Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  “Elves!” Things kept getting stranger.

  “They have little to do with us, but we still show our respect—as Father did at the Feast.”

  “Your unseen ‘hosts’?”

  “Yes. The Light Elves serve Baldur and let us share their land. The others, the Dark Elves, don’t deal kindly with men. Fortunately, there’s little contact with either race. Light or Dark, no one deals with the Elves and remains unchanged.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they would,” Cele agreed.

  *

  “To Jon,” Dahleven said, lifting his tankard, “and his graceful entrance into Niflheim.”

  Ragni snorted and took a deep draught from his own ale.

  Neven shook his head but completed the salute. “It ill becomes us to sneer at the dead,” he said, “but I never met a greater waste of flesh.”

  “He sired strong sons,” Ragni said.

  Neven smiled. “That he did. To Jon’s sons.” He drank deeply.

  “To Ljot and Solvin and Ari,” Dahleven echoed.

  “And Aenid,” Ragni added. “I regret I’ve seen little of her of late. She’s a daughter any man would be proud of.”

  “Any man but Jon. He never looked at her twice once Ljot came along,” Dahleven said.

  “I suppose I should find her a husband soon,” Neven said.

  “There’s time enough,” Ragni suggested. “Let her finish her grieving first. And Ingirid will need her help with the boys.”

  “True enough. Ari’s a handful by himself.” Neven raised his tankard again. “To Ingirid. May she have peace, at last.”

  Dahleven raised his ale in salute, knowing his father had long regretted giving in to Ingirid’s desire for Jon. Now that mistake was laid to rest.

  They were silent for a moment, then Neven rose. “We must rejoin the Althing soon, so they can tell complimentary lies about Jon and drink his honor.”

  “Such as it was,” Ragni said, grimacing.

  Neven shook his head, but didn’t rebuke his son. “Don’t dawdle,” he said, and left.

  Ragni took another swallow of his ale and said, “Lady Celia’s conversation with Eirik today was illuminating.”

  Dahleven looked over at his brother. “So you said.” He paused, then added, “Father’s reaction to your news about Thora was interesting.”

  Ragni made a face. “What reaction?”

  “Exactly.” Neven had always kept a few things to himself, even after his sons were of an age to be allies. “He already knew about Thora’s scrying and the amulet.”

  Ragni nodded. “He must have.”

  Dahleven still wondered at the news about Thora. He’d known the woman all his life. She’d cared for them when they were lads. Had she been throwing the stones while they napped?

  Father knew about it all along. It made sense that Neven wouldn’t tell Ragni. As a priest of Baldur, he might feel honor bound to tell Wirmund about her use of unsanctioned magic. Dahleven was less sanguine about being kept in the dark himself.

  “Will you tell Wirmund?” Dahleven asked.

  Ragni stared into his ale for a long moment. “A priest has already heard her confession and pronounced her penance,” he finally said. “I see no reason to trouble the Overprest with a matter already resolved.”

  Dahleven nodded, relieved. Wirmund’s compassion wasn’t as dependable as Ragni’s.

  “Thora was sorry to disappoint Celia, but the stones didn’t say what she wanted to hear.” Ragni returned to his earlier observation.

  Dahleven let himself be diverted. “I never had much confidence in them.”

  “If our skald wasn’t either false or foolish, you might have a higher opinion of scrying. It worked for Baldur.”

  “He’s a god. And it didn’t save him, did it?”

  Ragni made a face.

  This was a well-worn conversation for them and Dahleven was glad his brother didn’t pursue it. “Wasn’t it Father Wirmund who called Eirik to serve Father?”

  Ragni understood his meaning. “Father Wirmund is loyal. He may be narrow-minded and hidebound, but he’d never work against the Kon. That would violate tradition, after all,” he said with a wry smile. “The Skald’s Guild selected Eirik in response to Wirmund’s request. It wasn’t a personal choice.”

  Dahleven shrugged. He hadn’t really doubted Wirmund. He was just turning every possibility over in his mind, trying to make the pieces fit.

