Fire and Lies

by Angela Chrysler

  “So there was a surplus of Seidr,” Kallan concluded, “causing it to overflow and spill out into the Seidi.” Kallan furrowed her brow. “But where would the excess Seidr come from to cause a spring to emerge?”

  Before Gudrun could scrounge up an answer, the door of Kallan’s sitting room whined open, drawing their attention to Bergen, who slogged across the sitting room toward the solar.

  “Well?” Torunn asked, too eager for Bergen to reach them.

  He shrugged, pursing his lips.

  “He refuses to see her,” he said.

  The room filled with simultaneous sighs.

  “Alright,” Kallan said, puffing up her chest with a bout of readiness. Gudrun and Daggon exchanged a pair of grins. “Dismiss the castle’s staff.”

  “What?” Geirolf barked as Torunn spat, “Are you mad?”

  “Just for a day,” Kallan said. “Leave Rune to his keep…alone.”

  “The castle gets mighty cold this time of year, Kallan,” Geirolf said.

  Kallan grinned with a slyness worthy of Bergen.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Kallan, you don’t know what you ask,” Torunn said.

  “Don’t I?” Kallan asked, maintaining her grin. “Have I not my own keep to run?”

  Gudrun returned to her meal. Daggon stretched his arms up over his head as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Hold off,” Bergen cut in as Geirolf and Torunn moved to rebut.

  All attention turned to Bergen. Everyone was silent for the moment as he mulled over Kallan’s proposition. After a moment, he met Torunn’s eyes and nodded.

  “Do it.”

  “Bergen—” Geirolf said.

  “The entire staff?” Torunn interjected.

  “The moment he goes to sleep tonight, let the fires burn out,” Bergen said without a glimpse of humor.

  Silence permeated the room as they looked from one to the other.

  “Well…” Torunn broke the indecision with a heavy sigh as she pushed herself up from the chair. “I have a lot of work to do, if tomorrow we’re doing nothing.”

  With a prolonged groan, Geirolf followed Torunn’s lead and forced himself to his feet. “I’ll pass the word among the barracks.”

  With matching grins, Kallan and Bergen watched as they took their leave.

  “What will you have us do, Bergen?” Daggon asked when the door latched behind them.

  With a grin that seemed to widen by the minute, Bergen looked to Daggon.

  “Go pick some fights in the barracks. That’ll keep Rune running all day.”

  A chill gnawed Rune’s bare shoulders. Half-asleep and disgruntled, he pulled at the furs, slapping the edge of the blankets as he yanked them higher. Buried deep within the pocket of warmth, Rune groaned with a stubborn irritation that wouldn’t ebb. The unmistakable snap of cold bit the top of his head left exposed to the open air.

  He tried to remember if he had been hunting with Bergen, and tossed the idea from his head before foraging for a more reasonable explanation. Wallowing in his bad temperament, he recalled the evening prior and, in a torrent of temper, Rune whipped off the pile of furs and stomped to his feet, clenching his teeth against the cold that pierced his flesh.

  Eager to purge his miserable mood at the first passerby, Rune looked about and grew more irate at the abnormal lack of people present. His eyes shifted to the cold hearth and its pile of white ash void of flame and heat.

  Too cold to emerge from the blankets without a shirt, Rune grabbed a fistful of furs from his bed and yanked them violently over his shoulders, grumbling a slew of curses under his breath as he stomped to his sitting room.

  The second hearth, as cold as the first, stoked his rage all the more.

  “Torunn!” he bellowed, then listened.

  The corridor was unusually quiet.

  Ready to fire off at the first person he saw, Rune stomped to the door and ripped it open then stopped. The hall was empty.

  The usual warmth and laughter that always seemed to ascend from the Great Hall with the myriad of scents from the kitchens was oddly absent. Hunger clamped his stomach and Rune realized the lack of smells from the Great Hall probably meant a lack of breakfast.

  “Torunn!” he roared again and waited.

  Echoes reverberated down the hall past Kallan’s room.

  Kallan.

