An Apprentice to Elves

by Sarah Monette

  “And what do we do about their monster war-beasts?” Fargrimr asked, slicing cheese wafer fine. He already had a slice of bread buttered and layered with dried apples soaked in cider, and was of a mind to try an experiment.

  “Stothi could handle one,” Blarwulf said. “But I’d rather not ask him to.”

  Stothi passed gas—impressively—in his sleep. Signy got up with a huff and stalked over to other side of the room, where she tossed herself down in the rushes and sneezed. Twice.

  “He farts like Othinn,” Fargrimr agreed. “He can probably kill monsters like Othinn too. But, also like Othinn, we only have one Stothi. And they have a lot of monsters.”

  “Bear traps, I was thinking, actually,” Hreithulfr said. “We only have to cripple them, right? They’re no use to the Rheans if they can’t walk.”

  Fargrimr laid the cheese atop his sandwich, then sipped ale while he waited for the miasma of Stothi’s digestion to clear. The hops helped. It seemed unlikely that anyone was going to give Stothi any grief about what he ate, either, although the evidence suggested somebody should.

  He had been watching the massive, shaggy Rhean monstrosities put to work at clearing trees and stacking lumber for—he assumed—siege engines. He thought about caltrops, spiked chains, pitfalls. He’d spent enough years on horseback that it griped him to maim a beast whose only fault was that it did as its handler told it, but he couldn’t see a way around it.

  “I suppose that’s war,” he said. As he lifted his ale mug, the aroma of Stothi’s own fart must have woken the big wolf up. He lifted his head, blinked sleepily, and then looked around accusingly before heaving himself to his feet and stalking off with his plumed tail waving huffily. He glanced back over his shoulder as he crossed the threshhold, as if to let them know he expected better of them in the future

  Hreithulfr laughed and lifted his ale-horn, which a thrall quickly filled. “At least some of us aren’t worried,” he said.

  * * *

  Fargrimr missed Randulfr and Ingrun all the more when he went out again, this time not merely to watch, but to seek parley. He got a sturdy little gelding from the stable—not one of his favorites, in case anything should happen—put on his best boots, and rode out with a dozen of Siglufjordhur’s best men at his back.

  They stopped just out of sight of the Rheans’ most forward camp, and sent one man ahead bearing the green branches of parley; eventually someone came out to meet him. Fargrimr’s thane later reported that the conversation had been brief and had mostly involved the Rhean establishing who had come to parley and then asking Fargrimr’s man what sureties they would like for a conversation.

  It was arranged for two days thence, in an open-sided pavilion provided by the Rheans and pitched in the middle of a wide-open wildflower meadow. Only Fargrimr and one aide, and the Rhean leader and one aide, would be permitted to enter. Or even come within bowshot of the place.

  Fargrimr chose Hreithulfr as his second—not only was the wolfsprechend a great strapping creature, but he had the talent for quiet listening and appraising so common among men who did his work. And he had Signy, who—while she strenuously disapproved of the whole plan—could certainly remain behind, listen in on her wolfsprechend’s thoughts, and send aid quickly if it was needed.

  Together, they walked out to the pavilion and waited.

  Soon, a young man in mail and sandals crossed the field to them, alone; his dark hair was cut above his ears, and Hreithulfr and Fargrimr shared a look.

  He stopped, shocked, when he saw them, then gathered himself. “The legate is delayed,” he said, addressing Hreithulfr. “You have brought your … wife to advise you?”

  It had been a very long time since anyone had attempted to apply that word to him. He said, “I am Fargrimr Fastarrson, Jarl of Siglufjordhur. This is Hreithulfr, a heofodman in my counsel.” Remembering that Skjaldwulf had nearly been burned as a witch when the Rheans captured him, by virtue of his bond with Mar, they had decided not just to leave Signy behind but not to mention that Hreithulfr was her wolfsprechend.

  The young man stood staring. Fargrimr exercised all his discipline and stepped past him, pausing with one hand on a support of the pavilion. “I’m going inside,” he said.

  Hreithulfr followed him, and the Rhean followed Hreithulfr, still barking at the hole of that same long-fled fox: “Jarl? But … but you’re a woman!”

