He felt himself blush. “Marta—”
“Please do not make me beg. At least permit me that shred of dignity.” Looking him boldly in the eye, she took his hand and held it to her breast. “Please. On the road, there will be time, opportunity. Promise me you won’t waste it.”
His mouth felt dry. “Of course,” he said, his voice more croak than whisper.
And then she was in his arms, her mouth wet and warm on his. Her tongue tasted of orange and mint.
Arnie was waiting up when Ian staggered in.
Ian was still impressed; their “room” had turned out to be a suite at the northwest corner of the top floor of the residence tower; apparently, somebody who might be this Promised Warrior got first-class lodging for himself, his companion, and his manservant.
The sleeping rooms off the sitting room were small and plain, each with barely enough space for a bed, a porcelain thundermug, and a nightstand that looked more like a coffee table to Ian—and was at just the right height for barking his shins on; but the sitting room was easily thirty feet by fifteen, and despite the two loveseats, the scattering of low tables, and what looked for all the world like a newly recovered overstuffed armchair, just like the one in Arnie’s living room in Hardwood, there would have been enough room to ride a bicycle around the softly carpeted floor, as long as you rode carefully.
Riding carefully would have been a good idea, in any case. If you didn’t run the bike into the fireplace, you could end up going through the French doors—whatever they called them here—that opened on a balcony outside.
That didn’t make a lot of sense, though—would whoever designed this place want to leave it so vulnerable to entry?
Well, you couldn’t figure out everything, and asking about the castle’s defenses might not be the dumbest thing a visitor could do, but it would have to be pretty high on the list.
Arnie looked up from his sewing. Sewing?
The question must have shown in Ian’s face, because Arnie nodded. “Yes, sewing,” he said. “I lost a button off my shirt somehow or other—but I just snipped off the neck button and moved it down. I also ripped the hem of my pants on the road this morning, and rather than stomping all over it, I figured to repair it a little.” He bit off the end of the thread. “Particularly since the Thorsens were kind enough to put good solid curtain thread—at least, that’s what Ephie used to call it—in the sewing kits.”
“I’m sure you could have gotten somebody to do it for you,” Ian said.
The old man chuckled, and shook his head. “Well, I could have, but it seemed to me to be a better idea to go down to the kitchen and beg a needle and thread.” He picked up a small wooden box from the table, opened it to reveal a half dozen balls of thread and a red velvet pincushion stuck with so many needles that it looked like a porcupine.
“But…” Ian raised his hands in mock surrender as Arnie shut the box with a decided snap. “I don’t get it. You have needles and thread, so you went and asked for some that you’re not going to use.”
Arnie’s grin must have hurt his face. “Well, I’d rather use this stuff from home, sure,” he said. “The thread’s solid, and it’s reliable, and the needle’s sharp. But if I didn’t go down the back stairs and wander about looking for somebody on staff to help me, I wouldn’t have spent a couple hours in the kitchen, watching Cook boning a couple of geese for tomorrow’s dinner, and wouldn’t have had a chance to chat with her about what’s going on with the noble-folk.” He nodded. “It was kind of nice, really,” he said. “I used to finish up the day’s paperwork at the table in the kitchen while Ephie made supper.” His face grew somber. It didn’t take a mindreader to figure out that Arnie had just reminded himself of how much he missed his wife.
Ian didn’t know what to say. “Everybody seems to be a step or three ahead of me today.”
He looked over at the door to Ivar del Hival’s room at the far end of the sitting room.
“No, he’s not back yet. Probably found one of the castle’s ladies to entertain him,” Arnie said. His face wrinkled into a frown. “Ivar seems to find himself comfortable no matter where he is.” He set his work aside, rose, and stretched. But it wasn’t the motion of an old man, working his body to feel for what made the pain of joints and muscles less intrusive; it was just a stretch.
Ian had read once about the close correlation of retirement to death. Perhaps it was burned into the genes: when you stopped working, when you stopped providing for the next generation, maybe the biological clock started to unwind.