  Ragni pulled him out of his pondering. “Celia said she wanted Eirik to find a way home for her.”

  Dahleven looked sharply at his brother, not pleased with his casual use of her name. “And didn’t she?”

  Ragni stretched his legs out on the low table between them and crossed his ankles. “In part. Her emotions were in a bit of a muddle. Not surprising, considering all she’s been through. But she shows a great deal of interest in our ways for someone who’s anxious to leave.”

  Dahleven tried to clamp down on his feelings. Celia had often stated her desire to return to Midgard. Her warm, sweet kisses notwithstanding, he had no reason to believe she might change her mind. Ragni was just prodding him again. Sometimes having a brother who could read him so well was a pain in the ass.

  “It’s unlikely she’ll find a way home, anyway. I know of none,” Ragni added.

  “Did you tell her that?” Dahleven sat up straighter.“No. Father Wirmund had already said as much to her. She wasn’t convinced.”

  Dahleven leaned back his chair, relieved for Celia’s sake that her hopes hadn’t been crushed, but unhappy that she was still hoping to leave.

  “Sooner or later, she’ll accept Alfheim as her new home, brother. And then she’ll want someone beside her,” Ragni said.

  Ragni was right, but what difference did it make? Dahleven might want to be the one lying at her side, but as heir, he was expected to marry for the benefit of the Jarldom.

  His brother knew right where to jab him. He jabbed back. “So you’ve abandoned your concern that she knows why she was taken, and concealed it?”

  Ragni shook his head, his lip curled in affectionate disgust. “There is no darkness in her, only confusion and doubt. If you can’t see she’s a prize, I can.”

  Dahleven’s pulse picked up with a possessive surge. “You can’t afford to compromise your position as Wirmund’s second with a ‘questionable marriage.’”

  “More so than you can,” Ragni replied. “Besides, who spoke of marriage? I’ll take her as my elskerinne.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY~ONE

  Dahleven hesitated before turning the corner to approach Celia’s room. Jon’s wake was still going on. He’d stayed only long enough to satisfy propriety, and even that had been too long. Jarls and crofters still drank to Jon’s honor down in the great hall, gifting him with every virtue under the sun.

  If only Jon had been half that good in life.

  Away from the wake, Quartzholm lay quiet. It was late, long past time when he should be calling on a lady, but the next day would be fully taken up with preparations for the delegation to the Tewakwe. He’d have no other chance to speak to Celia.

  Their messengers would be over halfway to the Confederation by now. If all went well, in a week’s time Neven would be planning with the Tewakwe leaders how to crush their mutual enemy.

  Dahleven stiffened as one of the sentries he’d posted to guard Celia rounded the corner to confront him, alert and at the ready.

  “My lord!” The guard stepped back, his posture easing. “I heard someone loitering. I mean—”

  “You did well, Vakter. I’ve come to check on Lady Celia. Has she had any visitors?” Dahleven strode onward as though he had no doubts of his reception at this hour. I must be crazy. He didn’t usually let Ragni’s barbs get to him.

  “Not since Lord Ragnar, my lord.”

  “And Thora?”

  “She retired an hour ago, my lord.”

  The other guard stood to one side of Celia’s door.

  “Take a few minutes for yourselves,
” he said. If Celia threw him out, he didn’t need to have his men witness the event.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  His men were well trained. Neither smirked within sight of him.

  No point in waiting. He tapped a knuckle briskly against the smooth wood.

  Celia opened the door. She wore a new robe of soft cream-colored velvet in place of the one that had been torn and bloodstained. It skimmed her body, barely giving a hint of the curves beneath.

  Her fine brows lifted in surprise. “Dahleven! Is anything wrong? Ari isn’t lost again, is he?” Then she frowned. “Or does Neven want to see me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. You can rest easy. My father has other things to do this night.”

  “That’s a relief.” She gestured to the room’s interior. “Come in. Have a seat.”

  Dahleven stepped into the room, wishing he could say more, but he couldn’t apologize for his father’s actions. To do so would undermine Neven’s authority. But perhaps he could ease her concerns, at least a little. “You did well last night.”

