Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  It was late afternoon when they emerged from the mountain. Dahleven went first, Pathfinding the quickest way to the parley site. There was no trail, and the rugged terrain made the going difficult. They didn’t have the breath to talk, and the need to keep a sharp eye out for Renegades and Outcasts preoccupied his thoughts when he wasn’t worrying about the outcome of the parley. As the sun dropped below the western ridge, he chose a small, level space shielded on two sides by tall conifers to set up their fireless camp.

  Celia remained quiet even while they ate their cold supper. She’d grown even quieter, if that was possible, as he honored the memory of his fallen men and recounted their exploits. When he finished, they settled together on the sleeping pallet. They were still fairly high on the mountainside, and even at full summer, the nights here were chilly. He pulled the blanket up over the two of them. Celia lay tense and quiet beside him. Something troubled her, but she wasn’t sharing it with him.

  “Warm enough?” he asked.

  Celia nodded, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He should have enjoyed holding her close like this, the feel of her body molded along the length of him. But her spirit was missing, her heart closed, her mind far away.

  “What troubles you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He felt her tremble, and her sniff betrayed silent tears. “Celia, what is it?”

  “Your men. They were so brave and loyal and good. If I hadn’t been so selfish and stupid, they’d still be alive.”

  Dahleven winced. He’d told the stories of his men to celebrate their lives. He hadn’t thought that Celia would take the tales and twist them into a noose to hang herself with.

  “You are not responsible for their deaths,” he said flatly. “They followed me, obeyed my orders.”

  “But you were only there because of me. If I hadn’t been so self-centered, so focused on going home, I might have seen through Jorund’s lies sooner.”

  And been abducted and coerced into Finding the Staff anyway. What could he say to her? Celia was kind and selfless enough to sing to a dying man, comfort a grieving father, and rescue a drowning boy. But she wouldn’t hear any of that now.

  “I didn’t realize you held such a low opinion of me,” Dahleven said, adopting an aggrieved tone.

  “What?” Celia sounded startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You obviously think my character rather poor, not to mention my intelligence.”

  “Of course not! You’re honorable and caring and smart.”

  It delighted him to hear her say so, but he couldn’t dwell on it. “Then it’s my judgment you doubt.”

  Celia sat up and looked down at him. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because only a man of poor judgment or low intellect or bad character could possibly care for the woman you’ve been describing.”

  Celia’s eyes flashed. Her mouth opened then snapped shut again. She glared at him.

  “Fortunately, I don’t know that woman.”

  “You’re twisting things,” she complained sharply.

  Dahleven grinned. “I’m in good company then.”

  Celia looked away, staring off through the trees. Starlight filtered through the branches, playing on the drying tear tracks on her face. Finally, she closed her eyes and bent her head.

  Dahleven squeezed her arm. “Truly, their deaths do not lie at your door. You owe no wereguild.”

  She was silent for several long moments, then she sighed and looked back at him. “I know. I thought I’d learned this lesson long ago. At the Dispatch Center we teach the newbies that they’re only responsible for what they can actually do. We can’t save everyone. But that doesn’t stop us from wanting to.”

  He pulled her down to lie close to him, pleased when she didn’t resist. “That desire gives us the strength to strive. But it should be a goal, not a scourge. We mustn’t flay ourselves with it.”

  “Then it’s not your fault, either,” she said.

  “They were my men. I led them.”

  “What’s sauce for the goose…”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” she elaborated. “You did your best. You took the same risks they did.”

  She’d turned his own words back on him. It wasn’t a comfortable experience.

  “You don’t fight fair,” he said.

  “Haven’t you heard? ‘All’s fair in love and war.’” She kissed his nose.

  Dahleven’s heart skipped a beat. Should he hope she’d given him her heart as well as her body? “Is this love, then, or war?”

  Celia paused a moment, then softly said, “It’s not war.”

  He captured her mouth, kissing her slowly, deeply, as his heart expanded with delight. “Thank you,” he said when he finally pulled away.