  Hreithulfr seemed about to intervene, but Fargrimr stayed him with a tattooed hand.

  “No,” he said, patiently, “I am not. I am the jarl of Siglufjordhur.”

  The Rhean was drawing another breath, and the argument might have continued indefinitely, but a man came from the trees on the Rhean side of the meadow and strode toward them. His steps among the ranks of white and rose and purple lupines disturbed a small blizzard of bees and butterflies, which swirled up to either side of him. He ducked a guy wire of the pavilion and entered.

  His complexion was the rich, ruddy black-red of a horse’s hide, dark as a svartalf. His hair was black and curled more tightly than any man’s Fargrimr had seen, the gray hairs scattered through it almost seeming woven in. It was cropped close as a thrall’s, but gleamed with scented oil. He wore bright armor—an iron cuirass molded to look like a young man’s breast and belly, with wide riveted straps of crimson leather covered in overlapping iron scales protecting the flexible parts of the body—and a sword. The light cape he wore over it was silk, and edged with a strip of shockingly bright violet.

  The young Rhean jerked himself so stiffly straight he almost looked as if he might fall over. He offered the most awkward version of the Rheans’ salute Fargrimr had yet seen. “Ave, Legate!”

  The dark man in the scale armor straightened inside the pavilion, looked from Fargrimr to his interrogator, and answered in a long-suffering voice, “Ave, Tullus Verenius Corvus.” He returned the salute—fist to heart and then arm straight out, hand straight, palm down—with the ease of a man who had performed the gesture thousands of times and in all kinds of conditions.

  The younger man said something in the Rheans’ tongue; Fargrimr had picked up a few words in all his skulking, but not near enough. If only Otter were here, he thought, then felt bad for it. Surely there were few places Otter would like to be less.

  The new man—the legate—listened politely. Then, with a glance at Fargrimr, he spoke in the proper Northern tongue. “The barbarian thinks the customs of his tribe are the customs of the world, Tullus. I will speak with the jarl of Siglufjordhur. Perhaps you should see to the inventories.”

  Again the young man spoke in the Rhean language, but this time the legate cut him off short, again speaking in Iskryner: “And you may tell your father why I have sent you back, if you think it will impress him.”

  Tullus—was that his name? his title?—frowned at the legate. The legate folded his arms over his cuirass and waited.

  Fargrimr thought, not happily, that anyone trying to outwait this legate was going to find himself in much the position of a mouse trying to outwait a cat. Tullus crumbled like dry bread; his face—unlike the legate’s, pale enough to show a blush—turned sunset-colored. “Legate,” he said, as if he ground the word between his teeth, and withdrew from the pavilion.

  The legate turned to Fargrimr, unfolded his arms, and said, with a polite inclination of his head, “You are Fargrimr Fastarrson of Siglufjordhur.” He spoke the words well, even though the names were obviously foreign on his tongue.

  “I am,” Fargrimr said, relieved that he wasn’t going to have to argue the point all over again. “And this is Hreithulfr.”

  “A wolfcarl.” He didn’t seem as horrified as Fargrimr had expected—or, indeed, horrified at all.

  “How did you know?” Hreithulfr asked, offering an arm clasp that the Rhean accepted without hesitation.

  “The wolf in your name,” the legate said. “As for me, I am Caius Iunarius Aureus. I understand you wish to parley?”

  “We do.”

  “Well,
then,” the legate said. He made a broad gesture with his hand, directing Fargrimr and Hreithulfr to a small table flanked by stools. Upon the table sat a jug and several cups.

  Fargrimr sat and allowed himself to be served. The Rhean sipped from all three cups to show them safe and gave Fargrimr and Hreithulfr a choice, which seemed courteous. The drink was wine, aged and soft in the mouth, more round than sweet—not unpleasant.

  The Rhean did not seem at all nervous about being outnumbered, or outmassed. And he did not hesitate about proceeding to matters of business, which Fargrimr appreciated. “We would all very much prefer that this be settled without bloodshed,” the legate said. “We are prepared to offer terms. You pay us a certain reasonable tribute in goods and chattel, provide lands for a town, and in return you enjoy the prosperity and trade of the Rhean empire. Our protection as well, from all your enemies. Your sons could even do as I have, and join the Legion to become citizens.” He touched the bright strip on the edge of his cape, which must therefore be a mark of rank. “A citizen can rise high in the Republic.”

