Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “That’s it, finish it off.”

  They let her lie down then, on the blessedly soft featherbed, where she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  *

  Dahleven shifted in the chair he’d had brought to Celia’s room. He’d spent all night and most of the morning watching her sleep. Exhaustion marred the skin under her eyes with dark circles. He shouldn’t have accepted her offer of help. She didn’t understand Emergence. He’d been careless with her, deceived against his own experience by her apparent strength. And she’d Found Ari just in time, and breathed life back into him. Without her, Ingirid would be mourning her son. But Celia suffered because of his inattention.

  Every time she stirred, he hoped she’d wake to set his concerns to rest, to give him a chance to apologize for his careless treatment of her, but her breathing barely varied. She remained deeply asleep, in the fatigue brought on by use of her Talent. He wondered if she’d drunk enough of the sterkkidrikk before she’d slept. What if she never woke? It had happened.

  He could have brought serious harm to Celia. After surviving a battle, killing a man, and enduring his father’s interrogation, he’d asked her to use her Talent when she hadn’t had a bite since morning. Ghav and Thora had barely been able to force the restorative liquid down her throat, giving her some reserves before she passed out. It wasn’t safe for someone in Emergence to yield to the fatigue without eating first. It could be especially bad for women. In one case, the girl had never reawakened.

  Celia dreamed on. He wanted to shake her, to relieve his concern, to know she could wake, but Ghav had told him to leave her be. Her body would heal itself if left alone.

  So Dahleven sat and watched her sleep, and waited for her to wake. He wasn’t happy when Thora shooed him out to join the Althing.

  Dahleven tugged his wrinkled tunic straight before stepping into the room full of Jarls and heirs, crofters and carls. His attention was demanded immediately by Lord Yngvar.

  “Nice bit of excitement yesterday, wasn’t it, Lord Dahleven?”

  Dahleven hedged, not sure which “excitement” Yngvar referred to, or how much he knew. “Indeed. Though I would hardly call it ‘nice.’”

  Yngvar ignored the implied rebuke. “How is young Ari? I imagine Jon gave the sprat a lesson he’ll not soon forget.”

  That excitement. “I hope nearly drowning is all the lesson Ari needs.”

  Fortunately, Jon had been too drunk to know Ari was even missing, sparing the boy and his brothers from their father’s temper for a while. Ari had followed his older brothers Ljot and Solvin down into the tunnels. When they’d discovered him, they’d given him a torch and told him to go back. They should have known better. They certainly did once Dahleven had gotten through with them.

  “Lord Ragnar’s lady, Lady Celia, she helped Find him, didn’t she?”

  Ragni’s lady? Is that what the rumor mongers are spewing? “Yes, Lady Celia helped.”

  “Guess she overtaxed her new Talent, though. Heard you had to carry her out of the tunnels. Is she going to be all right?”

  Dahleven winced inwardly. “Yes, she’s quite well.” He hoped it was true.

  “I hope Lord Ragnar doesn’t find fault with you for sneaking about the tunnels with his lady, let alone carrying her through the halls of Quartzholm. It’s a sad thing when a woman comes between brothers,” Yngvar said.

  *

  The first thing Cele did when she awoke was eat. Thora had fruit ready and waiting, and sent out for bread, roast fowl, and cheese while Cele demolished it. By the time her hunger was sated, it was nearly mid-afternoon and the fog that had clouded her mind had begun to lift.

  Thora picked up the tray and gave Cele an approving nod. “I’m glad you ate more willingly than you did last evening, my lady. The best thing for you now is to sleep again.” Cele yawned and Thora nodded in satisfaction before she swept out of the room with the tray.

  A few minutes later, a knock made Cele abandon Thora’s advice. It was the servant she’d met the first day, bearing water and fresh towels. It struck her as odd that Thora would have called for them when she wanted Cele to sleep, but the idea of freshening up appealed too much for her to question it. She thanked the man as he left, eliciting the same startled nodding bow from him as the last time, and she remembered Thora’s casual dismissal of the mutilated man as a convicted thief.

  Cele poured water into the basin and splashed her face. When she pulled a towel off the stack, a small rolled note fell from the folds.

