Heidhveig′s voice was distant, as if she told of a dream:
″I see the dark lake and on it the black swan swimming.
On the shore many fires are burning.
The ancestors are awake and waiting.
What would you know?″
Thorlind chanted:
″The spell is spoken, the Seeress waits—
Is there one here who would ask a question?″
For a long moment Rudi thought nobody would; the tension in the hall was palpable, almost like a taste of something sharp and acrid at the back of the mouth. Eyes gleamed in the shadows about.
Then the godhi stood. He cleared his throat and spoke in a voice that carried through the hall:
″I′ve a dispute with the men of the Hrossings. Both tribes have used the land between the Old West Road and Blood Creek for pasture in the summer and for hunting, but our numbers grow and we need to clear and till land there. Bjorning steadings are closer and the empty land should be ours alone, at least as far as the river. How shall we end this quarrel? Will Godhi Syfrid see reason, or shall we take it to the Althing and the law-speakers? Or must swords be drawn?″
The gydhja spoke:
″Cease not, seeress, till said thou hast,
Answer the asker till all he knows.″
″I see the autumn woods,″ Heidhveig said, her voice distant. ″The stags are fighting. They clash their antlers, tear up the soil, grunting and heaving. The does are watching. Oh . . . there are wolves in the woods. They circle and leap, carry off some of the does . . .″
There was a sharp intake of breath in the Hall, and a moment of silence before the seeress went on. Her voice was less distant now, as if she had come halfway back to the world of men:
″I see now the meaning. You and Syfrid are so busy butting heads you don′t see what′s going on around you.″
The tension broke in laughter; Bjarni flushed but flung up a hand for silence, and the seeress went on:
″Watch out, or the human wolves will destroy what you′re fighting over.″
There was a ripple of comment in the hall; Rudi thought he heard approval.
″Ask for a meeting. You may have to give up something to make peace, but that′s better than losing all. It′s an ill time for good Norrheim men to draw blades on each other. This you know, would you know more?″
″Thank you, seeress,″ Bjarni said drily. ″I think I understand . . .″
The gydhja spoke, her tone formal: ″Well hast thou asked and well been answered. Is there another who has a question?″
A woman stood, young enough that some of the awkwardness of girlhood still clung about her. Rudi would have judged her to be two years short of Edain′s twenty. Loose hair of a dark yellow color like old honey fell past her shoulders, confined by a headband, which probably meant by the custom of these folk that she was unwedded; at least, most of the women older than she wore theirs braided and bound. Her hands knotted in front of her until she forced them still, licked her lips and stood proudly erect, ignoring the eyes upon her and the murmur of surprise. When she spoke her voice was firm and clear, though light:
″Sigurd Jeansson, called the Bold, my betrothed, has been gone since the fall harvest. He went north in viking with the men of Westmanland-thorpe to seek tools and trade goods in the dead cities, so that we might take up land and make our own homestead this spring at snowmelt, and be wed. When will he return to me?″
The gydhja chanted:
″Cease not, seeress, till said thou hast,
Answer the asker till all she knows.″
Heidhveig sighed and bent her head beneath the veil. ″I call the raven to my aid and take her form. Together we wing northward over mountain and forest and lake. I see a mighty river, and on its banks bare-branched trees beneath a sky like steel; ice floats in the water. A great bridge of the old world spans the broad flood, half fallen, and the current foams beneath it. Tall fire-scorched ruins rise on an island to the west. Was it to the Royal Mountain that he was to have gone?″
″Yes.″
″I can see boats on the river, a long canoe heavy with cargo, the Hammer painted on it and eight paddlers within. One is tall and ruddy, with black hair and a war sark of dark leather sewn with steel rings; he has a scar that turns a streak in his beard white. Is this your man?″
The girl nodded, and the seidhkona continued:
″The other boats pursue it. They are many and fierce, some with their faces painted, some with strings of fingerbones about their necks. A man in a red robe with a rayed sun upon his breast leads them.″
Rudi′s breath hissed between his teeth. I know your mark, ill-wreaker! he thought savagely.
