Cele took a deep breath, relieved that in her ignorance she hadn’t commented on Jon’s drinking to his daughter. She made a mental note of the danger. She didn’t understand anything here. Not the people, the customs, nor the relationships. She couldn’t assume anything.
A hope burst to the surface of her mind, like an iridescent bubble. Maybe she had assumed too much about Dahleven. Maybe she had misinterpreted what she’d seen. Maybe Dahleven wasn’t married, and he’d been free to kiss her after all.
But the hug? The baby? The three of them looked so natural together. Cele pushed the painful thought out of her mind. What did it matter? She was going home, as quickly as possible. Dahleven’s marital status wasn’t important.
Suddenly, as if summoned by her thoughts, she saw the strawberry-blonde that Dahleven had embraced twirling among the other dancers. Cele’s breath caught. She was lovely. How could Dahleven cheat on her?
But Cele had learned her lesson, she wouldn’t assume. She leaned close to Dahleven’s niece and casually asked, “Who is that?”
“Who?”
Cele had to wait till the dance brought the woman back in sight. “There. That pretty woman in the green dress.”
“Oh, her.” Aenid said. “That’s my aunt, Kaidlin.”
Aunt Kaidlin. Uncle Dahleven. She hadn’t been wrong.
Cele hated the way the bubble of hope turned into a stone and dropped into her belly. How could a foolish hope grow so out of control in just a moment?
“I need to get some air.” Cele rose and headed for the door.
A petite young blonde with lots of curves intercepted her. “Welcome to Quartzholm, Lady Celia. I guess you’ve met the rest of the family by now.” She glanced at Aenid across the room, then back to Cele. “I’m sorry Ragni didn’t bother to introduce us. I’m Angrim.”
Cele didn’t want to endure another introduction and chat politely with another stranger. She couldn’t help herself; she looked longingly at the door.
Angrim looked at her closely. “You’ve had too much excitement for one day, haven’t you? The Feast can be a bit overwhelming.” Angrim took Cele’s arm familiarly. “Let me help you back to your room.”
“Thank you, but—”
“It’s no trouble, my dear. It will give us a chance to become acquainted.” They left the great hall with its music and dancing and turned two corners. The stone walls blocked most of the sounds of celebration. After the noise of the gathering, the quiet seemed surreal. Angrim’s companionable chatter was a welcome distraction from the mess Cele’s thoughts and feelings had become.
“You’re wise to retire early,” Angrim said as they mounted the stairs. “The gathering will only grow more wild as the night goes on. Eventually, the young bucks will challenge each other to a fire-leap until one of them singes his rump. You’re not missing much.”
“They jump across the fire?”
“And they move the starting mark farther away with each round.”
Cele could only stare.
“It wouldn’t be a challenge if it was too easy, now would it? Who’d they impress?” The young blonde giggled.
Angrim turned the subject as she turned another corner. “Your trip through the drylands with Dahleven’s men must have been quite an ordeal.”
Cele didn’t feel like talking. “It was hard.”
“So I would think. Dirty and uncomfortable. And alone with all those men!” Angrim didn’t miss a breath as they climbed another set of stairs.
“Actually, they were all kind, in their own ways. Sorn most of all.” Her heart twinged at the name. Cele was relieved to recognize her own door as they turned onto yet another hall.
“I’m sure. Our Dahleven would never allow an insult to a lady.”
Thinking back to Dahleven’s grim-faced questioning, Cele wasn’t so sure. Then Angrim’s phrasing sank in. Our Dahleven? “You know Lord Dahleven well, then? Are you family?”
“Why, I thought you knew.” Angrim smiled coyly. “Dahleven and I have known each other forever. We’re quite intimately acquainted.” Her meaning was unmistakable.
Married, with a mistress. That was clear enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dahleven shrugged, testing the fit of his new blue tunic. Perfect. He could draw a weapon if necessary while still looking fine enough as his father’s heir.
