Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cele awoke in her room, cocooned in the warmth of the featherbed. The light cascading through her window told her it was early afternoon. She didn’t remember getting into bed. But she did remember Dahleven carrying her up the stairs.

  Then she realized she was nude under the sheets.

  Someone had removed her clothes.

  She scrunched down, pulling the covers up tight under her chin. What happened last night?

  Thora sat on the window seat, sewing and talking with Ghav. She looked up when Cele moved. “Awake at last! And ready for food, too, I’ll wager.” With her usual briskness, she opened the door and spoke to someone just outside, then went to the closet.

  At the mention of food, Cele thought of the meat pies Dahleven had fed her, finding Angrim’s bracelet, and Dahleven carrying her up the stairs. She’d liked the strength and safety of his arms. Cele blushed, embarrassed to admit to herself how much she’d enjoyed it. But what did we do after that?

  With a moment’s reflection, she knew the answer. Nothing. She’d been nearly comatose when he picked her up. Dahleven wouldn’t take advantage of her that way. She knew it as surely as she’d known where Angrim’s bracelet was last night.

  Her stomach rumbled. It felt hollow and crampy, as though she hadn’t eaten for days. “What’s happening to me?”

  Ghav hobbled over to her bedside, supporting part of his weight on a cane. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Your body is merely adjusting to the Emergence of your Talent. It’s normal for you to be hungry and tired after Finding something. That should only last for a couple of weeks, until you become accustomed to its use. And you should practice. Developing your Talent is best done early.”

  “I think Dahleven said something like that last night.”

  “You should listen to him. He also came into his Talent later than most—though not this late.”

  “Was he this wiped out?”

  Ghav shook his head. “Emergence may hit you harder, or last longer than usual. Or you may have an easier time of it, overall. I can’t predict with any certainty. The experience varies, and I’ve never heard of a Talent Emerging this late. But then, I’ve never known someone from Midgard, before.” Ghav smiled crookedly. “Even the Sagas aren’t much help. When Brynjolf led our people to Alfheim, Talents Emerged only in the children.”

  “Well, it’s all new to me.” Cele clenched the sheet under her chin. “Maybe we could continue this conversation when I’m up and dressed.”

  “How do you feel? Any headache? Nausea?”

  “No, I feel fine. Just a little fuzzyheaded from sleeping so long. And hungry.”

  “Very good. There’s no reason for you to stay abed, then.” He held out his hand to help her up.

  Cele looked at his hand. “Uh, I know you’re a Healer, but I’d prefer a little privacy.”

  Ghav lifted his thick graying eyebrows in surprise, but he turned and hobbled back to the window seat, keeping his back to her.

  I guess it’s the best I’m going to get. Cele slid out of bed, wrapping and draping the sheet around her like a toga.

  Thora already had clothing ready for her. She didn’t seem concerned about Ghav’s presence. She slipped a floor-length, light blue dress over Cele’s head, followed by a low cut tunic of darker blue panels that fastened only at the shoulders and waist. The tunic was heavy with embroidery, but the cloth of the dress was soft against her skin. Cele liked the freedom of not wearing a bra, but she wasn’t sure she would ever get used to not wearing panties. Maybe I can get some made.

  Dressed, she felt better. “You can turn around, now. I’m decent.”

  Ghav turned and smiled. “I can’t imagine you otherwise, my lady.”

  Cele felt awkward. “Thanks.”

  He waved a worn brown glove. “I’ve lost one of my gloves. Will you help me look for it?”

  Cele’s discomfort vanished; she tilted her head and tucked her chin, peering at him skeptically from under raised brows. “My training begins immediately, I see.” She felt like she was participating in a parlor trick. “What do I do?”

  Ghav shrugged. “Most Finders find just one thing, like Fender. He Finds water. He says he imagines the sounds it makes, and how it feels sliding down his throat. What did you do before?”

  What had she done?

  “Let me see your other glove.”

  It was an ordinary, well-worn brown leather glove. Where? There! Without any doubt, Cele walked to the cabinet and pulled out the third drawer. There was the glove.