  Fargrimr rolled the wine around in his mouth, buying time—and killing his first impulse, which was to point out that the only enemies the Northmen needed protection from were the Rheans themselves. The strange man’s sclerae were a warm ivory color, not truly white at all. He regarded Fargrimr steadily.

  Fargrimr swallowed. “Caius—”

  “Iunarius,” the legate corrected.

  “I ask your pardon.” He was irritated to feel the burn of a blush up the back of his neck.

  Iunarius made a gesture, a slow roll of the wrist with an open hand, as if signifying that he did not hold grievances. “Without trade between our peoples, how can I expect you to know our customs, any more than we understand yours?” Apology, curiosity, a thread of humor.

  Fargrimr understood the question Iunarius was carefully not asking. He said, “What do Rhean men do, when they have no sons to inherit their property?”

  “A sister’s son,” said Iunarius. “Or a daughter’s husband.”

  Fargrimr smiled, like a wolf. “Here in the North of the world we must be more thrifty.”

  A white arc cleft Iunarius’ clean-shaved face, broken by bright gold. “And that brings us to the point of it, doesn’t it? Thrift.” He paused, settled back, his arms folded casually across that molded breast. “I am offering you the thriftier option. We have so much more to spend than you do, Lord Fargrimr. We have resources you cannot even imagine. War-beasts and war-engines such as the North has never seen.”

  Fargrimr tipped his head to the side, as if considering. “Have you ever seen a troll?”

  Iunarius’ lips tightened against his teeth, but the smile itself never shifted. “Have you considered how many of your men will die, if you go to war with us? How your fields will burn, or lie fallow? How your women and children will starve in the long, hard winters?” The Rhean spread his hand. “But if you come into our arms willingly, we will be kind, Lord Fargrimr. I speak of trade, wealth, opportunities. Food and health for your people. Long lives, many children. The chance to adventure and see the world, to travel to all the many ports of Rhea—and beyond. Come under the eagle’s wing, and he will shelter you.”

  Fargrimr listened politely until the Rhean was finished. Then he thought, carefully, while Hreithulfr watched him with pursed lips and a raised brow. He thought about the implication that Northern ships never traveled or traded now. He thought about the way Iunarius’ metaphor cast the North as a woman who could choose to be raped or to be bedded willingly—but about being bedded, she had no choice at all.

  “Kindness,” Fargrimr said at last. “The kindness of taxation beyond our means and levied troops? The kindness of disregard and insult?”

  He would have turned his head and spat, but it occurred to him that he did not know how the Rhean would interpret such a gesture. He didn’t want to cause more bad will than was necessary.

  “I don’t want war,” Iunarius said, with a dropped voice and a show of candor.

  “Does that mean you can’t afford it?” Hreithulfr didn’t put himself forward when he spoke, but it was hardly necessary for a man so large. He dominated the conversation even with a soft word.

  Iunarius showed no sign of intimidation. “I can bear the cost better than the North can.”

  But have you the will to bear it? Fargrimr studied the Rhean, reading sincerity in the set of his face. Will you stand up to the cost as we will be forced to, having no choice?

  “We have fought trolls,” Fargrimr said. “We are not afraid of men.

  “I offer a counterproposal. The Rheans may keep Siglufjordhur as a trading enclave. But your people must draw your troops down to a garrison sufficient to hold that fort. And you will stop your incursions further into my lands.”

  “How generous of you,” Iunarius said. “To offer me what I hold already, and whence you have not the means to dislodge my grip.”

  “Every stride of land your men walk will be paid for in spilt blood and voided bowels. You will trample forward over the bodies of your troops. Is that what you wish for?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Iunarius said.

  Fargrimr unexpectedly perceived the Rhean’s age in the set of his face, where it had not been evident before.

  Iunarius ran a hand over his tight-whorled hair as if easing a headache. “I was hoping we could get this off on a better foot.”

