Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  Cele wiped the vomit from the man’s lips with the hem of Dahleven’s tunic and exhaled a breath into the man’s mouth before Dahleven pulled her away.

  “What are you doing, Celia? Stop that! Come away.”

  “No! He needs CPR!” Cele shrugged violently out of Dahleven’s grasp.

  She felt the man’s neck for a pulse. Her hand shook visibly; all she felt was her own trembling. “I can’t find it!” Cele moved her fingers and still couldn’t find the pulse. She pressed her ear to his chest. All she could hear was her own blood rushing in her ears. She bent to give another rescue breath, but Dahleven pulled her away again folding her into his arms.

  “Leave him. He’s dead.”

  “No!” Cele struggled, pushing hard against Dahleven’s chest, trying to writhe out of his grasp. “I might be able to save him! He doesn’t have to die!” She couldn’t get away. Dahleven held her tight. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “Too many are dead already! I have to try!” She saved people, she didn’t kill them.

  The unyielding warmth of Dahleven’s hard muscles slowly penetrated Cele’s frenzy. She stopped struggling, but her heart still pounded wildly and her breath came in rasping gasps.

  Slowly, gradually, her pulse slowed. She became aware of Dahleven rubbing her back and stroking her hair. His deep voice kept rumbling, “It’s all right. You did well. It’s all right.” His soothing tones calmed and steadied her, and she clung to his strength until she regained a measure of balance.

  “I’ve never killed anyone before,” she said at last, her voice muffled by Dahleven’s shoulder.

  “And I hope you never need to again.” Dahleven set her back from him just far enough to look into her eyes and gently stroked a stray tendril from her damp face. “But you did need to. You protected your life, and possibly mine as well. You did what you had to do.” He gave her a little smile. “Few women could have done so well. I’m proud of you.”

  Cele let his words sink in for a moment, then she said, plaintively, “I might have saved him, though.”

  Dahleven looked at her, doubt wrinkling his brow. “How? Even a Great Talent couldn’t bring a man back from death.”

  Cele turned to look at the man. She’d trained for two years to learn how to defend herself, and now she’d used her knowledge. Fatally. Dahleven was right, she had performed well. A man was dead because she had done well what she had trained to do.

  She didn’t like the way it felt.

  But it was better than being dead.

  *

  Dahleven kept his sword in hand as they walked downhill, alert for the possibility of another attack, though he didn’t really expect one. Celia was calm now, silent, and he watched her scramble over a rocky ledge with something like wonder. There were tales of women in the past who’d taken up the sword to defend their lands and loved ones. The women of his own family were certainly strong-willed enough to do so, but he’d never seen a woman defend herself bare-handed against an armed opponent. Celia might not have the skill with a blade necessary for full battle, but she’d done very well today, her hysteria notwithstanding. That was an entirely normal reaction, especially for a woman. And he’d known young warriors who hadn’t stood up as well as she had to her first kill.

  And her last.

  Dahleven ground his teeth. She would never have to kill again because she would never again be in that kind of danger. Never before had he experienced the terror he’d felt when he’d looked up to see those men almost on them. He’d fought for his life before, and was familiar with the tense excitement that accompanied battle. This had been different. Celia had been at risk. She’d been the target. He never wanted to feel that kind of fear again.

  Someone wants her taken, alive. The thought chilled him. For what purpose?

  He’d increase the guard assigned to her, but would that keep her safe? There’d been no reasonable way to predict the attack they’d just survived. Who would expect it, so close to Quartzholm? Which raised the next question. Who ordered it? Who would dare?

  They entered the alleys and Dahleven followed Celia through the twists and turns, guarding her back. The late morning sun heated the drainage and the sour smell of refuse mingled with the bitter tang of ale. Ahead of him, Celia stepped into the street.

  A male voice called out, “Come back for a sip, sweeting? Looks like you had that tumble after all.”

  Celia stiffened.