He’d returned to Quartzholm with just enough time to bathe and dress before the Council of Jarls, the first meeting of the Althing. He was tired, but at least he didn’t have the throbbing head that some of the Jarls would bring to the meeting. Knut’s betrayal, and the deaths of Sorn, Lindy, and Halsten weighed on him, but they sharpened his focus. Finding Fender and Ghav had eased his concern. Except for Ghav’s leg they were whole, and Falsom and Kep, though wounded, were being well cared for at the crofter’s where Ghav and Fender had left them.
The decision to leave the two behind had clearly been difficult for the healer. Ghav had reassured Dahleven repeatedly that the two had been left in good care. His assurances had seemed as much for his own peace of mind as for Dahleven’s. Ghav had followed his first duty, to help Fender get the information back to Quartzholm, despite inclination and his wounded leg.
I’ll make sure Father knows. Ghav deserves recognition for that difficult choice. All his men deserved recognition, for that matter. Their scouting mission had proven far more challenging, and deadly, than expected.
Dahleven stretched again, clean for the first time in weeks, and slicked a hand over his still damp hair, braided close to his head. He was as ready as he’d ever be. He faced another challenge now: presenting what they’d learned to the ever-contentious Jarls. Fanlon may have created the Alliance, but its preservation was seldom smooth or simple.
Ragni followed his quick knock through Dahleven’s door. “Greetings! Ready to face the dragons?”
“Someday you’ll wish you had more respect for my privacy, Ragni.”
“If such a day ever arrives, brother, feel free to bolt your door.”
Dahleven rolled his eyes. “Let’s move out. Delay won’t make this any more pleasant.”
Ragni grimaced and went back out the door. He might delight in stinging Dahleven’s dignity, but they were of like mind on the pleasures of politics. Apparently, Ragni didn’t want to dwell on them; his next remark jerked Dahleven’s thoughts in a different direction. “Your little drylands flower was a pleasant companion last night,” he said as they walked shoulder to shoulder down the wide corridor.
Dahleven felt like he’d missed a step, although his stride was smooth. “Oh?”
“Indeed. I quite enjoyed her company. Definitely one of the better assignments Father has given me.”
Dahleven’s temper warmed. Why had Father put Ragni on the task? He knew what his younger son was like. Ragni was a charmer, always had been. How far and how hard had he pursued Lady Celia? She was vulnerable now, so soon after Sorn’s death. Though she’d known his sworn brother only a day, love could take a woman like that, and he didn’t want to see her hurt by Ragni’s dalliance. She wears Sorn’s bracelet, for Freya’s sake! How could his brother trespass on so fresh a grief?
A stab of guilt cooled his temper and tightened his shoulders. He’d kissed her himself, and it hadn’t been a brotherly kiss. Far from it. A different kind of heat warmed him as his memory of that embrace tightened more than his shoulders.
“Speak, and she appears.” Ragni indicated a figure at the end of the hall.
Lady Celia walked toward them, accompanied by Thora. His imagination hadn’t prepared Dahleven for the sight of her in proper clothing. A gauzy viridian dress skimmed her body, draping gracefully to the floor under a darker green over-tunic nearly as long as the dress. With each step, the delicate fabric of the dress clung to her long muscular legs, their movement visible and tantalizing through the open front of the tunic. Even from this distance, Dahleven could see how the verdant colors of her clothing intensified the shade of her eyes. They were vivid, li
ke the first bright meadow-grass of spring, and they flashed sparks as she recognized him.
“Lady Celia,” Ragni said as they came together, “what a pleasure to see you again.” He didn’t touch her, but his posture suggested familiarity.
Dahleven wanted to step between them, but had no reason to.
“I trust you are well? Your early departure concerned me.” Ragni’s tone implied he had a right to ask.
Lady Celia flicked a brief glance at Dahleven, then smiled at Ragni. “I felt a little overwhelmed. It was rude for me to leave like that. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Such Feasts can indeed be over stimulating. I regret my time is spoken for at present, but I hope I may call on you again.”
Dahleven’s annoyance grew as Lady Celia smiled up into his brother’s eyes and answered, “Please do.”
Ragni bowed deeper than required by courtesy. “Lady Celia.”
“Lord Ragnar. Or should I say, Father Ragnar?”
“Ah.” Ragni lifted a warning finger. “Just Ragni.” He delicately touched her bare arm above the elbow.