  “That’s nice to know. Does that mean Neven is going to call off his dog?” Celia’s voice was bitter.

  He couldn’t blame her. But angry or not, she should be more respectful. “Kon Neven will do what he must to protect Quartzholm and Nuvinland,” Dahleven rebuked her gently. “Ragni and I have given him our best advice on the matter, but it’s his will that governs.” There, that was as close as he could get to telling her that he didn’t agree with what his father had done. Dahleven hoped she understood.

  “How does badgering me protect Quartzholm?” she asked sharply. Then she took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Does he think I tried to kill him and got Jon instead?” she asked in more even tones.

  “No. Not anymore.” He wasn’t giving anything away by admitting that.

  “Good. I’m glad he’s got that much sense.” She nodded and sat down on the window seat, gesturing again for him to sit also. Then she looked up at him and smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry. He’s your father. I shouldn’t put you in the middle like that.”

  Dahleven sat down. His knees nearly brushed hers, but he didn’t try to touch her. “The lace looked well on you.”

  Celia’s face cleared and she smiled. “Thanks. I wore it to give me courage.”

  Her answer surprised and pleased him, like an unexpected gift. “It must have worked, though I can’t imagine you needing more. You have enough courage for five women.”

  “Me? I just do what I have to.” She smiled, and Dahleven was glad he could please her. Then she frowned and looked down.

  “What troubles you?” He tilted his head to better see into her lowered face.

  “I’m not so brave,” she said flatly, shaking her head. Her tone was disgusted. “I had to sleep with the light on last night.”

  Dahleven’s heart clenched, remembering her bruises and the way she’d sobbed in his arms. It wasn’t surprising she needed a light to sleep after what she’d endured. “So?”

  “So? So I’m proud of getting away from those slimy bastards!” Celia stood up and turned, gesturing broadly. “But at night, in my nightmares, they paw at me and I can’t move.” Her voice lowered and she looked down as her hands spread in a futile gesture. “I just lie there in terror as they clutch and press down on me in the dark.”

  Dahleven stood, yearning to fold her in his arms, comfort her, to shield her from the fear and self-doubt, but he stopped. With any other woman that might be appropriate, and it might be what Celia wanted, but that wasn’t what she needed. Sympathy would weaken her now. He tilted her chin up with the knuckle of one finger. “And so they defeat you anyway? Raping your mind, if not your body?”

  Celia’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”

  Dahleven adopted the no nonsense tone he used when training his men. “A good warrior fights his enemies, not himself. He must acknowledge his weaknesses or he becomes a liability to himself and his fellows. You’re human. Fear is part of that. Accept it. Use it. Don’t waste your energy fighting yourself for feeling what is natural and normal. Don’t let fear become a barrier to moving forward.”

  Celia’s eyes widened as if he’d slapped her, then her face clouded in anger. “You son of a bitch! How dare you lecture me! I fought them, and got away, and I’m proud of that. But they were going to gang rape me! You have no idea what that’s like. Of course I was afraid. I know that better than anyone. And you have the gall to stand there telling me not to fight myself?”

  Dahleven kept his face impassive, concealing his pleasure at her change in attitude. “A warrior doesn’t make excuses for herself, either.”

  Celia opened her mouth and shut it, apparently too furious for words. Dahleven was glad, once again, that there were no weapons ready to her hand. She glared at him, green eyes flashing, emotions racing across her face like clouds chased by a storm-wind. Eventually, her shoulders settled, giving him a clue that she’d regained a measure of calm.

  He spoke gently this time, as a man to a woman. “Fear does not diminish you. You are still strong and able…and beautiful.”

  Celia obviously still wasn’t happy with him. She wouldn’t make peace so easily. “What did you come here for?”

  “I came to say goodbye,” Dahleven said. “We’ll be leaving at dawn the day after tomorrow to meet with the Tewakwe leaders. I doubt we’ll speak again before I depart.”