Well, if that was it, Arnie was at least anecdotal evidence that the reverse seemed to work. His face was no less lined than it had been, and his hair hadn’t lost any of its gray, but he seemed younger, somehow.
Arnie knelt over by the fireplace, and poked at the burning logs with a trident-shaped poker for a moment, then added another log. Sparks flew, some escaping to die on the half-circle of polished stone that lay in front of fireplace. “About time to turn in, isn’t it?”
Ian smiled. “I haven’t needed anybody to set my bedtime for a few years now.” But Arnie was right. He should go to bed.
Arnie shrugged. If Ian didn’t want to go to bed, he wasn’t going to nag him. “Fine. So? You have an interesting dinner?”
Ian thought about discussing Marta and her proposal with Arnie, but it was just too strange, too unlikely. It would sound like he was bragging, or something. Well, it would be bragging, come to think of it.
“It was fun.”
Arnie chuckled. “Well? You engaged yet?”
Ian must have let his surprise show on his face, because Arnie laughed. “Amazing what you can learn from a talkative cook if you know when to nod and say ‘tell me more.’ ”
Ian had been surprised enough for one day. “I’m going to bed.”
“Not quite yet,” Arnie said. He held up a familiar-looking square plastic packet, then tossed it to Ian, like a tiny Frisbee. “You keep a couple of these with you from now on, and that means on your person, not in your rucksack,” he said, smiling at Ian’s embarrassment. “Hey, really; it’s okay, Ian, honest.” The smile dropped away, to be replaced by a very professional-looking expression of almost judicial disinterest. “Really. You work in a pharmacy for a decade or three, you learn real quick what a young fellow having trouble asking for condoms looks like, and you eventually even learn what a young fellow who ought to be asking for condoms but doesn’t quite have the presence of mind looks like.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Arnie said, the professional demeanor gone, the easy smile back in place. “She’s real pretty, and you’re a guy, and it’ll happen when she wants it to. So remember the Boy Scout motto, and be prepared.”
The room was cold, but the warming-plate Arnie had—with both a heavy pair of tongs and a friendly snide comment about the duties of a manservant—taken out of the fireplace and then slipped into its soft cover would keep him warm.
By the flickering light of a gently hissing candle, Ian stripped to the buff and stretched out on the bed, pulling the thick comforter over himself.
He blew out the candle, and tried to sleep.
Maybe it all made sense. A long time ago, one of the Old Ones—some said it was Tyr, some Niord, some that it was Odin himself—had promised to send the Vandestish a warrior to lead them in conquest in all directions, starring with the Cities of the Dominion.
They had been waiting, not exactly patiently, ever since.
It couldn’t be just any warrior, of course; it would be somebody special, somebody who proved himself by acts beyond what one could expect from an ordinary mortal.
Like, say, easily defeating a talented Vandestish swordsman without working up a sweat.
Like, say, killing a fire giant.
Like, say, carrying a god’s weapon without it turning on him.
All of it was phony, of course; a skilled foil fencer should be able to defeat somebody like Burs, who was basically an epée player, nine t
imes out of ten—at foil. And while Ian had killed the fire giant, that had mainly been a matter of luck, not skill. And as to him carrying Gungnir, the blister on his arm proved that it was safe only as long as he was wearing Freya’s gloves.
Ian Silverstein was no Promised Warrior. He wasn’t the useless loser that his father had always said he would be, but he wasn’t a legendary hero, either.
But he was still a killer of a fire giant. And he still carried Gungnir, at least for a while. That made a difference here.
And if he wasn’t schooled in the sometimes Byzantine politics of the Table and the Seat, that wouldn’t bother a margravine who had been raised to handle not just money, the way she would have in the Middle Dominions, but politics as well. Shit, for her, it might be better if he was the brave and stupid type. All he would need to do would be to live long enough to impregnate her with a girl for an heir, and if after that he managed to get himself killed in some battle, well, Marta could rule the Hinterlands as margravess, so long as she had an heir.
