by T L Greylock
She had gone on hands and knees, Raef could see, in search of air that was not thick with smoke. The skirt of her dress was damp and muddy where it had dragged across the melting snow and her hands were black with dirt and ash. In the end, she had curled up at the base of a pine tree, one arm crooked around the slender trunk, the other held across her face, the drape of her sleeve shielding both nose and mouth.
The fire had not touched her, save for singeing the hem of her cloak, and her face was a refuge of peace amid the scorched earth and trees. Raef wondered what color irises lurked beneath her lids, what her voice sounded like, and how she might have smiled to see her sister again.
Siv lingered five paces from the body after catching sight of it and Raef waited, keeping his distance, until she crossed the empty space with deliberate steps and knelt beside Bekkhild’s body. She reached out and pushed a lock of hair away from her sister’s face, then put a hand to the pale, cool cheek.
“I often wondered if I would know her face or if the passing of so many years would make her a stranger to me.” Siv’s voice was quiet but strong. “I should not have doubted.” Siv raised her head and looked at Raef. “She was close.” They were not far from the edge of the fire’s path. Raef could see trees untouched by the black fingers of the flames, could smell the clean breeze. Only six spear lengths lay between Bekkhild and air that might have saved her life. “Do you think she knew?”
Raef shook his head, though he wished he might have a different truth for Siv, but she nodded, accepting it.
“I am glad, at least, to know her fate.”
The sun had set, leaving only bands of clouds washed in hues of orange and purple. To the east, the sky was already deep blue and the first stars were unveiled. Raef carried Bekkhild away from the place of death and stood by while Siv washed her sister in a quiet, shallow pool south of the ford. The dirt rinsed from Bekkhild’s hands, Siv combed through her sister’s long tresses of golden hair with her fingers and was beginning to braid it when Vakre approached and sat beside her.
“Your hands are cold,” Vakre said. “Let me.”
Siv hesitated, then let Vakre take Bekkhild’s hair from her. The son of Loki worked with precision and care, crafting a neat braid. Without a word, Siv handed Vakre a length of twine and Vakre secured the braid. Only when he had tied the knot did Vakre raise his gaze and look at Siv.
“Now, tell me, Siv, who is she? What have I done to you?” Vakre’s voice was so soft that Raef could hardly make it out, and at first Siv did not answer, but then she began to speak and Raef moved away, content to give them privacy. He crossed the river once more and found the Vannheim warriors where they had gathered on the riverbank.
Hauk of Ruderk was awake and among them, bound to Dvalarr’s saddle. He watched Raef approach with eyes that did not leave Raef’s face, but his own face was blank, his emotions carefully hidden away. The lord of Ruderk was a short man and surrounded by warriors all taller and broader than he, but to Raef he seemed a giant among them. Raef forced himself to look away and sought out Njall and Dvalarr the Crow. The young captain was full of questions, Raef could see, but Njall held his tongue when the Crow cuffed him on the back of the neck.
“Send Horik and Berrgund north,” Raef said, addressing Njall and naming two of his warriors. “Skuli awaits.” He went on to describe how the pair of warriors would find the blind man and his captive on the ridge where Raef had left them. He reiterated that under no circumstances should Ulthor Ten-blade be loosed from his bonds. Njall listened and raced off to issue Raef’s command, leaving Raef alone with the Crow.
For a moment Raef stood still, lost in thought. Across the water, barely visible in the deepening darkness, Vakre had drawn his sword. The son of Loki was offering the hilt to Siv and though Raef could not hear what Vakre was saying, he understood well enough.
“What are your orders, lord?” The Crow’s voice cut in but Raef could not look away from the bright blade in Vakre’s hand. “Lord?”
At last Raef tore his gaze away and forced himself to focus on Dvalarr’s weathered face, but it seemed that his heart had lifted from his body, that it lay now on the cold steel between Vakre and Siv, and for a moment Raef could not summon any words.
“The prisoner, lord, who is he?” Dvalarr persisted, ignorant of Raef’s struggle.
