Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “Neven doesn’t trust you, does he?”

  Cele stared. She didn’t know what she’d expected Jorund to say, but this wasn’t it. He must have read her face.

  “Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t trust anything he doesn’t control. And he doesn’t control you, does he?” Jorund smiled and she felt absurdly pleased by his approval. “Neven doesn’t know how you got to Alfheim, or why you’re here, and that makes him nervous. He sees you as a threat.” Jorund shook his head and took a sip of the chocolate. “He sees everyone he doesn’t control as an enemy. If he knew we’d met, he’d throw you in the dungeon. If he was feeling generous.”

  Jorund was the first person she’d met who was openly critical of Neven. Ragni had dismissed her concerns about Neven’s mind control, and even Thora, who’d arranged the meeting with the Daughters of Freya, was loyal to her Kon. “Why? Why wouldn’t he want me to meet you? He hasn’t stopped me from talking to anyone else.”

  “Hasn’t he? How would you know?” Jorund paused, while the implications of his question sunk in.

  Would she know if Neven had kept people away from her? And Dahleven had posted a guard outside her door.

  “Neven doesn’t tolerate opposition,” Jorund continued. “He strangles everything he touches, uses his Talent to bend everyone to his will.” His hand fisted on the arm of his chair.

  “But not you.”

  “I tried to build a coalition to unseat him as Kon in the last election, and was careless in my choice of allies.” He smiled ruefully. “I failed, and he had me Outcast. He would have killed me outright, I think, but he was afraid of making a martyr of me.”

  Cele thought of the servant’s missing fingers, and what the Daughters of Freya had said about debtors being sold into slavery. Judgment, such as it was, could be brutal here. “Why are we talking about Neven?”

  Jorund smiled with half his mouth. “You asked who those men were. Why you were abducted.”

  She felt herself gaping. “Are you saying Neven arranged the attack?”

  “It would be an excellent strategy, would it not? You disappear, and he blames his enemies for it.”

  Cele leaned back in her chair, stunned. “But Dahleven and Ragni would never go along with something like that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cele paused for a moment. Her track record with men wasn’t great. She’d trusted Jeff, too, and he’d blindsided her. She could imagine Neven scheming against her, but she just couldn’t bring herself to believe Dahleven or his brother would willingly hurt her. “Yes.”

  Jorund lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, Neven has been weaving his schemes since before they were born. I doubt he consulted them.” Jorund leaned forward and laid his hand on Cele’s. The warmth of his touch was welcome against her cool flesh. “I think we can assist one another. You want to return to your home, don’t you? I’ll wager Neven hasn’t been very helpful in that endeavor, has he?”

  Cele remembered Neven’s bullying and his bland, We’re looking into it, and shook her head.

  “I thought not. Neven controls the priesthood, and they control the ritual magic that can send you home.”

  Father Wirmund’s assertions sprang to mind. He obviously didn’t like her any more than Neven did. “But if they wanted me out of the picture, why not just send me home instead of killing me?”

  “Neven and the priests keep that magic secret from the people. They say it doesn’t exist. That’s how they maintain their control. They could hardly do that if they sent you back to Midgard with a Great Working. I’ve searched for many long years and I’ve learned a great deal. I know how to send you home. But for magic to work, I need something only your Talent can Find.”

  Home!

  Was it really within her reach? Jorund’s thumb stroked the back of her hand. His confidence and smooth elegance were persuasive. She didn’t pull away. “Go on.”

  “You heard the tale of Fanlon at the Feast. Eirik tells it well. You know how Neven’s ancestor stole the Great Talents and hid them away. But the story never mentions the Staff of Befaling. That’s one of the secrets Neven and Wirmund keep from the people. Without it, Fanlon and his brother-priest could not have succeeded.”

  Jorund met her eyes with his clear turquoise gaze. “It will take a powerful magic to return you to Midgard. I can use the strength of the stolen Talents to send you back, but I’ll need the Staff to do it. “

  Cele sipped her chocolate. “How does this help you?”