And even if he didn’t marry her, a child by a hero would bring a certain cachet to her house. The concept of bastardy didn’t really apply in Vandescard; while men exercised the power—or, perhaps, thought they did—inheritance was through the women. The first daughter of the margravess was the margravine, and it didn’t matter who the father was.
And shit, men would quite literally fight for the chance to raise a child of somebody who might have been the Promised Warrior, particularly since marrying a margravine would make one a margrave.
Ian shook his head and sighed. It would be nice to be valued for something real, instead of for having been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and being lucky enough to survive it.
But… no. Let the day be over; he needed his sleep.
They’d leave for the Seat in the morning, and Ian had no doubt that Marta would come with them.
His last thought, as sleep overtook him, was that it looked likely to be one hell of a second date.
Chapter Thirteen
Harbard’s Landing
There is always something sweet about the smell of country air after a storm, Torrie thought. Maybe it was the ozone in the air, or maybe there was something in the trees that needed moisture to release it, but that smell was always unique, yet always the same.
Or maybe it was heading out into a sunny morning, having come through a storm safe and dry. Hell, dry socks were as much a trophy as a deerskin could be—they announced, albeit modestly, that you knew how to take care of yourself when the weather got wicked.
The stones that made up the trail had been washed clean by the rain; as long as they could keep to the trail, they wouldn’t have to worry about just how much water the ground had soaked up.
And, once again, Torrie could make out the wood-chopper, ahead.
Dad didn’t look quite so old and tired this morning; a good night’s sleep had recharged him, and by the time Torrie had walked far enough to stretch himself out and get into a decent hiking pace. Dad had done the same; there was a positive spring in his step.
Maggie’s hair was pulled back, tightly, the way she always wore it when she hadn’t had a chance to wash it the night before. She looked kind of overly serious that way, and Torrie’s fingers itched to loosen her ponytail.
But not in front of his father.
The chopping sound continued, as it had the day before. Harbard, apparently, was laying in enough firewood for the next century or something.
Overhead, a black bird circled.
Maggie caught him looking at it.
“You think that’s one of those ravens?” she asked. “Or maybe a crow?”
“Well, if it’s a crow, you won’t make any enemies by bringing it down.” The rule that Torrie had been taught was that you were allowed to shoot a crow only when it was either damaging crops or about to damage crops. Honisted’s Rule was that a crow who wasn’t damaging crops was always about to damage crops. Old John Honisted used to claim that it was a matter of law, and always kept a .22 in a saddle-holster next to him on the front seat of his cop car, but Torrie never quite bought that.
But still, no farmer anywhere would complain about a traveler shooting a crow, a rat, a woodchuck, a deer, or any other crop-destroying pest. And if it happened to be Hugin or Munin, Torrie very much doubted that an ordinary arrow could bring it down, even if Maggie could reach it, which he doubted almost as much.
On the other hand …
Well, it really didn’t matter if there was another hand, because Maggie had quickly unstrung her bow, nocked a broadheaded arrow, drawn back the bowstring until the arrowhead almost touched the bow’s grip, and loosed the arrow without even a hint of a plucking sound.
For a moment the arrow seemed to accelerate as it rose into the blue sky, but the target bird spread its wings wide, putting itself into a steep bank that became a tight circle, and as the arrow paused at the height of its climb, the bird snatched it out of the sky, then folded its wings and dropped into a long stoop that ended with a vigorous beating of wings as the bird landed on the road a few yards in front of Maggie.
It was raven, not a crow. Crows don’t grow to be the size of a German Shepherd.
The raven dropped the arrow to the ground and stared up at them with beady, unblinking eyes. It was a huge bird, its feathers an inky, glossy black. And it was not at all pretty.
“This is yours, I believe,” the bird said. “Although I hesitate to mention that I’m not thrilled by being shot at, which was clearly your intention.”
“I thought you were a crow,” Maggie said.
“I am Hugin, a raven, at your service.” The bird ducked its head in what could have been a nod of agreement with itself, or a bow. “Although both Thought and Memory have been known to make mortals nervous.” It ruffled its feathers, and twisted its neck until it could reach a spot just under the wing with its beak. “Thorian del Thorian,” it said, turning to Dad, and then to Torrie, “and Thorian del Thorian, again, I greet you. I’d suggest we hurry, for I believe I know someone who is eager to meet you.”
