FORBIDDEN TALENTS

by Frankie Robertson

  Celia felt her cheeks heat despite the chill air.

  Ragni laughed again. “A betrothed woman for these five months, and yet you still blush! My brother is indeed a fortunate man.”

  “Because I blush?”

  Ragni’s lips twisted in a tender smile. “Because what you feel for Dahl burns so bright when you call it to mind, that it shines in your face.”

  Che’veyo called a halt and Ragni went to speak with him. Celia swept snow off a fallen tree and perched on it next to Utta and Tiva’ti while chewing a handful of nuts. The way ahead of them looked like a goat path. Steep and dangerous, its footing appeared treacherous.

  “We’ll have to take off our snow shoes to climb that,” Utta said.

  Celia nodded. “We might even have to put on the cleats.” If Dahleven were here, he’d be able to find a safer path. His Talent was Pathfinding, after all. Rovdir was a Pathfinder, too, but he could only find a path to somewhere. Not a certain kind of path. Apparently the same Talent could vary widely in how it manifested.

  “The weather’s going to change,” Brol announced. He’d been chosen to join them because of his Talent for Weather Watching. “Another storm is coming. A bad one. And it’s moving fast.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WHERE DID YOU go on your little exploration?” Treskin lounged against the wall near the opening to Saeun’s room, arms crossed. No longer disguised as human, he was tall, lean, and lithe.

  “Didn’t the trees tell you?”

  Treskin’s eyebrows lifted, widening his green cat-like eyes. “So they showed themselves to you? I’m impressed. The tree-folk are quite shy— and rather sleepy this time of year.” He shrugged away from the wall with casual grace and lifted the curtain of hanging moss aside for her, following her into her chamber. “I thought you might like to spend time with one of your own. Will you come?”

  “One of my own?”

  “A mortal.”

  “There are other people here?”

  “There are many kinds of people here. Some of them are mortals like you.”

  She’d always been told that the Elves stole people, but Valender had been so kind she’d begun to doubt it. “How many?” she whispered. How many had been taken from those they loved? How many families waited, wondering about their lost ones?

  Treskin frowned. “Not many. The Praefect discourages us from taking in strays. And they’re not here against their will.”

  A “stray.” Is that what I’ve become?

  “Nor does he really begrudge it. It’s just that some of you don’t take well to our company, whether we’ve saved your short lives or no.” His mouth twisted in irony. “So, will you come with me to meet this man?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then don your cloak and your heavy shoes. We’ll be going out.”

  Treskin led her a long way through several passages, then out under the open sky. The heavy gray clouds had disappeared, replaced by a crisp blue. It was glorious after being inside for two days.

  Saeun followed Treskin down what looked to be little more than a deer track. “Grov works in his smithy when the weather is fine, and sometimes when it isn’t.” He held aside the bare branches as she passed.

  “So he labors for you?”

  “Sometimes. Other work he does for his own pleasure. Here we are.”

  They stepped out of the dense brush into a barren area at the base of an upthrust cliff. Great boulders, now capped with snow, formed a ring. From within, Saeun could hear the sharp ringing blows of a blacksmith’s hammer. She put her hands over her ears as they stepped within the circle of stone.

  A gray-haired man stood at a granite anvil, swinging a great iron hammer with the ease of a youth. Grov ignored them and continued his great blows until the metal began to cool, then he thrust it back into the coals that glowed in his forge. Only then did he look up from his work. His eyes widened and a grin split his face as he pulled off his heavy gloves. “Treskin! And who is this you’ve brought me?” Then he bobbed his head in a country bow. “Forgive me my lack of manners, miss. Good day to you.”

  Saeun smiled. This blacksmith seemed just like the carls she’d known on her father’s holding: blunt and plain spoken. “Good day to you, master.”

  “This is Lady Saeun of Quartzholm, Grov. I thought you two might take some pleasure in the company of a fellow mortal.”

  “A Lady? I don’t know that a blacksmith would hold much interest for a Lady. Not much goes on in a smithy that a Lady would want to know.”

  “Is that so?” Treskin asked, looking at her with a steady measuring gaze.

  “Not at all.” Saeun smiled. “What are you working on, master Grov?”

