by Darby, Brit
“Don’t be a fool,” Drake snapped, unable to control his frustration.
Leo looked hurt. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Women don’t buy slaves, their fathers or husbands do. Drop it, Leo. We’ll never see her again.”
“No,” the younger man argued, “I have a feeling we will.”
Feeling. That is the real difference between the two of us, Drake thought. He saw a hopeful light fill Leo’s face. Resigned to allow the lad his harmless fantasy, Drake asked, “Then what?”
Leo didn’t answer right away, gazing off, as if he saw past the walls that confined them. “Then maybe, we could earn our freedom somehow, and go home. Some thralls do, you know.”
Guilt struck Drake at the wistfulness in Leo’s words. “You want to go home?”
“Aye,” Leo sighed. “It’s been a long while.”
“Too long,” Drake agreed, his own mind conjuring the wild Highlands they had grown up in together. Had he really been such a willful, proud young fool as to walk away from his homeland, to rashly abandon his family without a backwards glance? Aye. He had.
“Do you mean it, Drake? You’d go home, finally?”
“It’s been fourteen years, cousin. How can a man be so certain of himself — what he thinks, what he wants, what his future will be? Then, one day, he discovers how wrong he’s been. It’s like I was blind, wandering about in total darkness and did not know it.”
How ironic, Drake thought. It took a year-and-a-half toiling in the black mines, suffering cave-ins, poisonous gases, and agonizing hours in near darkness for him to realize this truth. He thought they’d never see the light of day again, let alone the lush, green hills of their homeland.
Leo, as usual, wasn’t as hard on Drake as he was on himself. “We did well for ourselves … well, until this.” He lifted the chain fastened to his collar and rattled it. “You certainly couldn’t have known we’d end up slaves.”
“You should have gone home long ago, Leo. Why didn’t you?”
Leo shrugged and his mood turned serious, a rare occurrence for one so lighthearted. “I know you feel responsible for our current plight, Drake, but there is no cause. I’m a grown man and take responsibility for my own actions. I won’t let you shoulder all the blame, not this time.”
“I never asked you — was it your choice to come after me, or my father’s?”
Leo looked surprised. He shook his head, chuckling. “You’ve suspected?”
“Aye. I knew he’d find a way to keep track of me.”
“Uncle thought you’d tire of being on your own soon enough, or that you’d need me to drag your battered body home. He never imagined you’d thrive, let alone make a fortune.”
Drake felt the old hurt stir inside him. He picked up a stick lying on the floor beside him and stabbed it into the dirt, over and over. “He thought me incapable of doing anything useful.”
Leo was too tactful to comment on the truth of that remark.
“Seems the years flew by. But you shouldn’t have stuck with me this long, Leo. Even my father couldn’t have expected that much.”
“He didn’t. To stay at your side was my own choice.”
The simple confession touched Drake. “Thank you.” He knew what it must have cost Leo in terms of time and relationships; most young men his age would be long wed, settled down with families of their own.
“We should go back, I suppose, but I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him,” Drake said.
“Over Boann?”
“Yes. Even though I admit now I was a fool in love.” Drake recalled the angry exchange with his father, though the exact words faded during the passing years. Leo only knew the basic story, not the specifics. “When Father told me he arranged a betrothal for me from the cradle to some little girl, I was furious. I told him I loved Boann. I wanted her to be my wife, not some total stranger, a mere child.”
The past was buried deep in Drake’s soul, rarely spoken of all these years. Now, it came out. The raw fury that had driven him from his home was gone, the hurt healed somewhat with time.
“What did Uncle say?”
“He laughed and told me I was an idiot, that my hungry loins would guide me down a fool’s path. He said Boann was a delightful romp for a boy my age, an older woman with a whore’s experience, but unworthy of marriage.”
Drake drew a long, shaky breath. “I stormed off, hating him for his cruel words, vowing never to return. I went to see Boann straight away, determined I’d convince her to run away and become my wife, rather than be saddled with some little brat I’d never set eyes on. Boann wasn’t expecting me and I found her in bed with another man. Father was right; she was a whore all along. I couldn’t see what she truly was through my lovesick eyes.”