Mention of Hauk brought Raef back to himself and he could feel his heart beating inside his ribs once more. “He is the lord of Ruderk,” Raef said, “and he is responsible for my father’s death.”
The sudden rage that flooded Dvalarr’s face was an old friend to Raef, for it was the same rage that had burned in him for so long. “When will he die and how will it be done?” The Crow did not ask to kill Hauk himself, but Raef could see that he yearned to do so.
“He will die tomorrow,” Raef said, the decision coming to him without thought. But he had no other answer for the Crow. He had waited so long for the moment he would bring justice to his father, but he had given little thought to the manner of death he would choose. And now, as he turned away from Dvalarr, his belly knotting as he saw that Siv and Vakre had vanished, he could not see Hauk’s death before him, but he could taste the salty water of the fjord, could feel its cold embrace, could see his uncle’s corpse sinking, forever beyond the sight of the stars and the sun and far, so far, from Valhalla.
There was no telling where Vakre and Siv had gone. With one eye on the western bank, Raef gave orders for suitable ground to be searched out so the Vannheim warriors might make camp, raise shelters, and build fires. He did not consult with Bryndis, did not even send for word of Eiger, whom Raef had last seen on the eastern bank when the sun was still high. He was weary and desperate for food and he wanted only to know what had passed between Siv and Vakre.
The Vannheim war band moved south, out of sight of the fires lit by Bryndis’s host, and set up camp on a rise above the river’s edge. The men were quiet, for, though they had moved downriver, they had not escaped the lingering smell of smoke and the memory of the fire that had blazed in the sky the night before hung over them. Raef knew he should sit among them, should speak with them, encourage them to laugh and sing, but he had only the strength to sit at the edge of the camp and stare into the dark. Cilla was near, he knew, lurking close to the spot Raef had claimed for himself, but, though she had deposited the borrowed cloak on Raef’s pack when he had stepped away to relieve his bladder, she did not emerge.
Sleep came with devastating swiftness, overwhelming his exhausted spirit and body with ease. He fought it for a moment, straining to keep his eyelids from closing, desperate to stand watch until Siv and Vakre returned, but he succumbed, head tilted down to his chest, blanket settled loosely over his legs, his torso cradled in the split trunk of a two-pronged birch.
The dreams came later, dragging Raef from oblivion. He saw his father standing in the prow of a small fishing boat, saw the boat rock as his uncle was thrown over the side, saw Dainn suck water into his lungs, but most of all he saw his father watching Dainn slip beneath the surface. Again and again the scene played. Sometimes his father watched with horror, but sometimes that face that Raef knew so well was still and grim and there was satisfaction in Einarr’s eyes as he became the heir to the seat in the Vestrhall.
The struggle changed, though, and in time the faces of his uncle and father were replaced with faces Raef could not name, though he was sure they were familiar to him. They were brothers, too, he knew somehow, and he watched, as a wolf watches, from a distance as the brothers fought. Weapons were discarded as the men exchanged vicious, bloody blows, and Raef knew this was a long-simmering feud that would end only in death. When one of the brothers had pinned the other down, kneeling on his throat and chest, he brandished a sputtering, sparking torch and it was then, as the flickering flames were held to the restrained brother’s hair, that Raef knew these men and their story. He watched, unable to intervene, unable to look away as the brothers Kell-thor and Ulflaug, long-dead ancestors of Vannheim
immortalized in the carved wood of the chair in the Vestrhall, broke every bond of blood and brotherhood between them. Kell-thor heaved Ulflaug off his chest, his muscle-bound arms straining, his hair blazing, and in the scramble that followed, it was Ulflaug who was caught by a wild blow to his jaw. He sprawled in the dirt and Kell-thor sprang upon him, his fingers scrabbling for the knife he had abandoned moments before. Raef saw the knife descend. He heard Ulflaug scream.
But the scream was Isolf and Raef was removing his cousin’s lungs with his blood-slick hands. Isolf was bent at a grotesque, ghastly angle, bones piercing his skin all over his convulsing body. And he would not stop screaming. Desperate to silence him, Raef wanted to end his cousin’s suffering but he could not find the knife that would allow him to slit Isolf’s throat and bring him peace. Instead, he began to stuff the lungs back into the cavity of Isolf’s chest, only they would not fit and he lost his grip and the red, pulsing organs slipped from his hands, and still Isolf screamed.