  Dahleven stepped out of the alleyway, the shine of his sword still marred by streaks of dried blood. With extreme satisfaction, Dahleven watched the expression of the lout who’d spoken change from a leer to fear. The man backed a step and sat down hard.

  “Did he trouble you before?” Dahleven asked Celia.

  Celia shook her head. “No. He tried to push his friend into it, but he was all talk.”

  Another day, Dahleven might have reminded the lout of the virtues of courtesy, but at the moment he was more concerned with getting Celia to safety. He urged her onward.

  Three turns and two hundred yards later, they entered the gates and stepped into the hubbub of the market. He would not sheath a bloodied sword, so he held it high, and clasped Celia’s hand with his other hand. The crowd parted, opening a path for them across the courtyard.

  By the time they reached the stairs leading up to the open arch, ten warriors waited to escort them. Dahleven spoke in the voice he used to command. “You, Jeger, take Lady Celia to her room and remain outside her door. You others, there are three men dead on the western slopes near the edge of the forest. Get Tracker Talents to follow their backtrail. Bring their bodies here.” Someone at the Althing should know who they are.

  He turned back to Celia. Her fingers had tightened in his when he’d given direction for the guard to take her to her room. Her face was tense. He’d much rather escort her himself, but Neven needed to know as soon as possible that even the fields surrounding Quartzholm were no longer safe from Outcasts. “You’ll be all right, Celia. Jeger will keep you safe.” He pulled his hand from hers and turned back to the guard, giving him a look that promised mayhem if he failed. “Go. Tell Thora to give her some spiced mead.”

  *

  Less than an hour later, the events of the morning were still chasing themselves through Cele’s mind, but her body was more relaxed, thanks to the warm mead Thora kept pouring. The older woman had wrapped her in a blanket as thick and warm as a hug, but Cele wished for Dahleven’s arms around her again, instead. She’d finally stopped trembling, but she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that a human being lay dead on the hillside because of her. She wondered at her inconsistency; the two Dahleven killed didn’t bother her. They’d been trying to kill him. But she kept seeing the slack features of the man whose neck she’d broken.

  She knew she hadn’t used excessive force. She’d learned in her training that real life shouldn’t imitate the movies. Too many women on TV ran away the first time their assailant stumbled, leaving him to follow and catch and kill. In a real life and death struggle, you made sure the bad guy was down, really down, and would stay down long enough for you to get away. The groin shot hadn’t been enough.

  She knew that was true. But it didn’t make her feel better.

  Thora bustled back into the room. “I’ve drawn a bath for you, my lady, nice and warm.” She took the empty cup from Cele. Men’s voices spoke just outside, then a sharp rap drew Thora to open the door.

  A clear male voice said, “Lady Celia is summoned to an audience with Kon Neven.”

  Cele noted the lack of polite veneer. Not “requested” or “invited.” She was summoned.

  “A moment, please,” Thora said.

  “Now.” The door was pushed open and the guard addressed Cele directly. “Come with me, Lady Celia.”

  Cele stood and took off the robe, revealing her torn blouse and Dahleven’s too large tunic. It covered just enough to satisfy modesty, but Cele noted with grim satisfaction that Neven would have a clear view of the bruise rising on he
r collarbone. The guard’s eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch, only gestured to the door. Cele walked with what she hoped was a dignified pace. “Let’s go, then.”

  Just outside the door, Jeger fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry, my lady. It’s by the Kon’s order.”

  She gave the guardsman half a smile. “Not your fault, Jeger.”

  She was taken to a chamber she hadn’t been to before. Jeger was forced to remain outside. Kon Neven sat in one of two massive chairs in front of a large, intricately woven tapestry. Gris met her at the door. Neither of them offered her a seat, but kept her standing.

  The chamberlain loomed over her, dressed in grays and blacks like an undertaker, his thin arms clasped behind his back. “You attract trouble wherever you go, don’t you, Lady Celia?” Gris began without preamble.