“Why didn’t you just go back? Tell Uncle you were sorry and bury the past?”
Drake shrugged and tossed the stick aside. “Pride. Anger. Embarrassment. I couldn’t go home. Couldn’t admit he was right. Until now.” He chuckled, breaking the grim mood. “I supposed that little girl he betrothed me to is a full grown woman now — do you think my rich heiress waited all these years, do you think she’ll still have me?”
Leo grimaced. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Only days after you’d left yourself, Uncle received a message that the girl vanished.”
“What? No one just disappears, especially a nobleman’s daughter.”
Leo shrugged. “Well, she did, and as far as I know, the girl was never found. Everyone assumed she was dead, but there were wild rumors that Vikings kidnapped her. No one knows what happened for certain.”
“Just as well,” Drake mused. “She’d have grown into a spoiled shrew, I’m sure.”
“Not all women are that way,” Leo argued. “The one this morning seemed different.”
“Ha. Your mythical Viking princess who is going to buy us and give us our freedom?”
“It could happen.”
“Bah. She was only curious. Maybe she’d never seen Picts before. You’d best get some sleep, cousin. Enjoy your dreams tonight for you’ve little to look forward to tomorrow.”
Leo’s brow knitted into a frown. “There was more in her eyes than idle curiosity.”
When Drake refused to continue the conversation, Leo settled back to sleep. Before long Drake heard him snoring. Unfortunately, sleep wouldn’t come to him anytime soon.
“CURIOUS,” DRAKE WHISPERED, REMEMBERING how she had stared at him, “indeed you were, milady Cailin, and uncannily beautiful besides.”
He stopped himself, forcibly changing the course his mind wandered. Beautiful, aye, but she was a woman just the same — another lying, cheating, conniving female. He could go on all night listing the opposite sex’s dubious attributes. Anger seeped into his mind; the passing of time had not taken away the heat of this latest, hardest lesson. Not Boann, his first foolhardy love, but another, more dangerous woman sprang to mind. Recalling the betrayal and degradation a particular woman heaped upon him even took away the chill of his bones.
“Saigh,” he mumbled.
“Bitch,” he repeated, and then, “no, akrab. Scorpion. Beautiful but deadly.”
Unwillingly, Drake’s mind replayed Zoe’s duplicity. The empress consort was beautiful, beguiling, and treacherous. At first, Drake was flattered Zoe noticed him. But as her advances became more insistent, and she more demanding, he saw the woman for what she was. A spiteful, manipulative bitch. It was a game to her, and when Drake refused to play and assassinate the emperor as she wished, she turned on him and fabricated angry lies for that same man.
Two years had passed, two long, torturous years. Yet, his fury did not diminish, instead it grew into an all-consuming hate, branding Drake’s heart with a blackness he knew would never heal. It was a permanent scar. Guilt again assaulted him as he thought of Leo, an innocent bystander who also paid for his indiscretion.
Zoe traded a game of lust for one of power and dominance. He and Leo were sentenced
to death for her alleged rape, but at the last minute the emperor’s consort wheedled him into condemning them to the mines where few men ever left alive. Drake remembered the malicious glint in Zoe’s black eyes as they were dragged off in chains. Yet, he and Leo survived the dark pits, only to be sold off to an Arab slaver who brought them north to sell. A colder hell, but another hell nonetheless.
Now, they seemed doomed to a harsh life of backbreaking work and degradation beneath the cruel lash of a slaver’s whip. Death would have been preferable to this living nightmare Zoe cast them into.
It grated against every nerve in Drake’s body — he was slave to no man. Time and time again he endured the whip rather than relinquish his pride, his honor.
Numerous times, too many to remember, he and Leo tried to escape. Each time they were caught, the punishment was more severe. The last time, Ichbar warned he would castrate and send them back south as eunuchs.
One day, Drake thought, he would die beneath the lash. Of that, he was certain. He would not, could not give in to this life as a prisoner, a slave. He tugged at the steel collar around his throat, despising it as much as the man who put it there.
