FORBIDDEN TALENTS

by Frankie Robertson

  Baruq led them to a small clearing, not far from the water. “You can rest here. I’ll be back.”

  Ragni intercepted the small creature just as he entered the tree line. “Remember, Baruq. You gave your oath.”

  “I know it well, mortal. I do not need you to remind me of my honor.”

  Ragni nodded, feeling a twinge of embarrassment for his doubt. He didn’t think Baruq had deliberately set them up to be attacked in the cave, and he probably wasn’t abandoning them now. But he didn’t apologize.

  Masale built a fire and they all had hot chaco to drink. Ragni stepped aside to speak with Rovdir and Fender.

  “That Masale is a warrior, true,” Rovdir said. “And Che’veyo. Did you see him swing that battle club back in the cave? He can fight by my side anytime, and patch me up afterward.” He gestured slightly with his bandaged arm.

  Fender nodded. “But I’d rather not go into battle again with the women at hand.”

  “Aye. Too distracting,” Rovdir said.

  Ragni glanced behind at the three women, then turned back. “How are they holding up? Utta’s good, but the other two?”

  Fender looked down at his feet. Ragni felt his reluctance to speak.

  “Fender?”

  “Tiva’ti is drylands born and bred. She isn’t used to this cold. She’s suffering, but she’s holding up. Lady Celia…”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve trained her. She’s tough and determined, my lord.”

  “But she’s not doing well.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “What’s to be done about it? She’s slowing us all.” Rovdir said.

  Ragni looked at both men. He was used to having others defer to him. He was the son of the Kon, and the Overprest’s Second. The responsibility was his. Gods. This is why I don’t want to be Jarl. If we live through this, Dahleven had better hurry up and get Celia with child and secure the line.

  He might have the rank, but he hadn’t led men in the field before, as both of these men had. He valued their opinions and wanted them to know it.

  “What do you suggest?”

  Rovdir clamped his mouth shut and looked away.

  “There is nothing to do, except let her rest when we can,” Fender said into Rovdir’s silence. “We’re here. There are no settlements near enough to leave her, and even if there were, the Tewakwe think her destined to be on this trip. For all we know, they’re right.”

  Ragni nodded. “I agree. Help her as much as you can.” Then he checked on Utta. Magnus may have assigned Rovdir to guard her, but she was his betrothed.

  “How are you?” he asked as he leaned against a tree next to her. She was perched on the edge of a boulder and he bent to see her face.

  She was in better spirits than most of the others. Not at all afraid. Only concerned compassion rippled her serenity.

  She cocked a wry glance up at him. “I’m fine, as you well know.” Then she smiled. “But thank you for asking.”

  Ragni shrugged, then his attention was caught as Che’veyo moved from talking quietly with Tiva’ti to sit next to Celia on a fallen tree.

  “Are you better now, Lady Celia?” the Shaman asked.

  Celia smiled, but her eyes looked pinched and weary. “Much. You’re a healer, right? If you have anything to make this easier, I’ll take it.”

  The Shaman shook his head. Ragni felt the other man’s regret and sorrow. “I might help you feel it less, but that would only allow you to push your body past its limits. Except in dire need, such a thing is not wise.”

  Celia nodded, hiding her disappointment with a smile.

  “She is not well,” Utta said, keeping her voice low.

  “Has she said anything to you about what’s wrong?” Ragni asked softly.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Is she breeding?”

  Utta’s brows lifted, and Ragni felt the need to justify the question. “You women know things about each other. My mother knew before Ingirid did when she was expecting her first.”

  “She had experience,” Utta said. “Of which I have very little. Besides, would Celia come on this trip if she were?” She shook her head. “No, that’s not likely the problem. Even if she is breeding, it wouldn’t affect her this way. Not so early.”

  Baruq returned over a candlemark later, seeming to pop out of the ground at their feet, his approach was so quiet.

  Che’veyo was the first to speak. “What have you learned, Small One?”

  “My best guess is—”

  “Your guess? You don’t know?” Rovdir took a step toward Baruq.