The voice of the seeress went on:
″They are shooting arrows—″
The girl gasped and stretched out a hand to the table to support herself. Her fair skin went chalk white, and her eyes very wide.
″Men fall in the canoe that flees; it slows, it cannot escape. It turns and drives towards the boats that pursue. More arrows fly, and then spears and hatchets. The man in the ring-sark takes up a great ax and leaps into the boats of those that harry him, into the midst of many foes. He is laughing as he strikes, he calls on the Allfather to receive him—″
The old woman fell silent again, then went on with a curious gentleness:
″If this is the boat your man was in, I fear he will not return to you. I am sorry. There is no more.″
The girl shook. Her voice choked as she spoke:
″All men are born fey. My Sigurd met his fate unflinching and feasts this Yule with the einherjar in Vallhol—″
The words stumbled into a moan, and her face twisted as she struggled and then gave way to thick tears, and her knees buckled. Two older women caught her, and helped her from the room amid a murmur of sympathy.
The gydhja spoke, her words formal but with concern in her tone: ″How fares the seeress?″
″Well enough to continue. I sense there is need in this room, questions that must be asked and answered. Go on!″
″Is there another who has a question?″
A man rose; he was in his thirties, weather-beaten and thick-bodied. ″I′ve cleared old scrubland for a new field on my steading, land not planted since the Change; I′ve grubbed up and burned the brush and spread the ashes and plowed them under. It lies fallow beneath the snow. Should I seed it with barley when spring comes?″
Rudi suppressed a wry smile. It seemed a little odd, after the last . . .
But it isn′t. That man has put his own sweat into the work, and his family′s well-being depends upon the results.
Thorlinda chanted:
″Cease not, seeress, till said thou hast,
Answer the asker till all he knows.″
The seidhkona spoke in a cooler voice:
″Hmm. I can see a field where a crowd of green-clad folk are dancing, but as they circle, others clad in black attack them and most of them fall. I think this means that if you plant there, a blight will get most of your crop. Would you know more?″
The thickset man swallowed, but answered calmly: ″Is there anything I can do?″
″I am looking at the barley wights . . . I am asking . . . He says to make offerings to the landwights there. Ask their help, sing to them, and they will tell you what the field needs. This you know. For now there is no more.″
″Thank you, seeress.″
Thorlind spoke: ″Well hast thou asked and well been answered. Is there another who has a question?
Others asked, and were answered. Rudi took a long breath when silence fell, then stood. He was uneasily aware of how the attention of all focused on him.
But this is a true seeing. I must know!
″My friends and I are on a . . . quest. Will we reach our goal safely, and find what we are seeking when we get there?″
″Cease not, seeress, till said thou hast,
Answer the asker till all he knows.″
The seidhkona was
silent for a long moment, then sighed. The sound made the back of Rudi′s neck bristle; this was not a rite of his folk, but there was a power here, like a weight greater than the world could bear. As if it would tear through at any moment. And more coming; he could feel it gathering in the air, like the stretched tension before a thunderstorm.
″Ah . . . This is the one for whose question I was waiting, the one whose wyrd is wound with the fate of the world. At the foot of the Tree the Norns are weaving, but your choices are the thread. Need has bound you together, need impels you. Stay true to one another and you will find your island . . . I see an island, and something that shimmers.″
The veiled figure gasped: ″I see a Sword! Shining brightness! Might is locked within it! Is that where you are going? This is very strange . . . Would you know more?″
″Yes, Lady, if you will.″
″Deeper I fare and farther I see . . . A darkness that opposes you there, a troll in the shape of a man. Beware, Son of the Raven! There is a Power behind him, more foul than any Jotun. If you fail, I see the doom of Midgard. You have questioned whether this was the Wolf Age—if this quest fails, Ragnarök will come!″
Her knotted hands clenched, and he could hear her labored breathing: ″Would you know more?!″
″How fares—″ Thorlinda began.
