Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “And what do you believe, Lady Celia?”

  Now we come to it. “My beliefs are my own, Father Wirmund.” She smiled a little to take the slap out of her words. Let him chew on that for a while.

  She didn’t let him chew too long. As they turned down a familiar hallway, Cele remembered Gudrun’s suggestion to query the priests about a homeward path, something about a rainbow or a bright road, and she kicked herself for baiting him. Maybe it won’t matter. If she guessed right, he’d be only too happy to get rid of her. “You know, I’m glad we met today, Father. Lady Gudrun suggested I speak to you. I’d like to know more about how your people got here. Do you know of any way for me to go home?”

  Father Wirmund remained silent as they climbed the long staircase. Then he turned and leveled his cool, assessing gaze on her. “There are no altars to Freyr here in Alfheim, except those we have built to him as Baldur’s servant.”

  Cele knew he was telling her something, but she didn’t understand what.

  He must have seen her confusion, because he added, “The altar shown to Brynjolf was not built by human hands, and there are none such here in Alfheim. There is no path back to Midgard. Those who follow Baldur know that.” He wasn’t above a dig of his own. “Nor do we wish to leave. Why would we? The earth is fertile, the winters mild in the valleys, and Baldur himself led us here through his servant Freyr.”

  Wirmund’s words chilled her. As he’d meant them to, she guessed. Cele looked at him closely. Did he mean what he said? Was there really no way back? Or was he punishing her for her lack of respect?

  Wirmund’s face gave away nothing.

  They walked in silence for a few steps, before Wirmund asked, “Tell me about your own passage, Lady Celia. I gather it was rather different from Brynjolf’s.”

  “I thought Neven must have filled you in.” The other lords didn’t seem to know as much as Father Wirmund.

  “Kon Neven trusts me. But I hoped to hear the tale from your own lips.”

  The blow to her hopes made her answer sharp. “I told Kon Neven the truth, and Lady Gudrun, too, so you won’t catch me changing any details. I was climbing past the petroglyphs when I fell, and woke up here.”

  “You saw no altar? No golden boar?”

  Cele shook her head. “No.” Then she remembered something. “I saw colored lights. Lady Gudrun said I should tell you about them.”

  Wirmund seemed to relax a little, though it was hard to tell, he was so tight and dried out. “Ah,” was all he said.

  “Does that mean something?”

  Wirmund nodded and patted her hand. “Only to a follower of Baldur.”

  Cele wanted to scream, but she managed to remain silent. Wirmund had been playing these games for a long time by the look of him. She wouldn’t get anywhere by pushing him.

  Ragni, on the other hand, might be more informative. Cele made a mental note to talk to him. And it wouldn’t hurt her to be more pleasant to Father Wirmund—not too much, anyway. “Maybe I should learn more about Baldur, then.”

  Father Wirmund smiled thinly. “That would be wise, Lady Celia.” He stopped in front of her door and took her hand in one of his, then touched the purple bag that was the symbol of his office with the other. He spoke in a ritual tone. “May Baldur’s blessings be upon you, may He guide your Talent, and give you joy.” He released her hand and nodded to her. “Good rest, Lady Celia.”

  Surprised at the blessing, Cele watched him walk down the hall and turn the corner before she went into her room.

  There was a visitor waiting for her.

  “Fender! I hope you haven’t been waiting long. Did you come to take me to the market? I’m afraid I went last night with Angrim.”

  “That one.” Fender made a face. “No. I’ve come to continue your lessons.” He looked her over. “You seem to have recovered well from Ghav’s tutorial. That’s a good sign. Now it’s my turn.”

  Fender didn’t give her a chance to wonder about his opinion of Angrim, since he started to challenge her immediately. Cele had hoped that since he was a Finder of water, he’d be able to tell her more about her Talent, but he quickly reinforced what Ghav had said: everyone was a little different; it was misleading to draw conclusions from someone else’s experience. The only way to understand one’s Talent, he affirmed, was to use it until it was second nature.