  “Neven stole my Talent when he had me Outcast, just as his ancestor Fanlon stole the Great Talents. I want it back.” Jorund’s hand fisted on the arm of his chair. “I want to restore my family’s name to honor. And I haven’t forgotten my people. Neven still holds Nuvinland in thrall. I want to put a stop to his bullying. I hope that returning the stolen Talents to the people will break Neven’s stranglehold.”

  Cele’s heart leapt at the fervor in Jorund’s voice, but her eyes strayed to the leather covering half of his face. “That’s not all there is to this, is it?”

  His head dipped, and half his mouth tilted in a grim smile. “No. There is this also.” He untied the strings that held his mask in place and slowly pulled it away. Where his high cheekbone should have been, the flesh sagged in twisted ropes down to his jaw. “Wirmund did this to me with but a touch. It is progressive. Soon it will make its way down to my chest and my loins, and inward to destroy my heart. I need the healing power of one of the Great Talents to stop it. Neven did not kill me outright, where others could witness it, but he insured my eventual death nevertheless. Unless you help me.”

  *

  The gawking Jarls and crofters were dispersed to their rooms quickly by the arrival of the Kon’s guards. Three of the thirty-six stood near Neven, the rest Dahleven positioned in and around the Great Hall. Though the guards were quite competent, they were there as much for effect as for Neven’s protection. The attempt by poison wasn’t likely to be followed by a direct assault, but the other Jarls and Lords needed a reminder of Neven’s strength.

  Father Wirmund stood off to one side while Helbreden, the Kon’s Healer, knelt over Jon’s body.

  “Kveletepp,” Helbreden said. “They put strangle-drops in your drink, Kon Neven. It kills within minutes, quicker if you’re already in your cups as Jon was.” The healer’s Talent was Diagnosis. He looked closely at Dahleven. “And you? You’re well? It doesn’t take much to kill a man, you know. No, of course you’re all right. It would have killed you by now. What were you doing, kissing Jon that way? What did you hope to do?”

  Dahleven took a deep breath. Helbreden was a knowledgeable man, an excellent Healer, but he nattered on so much that Dahleven thanked the gods he was healthy and didn’t require the man’s services. He’d much rather have Ghav tend him on those rare occasions an injury demanded attention. “I’d hoped to imitate what Lady Celia did for Ari.”

  “Did you? Did you? And just what did the Lady do? I’d hoped to meet with her today to discuss it. Is she awake yet? You know, Kon Neven, I would have been pleased to tend her myself. Ghav is quite competent, but Emergence Exhaustion can be quite serious. I doubt a warrior-healer has much experience with it.”

  Eirik entered the room and waited until Kon Neven’s gesture told the guard to let him proceed. His thin sandy hair was in five braids, each hanging to his waist, ringing and clacking with bells and beads. Dahleven suspected he wore his hair so long to make up for the wispiness of his beard.

  Father Wirmund had sent for the skald to cast the runes. Too many people could have poisoned Neven’s drink in the open, informal period between sessions of the Althing. It could have been anyone, Jarl, carl, or thrall. In addition to his skill with a tale, Eirik’s training with the Skald’s Guild included learning to throw and interpret the rune stones. His auguries hadn’t revealed who was behind the attacks on the caravans, but apparently Father Wirmund hoped they would give some clue to the murderous traitor.

  Dahleven stood by, silen
t and watchful. Sometimes the gods chose to share their knowledge with men, but more often not. Even when they did so, the message was frequently so cryptic as to be nearly useless. He had more confidence in the strength of his sword arm than he did in the stones.

  An acolyte arrived bearing a sprig of mistletoe. Father Wirmund took it and inscribed a circle of protection around Jon and Eirik and the poisoned cup, intoning the blessings of Baldur. Eirik spread a ragged-edged piece of leather on the floor next to Jon’s body. It was roughly circular, as wide as the length of a man’s arm, and inscribed around the perimeter with the twenty-four runes of the Futhark. He shook his doeskin bag three times, rattling the stones.

  Neven spoke the question in the indirect way tradition demanded. “Jon is dead by an unseen hand. We seek and welcome the gifting of knowledge.”