Silence.
Raef took a breath and saw that he was alone in darkness. All was still and quiet and he knew this was all that would exist after the nine worlds came to ruin, after the great wolf Fenrir swallowed Odin Allfather and Black Surt’s fires burned out.
A flash of lightning split the darkness above Raef’s head and out of that sudden, painful brightness swooped a bird of black and white, its feathers gleaming in Thor’s white fire. A swift. He knew the bird. He had seen it before. And as Raef was drawn from his dreams, woken by a hand on his shoulder, he could hear the words spoken by a young boy, words of hope that defied everything the Norns had carved into Yggdrasil’s bark.
“The swift knows the way,” Raef said, waking, opening his eyes, finding Vakre hunched over him. His relief at seeing the son of Loki was shadowed by the words the boy Anuleif had spoken and for a moment he could not shake them away.
Vakre frowned. “What did you say?”
Raef shook his head, dispelling the last dreamthreads. “I dreamed of,” he paused, for the dreams had shown him much, “of Anuleif.” He told Vakre of the last part of his dream, of the lightning and the bird, just as they had appeared on the bald top of Old Troll, the hill in the northern part of Vannheim where Ailmaer Wind-footed had searched for golden apples and found only an empty cave. “I did not remember it then, but Anuleif said the swift knows the way. That bird I saw, spawned by the lightning strike, it was a swift.”
He could see that Vakre did not understand, and he did not blame him, for Raef himself hardly knew what he was saying and he was only beginning to grasp at the stray threads in his mind. He did not know what would unravel when he pulled. Raef shook his head again and cast aside the blanket. He stood and blew warm air on his hands.
“You offered Siv your sword,” Raef said. His toes tingled as the blood rushed back into them.
“Her sister’s death lies with me. I had to.”
“And yet here you are.”
“She has forgiven me.” It was clear from Vakre’s tone and face that he had not forgiven himself.
“I am glad.”
Vakre was quiet for a moment. “I wanted to believe the Far-Traveled. “
“Believe him? What did he say?”
“He said he did not know what the future held for me, that when he looked at me he saw my blood burning with Loki’s fire, saw things he could not understand. But he said I could find peace in my father’s gift. I asked him how, for I wanted his words to be true, but he had no answer for me. But I see it now. Every day, my father’s claim over me grows stronger. I can bring only destruction. Death.” Vakre took a deep breath. Raef waited. “I told you once before to let me go, to leave me to my fate.”
“And I told you I would not turn my back on you. Never, Vakre.”
“And I will not ask you to. I ask only for your sword hand to do what must be done.”
Raef felt himself shaking his head. “No, no. This I will not do.”
“I am resolved, Raef.” Vakre’s voice was sure and steady, but gentle. “I have caused too much pain and misery. I have become a tool to be wielded by my father. I will not be the source of more suffering.”
“No.” It was all Raef could muster.
“If you will not do it for those I have harmed, then do it for me.” Vakre’s voice had a new sharpness to it and he made a visible effort to calm himself. “End my suffering, Raef. There is no one I would rather have do this, and there is no other hand I trust. I will not ask another, Raef, I cannot.”
Raef closed his eyes. He had been dreading this, he knew, from the very moment Bekkhild was found dead, though it had been nothing more than a nebulous fear burrowed deep within him.
“What of your uncle?” Raef threw the question to the wind, trying to find some means to forestall Vakre.
Vakre sighed. “He is not among the dead. But,” he went on as Raef started to speak, “I will not hold my hatred of him above the well-being of countless lives. If he is gone and out of reach, so be it.”
“You do not know what lies ahead, Vakre.”
“Yet I see clearly what lies behind.”
Raef forced himself to hold Vakre’s gaze. “Today I bring death to Hauk of Ruderk and avenge my father. When it is done, then,” Raef paused, the words sticking in his throat, “then I will do what you ask.”