  Fender tried to stump her, and suggested items to find all over two floors of the castle, but Cele found them all. He seemed impressed, especially when she found something he’d only described to her. “You’ve never seen one of these before?” he said after she’d Found the bootjack shaped like a small animal.

  Cele shook her head. “Is that important? I never saw Angrim’s bracelet, either, and she was too hysterical to tell me what it looked like. I knew it was gold, though.”

  Fender whistled softly. “You’re good. Very, very good.”

  When they returned to her room after two hours, Cele was ravenous.

  Thora had a tray waiting for her. Cele barely managed to invite Fender to join her before falling on the food.

  “No, thank you, my lady,” he said. “Thora, the fatigue will hit her soon. Make sure she’s in bed before she falls on her face.”

  Thora directed an affronted look at Fender. “This is not quite the first time I’ve tended someone in Emergence, Lord Fendrikanin.”

  “Lord Fendrikanin?” Cele said around a mouthful of cheese.

  Fender waved his hand dismissively. “A second son of a second son. Thora just drags it out when she wants to put me in my place.” Fender made an elaborate bow. “Good rest to you, Lady Celia,” he said, and swept out the door with a wink to Thora.

  Fender was right; she started to crash as soon as the worst of her hunger was sated. She felt like she was sleepwalking as Thora prepared her for bed. Between the blessings of Father Wirmund and Fender’s good wishes, Cele slept through the night and awoke refreshed midway through the morning.

  Cele ate a nearly normal amount at breakfast, still dressed in her nightgown. When she’d finished eating, Thora prepared to dress her.

  Lord Neven’s gift of clothing included a pair of wide-legged pants in a soft flowing fabric. Cele chose to wear those along with the same tunic she’d worn the day before. It was blue and knee-length and fastened front to back only at the shoulders and waist with gold brooches.

  She donned the white loose-sleeved blouse that Thora handed her. The delicate fabric was covered with white embroidery, and several narrow ribbons closed the throat. Where do they find the time to decorate their clothes like this? The generosity of Neven’s gift struck her again, even more forcefully now as she considered these “everyday clothes.”

  Neven must have his reasons. But they were unknowable, so she turned her thoughts elsewhere. “What’s on the agenda today, Thora?”

  Thora turned a blank look at her. “Naught that I know of, my lady. What do you wish?”

  That brought Cele up short. With nothing planned or scheduled for her, she was free to choose. Kaidlin had asked her to visit, or she could see Sevond again. And Solveig, the lady Jarl, had invited her to visit as well.

  None of those options immediately appealed. She felt on display and under inspection with everyone except Sevond and Dahleven. What she really wanted was to get outside, away from the massive weight of the stone palace, somewhere where she didn’t have to mind her manners and worry about offending against customs she knew nothing about.

  “Where’s my belt-pack, Thora?” No sooner were the words out of her mouth, than Cele knew where to Find it.

  Her face must have betrayed her chagrin, because Thora gave her an amused look. “It takes time to get used to, my lady.”

  As Cele retrieved her pack from the cabinet, Thora asked, “What are you planning?”

  “I’m going for a walk. This is a lovely place, but I need to get outside for a while.” Cele peered at Thora. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

  Hesitantly, Thora said, “No,
but—”

  Cele flashed on the attacks she’d survived. “The fields beyond the village look so peaceful.” She gestured to the window. “They’re safe, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, of course! But you don’t know your way around, my lady. You should take an escort.”

  Cele smiled. “I’m a Finder, remember? How can I get lost?”

  Thora shrugged, defeated. “As you wish.”

  “Great! Can you get me some nuts and dried fruit? And I’ll need to fill my water bottles.”

  *

  Dahleven sat on a long bench near the back of the great hall, trying to pay attention as yet another crofter discussed the need for increased pasturage.

  No, that was the last man. This one wants to divert more water to his fields.

  How did his father manage to look interested through all of this? The other Jarls on the dais with him weren’t so successful in looking concerned. Solveig and Magnus were attending to the proceedings, but Yngvar was digging in his ear and inspecting the results. Ozur looked bored, and Hafdan and Ulf looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. He knew how they felt.