The seidhkona shook her head, a stir through the fabric of the veil.
″No—there is more to be said. This is a war of Powers. The wings of the raven swirl around me . . . oh . . . the Lord of the Ravens is near, near...″
Rudi heard his own heart pound, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was not ill and dreaming in a mountain cave now, and it was a fearful thing to meet that One.
″Does He have a word for me?″ he said steadily.
The seidhkona twitched several times, straightened, and then leaned forward, resting one elbow on the arm of the chair.
A rustling stirred through the room, almost a moan. Rudi stood calmly, his hands by his sides, but he knew why that sound had been wrung from this hardy folk—and felt his hand twitch in turn, as if it reached for the hilt of a blade that was not there and would be no use even if it was. The Bjorning seeress was a woman of eighty years and more, never tall and now a little bent, stocky like an ancient oak stump, her body still obedient to a fierce and driving will but failing nonetheless.
Yet now it was as if a man sat there—a tall man, whose movements were fluid strength, and whose face was hidden by a hood, not a veil. He laughed, and the deep sound made the hair stir on Rudi′s arms, a long low chuckle rolling inhuman in the nighted Hall. Shadows gathered, moving on the walls with the dance of the flames.
″So, Son of the Bear,″ the voice said. ″I see that you remember our last meeting, on the mountainside where you walked the blade-narrow bridge. I have counseled many a chieftain. What would you ask of me?″
Rudi licked his lips and met that gaze. The Old Man was no enemy to him . . . but he was perilous even to his friends.
″If I gain the Sword of the Lady, will I defeat this enemy?″ he asked boldly.
″To gain the Sword will not bring certain victory, but defeat is certain if you fail. Yet victory for your cause may be your own bane, Artos, King to be.″
Ah. When speaking with a God, don′t ask things you already know!
″I understand that choice, lord. I have accepted it. I will do what must be done, and pay the price of it gladly, for my folk′s sake, and for this fair world that the Gods have given humankind to be our cherished home.″
A rustle, and Mathilda stood beside him. Rudi started a little, taken from the diamond focus of his concentration; her fists were clenched at her sides, and her breast heaved, but her voice was controlled and he knew the courage that must have demanded. The more so as her faith held such suspicion of all spirits save their own.
″And does Rudi get nothing? If there is . . . if there must be . . . does he get no mercy, no reward for his courage?″
The hooded face turned towards her, and Rudi thought he heard a tinge of kindness in its stern tone.
For boldness is something this One loves, he thought. And there is no braver heart than my Matti!
″Mercy is not in my gift, Frigga-of-battle,″ the Power that had possessed the Bjorning wisewoman said. ″Neither for myself nor for those who call on me for victory. I can give a little time, but within that time only you can grant this man the reward he desires, the reward the man desires, and not the King. Be brave, be true, and you shall lay his son in his arms!″
″King!″ Rudi heard someone mutter, as Mathilda staggered back and sat, stunned. ″The Wanderer grants the stranger kingship from his own hand!″
The voice of the one on the high seat went on:
″The Bear′s Son is not my man, though one of those who rides with him is—and worthy of me he shall be, and worthy of his warrior sire, when he avenges his father′s death!″
Frederick Thurston bowed; his dark face glowed, as if seeing beyond the walls of Eriksgarth to a path that led upward. Upward across a bridge sparkling with color, beneath gigantic stars, towards roofs thatched with spears of glittering gold where auroras crackled. Beside him Virginia grasped his arm, glaring at the speaker as if she would spring to protect her man even from this, and the voice chuckled again before it continued.
