Huge jaws broke the image like a sea serpent surfacing in a lake.
Saeun staggered with her sudden release. Edelstena stood only steps away. Saeun lunged, reaching for the silver staff, calling on her Talent.
Edelstena saw her coming. “You!” She swung the staff two-handed at Saeun’s head, flinging a spattering of blood from the tip.
Saeun tucked and rolled, just as Celia had taught in her self-defense classes, coming back to her feet.
Edelstena whirled around. Saeun leapt forward as the momentum of the Elf’s swing passed her. She could not let what she’d seen in that vision come true.
But Edelstena was ready for her. She jabbed back with the butt end of the staff, knocking the wind from Saeun’s chest. She fell to one knee. Black spots danced in her vision, as she tried to haul some air back into her lungs.
“Fool! You might have lived, had you joined me.”
Bloody silver slammed toward her. Saeun’s sleeves fell back as she raised her arms over her head, and she threw herself backward, falling over one of Edelstena’s victims.
Pain tore a short, ragged cry from Saeun’s throat as lightning arced down her forearm into her shoulder, obliterating all other senses, bursting like fire in her brain. She couldn’t breathe.
Her world narrowed.
Then she heard the screaming.
Edelstena stood over her, the staff turned to iron at her feet. She held her burned hands out in front of her like blackened claws, fury and pain distorting her features. The shimmering disc swirled and contracted. With a sharp hiss, the emerging monster pulled back just before the portal disappeared.
The stone-warriors hesitated, looking at Edelstena, giving the Light Elves the advantage. Khryss blades sliced through their stone limbs. They toppled and stopped moving, quickly reduced to rubble.
Edelstena’s screams trailed off. Her ragged breaths sounded loud in the sudden silence.
Fallir turned to Edelstena and hesitated, sorrow and disgust on his face. “Oathbreaker,” he said softly. Then he swept her head from her shoulders.
*
Dahleven stood in the Great Hall and gritted his teeth as Wirmund offered condolences to his mother. His father was dead, and the last thing he wanted was to listen to Wirmund’s platitudes.
Dahleven forced his sorrow aside. There was no time now for him to grieve, no time for full ceremony, or to sing and drink his father’s passage. They’d dressed Neven as a warrior and lain him on a bier surrounded by the things that marked his rank: his gold shield, his best sword, his jeweled drinking horn. Dahleven had pulled twenty men from the walls to stand honor guard. He’d also torn himself away from commanding the defense to stand beside Gudrun as the people filed by, bringing tokens of their respect and giving Dahleven honor as the new Jarl. Accepting their sworn fealty could wait.
“A word, my lord?” Wirmund said softly.
Dahleven excused himself and stepped aside with the Overprest. “I don’t have time for this,” he grated.
“Indeed you don’t. The danger is upon us even more quickly than I feared. We must act quickly and with unity.”
Dahleven’s hand strayed to his sword hilt. “Which danger? The damage being done to our walls? The fouling of our water? Or the Dark Fey who are slipping inside the castle?”
“The siege has fueled a surge in apostasy. The people are fearful. There are rumors they are turning to Thor and to Odin’s dark ways in hope of saving themselves. We cannot allow this to continue. Baldur and Freyr will not tolerate it.”
Of course the people were afraid. What did Wirmund expect? “Half their village was lost. They’re searching for what little comfort they can find. You just don’t like where they’re looking.”
“Nor should you, my lord,” Wirmund voice held layered meaning. “Your future depends on it.”
Cold fury washed through Dahleven. His hands rose, the thought of snapping the Overprest’s scrawny neck uppermost in his mind. But years of training turned the impulse aside, and he covered the motion by putting his hand companionably on Wirmund’s shoulder. He knew his grip was painfully tight but he didn’t care. The Overprest winced as Dahleven pulled him close.
“Listen to me, you misbegotten weasel,” Dahleven said in a soft, dark voice. “My future, and yours, may be numbered in days. Unless this siege is lifted, Quartzholm will fall. There will be no one left for you to threaten or to prosecute for specious crimes against the gods, because we will all be dead.”