  What just happened? When she turned her mind to it, she’d known where the glove was. It had drawn her, but the sensation wasn’t quite physical. What’s going on? She stared at the glove. Whatever it was, it was kind of weird—and fun.

  Finding Angrim’s bracelet wasn’t the first time she’d felt the peculiar certainty, the odd knowing of where to go. She’d been thirsty when she’d felt the pull of the water. Underground, she’d been anxious for light and open air when she felt drawn to the ventilation shaft, then she’d imagined torchlight and known that it was ahead. When Angrim became hysterical, she had wanted to calm her, wanted the bracelet, and suddenly, without hesitation, she’d known without question what direction to go to find it.

  Cele lifted the glove from the drawer and laughed with delight. “This is great! What’s next?”

  “Nothing for now. Practice is necessary, but don’t over-do it. Emergence Exhaustion is a serious danger,” Ghav said. Thora nodded.

  Cele’s stomach rumbled. “Well, then, what about lunch?”

  Food. It was close. Cele crossed the room to the door and stepped out into the passageway. There at the end of the hall, just turning the corner toward her, was a servant carrying a tray. Bingo!

  *

  The Great Hall buzzed with a multitude of conversations. Dahleven stood to one side talking with a crofter of substantial holdings. The Althing had broken for the noon meal, and now, afterward, the Jarls and their heirs moved among the carls and freemen, maintaining good will with the men of their provinces. Servants passed quietly along the sides of the room, removing the remains of the meal from the tables and refreshing the pitchers of ale.

  Dahleven wondered if Celia was awake yet. He’d never seen someone hit so hard by Emergence. The memory of her in his arms tingled along his skin. He’d liked the weight of her nestled against his chest. When she’d fallen asleep with her head tucked into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, her trust had felt like a greater gift than any Jarl could bestow.

  “What can we expect, my lord?” the crofter asked.

  What had the man been saying? Dahleven cursed silently; he’d lost track of the conversation. Ah yes, the pasturage. “Kon Neven has decided not to open the high range this year. It needs time to recover from the past few years of grazing.” And we need time to make the borders safe again.

  The crofter looked sour, but took his leave politely. Dahleven turned and saw Jon up near the dais, draining his tankard. Again.

  His sister had made no bargain with that one. Ingirid had married for love, but Jon had married for position. Neither of them had gotten what they’d hoped for. He watched Jon lean back and hook his elbow on the empty table on the dais, then casually turn and switch his tankard for the full one Neven had left behind.

  Dahleven had seen Jon do it before. There was plenty of ale to be had from the pitchers kept full on the sideboards, but this was one of the ways Jon puffed his ego. Neven had never given Jon the power he’d expected would come with marrying Ingirid. His father had seen too clearly what Jon was. So Jon took his petty revenge and pretended to himself that he had somehow bested Neven.

  Dahleven clenched his teeth and turned so he wouldn’t have to look at his brother-by-marriage. He and Ragni would have taken Jon aside long ago for a “talk,” but Neven had forbidden it. He supposed Father was right. Nothing would change what Jon was, and that kind of “conversation” would only have made Ingirid unhapp
y.

  Instead, he turned his anger to better purpose, rehearsing in his mind the petition he would soon make to have Knut declared Outcast.

  *

  Cele awoke the second time in early evening. Ghav had tested and teased her to Find things for half the afternoon—when she wasn’t wolfing down everything on the well-laden tray. Eventually she’d hit the wall, or the wall had hit her, and he’d called a halt.

  “You must respect the fatigue,” he’d said.

  She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think I can do anything but respect it,” she’d said short minutes before falling into a deep sleep.

  Cele stretched and sat up. At least this time only a few hours of sleep had restored her. Having a Talent would be pretty useless if she passed out for nearly a day every time she used it. I wonder if I’ll still have it when I get home. I’d be a natural for Search and Rescue.

  Home.

  How long had she been gone? Eight days? They would have called off the search for her by now. Her boss might already be interviewing for her replacement; Elaine and her other friends would be thinking of her as dead, rather than missing. She was moving further and further away from her life as she’d known it. She felt like she’d taken the wrong turn onto an L.A. freeway and couldn’t find an exit ramp.