  Another crofter jumped up to interrupt the first. “And in the dry years, what will become of my flocks and fields downstream? Will you enrich him only to beggar me?”

  This is more interesting.

  Hafdan, in whose province the second man held land, answered. “Build the sluice high enough that it will divert water only when the stream is full. In dry years you’ll still have water.”

  All the Jarls nodded or shrugged their agreement, but the crofter wasn’t satisfied. “But will he build it as you say? He would have built the sluice without discussion, but I discovered him.”

  The first crofter’s land was in Neven’s province. “You will build it together,” Neven said. He looked at Hafdan for agreement as the crofter opened his mouth to protest. “So speak we all. The matter is settled.”

  The crofters glared at each other and sat down. Another stood to bring forward his petition. Dahleven felt the room settle in for renewed tedium after the brief flare of excitement. Yesterday, the atmosphere had been more tense, as the Jarls had answered claims and complaints pertaining to losses from the raiding of the borders and caravans. The lords were responsible for paying wereguild to the relatives of men killed in their service. When a man was killed in a joint venture like a caravan, the matter could be muddy. Multiple lords and crofters had to sort out the responsibility.

  Even the matter regarding Knut had been clouded. Knut’s brother Hegg hadn’t fought the Outcasting of his brother once Dahleven told the story, but he’d disputed the levying of Lindimer’s wereguild against him. Dahleven could hardly blame Hegg; the fine would be a terrible hardship for him. Hegg petitioned that Dahleven share the burden, because Knut had been under his command.

  Hegg’s petition had been voted down. A man’s actions were his own burden or glory, and his family’s. But Dahleven couldn’t help feeling there was some truth in Knut’s brother’s words.

  Dahleven hadn’t liked the disposition of another petition either.

  A young woman, with babe in arms, had accused a lord in Ozur’s Jarldom of subverting the law to his own ends. “My Harald was an honest man,” she said. “He worked hard in our fields, that’s why they grew green and rich. But Braga said Harald used dark magic to steal the life from his fields to enrich our own. He lied! Braga is a lazy pig! That’s why his crops are spare and brown.”

  “Why accuse Lord Vestar then, rather than Braga?” Magnus inquired.

  “Because it was he who put Braga up to it.” The woman’s voice was shrill. “He wanted under my skirts, but I wanted Harald. Vestar banished Harald for a year. He asked no questions of our neighbors, nor anybody. They would have told him how hard Harald works, but he didn’t ask. And when Harald was gone, Lord Vestar gave Harald’s lands to Braga and took me into his great house and kept me there.”

  “Why didn’t you turn to your family, or Harald’s?” Magnus asked.

  “What chance did I have? He swept me up that very day. And what could Harald’s family do against a lord? Their son was branded a criminal, and worse.”

  “And your family? What of them?”

  “My father thought me foolish to refuse Lord Vestar from the first. I think Father hoped I would please him and bring some favor upon the family. He was no more made happy by Lord Vestar than I. Vestar no longer wanted me when his seed took root, and I grew large.” Her voice started to thicken with tears. “And Harald didn’t return at the end of his year.”

  “Why are we listening to this here?” Ozur demanded. “This is clearly a matter that should have been brought to me. I am Jarl over Lord Vestar. This isn’t a matter for the Althing. There is no conflict here between Jarldoms.”

  “Very true,” Magnus said and looked at Neven.

  “Do all agree this matter is for Ozur?” Neven asked, looking at each Jarl in turn. All nodded. Lady Solveig most reluctantly.

  Dahleven watched his father. Only someone who knew him well would notice the slight tightening of his jaw, a sign of Neven’s extreme reluctance to leave the matter to Ozur. Unfortunately, it was the law.

  “Well then, since I have at last heard the case, I will give judgment,” Ozur pronounced.

  “You haven’t heard from Lord Vestar or Braga or Harald’s neighbors,” Neven pointed out.