Wirmund’s nostrils flared and he opened his mouth, but Dahleven spoke over him.
“If the gods favor you so much, then call on them to aid us. You must be highest in Baldur’s service for some reason. Ask the gods to crush our enemies. Or at least disperse this unnatural mist so we can see our foes. If you can do that, then I’ll believe you have the gods’ favor, and as distasteful as I might find it, I’ll do as you ask.”
Wirmund stared at Dahleven through narrowed eyes. “You would challenge the gods?”
“No. I challenge you.”
“You tread a dangerous path.”
“You’d better hurry if you want to tell them I’m Fey-marked, Wirmund,” Dahleven said, sweeping his arm out toward the mourners. “You may be dead in a couple of days.”
The Overprest drew himself up. “It is not me you should fear, but Baldur. Only your full support will turn His wrath aside when I succeed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BLACKENED CRYSTAL fell to the floor and shattered as Ragni’s left hand spasmed in agony. Searing torment screamed up his arm and he clutched his wrist as if he could choke off the pain, squeezing his eyes shut on tears.
Saeun! He’d seen her fall at the edge of his vision. Seen the witch swing the staff at her head. He opened his eyes, forcing down nausea, fearing what he might behold.
He almost crumpled in relief. Half sitting next to one of Edelstena’s victims, Saeun cradled her left arm against her chest. Pain etched her face, but she was alive!
Ragni stumbled past Che’veyo, who was still on his knees, dragging in great rasping gulps of air. He stepped over the black ring of the greasy, foul-smelling remains of the creatures Edelstena had unleashed against them. He didn’t want to know what would have happened if Che’veyo’s power hadn’t held them at bay.
His vision narrowed to a single point. Saeun. Somehow he made it across the room to the stone dais. A tiny part of him noted that Celia and Utta were whole and seeing to the wounded, but getting to Saeun was all that mattered.
Stairs. They looked like a mountain. But he had to climb them to get to Saeun. He got his foot up on the first one.
“Here.” Treskin’s arm came around his waist as the man tried to guide him to sit. “You’ll crack your head.”
Ragni resisted with strength he didn’t have. “Saeun.” His voice cracked.
The guiding stopped, then helped him upward. “Very well.”
Then he was beside her and his legs crumpled in a barely controlled fall. Controlled by him or Treskin, he couldn’t say. He pulled her to him with his good arm, awkwardly, because she was still sitting where she’d fallen, next to a body. A child’s body. Gods! He ought to help her move, but he had to touch her now, had to feel her. But even touching her, his Talent failed him.
His vision began to clear, but pain still drowned his senses like the churning crash of a waterfall. She was warm in his arm and he kissed her, rejoicing in the fact that she was alive. He’d been so afraid when she’d fallen to that blow. Love and soul-shaking relief washed over him. Then he felt her trembling. “Are you all right?” he asked.
A smile curled half her mouth. “Better than you.” Then her eyes focused on his hand. “Oh, Ragni!” She reached out then drew back. “Valender!”
“Valender is seeing to those in greater need,” Fallir said from a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder to where Che’veyo slumped. “You’ll have no help from that quarter, either. Your wounds will have to wait.”
Saeun put he
r hand on his knee. “Oh, Ragni, I’m sorry.”
She was all right. Mostly. At least in no immediate danger. He closed his eyes, drawing away from her concern for a moment, into that place of quiet and strength that he went before attempting a ritual, and pulled it around him.
The pain receded. A little. Enough.
He opened his eyes. He could think again. Saeun’s brow was furrowed with pain and worry. “I’m all right.” He looked around. “Fallir!” The Elf was straightening Edelstena’s limbs as if she were honored dead.
Fallir looked up sharply at his tone.
“Help Lady Saeun away from this place.” He gestured with his good hand.
“You do not command me.”
“But I do,” Treskin said from the main floor. “Help them both down here where we can assess our casualties. We need to move as soon as possible.”