  “The Lios Alfar have wardings, fool! And this isn’t the way I would have brought you!”

  “Are you saying we’re lost?” Tiva’ti asked in a soft voice. “That you don’t know where to lead us?”

  Fender put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be all right. We’ll get through this.”

  Tiva’ti said nothing to that, but she didn’t pull away from Fender’s touch.

  Baruq clamped his mouth shut and looked away.

  Che’veyo knelt in front of Baruq. “We are all one, with one purpose on this quest. Speak your truth. We will hear it.”

  “I’m saying it will take me more time to find the way. I don’t know this part of the land.”

  “Rovdir, can’t you Pathfind your way to the Elves?” Celia asked.

  Rovdir shook his head while waves of frustration and thwarted pride rolled off him. “I can Pathfind our way home, sure as snow, my lady, but I can’t lead us to a place I’ve never been. I’m sorry.”

  “I could try to Find them,” Celia said.

  “No!” Fender exclaimed.

  Ragni said, “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” Utta said at the same time.

  For the barest moment Ragni glanced at Utta, amused by their instant accord, then he turned his attention fully to Celia. She’d pulled back, stung by their response to her suggestion.

  “Absolutely not,” Fender declared. “Lord Dahleven charged me with your welfare, my lady. He’d have my hide if I let you use your Talent when you’re dead on your feet. It wasn’t that long ago that you nearly died in Emergence.”

  “That was six months ago! And this is hardly the same thing at all.”

  “You’re right, Celia, this isn’t the same,” Ragni agreed. “We have no idea why you’re tiring more quickly than the rest of us, and so you should take care. Besides, I doubt your Talent could help us. Mine tells me nothing of Baruq. I think the Fey must be able to hide themselves from us.”

  Ragni had no trouble feeling Celia’s reluctant acquiescence. She nodded once and glanced at Fender. “For the sake of your hide.”

  “I will petition the Spirits,” Che’veyo said quietly.

  Everyone looked at him. Ragni remembered the way the bird had come to his ceremony and carried away the prayer sticks.

  “Will that tell us what we need to know?” Rovdir asked.

  Che’veyo’s lips twisted up in a slight smile. “We may not get the answer you seek, but it surely won’t hurt.”

  After clearing a small area of snow, Che’veyo drew a pattern on the ground with corn meal. He lay two pahos within the design before pulling out his pipe for a smoke. He gestured to the other men. “All of you. Smoke. Think on this. The smoke will carry our prayers to the gods.”

  Ragni shook his head. He’d seen for himself that Che’veyo’s prayers were heard, but the answers were even more cryptic than the rune stones. “I have my own way.”

  Ragni went to one of the reindeer and pulled a bag from the pack. Near the largest of the trees ringing their clearing, he sanctified a boulder as an impromptu altar and knelt, putting a small sprig of mistletoe on the stone. He felt Utta’s calm but curious presence behind him, but he didn’t turn around. Ragni pulled off one mitten and drew a small silver knife from a sheath that hung from his neck, then swiftly nicked the side of his hand with the tip of its very sharp blade. He shut out
the spike of surprise he felt from Utta and forced himself to concentrate. He didn’t usually do this sort of thing with an uninitiated audience. At least the others were all watching Che’veyo. Chanting softly, he squeezed several drops of blood onto the mistletoe.

  Utta moved behind him, but he didn’t turn, didn’t stop his incantation. He continued his murmur, calling upon the magic that was his as a priest, as a gift of Baldur, repeating his request, offering his service. Fisting his hand, he dripped more blood onto the makeshift altar.

  A soft hum blanketed all sound. Freyr’s golden boar flashed between the trees, leaving no tracks on the snow. Ragni closed his eyes in thanks and finished the ritual.

  He looked around. Che’veyo’s prayer sticks were gone.

  The Shaman met his eyes. “Redbird took them to the Spirits.”

  Ragni nodded. “They are coming.”

  The corner of Che’veyo’s mouth quirked. “Redbird will guide them to us.”