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled gently then returned his kiss. He delighted in the warmth of her lips, the soft stroke of her tongue. Then she nibbled her way up to his ear. “You know,” she whispered, “I think you have too many clothes on.”

  “Do you, now?”

  “Yes. I think you should take them off.”

  “But it’s cold,” he said with mock innocence.

  Celia snuggled closer, making his pulse jump. “I think we could heat things up a bit.”

  *

  The next afternoon, Dahleven carefully picked his way downslope, despite his desire to hurry. He’d started seeing signs of recent battle, scored earth and bloodstains, half a league back. Alone, he might have surrendered to the desire to rush downhill to the parley site, but Celia’s presence reminded him of the need for prudence. Dahleven grimaced. In love and war, his desires seemed always at odds with his responsibilities.

  The rough terrain of the hillside prevented them from touching as much as they had in the smooth-floored tunnels, but they’d made up for it last night. The image of Celia sitting astride him rose in his mind. Starlight had silvered her silken skin and cast half-moon shadows beneath her full breasts. Cool air and his attentions had peaked her nipples. His cock swelled as he recalled how she’d licked and nibbled her way up his body, teasing his shaft with her tongue before taking him into her. Her uninhibited joy in their lovemaking had multiplied his pleasure.

  But what he felt for her preoccupied him even more than the vivid memory their physical love. He’d meant everything he’d said to her. He respected her bravery and generosity. He admired the way she took responsibility for her actions, though she was too inclined to punish herself. He loved the way she challenged him, heedless of his rank. He loved…her.

  The knowledge came to him easily, with none of the dread of entrapment he would have expected to accompany it. He loved her.

  He was sorry for her sake that the priests had no magic to send her back to Midgard—but not too sorry. He wanted her here with him.

  With him. Making love every night. Waking up together every morning. Laughing over meals. Sharing joy in their children.

  Odin’s eye. He was expected to make a political alliance. He was heir to Quartzholm and the eldest son of the Kon. He’d been reminded of his responsibility to his family and the Jarldom ever since his Talent Emerged. Lords and Jarls had tendered their daughters to him at every feast day for the last ten years.

  He could ask her to be his elskerinne. It was an honor to be the chosen one of a Jarl’s heir. But Celia wouldn’t see it that way. Her ways were too different.

  A shout jerked Dahleven out of his tangled thoughts.

  “Halt!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY~NINE

  Dahleven’s attention snapped back to his surroundings. He cursed and extended a hand to halt Celia’s progress behind him.

  “Who approaches?” a man’s voice demanded.

  “Lord Dahleven Nevenson, heir to the Jarldom of Quartzholm, and Lady Celia Montrose, under my protection.”

  Two Tewakwe warriors emerged from the forest shadows. One held a bow with an arrow nocked, the other a bladed club.
Nothing about them revealed whether they were Renegades or loyal Tewakwe. Either way, they might be hostile.

  The Tewa with the club took in their disheveled and bloodstained appearance. “You look more like Bahana Outcasts, escaping battle.”

  Dahleven’s fingers twitched. He hated facing an armed man empty-handed, but he kept his hand away from his sword’s hilt. “We have won our battle with the enemy that attacked both our peoples. We bring news of this victory to the Kon and the Kikmongwi.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do they yet live?”

  “No thanks to you, Outcast.”

  “We aren’t Outcasts!” Cele stepped from behind him, and the archer drew his bow in response to the sudden movement.

  “Celia!” Dahleven tried to pull her back, but she moved forward, where she was an easy target.

  “Would an Outcast walk openly toward the parley site? Would he have a woman with him? Dressed like this?” She held out her arms. Even dirty and smeared with blood, she was clearly a lady.

  After a moment, the archer relaxed his bowstring, and Dahleven’s pounding heart settled back into his chest.

  The Tewa with the club regarded Celia with narrowed eyes, then said, “You will surrender your sword and dagger, Bahana. Then we will find those who will either vouch for you—or kill you.”

  It went against every warrior’s instinct Dahleven had to give up his weapons, but he did it anyway. He could fight these two, but not without risking Celia. At least they were only calling him Bahana now, not Outcast.