  Rune narrowed his eyes into threatening slits he wished her to see and, crinkling his nose, slammed his door. He wasn’t sure how she had done it, but he had a suspicion forming in the depths of his gut. Aside from Lorlenalin’s palace brat, he was the only one left in the keep. Deciding he would deny her the glory she sought, he tightened his grip on the furs and stomped back to his bedchamber.

  With more fuss than he would have cared for, Rune started a fire and found some clothes. With a fresh slew of curses, he grumbled loudly down to the kitchens, where he confirmed the absolute vacancy of the keep. He rummaged through a collection of bags, located a handful of apples and some dried meats, and returned to the Great Hall after grabbing an extra two helpings of mead.

  Back in his room, the fire crackled, fighting back the chill. Rune dumped the armload of food and drinks onto his bed and passed through the back door of his bedchamber, across the landing to the war room. Within five minutes, he had found the wax, the charts, the maps, and a collection of sealed letters containing the most recent reports of Gunir’s imports and exports.

  “Joren!”

  Nothing but echoes answered.

  He began filling his arms with sheets of blank vellum and a bifolium.

  “Geirolf!”

  Silence.

  With a huff, he collected the last of his supplies and stomped back to his room. Beside his food, Rune dumped his maps and sealing wax, and reviewed his progress. Then he stomped to his window and stared out over the barren courtyard.

  The battlement doors were closed. The barracks, too quiet. Even the workers constructing the stables had abandoned their work.

  “Bergen!” Rune projected over the deadened courtyard.

  His echo was the only reply.

  Pulling his head back inside, Rune scowled at the pile on his bed. The fire had died down some and he scowled at the thought that he would have to haul armloads of firewood up from the cellars.

  Rune gazed again out the window and furrowed his brow. A lone speck, cloaked and suspicious, glided across the stone yard.

  Quietly shuffling to the window, Rune took great care to stay hidden in the shadows of his room. At once, he recognized Kallan’s dainty step. Fruits and meats from the kitchens filled a large basket she clutched protectively. A few vegetables confirmed she had also raided the castle gardens. Snarling, Rune made note to scold her later for her thievery as he watched her slip through the battlement doors.

  Disgruntled, he abandoned the window and set to work, sorting through his provisions and the day’s work.

  * * *

  Silence and solitude made up Rune’s day. The only disturbance was that of a random though frequent skirmish below between Ottar and Daggon. Pleased to have found somebody, Rune made haste to the courtyard only to find Daggon standing alone in a mass of disgruntled upheaval that Rune had to contain.

  He walked the keep once, searched the barracks and the stables where the horses were his only company and promptly gave up, all the while knowing Kallan was somehow behind this. More than once, Rune stood from his table and headed for Kallan’s chambers, each time forcing himself back to his work with a bottle of mead. Too often, he found himself glaring at the window.

  Pulling the furs closer, he gulped down an exuberant helping of mead and slammed the bottle back to the table as he pretended to look over the maps.

  He ignored the passing afternoon that darkened too slowly into the evening, and often pulled at the furs around his shoulder, throwing his head back for another bout with the drink. By mid-day, he had eaten through the fruit and the meat. By the final hour of the day and the seventh mead,
long after the sun settled behind the horizon, hunger forced Rune’s head up from his work.

  He pushed aside the map and leaned back in his chair with a tip of the inebriate. The waxing half-moon was bright this night. Forcing himself to his feet, Rune made his way across the room and quietly closed the door behind him. At the double doors of Kallan’s sitting room, Rune stopped. Light emerged from the crack and he entertained the thought of breaking down her chamber door and unleashing his pent-up irritation on her.

  “Should have let the damn thing kill her,” Rune grumbled.

  Balling his fists, he forced himself down to the kitchens for more meat and mead.

  Rune descended into the dark kitchens, blackened by the late hour. Fumbling to the storeroom, he scuffed about with the slight tip of a drunk and dragged his hand along the table for direction and balance. With the bang of the door, he punched the wall, released a series of choice words he reserved for the occasion as he limped into the buttery. Upon finding the mead, he threw back his head and drowned his curses in one long sequence of gulps.