  “It’s hardly necessary. She’s clearly a scorned woman, unhappy with the loss of her position as a lord’s bedmate. But I do agree Lord Vestar must take responsibility for his child.” Ozur’s voice took on the tone of official pronouncement. “The child will be given into the care of Lord Vestar, to be raised in his household. You woman, are hereby banished from Skipsheim for six months, for bringing false accusations against a lord.”

  A ripple of unhappy murmuring had swept the room and Neven had to call for order as the babe was taken from the shrieking woman’s arms. Dahleven had left soon after she was led away. She wouldn’t starve, homeless and alone. He’d made arrangements for her to live and work the six months in Quartzholm, but the matter had left a sour griping in his belly.

  The current session of the Althing addressed more common matters, and from the number present, the crofters and minor lords had had more trouble than usual settling their own disputes this year. Dahleven wasn’t required to be present, but it was wise for an heir to attend these sessions at least part of the time, to show respect for those he would one day govern and lead.

  Dahleven was trying to follow the rambling of the current petitioner when a light touch on his shoulder drew his attention. Tholvien bent his tall, lean frame to crouch next to him, bringing his dark head near enough to whisper. “The lady intends to leave the castle, my lord. Do you want me to prevent her, or merely follow?”

  Leaving? Curiosity energized Dahleven’s muscles. “No. I’ll handle this.” He stood and walked out with Tholvien, relieved to have a good reason to quit the Althing. “How is she provisioned?”

  *

  The gates to the huge courtyard stood open, allowing the market to spill out into the village that nestled around the castle walls. Cele had no difficulty leaving, and no one but merchants hawking their wares accosted her. She’d wondered if anyone would follow her, but she saw no sign of it. The village spilled downslope from the stone ramparts surrounding the bailey. Many of the larger buildings were built of the same rose quartz and granite that formed the walls.

  Cele turned left after leaving the gates and followed a wide street that wrapped around the base of the wall. Long ago, someone had cleared the nearby forest, leaving large meadows between the town and the forest. She didn’t have to use her new Talent to know that the fields were closest in that direction; she’d seen that from her window. The road narrowed as she got further away from the main thoroughfare, then stopped in a dead end next to a broad building with tables and benches out front. A few men sat drinking, hunched over their tankards.

  Cele slowed and came to a hal
t. The only way out was the narrow path running along one side of the tavern. She hesitated, looking down the claustrophobic alley as far as she could. It curved to the right, behind the building. She thought about back-tracking to find another way out to the green fields she’d seen from her window, but she didn’t want to spend half the day looking for a way out of the village. She knew the open fields she wanted were close, she could feel them just beyond the tavern, but there was no guarantee the alley would get her there. So much for never being lost again. The idea of walking down the blind passage made her skin prickle, but the sun was at her back, brightly lighting the narrow space between the buildings and the broken crockery in it, making it less frightening than it would have been in shadow.

  One of the early drinkers called to her while she was considering her options, rising on muscular legs to approach her. Cele turned nervously to face him.

  The breeze carried the scent of beer to her as he lifted a huge tankard. “Care for a sip, girl?” Half his face was half shadowed by the morning light. What she could see, and smell, suggested he’d been drinking since the night before. He looked surprisingly steady on his feet despite that, and still quite capable of giving her a hard time.

  “No, thanks.” She took a half step away, putting a little more distance between them. The first rule of self-defense: avoid trouble in the first place.

  The man shrugged, not offended, then gestured to the alley with his tankard, slopping some of his ale to the cobblestones. “A tumble, then?” He stepped closer, leering eagerly.

  Cele shook her head as her fear notched higher, and backed further away, up the street.

  The light was full in the man’s face now, making him squint, but he still didn’t look angry. “What do you want here then? You lost? Looking for someone?”

  “Not for you, Finlig!” The man’s companion called out.

  Cele cringed inwardly, fearing the effect the razzing would have. Why didn’t I ask for directions at the gate? I could have avoided this. So much for the first rule of self-defense.