  Her heart pounded. I might never get home. She’d avoided the thought until now. Marooned. In a place where nothing worked the way she expected it to and she kept making the wrong assumptions about what was going on. A place where people killed each other with swords and arrows and could control your mind just by thinking about it.

  Cele hugged her knees and hid her face in her arms. The terrible thought that she might never get home weighed on her, crushing her silently, paralyzing her thoughts, grinding in her chest like the ache from a deep, unhealing bruise.

  She had to find a way home. Where she understood the rules. Where she belonged.

  Hope flickered. Could she Find a way back? Cele opened herself, focusing on the comforting safety of Home. She held the picture of the little adobe cottage she shared with Elaine in her mind’s eye, and imagined snuggling into the overstuffed leather couch in the wood-floored living room.

  She didn’t feel a thing.

  She squinched her eyes shut, imagining herself leaning against the headboard of Elaine’s bed while her friend tried to decide what to wear on a date.

  Nothing.

  Not a tingle, not a tug, not a whisper.

  Everything familiar and comforting suddenly seemed even farther away and more out of reach than ever. She felt small and alone in the wide expanse of the featherbed, tiny and lost in the cold stone labyrinth of Quartzholm, cut off from everyone who’d ever cared for her. When her mother had died, when Jeff left, there had been Elaine and others offering the comfort of friendship. Here there was no one.

  Except Thora.

  She sat there, aching, as the last light from the setting sun crept up the wall.

  And Fender, and Ghav.

  Her stomach felt like it was full of rocks. She was stuck here. She was foolish to keep hoping.

  Ragni. And Dahleven.

  Cele sighed and flopped back on the bed. Okay. So I’m not quite alone. But I’m still stuck here.

  Being miserable won’t solve anything. She’d learned that after Jeff had left. She had to do something, and helping someone else was the best way she knew to push aside her own grief. The only people who were more unhappy than she was were Sevond and Aenid. Cele slipped into her shoes. Misery loves company.

  She made her way through the twists and turns of the hallways and stairs to Sevond’s door. Servants bowed or bobbed curtsies to her as she navigated down the long halls, and higher-ranking folk nodded to her in passing. Cele acknowledged the courtesies, surprised at how easily she was adapting to her position in Nuvinland society. A position she enjoyed, she reminded herself, only because Neven had granted it to her, and could easily take away again.

  As she turned a corner, Cele thought she recognized a tall, dark-haired man following her. She wasn’t sure if he was the same man she’d seen at the market or not. I’m tired of this. This is one mystery I can solve. Cele slowed her step, waiting for him to catch up. He didn’t, and when she stopped to look behind he turned down a different way.

  She started to follow him, then remembered Sevond. It was already late in the day. Vowing that next time she saw her dark-haired stalker she’d get some answers, Cele returned to her original path.

  Sevond was alone, except for his apprentice Hrolf. “Ah, my dear, I’m glad to see you again,” Sevond said. “I’d begun to think you might not come today.”

  “I’ve been asleep most of the day. Ghav and Lord Dahleven say my Talent for Finding is Emerging.”

  The overlay of grief vanished for a moment from Sevond’s face as he smiled broadly. “Congratulations, my dear! How wonderful! I have a fine little wine set aside. We must celebrate.” He reached into a dusty cabinet and pulled out a hand-blown bottle, then bellowed down the hall. “Hrolf! Bring three cups!”

  A moment later Hrolf appeared, followed by Father Wirmund. “Perhaps you can make it four?” the priest said.

  Cele stiffened at the sight of the gaunt old man.

  “Father Wirmund!” Sevond bowed deeply. “What brings me such unexpected honor?”

  Father Wirmund smiled gently. “Should a priest not visit a man so recently deprived of his only child? I’ve come to offer my condolences, and praise Sorn for the fine man and warrior that he was.”

  Sevond lost his smile. “Thank you, Father. He was that. No man had a finer son, and it makes me proud that others know it…Hrolf! Four cups!”