Fallir helped first Saeun then Ragni to a spot just removed from the main cavern, back into the passageway, where their glow globes now cast a cool light. When he got there, he saw that Saeun cradled her tree one-handed in her lap, as if it were a lost child.
She’d said only that the trees had asked her to bring the little sapling to Quartzholm, but clearly there was more to the tale than that. He sat next to her, jostling his arm. Pain flared and he gasped. Later. Time enough later to get the full story. He shivered. Why is it so cold?
Fender and Eksa were propped against the walls with Celia and Utta tending them. Valender was bending over one of the other Elves. Treskin brought in Che’veyo. Masale half carried Tiva’ti.
Is this all that’s left of us?
Valender came to him next.
“See to her first,” Ragni said, nodding his head at Saeun.
Valender shook his head. “I will use my skill first on those who need it most. Give me your hand.”
Reluctantly, Ragni did so. Valender didn’t touch, just held his own hand under it. Ragni felt as though his aching limb rested on a cushion of softest down.
He hadn’t really looked at it before. He didn’t want to look at it now. His hand was dark and shriveled like a half-dried fruit. His fingers curled inward. Four of the nails were gone, and the remaining one looked as though it wouldn’t last long. He tried to move his thumb. A flare of agony stopped him.
Valender shook his head. “Wait. I’ll do what I can.” He put his other hand over Ragni’s forehead.
Warmth cascaded over him, dispersing the chill that gripped him. Ragni closed his eyes. His heart throbbed, and the pain in his hand kept time, but with each beat the pain grew less, until it was only a murmur.
He opened his eyes. Was his hand a little pinker? A little less shriveled? Or was fear clouding his vision? Clenching his teeth in anticipation, he tried again to move his thumb. No pain.
No movement.
The world fell away as he stared at his hand, then up at Valender. A priest must be whole. His plea must have shown on his face.
“I’m sorry. There is little I can do, as it was caused by human magic.”
He could not be a priest with this hand. Nor heir. Nor a man.
*
Dahleven watched as Wirmund entered the central courtyard just after noon, followed by Father Vali and two other priests. Dahleven had posted extra men on the walls. He hoped a few of them would keep their assigned watch over the unchanging mist instead of being distracted by the spectacle about to occur. Everyone who didn’t have duties elsewhere, and some who did, had crowded the windows and causeways that overlooked the bailey to watch Father Wirmund call upon the gods to save them.
A circle had been scribed on the stone and an altar set up and sanctified. Images of Freyr and Freya supported a stone slab, and on its surface lay a silver bowl of precious purified water, a goblet of wine, and a sprig of mistletoe.
Wirmund approached the altar. He picked up the mistletoe, dipped it in the water, and faced north. As he raised his arm, sunlight glinted off the gold woven into his finest priest garb. “May the blessings of Baldur be upon all who are faithful in their service to him.” Wirmund shook droplets of water free from the plant with a dramatic flourish.
What a showman. But Dahleven had to admire the Overprest’s abilities. The man had captured the crowd’s full attention. Dahleven glanced up at the battlements. He was relieved to see that at least a few of his men were looking outward.
Wirmund repeated the blessing to the east and the west and finally to the south, where Dahleven stood ten feet away, just outside the circle. Wirmund met his eyes as he spoke, then flung a spattering of water on him.
The three other priests linked hands, and the two on each end put their free hands on Wirmund’s shoulders. Then the Overprest opened the purple velvet pouch that hung around his neck, took out his shard of crystal, and began to chant the words of ritual.
“Hear me, Baldur!” Wirmund’s voice rang over the stone courtyard.
Slowly, like a gathering of storm clouds, the air grew thick and heavy. Dahleven felt the hairs on his arms prickle at the coalescing power. Is the old goat truly favored by the gods?
“Bless us, Baldur!” Wirmund’s aged voice sounded sharp and demanding.
Time crept by as the Overprest continued chanting, repeating his invocation. “Heed me now, Oh Baldur! I have served you well these many years. Do not deny me!” Wirmund’s exhortation held a hint of desperation.
Unease tightened Dahleven’s shoulders. Shouldn’t he be asking rather than demanding?