  “Invasion is usually not the best prelude to trade negotiations,” Fargrimr said.

  Iunarius turned—not quite giving Fargrimr and Hreithulfr the insult of his shoulder, but stepping back so he could signal his men just within eyeshot at the edge of the meadow with a raised hand and a peculiar dipping gesture.

  He angled his face back to Fargrimr. “How do you feel about extortion?”

  Fargrimr tensed. A chill ran along his back; he felt himself ready to whip the shield off his back and duck under it while he dragged Hreithulfr aside. But no flight of arrows descended from the bright sky to shred ragged holes in the pavilion canvas. And no line of Rheans broke from the trees at a charge, on foot or in their peculiar tongueless chariots.

  Failing that, Fargrimr couldn’t have said what he was braced for. It certainly wasn’t for two tall Rheans to step out of the trees, pulling a bare-headed, balding Northman between them. A priest’s vestments had been stripped to his waist, showing his solid curve of belly and the coils of blue ink on his thick biceps and shoulders. His arms were bound behind his back. Even at this distance, long-sighted Fargrimr could see that his neck was corded with discomfort or rage.

  Fargrimr recognized him at once: Freyvithr, who was in many ways the voice, eyes, and hand at a distance of Erik Godheofodman of Hergilsberg. The priest favored the lady Freya in his devotions, and he was often trusted to run messages of urgency and privacy for the godheofodman, or to perform research for him.

  “This is one of your pagan preachers, is it not?” Iunarius said.

  Fargrimr nodded. “By his robes,” he agreed, as if they didn’t both know Iunarius already knew the answer. He tried to give no sign that he recognized the man, though the tattoos on his own arms itched in sympathy.

  “Here is another thing to bear in mind, then,” Iunarius said. “Those who come to the Rhean commonwealth willingly are permitted to practice their own religions, though of course our own priests come among them as well—and those who wish to rise in the legions or even as high as the Senate must espouse the religion of the capital. Those who do not come willingly, though—those whose loyalty is only ensured by the sword—well. You will understand that those tribes are … encouraged … to adopt the ways of the empire.”

  Fargrimr bit the inside of his lip to keep his face impassive as, without turning away from Fargrimr and Hreithulfr, Iunarius raised his right hand. The bright-edged silk of his cape caught the sunlight angling under the edge of the pavilion canvas and seemed to glow from within.

  Fargrimr raised his own hand; behind
him, he hoped that men and wolves were revealing themselves at the forest edge. He did not take his gaze from Iunarius to see, and Iunarius did not move his eyes. Hreithulfr would have stepped forward, but Fargrimr sidestepped to put his shoulder in front of the bigger man, and Hreithulfr, for all the jostling that went on in any given fortnight between heall and keep, respected his authority and stopped.

  A flash of sunlight dragged Fargrimr’s attention from Iunarius’ serene expression at last. He tensed again, ready for a glimpse of massed bows at the tree line with arrows nocked and glittering. But all he saw was the gleam of a knife in the hand of one of the two men holding Freyvithr.

  It was much, much too far to the wood’s edge to do anything about. Even if he’d held a nocked bow in his hand. Even if—

  “Iunarius—” he warned.

  Iunarius brought the raised hand down at an angle. The knife glided down.

  Freyvithr stumbled forward.

  Fargrimr caught a breath that wanted to be a scream. He would have lunged forward uselessly, but now it was Hreithulfr’s huge hand on his shoulder, pinning him in place. And then—

  And then there was no fountain of scarlet blood across the blue and violet and white and rose lupines. There was no gurgling scream or cough. Freyvithr did not collapse to his knees, crawl forward, thrash violently, at last lie still.

  He caught his stumble, spread his freed hands wide for balance, and staggered another step before righting himself. Cut ropes writhed from his wrists to drop among the meadow flowers. He stood, chest heaving, hands lowering slowly—and glanced over his shoulder.

  The two men at the tree line had not moved.

  Freyvithr straightened. He shrugged his tattered robes up onto his shoulders with solemn dignity. He settled them, drawing the rags to hang across his chest. Then, step by deliberate step, he walked forward.