Neven rose and welcomed his guests. He surprised Celia by not using his Talent for Presence. Normally he drew everyone’s attention to himself for his opening remarks. Celia looked at him more closely. His face looked drawn, especially around the eyes. The negotiations with the Tewakwe must not be going well.
Neven thanked their unseen hosts as tradition demanded. Given the trouble the Elves were causing, Celia wondered how genuine the sentiments were.
The servants brought in large trays piled high with venison, baked fruit, and roasted fowl. Celia served Dahleven and then herself. Preoccupied by Ragni and his loss, she wondered whether Wirmund had seen through Ragni’s attempt at disinterest. Of course he saw. He’s an old hand at these games.
Celia watched as Utta turned to listen to something Aenid said. A slight smile slipped onto her features and she nodded, but Celia couldn’t hear what was said.
“What could Ragni be thinking, slighting Utta like this?” Dahleven growled. “Father is going to hang him by his toes for this—if Magnus doesn’t do it first.”
Celia winced at Dahleven’s question. “About that—”
He pierced her with a shrewd glance. “What is it?”
She didn’t want to talk about Saeun here, but he had to know. “Wirmund trapped me into it. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to get out of it.”
Dahleven leaned close to Celia’s ear. Those watching would see it as affectionate nuzzling. She was glad she didn’t have to meet his eyes.
He spoke softly. “What? What did you do for Wirmund?” A spare second later he pulled back a little and answered his own question. “Freyr and Freya.” He closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again. “You Found her.”
Celia shook her head against Dahleven’s neck. “No.”
“What, troubles you then?”
She nuzzled him back. “I couldn’t Find her,” she said softly. “She must be dead. And that bastard Wirmund couldn’t wait to tell Ragni. That’s why he’s not here.”
“Baldur’s Balls,” Dahleven whispered through tight lips.
“Yeah.”
They pulled back from each other. Celia forced herself to take a bite of roast venison, though the food had lost all flavor. She wondered if Dahleven felt the same guilty relief she did. Saeun could no longer implicate Dahleven in the use of her magic. Celia would never have wished Saeun’s death, but it did make things less complicated.
Ragni slipped in just as the servants were beginning to make the rounds to offer second helpings. From her vantage point on the dais, Celia watched a ripple of attention and comment go around the room. A servant bearing a tray heavy with roasted woodcocks stopped before Utta. Her posture remained rigid as she served Ragni.
As the meal progressed, the few smiles Utta offered Ragni didn’t reach her eyes, and her posture never softened.
“He’s not having much success with her, is he?” Dahleven observed. Fruited pastries, artfully sculpted to resemble hawks and bears, fish and mountain cats, were brought in.
“He’s not at his best—and he can’t exactly tell her why he was late, can he?” Celia asked.
Dahleven grunted agreement. “Let’s hope whatever excuse he’s offered doesn’t contradict the one you gave her.”
“Oh, no! I hadn’t thought of that!”
Dahleven put his hand over hers and smiled. “Quietly, my dear.”
More softly Celia added. “But I like Utta. I don’t want her to think she can’t trust me. I thought we might be friends.”
Dahleven gave her an odd, measuring look. “Be careful where you bestow your friendship, Celia. It’s a rare thing for it to be returned in the same condition in which it’s given.”
“Do you know something about Utta?”
Dahleven shook his head. “No. But she’s a fine woman, by all accounts. She is, however, the daughter of a powerful man and accustomed to the ways of power. As you are not. Yet.”
Celia stared for a moment at Dahleven, then looked down at her plate. She’d taken much of Gudrun’s talk of caution rather lightly, even as she’d learned the techniques Dahleven’s mother had taught for keeping her thoughts and feelings from showing on her face. In her happy delirium of new love, she’d forgotten certain painful lessons Neven had taught her about being used. Wirmund had always been a bastard, and she expected him to use people, but now Dahleven was reminding her that the world she moved in was a dangerous one. How could she have forgotten? She couldn’t assume she was safe even in the bosom of her new family. People close to the seat of power often used others for their own agendas, pretending friendship to further their ends.
Sangor, the skald, came forward, made his introductory remarks, and began a traditional Nuvinland tale of valiant men and heroic deeds. Celia didn’t hear much of it.
She’d encountered people occasionally who wanted to take advantage of her position, but she’d mostly ignored them. She knew some of the women who’d attended her classes in CPR and self-defense had only done so to make the acquaintance of Neven’s future daughter-by-marriage, the betrothed of the future Jarl of Quartzholm. She hadn’t cared; she’d taught them anyway. But now the reality of it all came into sharp focus. This was power politics and it was played for keeps. The danger was real, and Saeun had died because of it.
*
Saeun sat on a raft of pillows at the far end of a long low table. Overhead, branches twined together so tightly they created a solid roof. All around her women and men as beautiful and handsome as any she’d ever seen were dressed in vivid clothing of the finest weaving, embroidered with borders of flowers, leaves, and vines. Gems of every color accented the embroidery, twinkling in the cool light from the glowing stones resting on golden pillars spaced down the table. Though the Elves had given her a garment as blue as midnight to wear, decorated with jewels like stars, Saeun still felt bedraggled by comparison.