Dahleven’s hand shot out and grasped Ragni’s wrist. Ragni had no right to be so publicly intimate, and he doubted Lady Celia understood what Ragni was doing. A man touched an unmarried woman in the place where she’d wear the marriage bands as a confirmation of intimacy—or as an invitation. She permitted it, welcomed it, only if she agreed.
It was then he realized that Celia wore Sorn’s cuff on her forearm now, rather than in the place of a betrothal band, as she had done before. Had he misunderstood her feelings for Sorn? Then he remembered her tears. No, her grief had been genuine.
Ragni and Lady Celia looked at him in surprise, and he released Ragni’s wrist. “We’re late. We must go.” It sounded stiff even to his own ears, but he was angry enough he didn’t care.
Without missing a step, Ragni smoothly took his leave a second time.
Dahleven bowed the appropriate degree. “Lady Celia.”
She threw a glance sharp as shards of emerald at him and continued down the hall without speaking.
Ragni looked at him with wide eyes. “However did you earn such high regard from the lady, brother?”
Dahleven didn’t answer for a moment. His desire to plant a fist in his brother’s face warred with the impulse to kick himself. Was Ragni’s behavior any worse than his own? He strode onward. Ragni kept pace.
The memory of Celia’s glare cut like slivers of deep-winter ice. He’d brought this on himself. He’d given in to impulse and kissed her. She might have enjoyed it at the time, he was sure she had, but now, in clear reflection, she obviously resented his presumption. As well she might.
Dahleven cast a dark look at his brother. Ragni had always been smooth and glib and charming with women. He, no doubt, had said and done all the right things at the right time. He would slip into her regard without her notice, until one day she’d awaken and find herself in love with him. He would never blunder by pushing too far, too soon.
“Easy, brother. I’m not the one who cut you cold, nor did I speak against you last night. Indeed, I sang your praises as a fine warrior—when your name came up.” Ragni looked closer at his face, and Dahleven wished his younger brother weren’t so perceptive, or so Talented. Then Ragni dropped the false mockery and became the brother he trusted again. “What happened, Dahl?”
Dahleven saw no reason to hide the truth from Ragni. He said it in the fewest number of words. “Sorn caught her heart, and then she had to watch him die of a belly wound.”
Ragni groaned softly and grimaced in sympathy.
“Then, yesterday, in the storeroom…” Dahleven ran a hand back over his braided hair. “Baldur’s balls! I kissed her.”
Ragni raised an eyebrow. He almost looked delighted. When Dahleven didn’t continue, he said, “Aside from your blasphemy, I don’t see the problem.”
“She wears his band!”
“As a gift only.”
“Now, perhaps. Not when I kissed her.” Dahleven shook his head. “It was too soon for her. You know how women are. She grieves for Sorn, and I took advantage of her. That’s why she cut me. And why you shouldn’t be presuming on her ignorance. She doesn’t understand our customs, or what you imply when you touch her that way.”
Ragni pursed his lips and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he shook his head and sidestepped Dahleven’s complaint. “You’re right. I do know women. And you clearly don’t. I don’t know why she’d like to cut your heart out, but I’m pretty sure it’s not because you kissed her, you dolt. She may be saddened by Sorn’s death, but she doesn’t act—or feel—like a woman lost in grief.”
Despite his brother’s Talent for Empathy, Dahleven knew what he’d seen pass between Sorn and Lady Celia. He would have argued, but they’d arrived outside the chambers where the Council of Jarls would convene. He gave Ragni a determined look as a servant opened the door and announced them. “Later,” he growled, then smoothed his face to greet the assembled Jarls.
Ragni grinned and shrugged, and followed Dahleven into the hall.
Five of the seven Jarls were already present. Hafdan was missing, and their father, of course. As Kon, it wasn’t appropriate that Neven wait on the others. He’d appear when the Jarls and their seconds were fully assembled.
At this, the first meeting, only the Jarls and their heirs gathered. At subsequent meetings of the Althing, lesser lords, their advisors, and prominent carls with significant holdings would attend, and the larger assembly would address and resolve any disputes that couldn’t be resolved locally. Usually there weren’t many. Most men settled their own disagreements directly, rather than bring their disputes to the Althing like children running to a parent.