  Cele wasn’t interested in playing games. She’d had a bad day, and it wasn’t getting any better. “Is this blame the victim time?”

  “What makes you such an attractive prize, my lady?” Gris sneered. “Are your friends trying to steal you away from us?”

  “What are you talking about?” Cele stood her ground.

  “The attack this morning was clearly for the purpose of getting you away.”

  “Me? Don’t you think it more likely that Dahleven was the target?”

  “Why would Lord Dahleven be attacked?”

  She looked at Neven when she answered. “He’s your heir, isn’t he? That makes him important. You may have a spare, but wouldn’t Dahleven’s death throw a monkey-wrench into things?”

  Gris shifted his body so she had to look at him. “But he wouldn’t have been there, if not for you.”

  “You think it’s my fault? How could I know he’d follow me?”

  “Why did you enter Alfheim in Renegade territory?”

  “What?” Gris’s change in direction threw Cele off balance.

  “Did Lord Dahleven find you before your friends could?”

  “What friends?”

  “Did Sorn die because they attempted to rescue you?”

  The question landed like a slap. Had someone brought her to Alfheim? Had those people been trying to get to her, when Sorn was wounded? If she hadn’t been here, would Sorn still be alive?

  Cele shook her head. This was all twisted. She couldn’t let Gris and Neven distort the truth this way. She wasn’t responsible. Someone else had torn out Sorn’s belly, not her. “Why are you doing this? I was the one attacked out there this morning!”

  “No one has come to Alfheim from Midgard for six hundred years, my lady. Why you? Why now, when our borders are threatened?” Gris sneered. “Do you truly expect us to believe you tripped and fell into Alfheim, when it required the act of a god to bring us here?”

  The mead and her frustration made Cele reckless. With her torn blouse trailing nearly to the floor from under Dahleven’s too-large tunic, she ducked past Gris and stood in front of Neven, hands on hips. “Why are you setting your dog on me? Do you think I wanted to come here? Do you think I want to stay? I had a life, before. It might not have been much, but it was my life. If you don’t like me being here, find a way to send me home.”

  Neven met her eyes. Her outburst had elicited no visible emotion from him. His voice was cool and calm. “We’re looking into it.”

  Gris came close, poised to resume the attack, but Neven lifted two fingers and Gris remained silent.

  “You may go,” Neven said to Cele.

  Cele stood for a moment, almost strangling on her anger, then turned and stalked to the door. Neven’s voice stopped her with her fingers on the latch. “Lady Celia, a bit of advice, if you’ll take it. Know well who your friends are.”

  She turned angry eyes on Neven. “I know, at least, that you are not among them.”

  *

  The door had barely closed behind Celia when Dahleven swept out of the tapestry covered alcove where he’d hidden with Ragni. “Was that necessary?” he demanded, his voice grating in an effort not to shout. Neven had wanted him to leave, but when he’d refused, his father had insisted he remain out of view. Keeping still had been a severe test of his will and loyalty.

  Neven’s voice was stern. “Are you questioning my plans?”

  “Since you haven’t yet seen fit to share them with me, yes, I am.”

  “We both are,” Ragni added, his voice tight.

  “You should know by now, both of you, that governing the Jarldom is seldom a case of following well-laid plans. More often it’s a matter of adapting to circumstances and taking calculated risks.” Neven glanced at Ragni before looking straight into Dahleven’s eyes. He didn’t use his Talent, but Dahleven felt the intensity of the contact. He didn’t flinch from it.

  “What are you playing at?” Dahleven demanded. “What ‘calculated risks’ are you taking with Lady Celia?”

  “You found the camp of Renegade Tewakwe and Outcasts, Dahl. You pointed out that someone has organized them, that their actions are coordinated. Yet we still don’t know who our enemy is, or what his goals are. At the very least he threatens disruption of trade, and possible war with the Tewakwe.”

  It was true. Their caravans and borders had been attacked time and again, always from surprise, always with superior numbers. Somehow their enemy had information about their plans while they knew nothing of him, or who was acting on his behalf.