″But though he does not make offering to me, the man called Artos comes of blood that bears much might; the blood of the Juniper Lady in which runs wisdom from beyond the world of men, the blood his father shed willingly to stand between his folk and their foes, dying and yet in death winning the victory that brought them peace. The Son of the Bear shall add to that might, for he is fated to great deeds. If he wins his victory, his shall be a line of Kings that lives long in glory and forever in the tales of men. If he fails, all fail with him; and then comes the doom of Midgard.″
The speaker′s head turned, and the folk in the hall bore it as they could, meeting it or turning their heads aside or covering their eyes.
″All of you! If you would stand with the Gods, then I bid you help him. The sword he seeks is more potent than Tyrfing, forged for the hand of a King!″
Only breath disturbed the stillness. ″So, Son of Bear, Son of Raven, High King of a realm called Montival that is yet to be and may never be—is that what you wanted to know?″
Rudi shook his head. ″The Crow Goddess gives me battle fury, but even the gift of the Dark Mother may not be enough against this foe. Will you, lord, give me battle craft to face him?″
The laugh rumbled again, more gently this time:
″Wise is he who asks for wisdom! That gift, at least, is within my power. Watch for the ravens. They will show you the way.″
Rudi bowed for a moment. ″Thank you, lord. And when my victory is won and I sit on the throne of the Ard Rí in Montival, always shall you and yours have welcome and honor in my lands.″
Thorlind the godwoman spoke; her voice wavered between fright and firmness:
″Allfather, we thank you also, but be kind to the seeress, who loves you. Please let her go now, gently, without harm—″
She rose and stood before the chair as the seidhkona first straightened and then sagged, and caught her as she slumped forward. Love and terror and pride warred in her voice as she spoke:
″Heidhveig, Heidhveig, my teacher, come back to us, please. That′s right—″
The limp form of the old woman stirred, and a hoarse sound came from beneath what was once more a veil. Thorlind′s words grew stronger:
″The vision fades, the voice grows silent. Return now, wise one, where we wait to welcome . . . Can you see the Gate? Raven will lead you towards it. Good, now you′re through—Let′s just get you out of this chair . . . ″
Bjarni Eriksson moved forward to help her. They eased the seeress out of the seidhjallr and into an ordinary chair. Harberga brought a glass of water and held it to Heidhveig′s mouth. The gydhja picked up the drum again struck it, the taut hide thutte
ring:
″Now it is time to return. Arise,
Move swiftly and easily, pass around the wall
From the east to the north, from gate to bridge.
Now it is before you, broad and fair.
Cross and ascend the road
Up and around, past Modhgudh′s tower . . .″
Swiftly the journey was completed. Thorlind and the men who′d come with them helped their mistress down from the dais and away to her bed in the house. A rising babble of voices rang out with an edge of hysteria in them, until Bjarni leaped up to the dais and roared:
″Quiet!″
The redbeard′s chin thrust out as his eyes went back and forth over his folk, cold and blue. When silence fell he put his hands on his sword belt and spoke bitingly:
″We′ve heard the words of the High One, through the holy seidhkona. He spoke of great deeds—of war and maybe even Ragnarök. Whatever happens, we will meet it—meet it like Bjornings, like free men and women of Norrheim, not like chattering magpies or frightened children! All men die; in the end, even the Gods shall die. The seidhkona is old and deserves rest, but she went under death′s shadow to bring us this word. Honor her courage with courage of your own!″
The hall fell quiet again, but there was less tension in it.
″Now go and sleep, and think about what we′ve heard.″
He jumped down and walked to Rudi before he spoke again, quietly:
″And you and I, my friend, will think and then we will talk. There are things I must know, if I am to steer wisely . . . and mine is the hand on the tiller here.″
″And I will tell them gladly, Bjarni,″ Rudi said.
Then he smiled. ″You can see that there′s more than one spoon in this stewpot, and some of them of an exceeding longness!″
Talk they did, and after a night′s sleep they spoke into the next day, when Heidhveig joined them; she looked better than Rudi had expected in body, and less nerve-wracked than many others in Eriksgarth by the fore-seeing.
The Sword of the Lady Page 46