  Eirik stood and again shook the bag three times, rattling the contents like old bones. Then with three more shakes, he emptied the bag, casting Odin’s Prize onto the leather.

  Nine lay face up on the field of interpretation. An auspicious number, as far as Dahleven understood such things. Nine was whole and complete, a perfect number, a reflection of the nine worlds.

  Eirik knelt to interpret the stones. He spoke in the odd monotone used by skalds when they looked into the void revealed by the runes. “He who poisoned Jon is hidden among you. He is a liar, but soon the uncertainty and confusion will be resolved. Someone will change the old ways and the change will bring danger, but these problems may prove a blessing in disguise. Old friendships may prove false, but with strength to follow through, harmony will be achieved.” Eirik took a deep shuddering breath and slumped, his Seeing complete.

  That was useful. Dahleven looked away to hide his grimace.

  “Hidden among us? What does that mean? Here in Quartzholm? Or in all of Nuvinland?” Helbreden asked.

  Eirik stood and bowed shakily to Kon Neven. “The stones have spoken. I speak what the gods reveal.”

  Neven acknowledged the skald’s service. “Our thanks, Eirik. You may go.”

  Eirik was at the door when Ragni hurried in. Alone.

  Ragni gave the skald a hard look before continuing over to the small group by Jon’s body. “Lady Celia is missing.”

  Ragni’s words stopped the air in Dahleven’s chest.

  “Missing?” Kon Neven’s voice was deceptively mild. Dahleven knew that tone. Father wanted answers—now. So did he.

  His brother knew the tone too, and quickly provided them, such as they were. “Lady Celia awakened well and hungry, according to Thora. She ate heartily, and shortly after Thora left, Lady Celia received towels and water. Soon after that, the Lady decided to bathe. The guard escorted her, and that’s where I found him. Standing outside the bathing room. He—”

  “And the guard didn’t think it odd that Celia would go to bathe after receiving towels and water?” Dahleven asked sharply.

  “What was the man supposed to do, brother? Question the Lady’s commitment to cleanliness?” Ragni looked sympathetic and annoyed at once. He went on. “Inside, I—”

  “You walked in on her?” Dahleven interrupted again.

  “Dahl,” Neven warned.

  Dahleven clamped his mouth shut.

  Ragni cleared his throat. “The room was empty. Water was running over the tub and down the drain in the floor. Jeger didn’t hear a thing. I summoned the guards and they’re searching the tunnels, but so far there’s no sign of her.”

  “There’s a passage from that room. You revealed it to her yesterday, did you not, Lord Dahleven?” Father Wirmund asked. “She must have used it to escape her guard.”

  “I think not,” Ragni said. “At least not of her own will. I found this dropped at the bottom of the ladder.” Ragni held out a cloth still faintly aromatic with a sharp tangy smell.

  “Let me see that,” Helbreden said reaching for the cloth. He held it some two feet from his nose and wafted the vapors toward his face with the other hand. “Gelemuskel. Let’s hope they know how to use it. Too much of this could stop her breathing and her heart.”

  Dahleven’s shoulders tightened. He had to do something. “I’m going to look for her.” He turned to leave, but his brother called him back.

  “Where?” Ragni asked. “I’ve already got Tracker Talents searching. Let them do their work. They’ll find her.”

  Dahleven hesitated. Ragni was right, but he was going to go anyway.

  “Lord Dahleven, come to my chambers. I have a task for you.” Neven turned and left, escorted by his guard, fully expecting compliance.

  Dahleven stood rooted to the spot for a moment. His father knew full well his command was at odds with Dahleven’s will. Odin’s Eye! The Kon had spoken. Dahleven gritted his teeth and followed, anger and worry knotting his stomach. He hoped he didn’t look as sick as he felt.

  *

  “Tell them you escaped your abductors,” Jorund said as he helped Cele to rise. He’d put his mask back on. “It’s the truth, after all. You did escape them once.” His lips curved and his eyes were clearly admiring. Then he turned grim again. “You must be convincing. Neven already distrusts you; he’ll imprison you at the least provocation. Or more likely, he’ll have you attacked a third time and use it as an excuse to increase his stranglehold on Nuvinland.”