An oval table surrounded by sixteen chairs dominated the room. Most of the Jarls stood talking, catching up on gossip, cementing alliances, and trolling for tidbits of rumor that might affect desired agreements. They turned and nodded as Dahleven and Ragni entered the room, eager to have one or both of the Kon’s sons join them. Neither he nor Ragni immediately favored one over another, pausing first at a table set with refreshments. The Jarls resumed their conversations.
Dahleven accepted a tankard of ale from a servant and watched Ozur shake his wavy gray mane. The old Jarl disdained the fashion of braids, allowing his long hair to cascade over his shoulders and blend with his full beard. Combined with his ample girth, his hair made Ozur resemble a fuzzy gray ball, but Dahleven knew better than to underestimate the older man. Ozur was far from soft. He’d challenged Neven for leadership of Nuvinland since the two of them were young men. No, there was nothing soft about Ozur. He talked with Yngvar, the other Jarl with direct access to the sea.
Yngvar was another from his father’s generation, but a very different kind of man. Easily swayed, he cared only for the peaceful continuity of his life. The people of his province prospered mainly due to the plentiful harvest of the ocean, not through great leadership. Yngvar hated contention, and Ozur would have had his vote on all matters, except that Yngvar voted his comfort and profit, and Ozur wasn’t always comfortable. Despite his weakness, he would have been tolerable, if it weren’t for his obtuse propensity for crude and tactless remarks. How Ozur tolerated it, Dahleven didn’t know. He steered away from the two of them.
Ragni crossed the room to Father Wirmund, and Dahleven went to join the trio of Magnus, Solveig, and Ulf. Solveig thrust her jaw forward, obviously not pleased by something Magnus said, while Ulf laughed gently.
“Granted, Solveig isn’t my neighbor, but you’re too anxious, I think, Magnus. It’s too early yet for the boy’s Talent to emerge. The lady has ample time to plan for unfortunate possibilities.”
This again. Magnus wanted Solveig to designate an alternate heir in case her son proved Talentless. She had taken on the duties of the Jarldom when her husband, Brand, had been killed by Renegades. Her son, Vali, was too young to inherit, especially since his Talent hadn’t yet Emerged.
She was within her rights to assume the Jarldom, and tradition supported her, but there were some who had spoken against the leadership of a woman. Magnus, though he didn’t like the prospect of having a woman guiding a neighboring province, had spoken in her support. He observed the old ways, and by the laws of custom, a woman could and should protect the inheritance of her children. By all accounts she was doing well, and her people were behind her. She even had the support and aid of Brand’s cousin Gunnar, who would most likely be Jarl if not for Vali and Solveig.
“You’re right, Ulf, Solveig isn’t your neighbor,” Magnus said. “Nor do you share our burden of caravan losses and defending against Tewakwe raids. Your borders are safe. She has done well, but a strong man is always a better leader, especially in difficult times.”
“No one knows better than I how difficult these times are,” Solveig said tightly. “No one. You supported me a year ago, Magnus, when I was unproven. I wonder that you want to undermine me now.”
“I don’t want to undermine you, Solveig. You’re right to protect Vali’s place. But I’ve made it no secret that I think you should remarry. Gunnar is a fine man, after all.” Magnus gestured at the warrior, who looked amused. “And you’re still young enough. A man’s hand on the reins would make everyone feel more secure. And should Vali prove Talentless—”
Talentless. It tripped off Magnus’s tongue so easily. Dahleven knew what weight that word carried. He’d come into his Talent late, wondering each day after he turned twelve if every odd sensation was a portent of his Talent, knowing that his elders watched him for a sign and speculated on whether he’d grow up to be Jarl, or half a man. At least Father had had Ragni to fall back on. Dahleven glanced at Ragni talking quietly with Father Wirmund, and sent a quick prayer of gratitude to the gods for his brother. Ragni had never once gloated when he’d come into his Talent before Dahleven had. Vali had no brother, and the pressure for him was starting early, at only eight.
Dangerous Talents Page 19