  “A friend would like to meet you in the bathing room,” the scroll read. The note was signed, “A.”

  A? Aenid? Angrim? Alna? The first two would have come directly to her. It must be Alna, whom she’d met in the bathing room before.

  Cele gathered up the towels and stepped out into the hall. The guard posted outside her chamber followed her, taking up a position to one side of the bathing room door. She acknowledged him with half a smile as she slipped inside. She felt strange having someone watch her all the time, especially when she wasn’t sure if he was protecting her or protecting others from her.

  There was no one in the bathing room. She’d have to wait, then. Cele paced back and forth for a bit, growing concerned. Had she misread the note? She looked at it again. Meet a friend in the bathing room. Okay, I’m here. Now what?

  Cele thought about the guard outside. Maybe that’s the problem. She wasn’t sure how much Jeger could hear, but she thought he might become curious if there were no sounds of bathing, so she started running water into the small tub.

  A hand came from behind, sealing her mouth and nose with an aromatic cloth.

  Whatever was in the cloth didn’t knock her out, but it left her limp as a rag doll. Cele tried to pull at the assailant’s fingers, tried to turn, to twist out of his grasp, to kick backward. Nothing happened. Her mind was clear, but her body wouldn’t respond. Her heart pounded frantically, urging her body to fight or flee, but she couldn’t move so much as a finger. Two men tied her into a sling and lowered her down the ladder shaft. It was a jerky descent, and she bounced against the walls several times, feeling every scrape and bruise with unusual and excruciating intensity, adding injury to insult since she couldn’t protect herself. At the bottom, another man took charge of her, rolling her in an old carpet. Then she felt three pairs of hands lift her and carry her away.

  *

  “You really should be more circumspect when you carry my lady through the halls, brother. Someone might get the wrong idea.” Ragni grinned and pressed a tankard of ale into Dahleven’s hand at the mid-afternoon break of the Althing.

  Dahleven glared at his younger brother, but Ragni’s grin just grew broader. Dahleven grimaced and relaxed. Ragni knew exactly how tightly his emotions were knotted with regard to Celia. Probably better than he knew himself. “You’ve been enjoying Yngvar’s company, I see.”

  “‘Enjoying’ may be stating it a bit too broadly. But it served its purpose. He had nothing to do with the attack on you yesterday.”

  “I didn’t really think so. He’s not subtle enough to hide something like that.”

  “Nor did any of the other Jarls,” Ragni added.

  Dahleven’s frustration sharpened his voice. “Then who?”

  Ragni shook his head and spread his hands. “I’m an Empath, not a Seer.”

  “Then maybe—”

  A shout interrupted them. “Get a Healer! Lord Jon is down!”

  Dahleven pushed his way through the knot of people surrounding Jon, closely followed by Ragni. He’s probably just had too much to drink. Again.

  His brother-by-marriage had fallen at the base of the dais, and was sitting on the floor in front of Neven’s place. His chest heaved and his neck muscles stood out as he struggled to take in air. The wind whistled in his throat. Jon’s eyes were wide with terror, pleading for help. He had no breath for words. Then the whistling stopped. Jon’s hands went to his throat.

  Magnus thumped Jon powerfully on his back. “B
reathe, man! Breathe!”

  Jon’s lips started to turn blue.

  Dahleven grabbed Ragni’s arm. “Get Celia!”

  Ragni took off, plowing through the crowd. He knew how Celia had saved Ari, and didn’t waste time with questions. Dahleven had told the whole family. Ingirid and Kaidlin were so grateful they would have adopted Celia immediately if she hadn’t been insensible.

  A long minute dragged by. The crowd shouted suggestions.

  “Raise his hands over his head!”

  “Get him some wine!”

  “He’s had enough wine, that’s the problem.”

  “Turn him upside down!”

  Magnus continued to shake and thump Jon. Then Jon’s eyes rolled back and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  What’s taking so long? What had Celia done to Ari? Dahleven knelt by Jon and blew into his mouth. He felt air puff against his cheek from Jon’s nose and pinched it off before he exhaled again. Around him, the Jarls and lords exclaimed and questioned what he was doing.