  *

  Cele felt her anger recede a little as a new thought occurred to her. “Have the Tewakwe always been here?”

  “No. They have tales like ours of coming from hardship to this new land. Though why Freyr brought them is a mystery.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “We started trading with them some hundred and fifty years ago, but their sagas say they’ve been here longer.”

  Cele strove to keep her excitement contained. Archeological evidence in the southwest spoke of various lost tribes like the Anasazi and the Hohokam. Despite plenty of speculation about what happened to them, no one knew for sure. Maybe some of them came to Alfheim just like the Greenlanders. Just like me. Memory flashed. The petroglyphs.

  Maybe they know a way home. “I want to go with you.” She wasn’t sure why she liked this idea better than Jorund’s offer, but she did.

  Dahleven’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not!”

  “But their shamans may know things your priests don’t.”

  “No. This is no casual trading mission. This parley is to avert a war. We cannot distract from that to satisfy your personal desires.”

  Dahleven’s tone left no room for negotiation, but Cele refused to let it lie. “This isn’t some whim of mine. We’re talking about my life here.”

  “I understand, Celia, but it’s your life I wish to preserve. It’s too dangerous.”

  “How could I be safer here than I would be with you?” Cele paused, surprised that she’d so openly stated her trust in Dahleven. She couldn’t take it back, but she could ignore it, for a little while longer.

  Instead of smiling at the compliment, Dahleven stiffened and frowned, but he answered calmly. “Perhaps when peace is assured you can explore this, but not now. Kon Neven will not allow anything to put this parley at risk.”

  “But—”

  “Enough.” Dahleven lifted his hand sharply. His words were soft, but hard as stone. “You will not go.”

  He’s as bad as Neven! But a rill of panic followed her anger. He was leaving her only one choice for getting home. She’d have to Find the Staff.

  Everything Jorund had said made sense. He’d saved her from being raped. He’d offered to help her, as no one else had. So why the cold feet? Maybe it was because Dahleven would see helping Jorund as a betrayal.

  Cele set her jaw. What else could she do?

  Dahleven went to the door and laid his hand on the latch. “Stay well while I’m gone.” Then he left.

  She stared at the door after it closed behind him, fuming at his dictatorial manner. The
n she sighed, wishing his visit had taken a different turn.

  Why couldn’t the jerk have just put his arms around her instead of baiting her? He’d been kind to her before, so why not tonight, when she really needed it? And now he was going off to meet with the Tewakwe, who might know how to get her back home, and he wouldn’t let her go. He had no understanding whatsoever of what she was going through.

  In the haze of her frustration, Dahleven’s earlier words floated back to her. Don’t let fear become a barrier. Her mother had been strong and had raised Cele to be independent. “You don’t need to be afraid of anything,” she’d said more than once. But maybe what she’d meant was, “Don’t let fear stop you.”

  So maybe Dahleven had a point. But that didn’t mean it was right for him to go off and leave her behind in some misguided attempt to keep her safe.

  Safe from what? They’re going to a parley! To share information. But she knew things didn’t always go as planned. Misunderstandings occurred. Sorn’s bloody belly, Lindimer’s cut throat, Halsten’s cry as the arrow took him in the back flashed through her mind.

  Suddenly she felt cold. What if they couldn’t avert the war? What if the Tewakwe and Nuvinlanders fought instead of talking? Dahleven could be killed.

  *

  “What do you mean, I’m not going?” Dahleven tried not to shout. It was just after dawn, and he’d come to this meeting with his father and Ragni expecting to plan their strategy for the delegation.

  “I thought I was fairly clear on the matter,” Neven said. “It would be foolhardy to risk both of us, you know that. And I need someone here I can trust.”

  “You need someone you can trust to guard your back, too,” Dahleven protested. “Mother can hold Quartzholm for you.”

  “Not while we have traitors among us. You have established the additional security, and it is you who will hold Quartzholm one day. You are not going.”

  Dahleven glanced at Ragni, who wisely remained silent. He was going. Neven needed his Talent for the parley.