The pressure mounted and there was a growing hum, like the drone of angry bees. Dahleven’s breath grew short. He’d never witnessed such a ritual before. Was this how the gods spoke? Did Wirmund understand what Baldur was saying?
Some of those standing just outside the ritual circle stepped back. Dahleven felt something crawl over his skin, but there was nothing there. He shifted his weight, holding his ground. He didn’t want Wirmund to be right. But he wanted Quartzholm to fall to her enemies even less.
A bone-biting chill fell upon them, as if clouds had obscured the sun, but light still streamed from a clear sky. Wirmund’s breath fogged with each word. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. Still murmuring, he put his shard of crystal on the altar. Reaching for the silver knife at his neck he pulled Father Hamma close in front of him. “Accept my gift,” he shouted.
Dahleven’s breath caught in his lungs as the understanding of what Wirmund intended to do struck a bare instant before the Overprest’s blade. Dahleven had no time to react. Suddenly blood was everywhere, as Wirmund sliced the young priest’s throat.
A booming crack rent the air. People cringed and shouted. Every hair on Dahleven’s body lifted as if wanting to flee. The pressure exploded outward with a blinding flash and a smell of lightning, flinging Dahleven onto his back.
In an instant he was on his feet again, blade drawn. The air was clear, the oppressive droning silent. No enemy threatened that he could use his weapon on. All four priests were on the ground, but Vali and another were already stirring. He sheathed his sword and ran forward, checking the other two. The young priest whose neck Wirmund had sliced had drowned in his own blood. And Wirmund’s dead eyes stared sightlessly into the cold winter sky, a smoking, blackened hole where his heart used to be.
The crowd erupted with shouts and cries of fear.
Dahleven looked for the commander on the east wall. “The mist?” he shouted over the din.
Around him the people fell silent.
Commander Komigg shook his head and cupped his hands around his mouth to shout back. “No change, my lord.”
*
Saeun frowned as Ragni pushed himself to his feet, leaning against the tunnel wall just beyond the cavern where the battle had been waged. “You should be resting,” she protested. The battle had ended less than a candlemark ago.
“Fender and I are the only ones who can sing Rovdir to Valhalla. His courage deserves no less.”
Ragni was pale, but steady on his feet. He said his hand didn’t pain him much,
but it was hard to believe. She’d only seen it for a short time, while her own mind was clouded with the pain of her broken arm, but it had looked bad. Ragni had pulled a mitten over the twisted, reddened flesh as soon as Valender had finished with him.
She closed her mouth on further protest. He was a priest of Baldur. He had to do this. He needed to do this.
Ragni and Fender went back into the cavern, along with the Light Elves who were seeing to their own dead. Masale stayed behind, standing guard over the women and the injured.
Ragni and Fender’s voices rose in song, echoing in the cavernous chamber until they sounded like a multitude. They sang of the fierce delight of vanquishing a foe, the pleasure of bedding a woman, the joy of fathering a son. All the things that made up a man’s life. Tears choked Saeun’s throat. The Valkyries could not help but hear and wing Rovdir to Valhalla.
She ought to be happy. They’d succeeded. The Dark Elves’ plan to open the way between the planes to ignite Ragnarok was foiled. Treskin had said it would be many long years, if ever, before the Dark Elves tried such a thing again. Yes, she ought to be happy. But her heart wouldn’t cooperate. As soon as the dead were honored and tended, they were going to Quartzholm.
Saeun glanced at Lady Celia, where she sat leaning against the wall, eyes closed. She was anxious to get back, to see Lord Dahleven, to know whether their home still stood.
They all wanted to know. And yet Quartzholm could never again be home, not for her. If she hadn’t promised the Aspen Mother to take Dances-in-Light there, she’d have no reason to go at all. She had no roots there anymore.
And what of Ragni? If his hand didn’t heal, what would he do? Saeun swallowed against the tightness in her chest. He loves being a priest. But his damaged hand would rob him of that.
FORBIDDEN TALENTS Page 30