  “I shall return for you after you’ve had time to grow acquainted.” Treskin inclined his head and left.

  “Well, then, miss. Uh, my lady.” The big blacksmith seemed at a loss for what to do with his hands, finally settling on tucking them under his arms.

  “Please call me Saeun. It hardly seems to make sense to stand on rank here.” She smiled. “What are you working on?”

  That brought him back to himself. “It’s a fine leaf blade, or it will be. I need to be shaping the metal before it gets too soft.” He suited action to words.

  Saeun stood with her hands over her ears again as Grov pulled the flattened metal from the forge and hammered at it. When he was satisfied, he thrust it into a bucket of water, sending a cloud of steam skyward.

  “There. It needs more work, but this part is done.” He held up the long dagger of iron by its tang, gripped in a large pair of tongs.

  “It’s iron!” Saeun stated the obvious with surprise.

  “Aye. I don’t understand it myself, but the Praefect asked me a month gone to make a store of these with wood hilts and bronze guards. Iron does hold an edge better than their bronze blades, but I’m thinking that’s not the reason.” As he talked, Grov hung up his tools. “Good,” he said surveying his work area. “I can stop and scrape the pots with you now.” Then he looked mortified. “Not that a Lady such as yourself ever scraped a pot, of course.”

  Saeun grinned at the old country expression. “How long have you been here, Grov?”

  “Two moons, I’m thinking. It seems both longer and shorter than that though.” He furrowed his brow. “Yes. Two moons. Or there-abouts.” He pulled a couple stools up closer to the forge. “Come and take the chill off, my lady.”

  “Please, call me Saeun. So you like it here?” she asked, taking a seat.

  “Aye. The food is even better than my Anna used to cook, bless her, and the singing! It can tear your heart out and put it back new-made.”

  A ghost of Rien’s grief-filled song wafted through Saeun’s heart. “Yes, I’ve heard it, too.”

  “But best of all, I can work again here.” He held up his strong hands. “These were all twisted and hurting when the Elves asked me to come with them. They fixed me right up. Now I can hammer all day if I want.”

  “They asked you?”

  “Aye. Walked right up to me on my porch one eve and said there was a place for me here if I cared to smith again. My Anna was two years gone and our children all grown, so I thought I might have a bit of adventure before I join Baldur.” He must have seen the surprise on her face. “I know all the old stories, but they didn’t steal me away in the twilight.” He looked sharp at her. “Why? Did they not ask you?”

  “Not at first. I was unconscious when Treskin found me.”

  “That young whelp! Elf or no, I’ll take a strap to him!”

  “No! I didn’t say that right. He and Joori and Valender saved my life.”

  “Well, then. That’s all right.” His expression eased. “When?”

  How long had it been? “Three days? Maybe four. I’m not sure.”

  “Aye. Time does that here among the Fey Ones. Don’t let it worry you. It makes nary a difference in the end, anyway.” He pulled out a long stemmed pipe with a carved bowl, then paused, looking at her.

/>   “Please, enjoy your smoke.”

  He relaxed and began the ritual of filling the pipe, tamping the weed, and finally lighting it with a coal from the forge. “How was it Treskin saved your life?” he asked, releasing a puff of sweet smelling smoke.

  She told him about Edelstena’s attack, but her voice thickened when she spoke of Gert’s murder.

  Grov patted her shoulder. “There, miss. You needn’t hide your tears from me. It does you both honor that you cared for her so.”

  Saeun used the edge of her cloak to dab at her eyes and cleared her throat.

  “But how did you come to be where this Dark Elfess could get at you? Why were you not tucked snug in your bed, or”—his eyes twinkled—”in some young lord’s?”

  Saeun smiled at his teasing, as an image of Ragni laughing amidst rumpled bed linens flashed in her mind, then she sobered. How much should she say? She liked Grov. She didn’t want him to see her as an apostate and turn away. A sudden great surge of longing filled her chest. Longing to be accepted as she was, without a shroud of secrets.

  Grov’s manner became formal again as she hesitated. “It’s none of my business, of course, my lady. You’re no doubt wise to keep your own counsel.”