No, the beautiful stranger who had shown interest in him that day was most likely no better than any other women he had known. There had been many, but he still paid for the last, and would every day for the rest of his life. However long or short that might be.
THE TWO WOMEN SAT upon Cailin’s bed, the headboard and posts showing Thorvald’s wealth as the carved Dragons watched over Cailin in her sleep. The jarl was a man of great importance in Hedeby and his home reflected that fact.
Thorvald’s long house was the envy of all who visited. The main hall reflected his position at every turn, boasting ornately carved supports and wooden screens for privacy. Grand wooden chests were placed at the end of every bed, the platforms themselves covered with the finest, thickest, warmest furs. An abundance of oil lamps banished the darkness. There were smoke holes that also let in fresh air and light.
A large loom filled the dyngja, a separate weaving room, where wool spindles of every color lay neatly arranged. Cailin’s talent was evident in the many rich, colorful tapestries lining the wood-planked walls. Her nimble fingers wove her dreams into visual stories. On occasion she sold her creations to others, as many offered great prices for them.
Private chambers were rare, and Cailin’s room stood a sanctuary apart from the busy hall. It was Thorvald’s idea to build her a separate bedchamber after he saw his men taking notice of her early development. Furs covered her platform bed piled high with down-filled pillows. A metal lamp holder burned brightly at the bed’s side and a carved chair was tucked into the corner. A large wooden chest with brass hinges filled the space at the end of the footboard, her things neatly stored inside.
Cailin was grateful for the beauty and privacy of her room, but even more so the bar across the door that kept any lustful men from sneaking in when Thorvald lay in a drunken stupor. He was a religious man, and to drink oneself unconscious meant it was possible to come into direct contact with the gods. He was faithful about communing with the gods, perhaps too much so.
Hulda drew the antler comb through the straight, red-gold hair spilling down Cailin’s back. She had combed Cailin’s hair since she was little, and the familiar bedtime ritual was their special time to talk.
“I would know the truth, my dottir.” Hulda paused her combing. “You told me the swords were a gift for your father.”
“No,” Cailin confessed, “they are mine.”
Hulda snorted in dismay. “You keep things from me now, things I do not understand. What possible reason could you have for wanting two such swords?”
Cailin sighed.
Hulda put the comb aside, and when Cailin twisted around, she saw the woman’s brow wrinkled with concern. “I knew it was a mistake to let you train in secret with that oriental. Young ladies do not brandish swords, especially in such a manner. It is unseemly.”
Cailin remained silent and let Hulda rant.
Suddenly, Hulda’s eyes widened and she exclaimed, “Do not tell me you are performing that … that dangerous ritual?”
“It is like a dance, Hulda.” Cailin closed her eyes, remembering how alive she felt when she danced. “Except I do it with swords.”
She didn’t need to open her eyes to know Hulda was not happy. The hiss of indrawn breath warned her. “How can you be so casual about the danger? You could harm yourself doing such a thing. Perhaps even be killed. Your father would not permit it if he knew.”
“The Dragons guide me, Hulda. Their call grows strong within me, stronger by the day … I cannot deny them.” Cailin leaned back against a pile of pillows, wanting to fly away with the magickal creatures into the other world and not deal with her great aunt’s overprotective ways.
“What is it they whisper, dottir?” Hulda asked, the demanding questions prompting Cailin to open her eyes and return to the present world. “What is it they want of you?”
Cailin shook her head. “I too have many questions, but no answers. Why do I have the visions in my dreams? Why do I hear the Dragons whisper? I do not know.”
“Why two Dragon swords?”
“You ask me questions I cannot answer, Hulda.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
Cailin shrugged.
“It is the will of the gods.” That was Hulda’s explanation for nearly everything.
Cailin took Hulda’s gnarled hand into her own. “Ja, the Norns must have brought me here — but why? My presence gives no real happiness to Thorvald. I know he still longs for the sons he lost. I have failed to fill the void they left in his heart.”