Relief stole across Vakre’s face, and with it came a rush of heat emanating from the son of Loki’s skin, so warm that Raef drew back.
“Where is Siv now?”
“She said she would give her sister to the river. She wanted you to join her.”
Raef nodded, but he hesitated before turning away from Vakre, as though he might yet undo what he had promised if only he remained, but he could not see how to loosen Vakre’s resolve.
Raef separated a drowsy horse from the rest and walked it north along the river’s edge until he came to the shallow ford. Siv waited across the river, her cloak pulled tight about her, the moonlight caressing the shadows on her face. Patting the horse’s neck, Raef mounted, murmured encouragement, and urged the horse into the water. Tossing its head, the horse stepped nimbly through the black and silver eddies. Siv smiled as he dismounted and Raef was glad to see true warmth in her face.
Together they lifted Bekkhild’s body and walked along the river until they reached a spot where they could easily wade into the water. Raef walked backward out toward the middle, feeling the current tug at his calves.
“This will do,” Raef said. “It is not deep, but the water is strong here. It will take her south.”
Siv nodded.
“Do these waters flow past the valley that was your home in Wayhold?”
“Perhaps.”
“We could have burned her.”
“No, she would prefer it this way. She always liked the sea.” Siv lowered her sister’s head, setting it gently into the water. Raef did the same with the feet. They released Bekkhild at the same time.
For a moment, the body lingered at their feet, then the current caught her up and she was swept away. They watched until she was lost to the darkness and the bend of the river, then waded to shore.
“Are you cold?” Raef asked.
Siv took her eyes from the river for the first time. “Is the eagle proud? Is the sun bright?” Siv teased. Raef laughed and spread wide the folds of his cloak, tucking her in against his chest when she stepped close.
“But are you well?” He hardly dared ask the question, for he could not bear the thought of Siv without the joy that gave her light.
She was still against him for a moment, and quiet, but then she nodded. “Yes.” Silence. Raef waited, sensing there was more. “I hardly remember a time when I was not searching for my sister. I was guided for many years by the vow I made and I do not regret it. But now it is ended.” She looked up at Raef and smiled, but when she saw the stillness in his face, she frowned. “Do you think me coldhearted for letting go?”
Raef shook his head. “Cold is the last thing you are, Siv.” He
kissed her forehead and then, taking her face in his hands, her lips. “I stare only because I marvel at your strength of spirit and the love you have for the world.”
“Sometimes I think your ancestors were trees and rivers and mountains. Sturdy oaks and towering spines of rock with roots that go deep.”
Raef laughed. “Why do you say that?”
Siv remained serious. “Because your love for the world is far greater than mine. It is in your blood. Your heart beats in time with the earth.” She placed a hand on his chest, then looked at him. She started to speak, then thought better of it, smiling instead.
“What is it?” Raef asked.
“A thought only.”
“Tell me.”
Siv held Raef’s gaze. “Long have I thought that is the reason you will not see Valhalla or fight alongside the Einherjar at Ragnarök. Because you will be here. Your last breaths will be heard by the trees. Your final heartbeat will be felt by the earth. And when the end comes, you will be its witness.”
Her words should have troubled Raef, but instead he felt no fear for his unknown fate, no fear of the words the Allfather had chilled his blood with. He knew only a great swelling of peace under the light of the moon and in the embrace of the woman who was the sun and the stars in the sky of his heart.
Thirty
The sky was spitting sleet and snow when Raef awoke curled alongside Siv. He raised his head out from under the thick wool blanket and felt the tiny shards of rain strike his face. For a moment, he could hear only the quiet, steady voice of the river, but then the sounds of men stirring and the smell of morning fires came to him and all that had happened in the past day came rushing back.
Raef ducked back under the blanket as Siv stirred next to him, as though he might be able to close his eyes and lose himself in sleep and memories once more.
“You are solemn, Raef,” Siv said. “And troubled.”
“At last Hauk of Ruderk will answer for his crime,” Raef said. “Today my father will know that I have not failed him.”