  “Call me Saeun. Please. It’s just that …I’m afraid you…” She took a deep breath. Either say it or don’t. “I was running away. My mother could scry the future, and so can I. My tools were discovered. There were those who had been kind to me, who would be hurt by the scandal of my trial, so I left before the Kon could Exile me and the priests could strip my Talent—not that it would be such a great loss.”

  Grov was silent for a moment, puffing his pipe. “You got yourself some serious trouble, my lady. Fortunately, it won’t make no never mind here amongst the Fey Folk.”

  “Not in the least,” Treskin said behind them from the opening of the stone circle.

  Saeun’s heart jumped. The Elf’s approach had been silent. How long had he been there?

  “Except, perhaps to increase your standing among us,” he continued. “None of the Alfar have been granted the ability to see that which is yet to come.”

  *

  “Lord Finnkir and Lord Pell,” Gris announced and then faded into the corner. Aside from Gris and the armsman at the door, Dahleven and the young lords were alone in the small audience chamber.

  From his father’s chair, Dahleven regarded the men the chamberlain had announced. For a quick moment he wondered if he would always think of the chair so, as his father’s. His rubbed the armrests, worn smooth by Neven’s capable hands. His father had made many of the decisions that had made Quartzholm strong in this very chair. But Neven was not recovering, and for now, the chair and the decisions were Dahl’s.

  Angrim’s brothers stood stiffly before him. They were lesser lords from a small holding on the edges of the Jarldom and their finery showed the wear of several seasons. This was their first visit to their sister since she’d been blinded five months ago. Angrim may have sworn fealty to Dahleven, but her collusion with Jorund had cast a shadow of disgrace on her family. They’d not disputed Dahleven’s right to keep her in Quartzholm, nor had they even suggested she would be better cared for at home. So why are they here now?

  “You asked to speak with me?” Dahleven prompted.

  The younger of the two opened his mouth, then shut it and looked at his brother, giving him precedence.

  “My lord, we’ve come about our sister, Angrim.” Finnkir, the older brother said.

  “So I guessed.”

  “Then you know why we’re here.”

  “No.”

  Finnkir looked nonplused and shifted his bulk from one foot to the other. “But you said you guessed…”

  Dahleven frowned. He would so much rather be with Celia now than enduring a series of tedious interviews.

  Pell shook his head, clearly disgusted with his brother. “We want to know what you’re doing to keep our sister safe.”

  “Why do you believe Angrim is in danger?”

  “News of Quartzholm reaches even the distant borders of the Jarldom, my lord, and tales of murder travel faster than most. We know that skald was killed, and that he and our sister were both connected to that Firestarter, though Angrim won’t say how. She shamed the family, but she’s still our sister. We can’t sit by and let her be murdered, too.”

  “What do you want? To take her home to Finnkill?”

  “No!” Lord Finnkir exclaimed.

  “We’re a small holding as you know well, Lord Dahleven. Everyone works,” Pell explained. “We’ve no one to spare to care for a blind woman. Nor do I think Angrim would be happy there.”

  Pell was smart as well as smooth, and knew his sister well. Dahleven couldn’t imagine Angrim back on the farm, either, sighted or not.

  “We just want to know that you have her well guarded, my lord.”

  “And that we’re watching you,” Finnkir added.

  Pell’s eyes widened. “Finnkir!”

  “Oh?” Dahleven kept his face and his voice bland, though his ire was piqued by the implied accusation.

  “Well, there’s some that say that skald was too much trouble to keep around,” Finnkir muddled on, oblivious to his danger.

  “And?” Dahleven let a hint of steel edge his tone.

  “Well, uh…” Finnkir seemed to be searching vainly for his lost wits. “It’s just that Angrim can be troublesome, and I, we, that is—”

  The fool was one step away from accusing him of plotting Angrim’s murder. Dahleven fought the urge to teach Finnkir what trouble really was.

  “She may not be a source of pride, but Angrim is our sister, whatever she has done,” Pell interrupted. “Whatever befalls her befalls our family, and touches our honor,”

  That, Dahleven could respect. He’d do the same for Kaidlin or Ingirid if the tables were turned, may Baldur forbid. He stood and the two brothers took a step back.