Hugin leaped into the air, his broad wings flapping maniacally, and with a harsh cry of “Follow me…” flapped off toward Harbard’s Landing.
The chopping sound stopped as they walked around the cottage.
For a moment, Torrie almost didn’t recognize the man who stood there, wearing only hiking boots and blousy drawstring pants, his dark torso slick with sweat, glistening in the sun. He looked sort of like a pale, skinny John Henry—
It was! “Uncle Hosea!” Torrie said, rushing up and hugging him. “You’re okay.”
Uncle Hosea’s hug was stronger, firmer than Torrie could remember it being. It made him feel like he was six again. “Yes, Thorian, I’m quite well.” He stepped back and held Torrie at arm’s length, looking him up and down. “And it appears you’re doing well, also. Am I wrong or have you actually gotten taller over the past few months?”
“I doubt that,” Torrie said with a smile. “Maybe you’ve shrunk a little.”
“That would seem unlikely,” Hosea said. “All things considered.”
Maggie took a step forward and clasped hands with him. “it’s so good to see you again, Hosea,” she said.
“That it is.” Dad nodded. “There was some concern, old friend. But it seems as though the air and soil of Tir Na Nog have treated you gently.”
Hosea’s smile wasn’t quite as wide as Torrie was used to, but it still warmed him inside. “That they have, Thorian. I’ve missed that.” He set the sledgehammer down on the chopping-stump and mopped at his sweaty chest with a soiled rag. “Come inside; I have a pot of soup simmering, and some of yesterday’s bread to mop it up with.”
Dad’s forehead wrinkled. “Is… he about?” “No.” Hosea shook his head. “He is off somewhere, for at least a few days, I’m sure. Come; we have much to discuss.”
They ate dinner in the flickering light of the fireplace. It would have been possible to light any of t
he lamps, but Dad had argued against it; best not to use up what appeared to be Harbard’s small supply of lamp oil.
It was good to spend a night out of the cold, and with plenty of hot food to fill the belly and warm him in ways more than physical. That was one of the funny things about camping out, whether it was in Vandescard or over in Minnesota in the BWCA—when you finally got to eat a hot meal with a solid roof over your head, it somehow felt as good as it tasted.
Torrie used his last piece of bread to mop up the last of what Hosea had called soup but what he would have called a thick stew. There had been plenty of it, and it was rich with chunks of meat, hunks of onion, and slices of slippery tree ear, but it wasn’t up to Hosea’s usual standards. It was kind of bland before Torrie had added some of the peppers—white, red, and black—from the spicer in his kit.
Then again, Torrie figured that Hosea deserved to be cut some slack. Even though he looked good, he had been through a lot, and was working in a kitchen that not only was primitive, but was somebody else’s.
Maggie toyed with the spicer before opening one compartment—Torrie couldn’t see which, but he would have guessed the cayenne—and sprinkling some powder over the last of her soup.
Dad had long since finished. He seemed to have three modes for eating. On Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or Midsummer, when the Thorsen house was usually filled with guests for a celebratory meal, he would take hours at the table, pacing himself so that he would always have room for the next course, no matter how many there were, enjoying each dish slowly, carefully, decidedly, whether it was something as simple as boiled potatoes or as complicated as that boned-turkey-stuffed-with-a-boned-duck-stuffed-with-a-boned chicken thing that made Ingrid Orjasaeter, who had found it in some Cajun cookbook, Hardwood’s favorite invitee for a potluck supper.
For family suppers, he would only nibble at appetizers, and later at dessert, filling up with neither haste nor leisure on the main course and whatever green vegetable was put in front of him, as though he was eating for two patient people. Which, since he tended to expend enough energy for three, left him in awfully good shape for a man of his many years—Dad would be fifty pretty soon, hard as that was to believe.
The Silver Stone Page 16