She shook her head as a gofle, a short little creature with large drooping ears, proffered a silver tray of roasted peacock. The skin was beautifully browned and crispy looking, and the tail had been fanned out so broadly that the small servant had to peer through the feathers to see where he—or was it a she?—was going. The enticing aroma made Saeun’s mouth water and she swallowed stiffly as she refused, shaking her head.
“That’s the fifth dish you’ve refused,” Treskin said from her right. He was even more handsome now that he’d changed from his leathers into black silk and gold. “You might as well have stayed outside the gates and frozen; it would have been quicker than starving, at least.”
Saeun didn’t respond. She couldn’t eat the food. She didn’t think they’d bespelled her yet, but if she ate their food, she would surely be lost. Fey-marked.
“Is the food not to your liking?” The silver-haired man at the other end of the table asked. The hum of conversation ceased. Everyone at the table stopped eating and looked at her.
Saeun looked up to meet eyes as chillingly blue as a mountain lake. When Treskin had introduced her to the Praefect of this Elven Enclave, Lord Kaeron had been cooly courteous and had invited her to dine. He was beardless as all the men here were, but his strong square jaw needed no long beard to emphasize his authority and power. She looked away before she could drown in those cold eyes.
“I—” Her voice squeaked and she cleared her throat. “It all looks delicious. The fault is with my appetite.”
“Then we have not sufficiently tempted your palate.” The Praefect gestured and another gofle came to her side, offering a crystal tray piled with sugared fruit. His four fingered hands trembled, making the small feathers that grew out around his nails quiver.
Valender, seated on her left, took a bunch of frosted grapes and lay them before her on her plate. “You must eat,” he murmured. “You have accepted the hospitality of a Praefect of the Lios Alfar. To refuse is to give insult. Surely that is not what you intend?”
Saeun stared down at the plate in front of her and shook her head. The dish before her was of a porcelain so
fine and delicate she could see the marquetry in the table through it. And where did the Elves find grapes in the midst of winter? Grown with Fey magic, no doubt.
What had she expected? That she could somehow live on air if only she didn’t freeze? Her stomach growled urgently. She wished Joori were here, with his open face and warm brown eyes, but apparently he wasn’t of high enough rank to be included at the table of the Praefect of this Elven outpost. It was a foolish wish. He was as much an Elf as any of the others.
“Eat,” Valender urged. “It will not harm you.”
Treskin was right. If she had remained outside the gates she wouldn’t be wrestling with this choice. A choice she really had already made.
Saeun snapped a plump purple grape from its stem and slid it into her mouth.
*
Celia sipped her wine, hoping it would dull her anxiety.
Sangor had completed his entertainment some time ago. Neven, the other Jarls, and the Tewakwe leaders had retired, leaving the younger Nuvinland lordlings and Tewakwe warriors to entertain themselves in the traditional manner: with drink, song, and attempts to impress each other with their stupidity. The current competition consisted of the men jumping over the fire-pit while their fellows placed bets on their success.
Flames danced above the logs and Celia gasped as a young lord failed to make his jump, slipping and falling backward into the fire. A scant second later he leaped up, scrambling at the edge. The crowd hooted as his friends hauled him out, slapping vigorously at the scorched spots on his trousers.
Movement drew her gaze away for a moment. One of Neven’s elite huscarls was threading his way through the crowd. Liveried in green with Neven’s swooping hawk embroidered on his shoulder, the guard paused, waiting.
It was Dahleven’s turn.
Celia gulped her wine.
Men and women, even Dahleven’s sisters, shouted encouragement, no one betting against him. Celia gripped the arms of her chair. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why did men do this?
Dahleven backed away from the fire-pit. He took three giant running steps, jumped and somersaulted cleanly over the fire. A huge shout rose from the gathered men. Celia whooped, surprising herself, as impressed as the others at his feat. He bowed and accepted a horn of what was probably the stiff honey mead.
Celia shook her head. Why couldn’t they just play touch football or darts, like normal men? No, not darts. They’d probably use an apple on someone’s head as a target.
The huscarl approached and spoke closely into Dahleven’s ear. He bent his head to listen, then stiffened.
Celia’s attention sharpened. What’s up?
Her betrothed looked carefully at the messenger, who nodded. Dahleven spoke closely to Ragni, then headed for a side door.
Not this time. Celia excused herself and headed for the arch behind the dais. Dahl wasn’t going to “protect” her from what was going on again. This time she was going to share the problem, whatever it was. Once outside the banquet room, she hurried to catch Dahleven.
It took him longer to make his way through the congratulatory crowd. She was waiting for him when he exited the Hall.
Dahleven stopped short, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Nice jump.”
Dahleven grinned, obviously glad she’d noticed. Then he sobered. “I can’t linger,” he said, already starting down the passageway.
Celia kept pace beside him. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Dahleven paused, looking down at her.
Celia waited, impatient, silent, and ready to argue if he tried to shut her out. She didn’t have to.