  “Rest assured, your sister is well protected. I have no wish to see her share in Eirik’s fate.” Whatever she may deserve.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Finnkir said cheerfully.

  Pell’s face showed the relief of someone who’d undertaken a dangerous task and knew he’d had a narrow escape. He bowed deeply, then looked Dahleven in the eye. “We shall carry your assurances to our father. Please accept our family’s sincere wishes for Kon Neven’s full recovery.”

  *

  Ragni took Utta’s gloved hand, helping her over a rough spot in the so-called trail. It was a good hand, solid and strong. She might be petite, but her energy never flagged. Celia, their Valkyrie, was having a harder time, but Fender was keeping a sharp eye on her.

  The going was even rougher than he’d expected. The snow almost reached their knees, drifting higher in some places. Fortunately, they’d only had to take off their snow shoes to climb for a short space, but neither Celia nor the Tewakwe were skilled in shoeing, so their progress was slow. Truth be told, he was feeling the effort, too. I’ve spent too much time at my priestly duties and not enough time training.

  Masale, the Tewakwe guard in front with Baruq, called a halt. Everyone welcomed the rest. Ragni felt all their gratitude and frustration without having to delve very deep. They wanted to lie down, or at least sit as much as he did, no doubt, but they couldn’t without either unpacking their ground cloths or getting wet.

  A cutting wind picked up, pushing a bank of heavy clouds before it, obscuring the westering sun. The sky looked low and burdened. Dahl’s words protesting the wisdom of a winter trek kept running through his mind like a bitter litany. But winter or no, they couldn’t ignore the risk of Ragnarok.

  Could the Dark Elves really pull together enough power to force the hands of the gods and shift the balance of the Nine Worlds? Did they have to? Or did they merely need drop a pebble on an unstable slope, bringing an avalanche of destruction? Could one hold back an avalanche? He hoped the Lios Alfar had a plan, because he surely didn’t.

  Ragni shook his
head as his lips twisted in an ironic grin. Hadn’t he told Celia not to worry? Apparently he was better at giving good advice than taking it.

  “What’s so funny?” Utta panted, her breath puffing like smoke. “I could use a laugh.”

  He would not burden her with his concerns. “I was just remembering a joke. A Nuvinlander, a Tewa, and an Elf go into a tavern—” He broke off as Utta whapped him with her mittened hand.

  “I’ve heard that one, and it’s not fit for mixed company.” She grinned back at him, her eyes twinkling.

  “I can see I’ll have to watch my step with you.” He rubbed his arm dramatically.

  “Don’t you forget it. I had an older brother. I know how to keep a man in line.”

  Ragni sobered. “I remember your brother. He was a good man.”

  Utta’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “He was. He was funny, too. And he’d never approve of anyone moping over him. I even felt guilty at first for mourning him—until I imagined the ribbing he would have given me over it.”

  Ragni laughed. The memories she had of her brother Magnusson made her heart light. It was a pleasure to share those feelings.

  “So then I went ahead and felt sad for as long as I needed to.”

  His confusion must have shown in his face.

  “I never did what he told me to do when he was alive, so why should I start after he died?”

  Ragni grinned. “You’ll fit in well with my sisters. They don’t listen to Dahl and me, either.”

  “You don’t expect, nay, demand, that your wife obey you in all things?” she asked, half teasing.

  Ragni’s short bark of laughter puffed out in a misty cloud. “Can you imagine anyone demanding anything of my mother? Even the Kon? No. I hope my lady wife will choose to find common ground with me on matters of importance. Any man who expects more than that will be sadly disappointed, I fear.”

  Utta smiled, and he enjoyed the flash of her surprise, followed by relief and amusement.

  Their brief rest ended. Brol took over as lead, followed by Tiva’ti and Masale. The track opened up a little, and he and Utta were able to walk side by side. They shoed along in relative silence for a time, saving their breath. Behind them Utta’s guard, Rovdir, crunched over the snow. Celia and Fender trudged several steps behind. Ragni glanced sideways at Utta. She was bearing up quite well under the hardships of the trail, but that could just be what she wanted others to see. He respected her for not wanting special treatment, but if she needed consideration, he wanted to know. Ragni reached out with his Talent.