Hulda grunted. “He is an idiot,” she said, though fondly, for Thorvald was her own flesh and blood. “You are more of a son to him than the others would have been, had they lived. But men fail to see such things when they dwell on selfish hopes and dreams. They all want male issue to pass their names and drinking horns to. Their foolishness blinds them to a daughter’s worth.”
“I have done my best not to be a burden to the House of Thorvald.”
Hulda nodded. “That is true. You are no helpless female, Cailin. You sail as expertly as Thorvald does, you’re as shrewd a trader as any man in this town. You kept the ledgers straight all these years and made him an even wealthier man.
“It is a sad fact he takes your hard work for granted, dottir. But when he returns, he will settle this nonsense with the swords.”
A long silence permeated the room. Cailin knew she should tell Hulda the truth. Having kept it so long inside was destroying her, she owed it to the woman who raised her like a cherished daughter. Quietly she said, “Thorvald will not return with his ship.”
“What have you seen?”
“I …” Cailin started, but stopped, a sudden tightness in her throat, “I warned Fadir, but he would not listen. He has never given credit to my dreams.”
Enlightenment lit Hulda’s eyes. “Ah! That is why he made you stay behind. He did not believe your warning about his own fate, but he would not risk your safety, either.”
Cailin nodded, recalling the fierce argument they had the night before he left. She always sailed with Thorvald on his trips — she was his right arm now. But not this time.
Out of the blue, Thorvald said it was time for her to remain behind and see to his hearth and home, to be a dutiful daughter. He told Cailin he allowed her to run wild far too long and even threatened to find her a husband as well, since she showed no interest in doing so herself. His abrupt decision surprised and dismayed Cailin. Now she realized it may have been his indirect way of keeping her safe.
“Perhaps I am wrong this time,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Hulda agreed, but now they both believed Thorvald would not return from this voyage. Her father might doubt her gift of Sight, but Hulda never had.
Hulda stood, a new resolve glimmering in her eyes. “The runes shall tell us more.”
Cailin nodded and rose, following Hulda into the main hall. The large, open room was quiet and the two women moved to the huge trestle table to sit. Hulda unfolded the leather skin containing her runes. They were plain now, the red paint having chipped away from years of use. She counted nine of them into her aged, twisted hands.
“Allfather Odhinn, Rune-Master, lead me to true knowledge of the sacred runes. Freyja, Mistress of Magick, Vana-Goddess of seidr, reveal to me the future paths.”
She tossed them out onto the skin, the stones thumping and rolling into place. Their age-old markings showed the two women the past, present and future, their magick revealed only to a chosen few, the seers.
Hulda squinted as she studied the symbols, first those closest to confirm recent events in Cailin’s past. Gingerly, she touched the mystical symbol of a crescent moon. “The runes too know of your powers.”
Cailin nodded and waited patiently for Hulda to go on. She, too, could read the runes, but Hulda was the rune-mistress and Cailin always acquiesced to the older woman in respect.
Hulda’s thinning gray brows arched and her forehead wrinkled as she moved on to the other markings. “There is deception, intrigue.” She looked up at Cailin. “Others are working against you, my dottir.”
Quickly, Hulda looked to the stone next to the negative marking. She frowned. “Old acquaintances will bring you new trouble.”
The next rune drew Cailin’s gaze and she couldn’t ignore its meaning. Hulda saw her surprise and smiled.
“Ahhh,” she sighed knowingly, “it seems there is a man coming into your life, a man who will influence you greatly.”
“Don’t be silly, Hulda. There is no one.” A sudden image of dragon tattoos flashed across her mind’s eye, bringing warmth to her face.
Hulda’s lower lip puckered out. “The runes say differently.” Her finger touched the smooth surface of the stone next to it. “It too says there will be an awakening in you … an attraction.”
Her pucker disappeared into a large, open smile. “It is about time,” she chuckled, then turned back to read Cailin’s future.
The smile vanished. “You will take a long journey over water.” Another rune gave her even more information. “This journey shall lead you to the truth.”