  “They’d better get here soon,” Fender said.

  They drew together, huddled around their sputtering fire with blankets covering them in pairs and threes. The wind had died down, letting the snow fall thick and silent.

  They are coming. Elves. This was what they’d come out here for, to seek out the Light Elves, to find a way to stop the Dark Ones. And now they were coming. He ought to be afraid, but he wasn’t. Maybe he was too cold to be frightened. All he felt was curiosity.

  White flakes fell, turning the trunks of trees only a few steps away into shadows. Periodically, they would shake the accumulated snow from their blankets, then hunch down again. Baruq paced around the perimeter of their group, looking outward, the only one not feeling the cold.

  They’d stopped talking some time ago, the words frozen in their throats. It seemed too much effort to sully the muffled silence. Now they just waited.

  “There!”

  Baruq’s voice startled Ragni. Blinking, he looked where the pinnsvin pointed.

  Shapes moved among the trees, coming closer. Four tall, and one short, and what might be a sledge pulled by a reindeer.

  All of them were watching the Elves approach now, waiting, as the shapes grew closer. Ragni shut his Talent, not wanting to be inundated with his companions’ fear, curiosity, hope, and alarm. The Elves were man shaped at least, but that was to be expected from Dahleven’s description. They stopped only a few feet away, ranging themselves in a row. The tallest pushed his hood back, revealing a handsome, human-looking face with high cheekbones. “I am Valender, of the Lios Alfar.”

  Ragni tried to read each one in turn, only to be disappointed. He could no more read the Elves than he could Baruq.

  When he got to the last, shortest person in the Elves’ party, his breath choked in his throat. He knew that familiar signature of emotions.

  He couldn’t hear the rest of the introduction. The others in Valender’s party pulled back their hoods but he didn’t see them. His eyes were riveted to the smallest figure. He stared, his heart stopped in his chest, unable to look away, unable to breathe, except for the merest whisper.

  “Saeun!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DAHLEVEN MAINTAINED A neutral expression as Father Wirmund was shown into the small reception chamber.

  I do not need this now.

  At least it wasn’t Angrim’s brothers coming back for another round. You’ve had another murder, they’d say. Is this how you keep your people safe? How indeed?

  Wirmund scanned the room carefully, probably for Gris. The Chamberlain’s Talent for blending into the background made a lot of people uncomfortable, but the Overprest was in luck today—Gris had stepped out for a moment. His face relaxed ever so slightly, then assumed a sad smile.

  “Lord Dahleven.” The old priest greeted him with an inclination of his head. “Father Vali told me of Halla’s death. How inconvenient for our investigation.”

  “Yes. I imagine Halla found it rather inconvenient as well.”

  Wirmund didn’t look in the least abashed by Dahleven’s implied rebuke. He pulled the chair on Dahleven’s right around so it nearly faced him and sat down uninvited.

  “But perhaps not so for everyone?”

  Dahleven cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “The time is past when we need pretend with one another, Dahleven. We both want what is best for Quartzholm and Nuvinland, and that will best be achieved if we work hand in hand toward that end.”

  Dahleven’s heart sped up and his senses heightened as they did just before battle—and he had no doubt that’s what he now faced. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fighting with weapons of his choice. Nor did he yet know what field he was engaged upon.

  “As acting Kon, the stronger your position, the easier your job will be,” Wirmund continued.

  What is he getting at? He decided to ignore Wirmund’s presumption and the dropping of his honorific. “I won’t be acting Kon after the next Althing. Either Father will recover, or another Jarl will be chosen as Kon.” Being Jarl is headache enough for now. And yet …He did want to continue the reforms Neven had started. Women should be able to own their own property. Husbands shouldn’t be able to sell their wives into thralldom to pay off their debts. Depending on which Jarl was elected, Neven’s dream of rule by law, rather than whim, could be lost.

  “You may be untried, but with a little encouragement the other Jarls will see your merit—especially with my support.”

  “I’m glad to know the support you’ve given my father will be there for me as well.”