  Plopping down onto a stool, Rune sighed and dropped his head back onto the wall. The kitchens were black save for the single strip of moonlight that poured in from the gardens. He stared at the rafters hidden in the dark and threw back another gulp.

  “Bad day?”

  The sweet affection of Torunn’s voice jolted Rune from the stool.

  “You!” Rune growled, wincing through the dark and still clutching the bottle. “Where is everyone? I’ve spent my day getting nothing done! The only one who’ve I’ve been able to find is that giant brute of a captain, who insists on picking fights with Ottar, who won’t sit still long enough to ask where everyone is! Where is Bergen? Where is Geirolf?” Rune slurred loudly, granting Torunn no time to answer. “Where’s my food?”

  He could hear Torunn’s unimpressed sigh through the dark and he squinted to see better, impatient for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and cursed himself for not bringing a light.

  “Bergen and Geirolf are hunting,” Torunn said patiently. “Your food…” She looked at the shelves of the buttery and turned to the larder abundant with food. “...is beside you.”

  “Where’re the cooks?” he slurred, already unsatisfied with whatever excuse she would give.

  “Home,” Torunn said.

  “I am your king!” Rune barked. “What is the meaning—?”

  “We were given orders by another, who was granted the power by you.” Torunn’s eyes sharpened as if daring Rune to challenge her and Rune secretly wished his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness after all.

  “And so, in following her orders, we followed yours,” Torunn said.

  Rune grimaced as he threw back his head to take another mouthful of mead. His unyielding frown remained on Torunn as he drank.

  “I want to speak to them now,” Rune said. “Now!”

  “No one is here to accept your summons,” Torunn said. “Except Kallan.”

  “I rescind my order!” Rune said, thinking ahead.

  Torunn’s eyes narrowed into slits.

  “Kallan has already given us instruction to ignore that order were you to give it.” Her nostrils flared with her breath. “And we wouldn’t want to disobey our king, now would we?”

  Rune threw the flagon across the room. Mead splattered on the walls. Torunn held her eye unwaveringly on Rune.

  “Mind your temper with me, Son of Tryggve,” she said. “I maintained your father’s tantrums centuries before you were born.”

  “I’ll not have her,” Rune said. “I will starve before I accept her summons.”

  “You just might,” Torunn said.

  With a whirlwind of temper, she spun on her heel and ascended the steps to the Great Hall, leaving Rune alone in the kitchens to brood.

  The air was stiff and filled with a stagnant chill. Pulling at his tunic, Bergen stepped into the cold, dark corridor and closed the door to his brother’s bower behind him. Immediately, he stopped dead at the old woman, who seemed to appear from the air. Dressed in a chemise and dressing gown, Gudrun held two fingers upright, the tips of which fed a single orange Seidr-flame that flickered and danced with a personality all its own. Orange and black streaks decorated the wall, submerging her ancient face in a dangerous glare and catching a bit of the gold in her eye as she spoke.

  “What’s the report?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “He’s asleep,” Bergen said.

  Gudrun nodded, keeping her thoughts private.

  “Geirolf came back with you, I presume?” Gudrun asked.

  “He’s in the larder now hanging the hares,” Bergen said.

  “I’ll let Torunn know to send the servants,” she said after a moment and quietly, swiftly shuffled down the hall. A cold lingered behind her and her Seidr flame flickered. The light shuddered.

  “Gudrun.”

  Gudrun paused and gazed at the berserker.

  “I spoke to Rune,” Bergen said.

  A soft smirk pulled at the corner of Gudrun’s mouth.

  “You did.”

  “He said you’re a Volva.” Bergen’s throat was dry. “That you have the Sight. You can See.”

  The Seidr flame flickered and Bergen studied her eyes, expecting a denial. Instead, Gudrun’s smirk grew into a small grin.

  “I am,” Gudrun said. “I do. I can.”

  Bergen clenched his fist.

  “How much can you see?” he asked. “What do you know?”