  They continued downslope, with the club-carrying warrior in front and the archer following. Dahleven kept Celia close, helping her when needed over rough ground. She didn’t complain, but she’d started to limp. She wore only the thin slippers meant for indoor use.

  “Will you tell us what happened?” she asked, pitching her voice so the Tewakwe could hear her.

  “The Kikmongwi is victorious,” the archer answered. “We have crushed the Outcasts!”

  “How did the Nuvinlanders fare?” Dahleven asked.

  The warrior in front shrugged. “Many still live.”

  “Is my brother, Lord Ragnar, among them?”

  The Tewa glanced back. “You will know soon enough.”

  Security was good. They picked up two additional Tewa warriors as an escort and were accosted by sentries twice more before they reached the parley site. As they neared the assembly, several Nuvinlanders grumbled at seeing him under Tewa control while others called out greetings to him.

  Dahleven raised his hand in acknowledgement. “All is well,” he reassured them, hoping it was true.

  The Tewas escorting them exchanged glances and gripped their weapons tighter.

  The Tewakwe forces stood rigid and separate from the Nuvinlanders. Apparently, the Kikmongwi had come prepared for any possibility, just as Neven had. Both Nuvinlanders and Tewakwe looked ready to attack at the first sign of betrayal.

  At the center of an open area between the two groups of warriors stood a canvas pavilion. The sides were hooked up to admit the afternoon breeze, and a woven mat covered the ground. A dozen Nuvinland and Tewakwe guards alternated around the perimeter. Neven and Loloma, the Kikmongwi of the Tewakwe Confederation, sat on cushions facing one another, in the manner of the Tewakwe. Ragni and a Tewakwe man each sat to the right of their respective leaders. The second Tewa was not Loloma’s usual Truth-Sayer, Dahleven noted. Had his regular man been killed in the battle? This could get chancy if the Kikmongwi didn’t have the assurance of knowing the Nuvinlanders were dealing honestly with him.

  Neven and Loloma glanced up as Dahleven and Celia approached. The only sign of his father’s surprise was a slightly lifted brow. He gestured them forward. “Loloma Kikmongwi, you know my eldest son, Lord Dahleven.”

  Dahleven bowed deeply, honoring Loloma as he would someone of his father’s rank. “I am pleased to meet with you again, Kikmongwi.” Loloma’s dark skin was more deeply seamed with wrinkles than the last time Dahleven had seen the Tewakwe leader, but his black, shoulder length hair was still barely touched with white. He wore a sleeveless doeskin shirt dyed a soft green and intricately beaded across the shoulders. His exposed arms were still strong with muscle.

  “And this is Lady Celia Montrose.” Neven gestured Celia forward.

  *

  Cele curtsied to the Kikmongwi and Neven, hoping her nervousness didn’t show. She knew lives were riding on this meeting—she didn’t want to do or say something that would screw things up.

  The Tewakwe’s coloring and features reminded her of the Native Americans of her own Southwest. The Anasazi had disappeared from Arizona about eight hundred years ago. Could these be their descendants? But how did they wind up here, with Vikings?

  “So this is the newborn,” the Kikmongwi said.

  Cele looked at him, confused. Neven, Ragni, and Dahleven all looked surprised too.

  “You are newly born to the Fifth World, are you not?” The Kikmongwi explained. “Your coming was foretold.”

  Cele nodded because it seemed expected, though she wasn’t sure what he meant.

  Loloma regarded her for a long moment, then turned back to Neven, resuming the conversation their arrival had interrupted. “You say it was not you who attacked us. Yet ten of my warriors lie dead or gravely wounded on a field of truce and parley.”

  Dahleven stepped forward. The Tewakwe warriors shifted closer to him. Dahleven held his hands open at his sides. “I have news you both should know on that matter, if you would hear it.”

  Both Kon Neven and Loloma Kikmongwi nodded.