  Dahleven wasn’t deterred, but his voice was a fraction calmer. “What has that got to do with Celia? What purpose did it serve to abuse her?”

  Neven’s voice was cold. “In war, individuals must sometimes be sacrificed to the greater good. Lady Celia is the only new tool we have to lure our enemy into possibly, hopefully, revealing himself. If she hates me, she’ll be more receptive to another’s offer.”

  Dahleven stiffened. He’d stood near the seat of power long enough to recognize the truth of his father’s words, but they chilled him nonetheless. He’d lost men in his command, friends, but always as a consequence of battle, and they each and all had understood the dangers they faced. This was different. “She has no part in this,” Dahleven argued.

  “Hasn’t she?” Neven challenged. “How many have traveled the Bright Road in the last six hundred years? It’s no coincidence she’s here now. She has a purpose here, but whom does it serve? When it comes down to where steel meets skin, what do we truly know of her?”

  “She is innocent,” Dahleven insisted.

  Neven glanced at Ragni, who nodded. “Anger, frustration, no deception.” Bitterness edged Ragni’s voice and his face was tight. “She’s an innocent, just as I told you before.”

  “Good. Let’s hope she stays that way. That innocence may be all that saves her.”

  “From our enemies, or from you?” Dahleven growled, and stalked from the room.

  *

  “My lady! What happened?” Thora exclaimed as Jeger opened the door and Cele stalked into her room.

  “I am sick to death of bullies! I used to work for one, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Neven. At least back home I could change jobs. Here, I’m stuck with the arrogant bastard.” Cele sat down on the window seat, then stood again to pace the room.

  “He’s a good Kon, Lady Celia.”

  Thora’s tone was a gentle reminder that Cele was in Neven’s house, talking to Neven’s servant. She softened her voice, but she wouldn’t lie about her feelings. “I’m sorry, Thora, but I can’t share your high opinion of your lord and master. He’s a bully, despite having Gris say the words for him. He all but accused me of being in league with the outlaws, tricking Dahleven into an ambush, and getting Sorn killed!”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Thora was silent for a moment. “You’ll feel better after a warm bath. Then we’ll get you something to eat.” She poured another cup of mead for Cele. “Drink this, while I make sure there are clean towels for you.”

  Thora was gone much longer than Cele expected, but she supposed the water had cooled and Thora was drawing
another tub. It was after lunchtime when Thora returned, and Cele was beginning to feel hungry.

  “Come, my lady.” Thora held out her hands. Cele obediently rose and let Thora undress her, then wrap her in the robe and lead her down the hall. When Thora opened the door to the bathing room, they were greeted by the sound of feminine voices, which quickly fell silent.

  Three women sat in the larger tub, submerged to their shoulders. The scent of honey-suckle rose from the steaming water. The eldest of the women spoke, her brown eyes warm and welcoming. “Greetings, Lady Celia. Join us.”

  Thora was already pulling the robe from her shoulders, so Cele stepped into the small pool. The water was just right; hot, but not scalding. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips as the water’s warmth eased her stiffness.

  “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got coming up on your shoulder, my lady. Did you get that this morning?” the youngest asked.

  “You know about that already?” Cele asked, then glanced at Thora who stood with her back to the door. Thora just gave her a small smile.

  “News travels fast in the castle. You defended yourself well, we hear,” the third woman said.

  “Who is ‘we?’”

  “Forgive us,” the oldest said. “Please, call me Alna. This is Osk,” she said, indicating the middle woman, adding, “and Saeun.” She inclined her head toward the youngest.

  Cele nodded to the three and glanced again at Thora. This obviously wasn’t a chance meeting, but she’d play along for a while. The water felt too good to leave yet, anyway. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Are all the women in Midgard so able to defend themselves?” Saeun asked.

  Cele shook her head. “No. But it’s not uncommon.”

  “Were you reviled for learning such things?” Osk asked.