  His breath wouldn’t go in. Dahleven’s lips began to feel numb and swollen.

  Poison!

  He turned his head and spat. Then he saw Neven’s spilled tankard under the dais. Jon had been up to his old tricks, and this time it had gotten him killed.

  Dahleven looked up into his father’s gray eyes. “Kon Neven, gather your guard. There has been an attempt on your life.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cele’s fingers tingled and she realized she could wiggle them. She’d never known such a tiny action could bring so much satisfaction—until she’d been unable to do it. The carpet was rolled so tightly around her she still couldn’t move her arms and legs, but at least now she could move.

  If she got the chance.

  Cele’s heart pounded. At least they didn’t kill me outright. That’s a good sign.

  “This is far enough.” a muffled voice said as they put her down. “We can do her here.”

  She and the carpet were dropped abruptly. With the drug fading from her system, the impact as she hit the floor was only normally uncomfortable instead of magnified. Another blow landed on her hip through the heavy weave as what seemed to be a foot gave her a shove. Then she was rolling. Rough shoves kept her moving. In a moment she was free, and she drew in a deep breath of chilly underground air. It tasted sweet after the musty smell of the carpet.

  Cele blinked in the dim lantern light, trying to focus. There were three men. “Who are you? Why did you kidnap me?”

  One of the men tightened a fist in her hair as he drew a long knife and placed the point against her throat.

  “No! No! You don’t have to do this!” Cele panted as terror stole her breath.

  One of the other men lifted a hand. His hair fell lank around his face and his filthy beard overgrew his mouth “Wait a minute, Mord. Let’s not be hasty.”

  No, let’s not!

  “What do you mean, Harvener?” A third man in a blue shirt asked. “Our order was to make her disappear.”

  “And we will, Orlyg. But waste not, want not, I always say. She’s a pretty piece. Let’s do the deed before we do the deed, as it were. Shall we?”

  Cele felt bile rise in her throat.

  “Aye!” Mord released her and slid his knife back into its sheath.

  “You don’t have to do this! I can pay you!” It was a desperate lie, and the men clearly knew it.

  “Not enough,” Harve sneered, stepping forward.

  Cele spun on her butt and punched upward into Mord’s groin with both feet. He doubled over with a startled scream. Orlyg grabbed for her, but she was already rolling away. All he got was the edge of her robe. Her momentum ripped half the ribbon ties off the front. Then he hauled her back. She tried to slip out of the arms, but he was too fast. He had her.

  Harve laughed.

  “A little spice just seasons the broth, my lady.” Orlyg put his hand inside her robe and roughly squeezed her breast.

  Cele ignored the pain, sweeping her elbow backward at his nose. She only landed a glancing blow, but it was enough to make him grunt and loosen his hold. She feigned a knee to his groin. As she hoped, he twisted away. She shoved, pushing him off balance, and he fell over Mord. Harve grabbed her wrist, but she broke his hold and spun, landing a kick to the side of his knee. He screamed as the leg collapsed, but he managed to grab a fistful of velvet, his nails scraping high on the inside of her thigh. His yank tore loose the remaining ties.

  Her robe fell open, but Cele didn’t care. She grabbed his thumb and twisted, lifting his arm so she could plant a kick in his armpit. Harve’s arm went limp and she dropped it. She ran.

  Within moments, she realized her mistake. I should have grabbed the lantern. She had no light, and no idea where she was. No way I’m going back for it. She kept running, trailing one hand along the wall. After a few minutes, she stopped and listened. The only sound was her own ragged breathing, echoing off the walls. No sound, no light betrayed pursuit. But she couldn’t relax. Not yet. Harve’s knee might keep him from catching up, but Mord and Orlyg might still come after her.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, she heard running feet echoing. Wildly swinging shadows appeared in the tunnel behind her. Cele ran, but the dark slowed her. The footsteps came closer and closer, the light brighter. At the last moment, Cele spun to defend, but Orlyg’s momentum slammed her into the stone wall, trapping one arm and knocking the wind out of her.