  “The Outcast Jarl, Jorund Firestarter, kidnapped Lady Celia. He meant to force her to Find his lost Talent. She learned that it was he who organized the Renegades and Outcasts raiding both our peoples. We came to tell you of his part in the raids and the attack on this parley. I congratulate you both on your quick defeat of his men.”

  Loloma glanced at his Tewakwe companion, and the man cocked his head to the side.

  “How did you escape this Jorund, Lady Celia?” Loloma asked.

  She had to be careful. Dahleven had warned her that Loloma would have a Truth-Sayer Talent at his side and would know if she lied, and any lie would be considered a sign of betrayal. Like Dahleven, she had to tell the truth, but not too much of it. She couldn’t let anyone know they were Fey-marked, nor could she let slip the hiding place of the Great Talents. “I didn’t do it alone. Dahleven and his men rescued me. They fought Jorund’s escort. Most of them were killed.” Cele blinked back the tears that threatened to rise. “Then Jorund performed some kind of magic, and it killed him.”

  Again Loloma looked at his man, and again the man cocked his head to the side. It must not have been the response the Kikmongwi wanted, because he frowned and turned to Neven. “This Outcast of yours, this former Jarl, has caused great harm to the Tewakwe Confederation. Perhaps he hoped to curry favor with you by attacking us. There are some among your people who would rather take than trade.”

  Dahleven stiffened. “Kon Neven is not among them,” he said in a level tone. “We honor our trade agreements with the Tewakwe. Do you suggest Kon Neven would break that oath?”

  Cele held her breath. She might not know much about this world, but she knew that calling the Kon an Oathbreaker was not a good thing. Her gaze skipped from one man to the next. Tension sparked between them. Even Ragni’s face was tight. All the warriors standing at the edges of the pavilion seemed poised for battle.

  “He would not have to break it if another provoked a war he welcomed,” Loloma answered.

  “I saw the Outcasts and Renegade Tewakwe encamped together well within your lands, Kikmongwi,” Dahleven said.

  “And what were you doing in our lands, without permission? If your purpose there was honorable, why did you not present yourself?”

  “I was tracking the men who attacked our borders. I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t you who gave them refuge, Kikmongwi.”

  Loloma’s expression grew dark. “The Tewakwe do n
ot make war upon themselves. Yet our children cry at night for the loss of their fathers and uncles. Men killed by you Bahana, who do not suffer the losses we have.”

  “My daughter’s child is without his father,” Neven shot back. “And many more Nuvinlanders have suffered as well.”

  “What’s the matter with all of you?” Cele burst out.

  “Celia—” Dahleven touched her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. Everyone else stared in silent surprise, Neven with both brows arced high.

  “This is exactly what Jorund wanted! It was Jorund who did this to you. To both of you.” She turned to the Kikmongwi. “I don’t know what Jorund told the other Outcasts to do to your people, sir, but I do know that Kon Neven’s family has suffered personally from the Renegade attacks. Lady Kaidlin’s husband was killed, and Sorn, Dahleven’s sworn brother, was murdered in front of me. Jorund could hardly wait to destroy Quartzholm. He wanted to set you at each other’s throats. Don’t give him the victory now that he’s dead.”

  Loloma stared at her, then his lips curved in a half smile. He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “It would seem the newborn is wiser than either of us, Kon Neven. Our peoples have suffered equally. I will ask no man-worth to be paid.”

  “Nor I.” Neven leaned forward to clasp the Kikmongwi’s forearm. “May we always face our common enemies side by side.”

  Loloma returned Neven’s clasp. “May we continue together in trust.”

  There was a slight rustle as everyone present relaxed from their hyper-alert state of readiness.

  Loloma gestured for his Truth-Sayer to move aside, then turned his attention again to Cele. “Come newborn, and sit beside me.” When she and Dahleven were seated, he continued. “Now tell us, how did you come to travel through the door the Late Comers used?”

  Cele shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Those who came after us. As in the days of song, the people of Tu’waqachi, the Fourth World, forgot Taiowa was their Father and turned their hearts from virtuous things.” Loloma’s voice took on a story telling rhythm.