  “Actually, that support should be mutual, don’t you think?”

  Dahleven curled his lips in half a smile, hating the slippery, shifting ground of this game of words. Now we come to it. “So let’s stop pretending, as you said.”

  “Baldur’s priests can better carry out his will if we have the support of a strong Kon. We must continue to root out apostates such as Jorund and Saeun. They undermine the strength and character of our society and lead others into heresy.”

  Dahleven couldn’t disagree that Jorund had needed to go, but he doubted that Saeun had led anyone astray—unless he counted himself.

  Wirmund paused and looked him in the eye. “And you will need my support if you are to keep even the Jarldom, given your liabilities.”

  A bolt of alarm shot through Dahleven, but he forced his hands to remain loose and relaxed on the arms of his chair. “I have no liabilities that would keep me from my inheritance, Wirmund, unless you intend to manufacture some.” I hope. The alternative was much more dangerous.

  Wirmund’s smile was slow and confident. “You should have killed Halla sooner, my lord. And Eirik. I know you’re Fey-marked.”

  Dahleven managed a derisive snort. “Fey-marked? What nonsense.” So Halla was his creature.

  “And yet Halla and Eirik are dead. We can both speak to a Truth-Sayer about what Eirik told her, if you wish,” Wirmund’s voice oozed false cordiality.

  It would be so easy to snap his scrawny neck. But Wirmund was an old hand at this sort of game. Dahleven didn’t doubt that he had protections in place, perhaps even magical ones. And the other Jarls would ask questions if the Overprest just disappeared. Some of them might not care that he’d killed the dried-up old meddler, but they’d want to know why.

  Wirmund’s thin lips curved in a cold smile. “Shall we call a Truth-Sayer, my lord?”

  There was no need to answer that question, and they both knew it. “And if you throw Quartzholm and Nuvinland into disarray, where will your strong support come from, then?”

  Wirmund gave him such a look of smug condescension it was all Dahleven could do not to smash his fist into the old weasel’s face. What had Celia called him? Vermin the Overpest. He was sorry now that he’d chided her for it.

  “Lord Ozur is a strong man, don’t you think?” Wirmund asked slyly. “I was fostered by his father, these many years ago. We learned arms together, before I was chosen by Baldur.”

  Gods. Ozur had tried to block Neve
n’s every step toward reform. There had been no peace between them since Gudrun had chosen to marry Neven. Ozur would be only too happy to depose Neven’s heir.

  Dahleven conjured up a grudging smile. “You’re very confident, Wirmund. An admirable quality. But can you trust your information? I didn’t order Halla’s death. Or Eirik’s.” Dahleven noted the slight widening of Wirmund’s eyes with satisfaction. Let him chew on that.

  Wirmund recovered quickly and inclined his head condescendingly. “Of course not, my lord.”

  “I’m curious, though. Why would you countenance a man you believe to be Fey-marked as Kon, instead of your old friend?” Somehow Dahleven made the question sound casual, despite his raging desire to crush Wirmund’s neck.

  “I have great faith in your cooperative nature, my lord. Nuvinland will be in safe hands. And with my guidance, you won’t stray from Baldur’s path.”

  *

  Ragni is safe!

  Saeun nearly sank to her knees. She saw nothing else as she and the Elves came to a stop only a few yards from the small group. Thank the gods! Her scrying for the Elven Praefect had shown her friends suffering, and warned of storm and death. She’d insisted on coming with the Elves, but had made the journey with fear for Ragni lodged tightly in her throat.

  As though from a distance, she heard Valender introduce himself and the others.

  Saeun bit her lip and pushed back her hood. Ragni was safe, but now she had to face him. She’d worried over this meeting all along the way from the Elvenholt, fearing the agony of his repudiation, praying for his well-being.

  “Saeun!” Ragni’s voice was rough, barely a whisper.

  She stood mute, wanting to scream out his name, wishing she could run to him, bury herself in his embrace and never leave it again. But she couldn’t move. She had betrayed his trust. Violated the law. She waited for his next words to spear her through the heart.