  “A third time? Are you saying the attack on the hillside was arranged by Neven?” The image of the man she’d killed rose in her mind. Had the Kon arranged that? Would he put his son and heir at risk to kill her? Had Dahleven been at risk? They could have had orders not to hurt him, and he, not knowing, had used lethal force to defend himself, conveniently leaving no one to reveal Neven’s plan.

  Jorund merely shrugged. “My man will escort you away from here, to a place where those who search can find you. I regret the need for it, but I must insist you go hooded.”

  Cele’s heart stuttered at the thought of traveling blind. “I won’t tell them how to find you.”

  “Thank you, my lady, but Neven has Truth-sayers, and I will not put you at risk with too much knowledge. You can honestly say you could see nothing of where you were taken or the way you returned. And don’t suffer Neven’s anger for my sake if he tries to force you to Find this place. Do as he asks. I’ll move on as soon as you depart. He’ll not be able to track me.” His hand tarried on Cele’s arm above her elbow. “Please, be careful.”

  She felt the warmth of his touch even through the cloak, and the low, rich caress of Jorund’s voice calmed her. If what he’d said was true, returning to Quartzholm could be dangerous, but if she was going to make it home, Jorund needed the Staff. His story was certainly compelling. And there’s no doubting the truth of his face.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” He left her to speak in low tones with a man he called from the tunnel. By his curt hand movements, it looked as though Jorund was giving the man very specific instructions. He was obviously used to being obeyed. It must have galled him terribly to have lost to Neven.

  Jorund and the other man returned together. “This is Asolf. He’ll take you to a place where you’ll be found by those searching for you. When you’ve found the Staff, drop a note down the shaft in the bath. Do not try to retrieve it yourself. That will be another’s task. When all is in readiness, I’ll contact you.” He touched her chin with one fingertip and smiled. “Keep thinking of home.” Then he held out a black hood.

  Reluctantly, Cele put it on. She could always take it off later, when she was well away.

  Suddenly her hand was grasped by a hard, calloused one.

  “Let’s go,” Asolf growled.

  The trip through the dark was nothing like the one with Dahleven. Asolf moved briskly and took little care that Cele couldn’t see. She stumbled more than once before she thought they’d gone far enough to risk taking off the hood.

  The way she walked must have changed and alerted her escort. He looked back almost immediately. “Put that back on!”

  Asolf didn’t look as if he’d tolerate any di
sagreement. Cele did as she was told.

  He grabbed her hand again and dragged her down the corridor. Cele used her other hand to lift the hems of her robe and Jorund’s cloak.

  Many twists and turns and minutes later, Asolf dropped her hand. “You can take off the hood now.”

  Cele did, and blinked in the light from the lantern that he’d put on the floor.

  “You’re to give me the cloak.” He reached to take it.

  Cele stepped back, out of his reach, and unfastened the cloak herself. Asolf snatched it out of her hand and turned on his heel.

  Fear flared. “Wait! Aren’t you going to leave me a light?”

  “And how would you explain it to your rescuers?” Asolf sneered, then he left.

  Soon the darkness and the silence were complete. Minutes crept by with no way for her to gauge their passing.

  Someone will come looking for me. Eventually.

  How long had she been missing? How long had she been waiting? Even if people were searching for her, how would they know where to look? Jorund seemed confident that someone would discover her, but there were miles and miles of tunnels cutting through the mountains.

  Maybe I can Find my way out of here.

  She clutched her robe shut with shaking hands and concentrated. She wanted to be back in her room, warm and safe. The feeling came quick and easy this time. Cele knew with absolute certainty that her room was above her, to her left, and quite some distance away. That’s a big help.

  The best she could do would be to take the tunnels that tended in that general direction. Or she could stay put and wait for the searchers to find her. Cele put a hand on the wall and started to walk.

  It was only a few minutes before she saw a glimmering around a bend in the tunnel.

  Relief zinged through her like a jolt of electricity. “Here! I’m here!” She hurried toward the flickering lantern light.

  A man came limping into view, a twisted grin on his face and a sword in his hand.