.”

  “She’s the one who gave it to him. She couldn’t say Dahleven when she was little. ‘Dahben’ was the best she could manage, and the rest of us adopted it. We should drop it I suppose; he will be Jarl someday, and ‘Lord Dahben’ doesn’t quite have the ring of authority, does it?”

  Cele didn’t have a response to that, but she found herself smiling at Ragni’s breezy manner.

  “When did you meet Aenid?” Ragni lifted a brow in an expression much like his brother’s.

  “This afternoon, when I went to visit Sevond.”

  Ragni lost his air of amusement. “That’s a sad thing, for Sevond to lose Sorn on top of all his other losses. It was well done of you to go to him. And Aenid was there, too, you say? She was rather fond of Sorn. I expect she’ll feel his death nearly as much as Dahleven will.”

  “More, I’d say,” Cele said before she caught herself. It wasn’t her place to allude to Aenid’s situation, especially since Aenid’s family clearly had no idea how far things between her and Sorn had progressed.

  Fortunately, Ragni misunderstood. “You don’t understand. Dahleven and Sorn were sworn brothers.”

  Cele thought back to Dahleven’s stoic behavior. “He seemed to handle Sorn’s death pretty well.”

  “He won’t show it, of course. He can’t.” Ragni paused and shook his head as though shaking free of the unhappy subject. His smile returned. “I am here to escort you to the Feast, my lady. May I have the pleasure of your company?” he finished with a little bow and the offer of his hand.

  *

  The great hall had been set with two rows of tables down the length of the room, on either side of the fire pit. The setting looked like something out of a costume drama. Servants hurried up and down the aisles, replacing empty pitchers and carafes on each table with full ones.

  A table with three chairs had been set up on the dais and another much longer one was below it, both crosswise to the length of the hall.

  As Ragni escorted her into the chamber through an opening near the dais, a din of voices enveloped her. Cele scanned the revelers for Dahleven. Color flashed everywhere, but she didn’t see him or his wife among the throng. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. She knew she looked hugely better than she had the last time he’d seen her, with her scratched legs and dirty face, and wanted to show off a little, but she didn’t want to confront him in front of all these people.

  Cele became suddenly and uncomfortably aware that her entrance with Ragni was causing a stir. People glanced at her, leaned to speak to their neighbors, then looked back at her. Cele’s blush made her feel warm, and she was glad only the center section of the huge tri-part firepit was aflame. Delicately wrought oil lamps hanging from tall stands added more heat. The smell of resinous wood burning overlay everything, despite the firehoods drawing the smoke upward. Cele took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  Ragni gave her an encouraging wink and led her to the long table below the dais. He seated her next to a man dressed in green velvet. Cele remained acutely aware of the many eyes upon her and tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. They were probably wondering who the unknown upstart was, and why was she being seated so highly. Cele wondered the same thing.

  Ragni made the introductions. “This is my sister Lady Ingirid,” Ragni indicated an auburn haired woman just beyond the man in green, “and her husband, Lord Jon.”

  Cele smiled and nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Lady Celia Montrose.” Ragni finished the introduction.

  Lord Jon tilted his head and cast a sideways glance at Ragni before taking another swallow of wine. “Still picking up Dahleven’s castoffs, Ragni?”

  Ingirid laid her hand on Jon’s arm, but he twitched it off.

  Cele flinched inwardly, stung by the volley aimed at her escort. Is that what they think me? Dahleven’s used-up mistress? She felt Ragni stiffen beside her, but his voice was light as he addressed Ingirid. “You’re letting his leash get a bit long, aren’t you, dear sister?”

  Jon turned sharply to Ragni and Cele leaned back in her chair between them. She didn’t want to be here. Running battles with the Renegades was bad enough; now she was in the middle of familial warfare. She wanted to go home. Where are my ruby slippers?

  Jon opened his mouth, but suddenly the hall fell silent and he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. All attention turned to the dais. Ragni stood and pulled out her chair. Cele rose along with everyone else, as Kon Neven entered the hall.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cele wasn’t sure what it was about him, but she couldn’t help but admire Neven’s confidence and authority. A woman of about his age walked beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, but Cele didn’t notice what she looked like; she couldn’t take her eyes off the Kon. Even allowing for the effect of standing on the dais, he seemed taller and more powerful than he had earlier in the afternoon. Gold embroidery accented the deep forest green of his tunic, seeming almost to glow with its own light. His appearance made the finery and jewels of the others in the hall seem shabby by comparison. Despite her anger at his bullying, when he looked at her, Cele felt eager to hear his words.

  “Be welcome to this house,” Neven said into the attentive silence. Though his words had the tone of ritual, Cele felt he really meant them as his rich, resonant voice flowed into her like warm honey. She felt whole and safe, as though she belonged and was truly welcome.