“Eirik is dead. Poisoned.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAEUN LAY AWAKE in the room given to her, staring at the ceiling—if one could call it a ceiling. Living branches arched overhead, fused in an intricately twisted pattern as if designed by a mad lace-maker, layered so thickly that she couldn’t see the sky.
She closed her eyes. So much had happened in the last two days, turning her life into something she no longer recognized. She tried to think clearly, hoping to force some order on her thoughts. But was there any chance of that, now that she’d eaten their food? Could she even know if her mind was still her own?
The grape she’d eaten under Treskin’s demanding gaze had flooded her mouth with a cascade of moist, tangy sweetness more intense than any flavor she’d ever experienced. The expression of delight it had surprised out of her must have pleased the Praefect, because he’d smiled and returned to his nearly silent conversation with the woman on his left. She’d waited then for her thinking to slow to a stop, to grow disordered and confused, but nothing changed. All that happened was her stomach rumbled, demanding another bite. Valender gestured for a gofle, carrying a tray laden with bread and various cheeses, to approach. The blended aromas of sharp and mellow had assaulted her, making her belly growl even louder. She’d stopped trying to resist and accepted a serving. Those flavors too, were more …vivid …than any she’d tasted before. The sharp tastes burst with intensity, and those that should be delicate floated across her tongue.
Everything in the Elven outpost was strange and somehow more, even the bed she lay upon. It was more like a nest than a bed. Soft, plump pillows filled a large shallow bowl formed within the gnarled roots of a tree, surrounding her with comfort.
Saeun covered her eyes with an arm thrown across her face. Was her Fey-marked thinking so disordered now that she only imagined these strange surroundings? Her heart pounded. How would she know? Was she even now sitting in a corner somewhere drooling, living in a twilight world that existed only in her mind? She’d once seen a man who’d escaped the Elves. Or had they released him when he was of no further use? A man in his prime reduced to a shadow, hiding in corners, refusing food, slowly starving to death.
And yet …Despite all she knew, she couldn’t believe that Valender meant her any harm, and certainly not Joori. Not even Treskin, who had no patience for her. If she could trust her judgment. If.
She wouldn’t give up. Valender had said she could go at any time. Tomorrow she would test that promise. If the storm abated. There was an enclave of the Daughters of Freya in the northern mountains of Forsvaremur, which Lady Solveig quietly supported. She would go there. Maybe they wouldn’t care that she’d been Fey-marked.
Saeun uncovered her face and blinked away tears, staring up at the ceiling again. A pair of large yellow eyes blinked back at her.
*
“Poisoned! How? By whom?”
Dahleven was pleased that Celia kept her voice low, despite her obvious surprise. Her feelings matched his own, but he didn’t want to draw the attention of the other people coming and going from the Great Hall. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’m going there now.” He hesitated. “Do you want to come along?”
In answer, she turned and started down the hall, setting a brisk pace. “You bet.”
Halfway there Celia spoke again. “Dahl?” Her voice was unusually tentative.
He slowed and looked carefully into her face, alerted by her tone that he might not like what she was about to say. She was chewing her lower lip. He waited, but she didn’t continue. “What is it?”
“Your father never trusted Eirik’s oath to you, did he?”
Dahleven understood what she was really asking.
Neven had eyes and ears throughout Quartzholm. If he’d learned that Angrim had hinted at extortion, could he have had the former skald killed as a warning to her? Especially if the traitors were regaining their sight. Neven would assume they conspired together, just as they had both once conspired with Jorund, and would see Eirik, a man, as more dangerous than Angrim. Eirik’s death would eliminate one problem and perhaps quell another. Two tangled in one net.
It wasn’t a net of law, though. Neven had worked most of his life as Jarl and Kon to establish Law rather than lordly whim as the rule of the land. The thought that his father might throw over his ideals to protect his heir sat like a stone in Da
hleven’s belly. Except it wouldn’t have been for him. That was a small relief. Neven didn’t know he was Fey-marked. If the Kon had ordered Eirik’s death, it would have been to preserve the secret location of the Crystal Cavern, to preserve the peace and stability of Nuvinland itself.
“Do you think he …?” Celia ventured.
“No.” Dahleven shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. I won’t know, until I’ve asked some questions.”
She nodded. “You’re right, of course.”
He snorted, amused despite his worry. “I’m right? Summon Sangor. The skald should immortalize this moment.”
Celia looked up sharply, her eyes flashing, drawing breath for a retort.
He grinned, enjoying the predictability of her reaction.
Her expression shifted from anger to mild disgust. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Men.”
Dahleven reached out a hand to her shoulder and pulled her closer. She slipped an arm around his waist and they walked in companionable silence for several minutes. It felt right and good. This was how it should be: facing all together.
At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the level of Eirik’s room, a guard waited. Dahleven stopped and turned to Celia, pulling a little apart to look down into her face. He wanted them to face all life’s troubles together, but they both didn’t have to see every ugliness. “You’ve told me about your work in Midgard. I know you’ve helped others to deal with poisoning, but it can be an ugly thing to see. Perhaps you should remain here.”
Celia gave him a thin, tight-lipped smile. “I can handle it.”
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