  The apprentice was already returning with four goblets on a tray. The glass bowls were set into silver stems, beautifully detailed like flowers on a vine.

  “I’m rather surprised to find you in such good spirits, Master Sevond. What are we drinking to?” Father Wirmund asked.

  The Overprest’s rank didn’t spare him a sharp look from Sevond. “My grief is beyond speaking, my lord. But when a young woman’s Talent Emerges, she deserves a toast.” Sevond pulled the cork and poured three small portions.

  Wirmund bowed graciously to Cele, letting Sevond’s rebuke slide by without comment. “My congratulations, Lady Celia. May I ask your Talent?”

  She didn’t want to share it with him, but had no good reason not to. “I find things.”

  The priest’s brows lifted. “You are most fortunate. Most who have the Finding Talent can locate only one or two kinds of…thing.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I should keep you close, my dear,” Sevond said, smiling ruefully. “I’m forever misplacing all sorts of items. My lady wife was in despair of me.”

  “You never lose your jewelry tools, master,” Hrolf volunteered.

  “That’s right, boy. Never my tools. I might lose my head, but never my pliers and files.” Sevond lifted his glass. “Congratulations, Lady Celia, on the Emergence of your Talent. May it serve you well.”

  The others lifted their goblets to her, then downed the wine in one gulp.

  It felt strange to be congratulated for something she wasn’t sure she wanted and didn’t fully understand. “Thank you.”

  Sevond refilled the goblets, filling the fourth this time for her. Cele sipped the thick amber liquid. It was intensely sweet, and not to her taste, but she finished it anyway. She wouldn’t be so rude as to refuse Sevond’s hospitality, and it was something to do while waiting for Father Wirmund to conclude his courtesy visit.

  Unfortunately, Father Wirmund didn’t leave. He talked with Sevond about the jeweler’s current commission, complimented him on the golden mistletoe he’d crafted for Baldur’s altar, and drank a second glass of wine.

  Cele finally decided she wasn’t going to get her cozy chat with Sevond, and in a break in the conversation, she rose to leave. “Master Sevond, Father Wirmund, please excuse me. I guess I’m still a little ti
red.”

  “Of course, my dear. Practice, eat, rest. That’s the way of it during Emergence,” Sevond said.

  “I must take my leave as well, I fear. Thank you for your hospitality, Master Sevond. And accept my heartfelt sympathy for your loss, and my blessing on your son’s valorous death.” Father Wirmund turned to Cele. “May I escort you, Lady Celia?”

  She really didn’t want to remain in his company any longer than necessary, but she smiled anyway. “That’s kind of you, but you probably have much more important things to do. I’d hate to take you away from your duties.” She wondered if he could see how insincere her expression was.

  “Nothing could be more important than escorting a lovely lady.” He nodded to Sevond and took Cele’s arm.

  She cringed inwardly at Father Wirmund’s dry, papery touch, but didn’t pull away. She turned to Sorn’s father. “Thanks, Master Sevond. May I visit you tomorrow?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  They hadn’t taken three steps from Sevond’s door when Cele became sure that Wirmund had come to find her, rather than to visit Sevond.

  “Tell me, Lady Celia, is the belief in Baldur strong in Midgard? Or do they yet exalt His servants, Odin and Thor?”

  Cele knew he wouldn’t like the answer, but she didn’t care. “Neither. The dominant religion is Christianity, but Islam is gaining on it. Buddhism is popular too.”

  Father Wirmund looked both alarmed and confused before he adopted a neutral mask. “The White Christ is still followed in Midgard?” His voice was mild.

  Cele had to admire his control. The people they passed in the hall would never know he was upset, but she wasn’t fooled. Wirmund is worried. “Yes. All over the world.” She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m afraid no one believes in Odin and Thor anymore, except maybe the Icelanders. And almost nobody’s heard of Baldur.” She probably shouldn’t yank his chain, but she didn’t like the condescending way he’d treated Sevond.

  Wirmund’s face didn’t change, but Cele felt his fingers tighten ever so slightly on her arm.