  “We come together for the Althing, to
fulfill our responsibilities in governing the Jarldoms and provinces of Nuvinland. But first, we feast. First, we share meat and ale. First we honor Fanlon and the Alliance, for which he sacrificed all he held dear, and which we come together each year to serve.” Neven held aloft a drinking horn chased with silver and gold. “To Fanlon!”

  “To Fanlon!” Everyone shouted, and Cele joined in, lifting her cup.

  “The Alliance!” Neven drank again.

  “The Alliance!” Cele took another swallow of ale, though the brew’s bite was stronger than she liked.

  Neven set his horn in its stand and poured a libation into the goblet at an empty space to his left, then he lifted his drink again. “To our hosts, unseen, but not forgotten.”

  Cele lifted her tankard again, though she didn’t know who they were honoring.

  “Now, be merry! Eat your fill, slake your thirst!” Neven lifted his drinking horn in salute to the assembly and drank deeply as the silence evaporated under the onslaught of shouts and salubrious toasts.

  Ragni assisted Cele with her heavy chair as she once again sat with her back to the dais. No one faced her across the table, so she had a clear view of the people in the hall, and they had a clear view of her. She tried not to notice the covert glances of the other guests, but it was harder to ignore the occasional stare. She stared back, but the startled looks on the gawkers’ faces made it clear that she was committing a social error. Is everyone who sits at the high table on display, or is it just me? She stopped returning the looks and tried to ignore them.

  Cele opened her mouth to ask about Neven’s last toast, but Lord Jon spoke first.

  “He poured it out in full measure tonight, didn’t he?” Jon’s voice barely carried over the din, as servants began bringing in food. Though his face was puffy and sallow, Cele could see he’d once been a handsome man. His red-rimmed eyes held a combination of bitterness and admiration.

  What’s he talking about?

  Ingirid put her hand on her husband’s arm again. Jon left it there, ignoring her. She was still a lovely woman, but the tired, pinched look around her eyes and mouth marred her beauty.

  “Kon Neven,” Jon said to Cele’s confused look. “His Talent is strong—and he doesn’t stint in its use, does he?”

  Jon’s attempt at clarification didn’t help. Cele looked at Ragni, who leaned forward to speak to the older man. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He uses it to good purpose, does he not? As we should all use our Talents.” Settling back into his chair, he added in an undertone, “Those who have Talents worthy of use, that is.”

  Lord Jon evidently didn’t hear. He seemed to lose interest in the conversation and turned back to his drink.

  Apparently Ragni didn’t know she was Talentless. If some Talents didn’t get much respect, how much less would he think of her for not having one at all? She remembered the pitying looks of Dahleven and Sorn. The thought chafed—she liked Ragni. She didn’t want him to think less of her over something so unimportant.

  Cele looked at him, and Ragni gave her an encouraging smile.

  She noticed that the seat to the right of Neven’s wife was empty. “Who’s supposed to sit there?” she asked Ragni.

  “That’s Dahl’s place. He should have been here, but he couldn’t rest until he knew how his men fared.”

  Ghav. Falsom. Kep. Fender. In her mind’s eye, she saw Halsten fall, an arrow in his back, and saw the blood pouring from Sorn’s belly. Were the others dead, too?

  Her thoughts must have shown in her face. Ragni touched her hand. “Don’t worry, he’ll find them. They are fine warriors all. They’re probably strolling home even now, singing ribald songs off-key. Tonight is for feasting and celebration. You can’t help them with your frown.”

  The servants arrived at the front of the hall with platters of meat and bread, spring vegetables, dried fruit and cheeses. The aromas of well-cooked food piqued Cele’s hunger, despite her filling lunch. When the first platter, laden with succulent sliced meat, was held in front of her, her mouth began to water. She hesitated. Should she help herself before Ragni did? Before a prince? But he gestured for her to go ahead.

  Just as she was about to place a thick red slice of meat on her platter, Ragni leaned close and spoke just loud enough for her to hear, “You should serve me first.”

  Belatedly she noticed that at all the tables, the women served the men on their left before filling their own plates. Some of them were staring, apparently shocked by her faux pas of slighting a prince. Cele’s face burned. So, women serve the men here. How delightfully archaic. What other charming customs do they have?

  “We do things differently where I’m from,” Cele said, laying the meat on Ragni’s plate.

  Ragni winked, a smile in his eyes. “Different steps for different dances. You’ll learn.”

  “That depends. I hope to go home before too long.” Cele shrugged. “In the meantime, we have a saying: When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  “There is wisdom in that.”

  Cele cut and speared a piece of meat with her fork, then paused. “Do I have to wait until you eat first, too?”