  Amused, the old woman retained her smile and narrowed her steady glare.

  “You brothers… You share a lot.” The gold in her eye glistened. “He asked the same of me.”

  “Did you lie?” Bergen asked and exhaled sharply through his nose. “Can you really See…or is it a guise for money?” Bergen’s breath was increasing. “Some Seidkona do that. They lie and cheat and take your money, leaving you with false premonitions.”

  Gudrun kindly peered through the slits in her eyes.

  “You doubt my skill?”

  The chill in the air thickened.

  “I see you,” Gudrun said. “Is that enough?” Bergen inhaled deeply. His large chest expanded as he stared down the short woman. “No?”

  Darkness blanketed her face.

  “Your eyes are different,” she said. “Like the Dvergar. I know you weren’t born that way. I know they once matched the silver-blue eyes of your brother.”

  Bergen widened the black of his eyes and Gudrun entered his mind as she peered through the dark and the flickering light.

  “I see the Dvergar prisons and the cage that held you,” Gudrun whispered. “I see the darkness that kept you, and the girl.”

  Bergen’s palms shook as they beaded with sweat.

  “And a Dvergr dying on the floor beneath your blood-soaked hands clutching the elding blade you plunged into her heart… That blade, in fact.”

  Paying no mind to his white fists, Gudrun glanced at the elding handle of a dagger sheathed at his waist.

  “I know, you loved her once,” she said, “I know that she—”

  “Enough!” Bergen barked and, clawing at his back, he tore his shirt over his head as if the tunic itself suffocated him, as the black of those walls closed in, as the stench of those halls ate his skin. And a perfect, pale face turned up at him and her eyes implored in that moment as he watched the life drain from them.

  Panting, Bergen fell to the floor on his knees. His bare shoulders shook in Gudrun’s light and he dug his fingers into his eyes. He wiped the sweat from his brow and checked his hands twice for blood. Her blood. Running his shaking hand through his hair, he regained control of his breath.

  “Very well,” Gudrun obliged, saying no more on the matter. “Is there something else you’d like to know?”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bergen closed his eyes.

  “Swann,” he said and raised his gaze to Gudrun.

  “Swann,” Gudrun repeated, shaking her head as Bergen picked himse
lf up off the floor.

  “My sister,” he said and waited for the Volva to speak.

  “If your brother told you that he spoke with me,” Gudrun said, “surely he told you my answer.” Sadly, she shook her head. “I can not see your sister’s killer. I’m sorry.”

  Turning to leave, Gudrun hung her head low. The orange of the light moved with her.

  “Please,” Bergen said.

  Cold streams of sweat streaked his face as Gudrun looked back to see.

  “What he did to her…” He shook his head. “How we found her… What it did to us… Please.”

  “I can not See,” she said and took another step.

  “How?” Bergen called after her. “How can a Seer not See?”

  Gudrun sighed and stopped in the hall.

  “Do you know how a Volva’s Sight works?” she asked.

  Gazing up at the berserker, she ensured she had his attention. Bergen shook his head.

  “I can look through your eyes,” Gudrun said. “Past the mask you wear, and see your memories there.” Bergen held his breath as she continued. “I can follow the memories buried in the Seidr.”

  “The Seidr?” he repeated, furrowing his brow. “It has memories?”

  “It lives,” Gudrun whispered. “It remembers.”

  “And with it, you can See,” he asked, doing his best to forget his own ancient memories.

  Gudrun smiled gently.

  “But what would cause a Seer to not See?” he asked.

  Gudrun shook her head.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “It requires a great amount of Seidr and strength to block a Seer’s ability and more so to block only certain visions of the Seidr while keeping other aspects and visions functioning. No one—”

  At once, her eyes fogged over mid-thought as if coming to an understanding. And just as quickly, an empty blankness passed over her face, and the Seidr flame on her fingers was lost, plunging them in the darkness and the moonlit corridor.

  “Gudrun?” Bergen asked. “Gudrun, are you alright?”

  He clutched her arms, giving her a shake. The fog in her eyes cleared and Gudrun gasped.