  “You bitch!” His forearm was against her throat.

  She tried to gouge Orlyg’s eyes with her free hand, but he blocked her.

  “I’ll not die for failing an order!” Mord drew his knife.

  Cele’s chest strained to expand. Blackness curled into her vision.

  “No. You’ll just die,” someone said.

  Suddenly her captor was gone. Cele sagged to her knees, coughing.

  Mord screamed, “No!” then fell silent.

  She shuddered, desperately sucking precious air into her lungs.

  Gentle hands pulled her upright. “Let me help you.” A man’s voice, rich and mellifluous as a classical radio station host’s, sounded close to her ear. Strong, long-fingered hands supported Cele under her elbows as she got shakily to her feet, wobbling as she found her balance.

  Her rescuer was of middle height and his clothing was of fine quality, though fraying at the collar and cuffs. His beard was neat and close-cropped beneath startlingly turquoise eyes, one of which peered at her through a hard leather mask that covered the left half his face. Despite the Phantom of the Opera look, the sharp edge of Cele’s fear dulled, easing the hammering of her heart a little.

  “Are you steady, now?” His hands withdrew slowly along her forearms, lingering a moment on her fingertips. He had an air of self-possessed arrogance and virility.

  Cele shivered, not entirely from the cool air, and pulled her robe tightly closed, uncomfortably aware it was all she had on.

  “You’re cold, of course.” He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. It was warm from his body, and smelled faintly like cloves. He fastened it with a gold brooch set with a red stone and his touch tarried intimately on her shoulders. “Better?” He paused, smiling warmly into her eyes, then dropped his hands before Cele felt uncomfortable with the contact. He turned to one of the other men she hadn’t realized were there. “Bring me another, then go ahead and prepare a meal.” He flicked a gesture at the bodies of Orlyg and Mord. “And take these with you.”

  In an instant, another cloak was draped on his shoulders, and they were alone except for the blood stains seeping into the stone.

  “Come with me, Lady Celia. You’ve had a terrible ordeal.”

  “Did you catch the other one?” Cele hated the way her voice quavered.

  “I saw only these two.”

  “Who are they? Why did they kidnap me?”

  “That’s a complicated question. I’ll do my best to answer, but first you need warmth and food.”

  He’s right.
That’s exactly what I need. With a light touch on her shoulder, the man guided her into a side passage and she didn’t resist. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Everyone in Quartzholm knows of you, my lady. And with the way you evaded your captors, who else could you be?”

  “How did you know to find me? For that matter, where am I? Somewhere below Quartzholm, obviously.” Cele trembled and her mind raced. “But why are you down here? Were you looking for me? Are you part of a search party? Does Dahleven know where I am?”

  Her escort smiled and guided her with a light touch on her back. “Calm yourself, my lady. You’re safe now. Soon all your questions will be answered.”

  He was right. Cele clamped her mouth shut. Her speeding pulse slowed a little. I’m safe now. At least no one was trying to kill her.

  It seemed only a few minutes before they entered a chamber lit by lamps that had no flame and made no smoke. By the time they’d arrived, Cele had marshaled her scrambled thoughts into a semblance of order, but she was still full of questions. “Who are you?”

  “Besides being your rescuer?”

  Cele felt herself blush. “I’m sorry. You saved my life. Thanking you doesn’t seem like enough.”

  The man by her side inclined his head in a slight bow. “No thanks are necessary. I am Jorund, my lady. Lord of all you survey.” He swept out an arm.

  The small, well-lit room held several brass-bound chests and a pallet covered with folded blankets. The chamber had only two entrances. One was the smoothly finished arch they’d entered through. The other was a natural fissure, like the one she and Dahleven had squeezed through to escape their attackers on the mountain. No daylight showed beyond this one, however. Jorund gestured to the only real furniture in the room, a pair of well-upholstered armchairs drawn close together near a table. Two pewter steins and a steaming pitcher of sjokolade awaited them.

  Cele sank into one of the seats. Jorund took the other and filled a mug for her. She shivered and wrapped her hands around the tankard, huddling within Jorund’s heavy cloak. The spicy sweet chocolate steadied her.