  Ragni chuckled. “No.”

  Cele took a bite. She didn’t recognize the meat, but it was flavorful and moist, tangy with spices. She was still feeling positive about Neven’s address, but Jon’s comment nagged at her. Speaking just for Ragni’s ear, she asked, “What did Lord Jon mean about Kon Neven’s Talent?”

  Ragni paused, his lip curling in disdain. He replied in the same private tone Cele had used. “My esteemed brother-by-marriage is gifted with somewhat less Talent than most, and his lack distresses him—and those around him. Father’s Talent runs strong. Such things cause Jon’s bitterness to rise, I’m afraid, like scum on a cesspit.”

  “But what is Kon Neven’s Talent? What did he do that upset Jon?”

  Ragni looked at her hard. “Didn’t you feel it? Father’s Talent is Presence. When he chooses to use it, few can attend to anything but him, and all feel the truth of his words. Even when he doesn’t consciously exercise it, he tends to draw attention. Few are immune to it, but those of us who live closest to him are least affected. Did you truly not feel it?”

  “Oh I felt it, all right.” Mind control? A skill every despot would love to have. The warm, welcome feeling she’d been enjoying suddenly chilled and frightened her. “I just didn’t know what it was.”

  Ragni must have sensed the change in her. “He doesn’t use it for ill. It’s a powerful Talent, but he can’t change the basic core of a person, or the way a person feels and thinks for long, especially since all know of it.” He smiled at her. “He truly meant only to welcome his guests to the Feast. He had no darker purpose than that.”

  Except, perhaps, to lull everyone into a false sense of security. But if Neven was controlling her mind, how was she able to doubt him?

  Cele searched Ragni’s smiling face. He was telling her the truth—as he knew it. At least Ragni wasn’t lying to her. Not as far as she could tell, anyway. Unless deception is his Talent. She’d believed Jeff, too, when he said he loved her. Her track record in judging a man’s character wasn’t the best. She’d thought of Dahleven as a stand-up guy, too—before she’d seen him hugging his wife and child.

  Ragni was still smiling at her. She couldn’t help but smile back. She’d reserve judgment—for now.

  The next platter held a dense white fish, and Cele pointedly served Ragni first—the best portion. She was intensely aware that other people in the hall were watching, waiting to see what mistake she would make next. She wasn’t used to being on display like this and wanted to hide.

  “Very good. You’re learning,” he said, a teasing gleam in his eye.

  Cele relaxed a little. Ragni obviously wasn’t too concerned about protocol.

  When the third course arrived, with fancifully decorated roasted fowl, they made a game of it: she pretended to search for the choicest morsel while first offering him the tailings; he played a
t pompous refusal.

  By the end of the meal, Cele felt replete and almost relaxed. She couldn’t quite ignore her awareness of being scrutinized by the roomful of Nuvinland nobility, but for most of the meal, Ragni had distracted her from feeling too self-conscious. The information about Neven’s Talent remained troublesome, but for the moment she had no sense of anything influencing her beyond the satisfaction of excellent food and drink, and Ragni’s charm.

  The bitter ale was replaced by flagons of sweet wine as portions of soft white cheese were offered with flatbread. The cacophony of conversation had dimmed somewhat during the meal. Now, with appetites sated, the noise level rose again. As servants cleared the tables of their empty plates, Cele spoke softly to Ragni, adopting a sincere expression. “I’m glad to see you have such a good appetite, my lord.” She paused as Ragni looked at her curiously. “Thora told me the tale of Fanlon. I’ll take your clean plate as assurance that this meal wasn’t drugged.”

  Ragni’s eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed as the joke struck home. In an exaggeratedly innocent voice he replied, “Well, mine wasn’t.”

  Cele made a face and Ragni laughed.

  A man with a rainbow of ribbons pinned by small golden brooches to his black tunic entered the hall and bowed first to Kon Neven, then to the second table, and finally to the rest of the assembly. The company hushed.

  “Greetings to you all, Jarls and ladies, and ladies who are Jarls.” The man bowed to a plump, middle-aged woman with a determined jaw.

  Cele’s attention increased. So women can be Jarls.

  The man went on. “I am Eirik, skald and soothsayer. Tonight we sit full and satisfied at Kon Neven’s table, but we gather to remember those who feasted here before, and the man who brought them together in Alliance.”

  The skald’s silken voice drew Cele into his tale of Fanlon. His story captivated her, even though she’d heard the gist of it before. Eirik convinced her that no man had ever possessed truer vision or greater love for his people than Fanlon. No one had ever sacrificed so much. When he finished his tale, and paused to drink deeply from his tankard, the room seemed empty in the absence of his voice.