DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3)

by Frankie Robertson

  “I never get lost down here, not the way some do,” Ari volunteered. “I fell in the lake when I was five summers old and almost drowned, but I wasn’t lost.”

  Aren’s Talent told him they were close to finding the girl, but a jolt of alarm spiked through him at the mention of drowning. “Is the lake near here?”

  “No. It’s way over there.” Ari waved his hand to the left. “It’s really cold, not very good for swimming.”

  Aren blew out a breath of relief. “I’d guess not. Did the Jarl save you?”

  “Uncle Dahben? No. He wasn’t the Jarl then, anyway. The skalds say Aunt Celia breathed the ‘breath of the gods’ into me, but she says it’s called rescue breathing. She’s taught a lot of people how to do it, including me. I’ve also learned how to swim, so I won’t drown again.”

  It was strange to hear the Jarl referred to by a family nickname. “I’m sure that’s a relief to your father.”

  “Da is dead. He drank poison meant for the old Kon.”

  Aren felt a twinge of sympathy for the boy growing up without his father, but at least his da had saved the Kon and died a hero. And the boy wasn’t without strong men to guide him.

  “I promised Kaleth and Sorn that I’d teach them how to swim, but Uncle Ragni said we needed to have an adult with us.” This last was said with a hint of disgust.

  “You mean Father Ragnar, the Overprest?” The Jarl’s brother and the head of the priests of Baldur.

  Ari shot him a look perfected by the young when they knew something an elder didn’t. “Yes, but we don’t call him that.”

  “Who is Sorn?”

  “Sorn is Uncle Dahben’s heir. Sorn was Kaleth’s Da and Uncle Dahben’s sworn brother, and that’s why he named his son after him. He died before she was born.” Aren sorted through Ari’s explanation and decided it was the Jarl’s sworn brother who had died before his daughter Kaleth was born, and that Lord Dahleven had named his son after him. Aren could well imagine that neither the Overprest nor the Jarl would be willing to put the safety of the Jarl’s firstborn in the hands of a child.

  “Who taught you to swim?”

  “Lord Fender. He knows where all the best swimming holes are. That’s his Talent: Finding Water. He said he’d come with me when I teach Kaleth and Sorn.”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  “But I’m a good swimmer! And I’ll be a man soon. I’m going to go through Emergence soon, I can tell. My Talent will be a really good one, too.”

  The two of them came to a four way split in the tunnels but Aren turned down the left-most without hesitation. A flicker of light soon confirmed his confidence that the little girl was close. “Kaleth?” he called.

  “Kaleth!” Ari called immediately after. “Come here! Your mother’s worried.”

  Aren signaled the boy to be quiet. Ari made a face, but he obeyed.

  “Ari?” a little girl’s voice answered.

  Aren held their torch higher and picked up his pace. Around the next bend a six year old girl was standing at another meeting of the ways. Her torch was nearly burned out, sputtering as it sagged in her drooping arms.

  “I got lost,” she said simply. She didn’t seem particularly upset by the experience.

  Aren smiled. Kaleth had the same dark hair that his own daughter had. “And now you’re found. Shall we take you back to your mother?”

  “Yes. I’m hungry.”

  The little girl handed him her torch, which Aren passed on to Ari.

  “You caused a lot of trouble, Kaleth. Everybody’s looking for you. But we found you first! This is Aren. He’s a Tracker.”

  Aren let the boy talk because he didn’t seem to be upsetting the child. She was probably used to his chatter. He dug a piece of sugared fruit out of his pouch and offered it to the girl. “Here. This should hold you until we get you back above ground.” Aren noticed Ari’s eyes had fastened on the sweet, so he dug out another piece for the boy as well, then led them back by the most direct route.

  Aren carried Kaleth up a long stair to the courtyard. By the time they arrived, the little girl had fallen asleep on his shoulder. It had been nearly ten summers since he’d carried his own daughter, Tandra, that way, and it was with a twinge of nostalgia that Aren handed the slack-boned child off to her relieved mother. “She’s well,” he assured Lady Aenid. “Just tired.”

  From the sun’s angle, Aren guessed that he’d been underground for not quite two candlemarks. Time enough to report to Lord Fender in the training yard, then make his way home for the evening meal. As Aren turned to go there, he heard his name shouted. Lord Fender was at the top of the stairs leading into the castle, gesturing for Aren to join him.

  At the top, Lord Fender clasped his hand in greeting. “Well done! Lady Aenid barely had time to work herself into a panic over her daughter. Lord Dahleven wants to thank you personally.”

  “The Jarl?”

  Lord Fender grinned. “Kaleth is the daughter of his fallen oath brother and his niece. She’s doubly dear to him.”

  “I was honored to serve.”

  Lord Fender clapped him on the shoulder. “And Lord Dahleven is honored to recognize your service. Come along.”

  Three flights of stairs and several long hallways later, Aren and Lord Fender were shown into an informal chamber by a guard with the swooping hawk emblem stitched on his left breast. Inside, a man of about Aren’s age sat in one of two cushioned chairs drawn close to a cold fireplace. He wore a green suede tunic similar to the guards’, but the swooping hawk embroidered on his chest was in gold thread. As Aren entered, the man set aside a sheaf of reports he’d been studying and rose. His russet beard was trimmed short in the style favored by younger men, but he braided his shoulder length hair back from his face so the gold hawk dangling from his left ear could be seen. He didn’t need the finery he wore to communicate his rank, however. The Jarl wore his authority with ease, and no one in his presence would doubt his status.

  “Dahl, this is Aren, the man I told you about.”

  Aren stood tall to meet Lord Dahleven. It was one thing to be one man among many in the Jarl’s service. It was quite another for the Jarl to know you specifically, especially when your father was an Oathbreaker.

  Lord Dahleven must have seen something in his eyes, because the first words he spoke were, “Yes, I know of your father’s shame. But I also know you’ve done much to redeem your honor today. You have my thanks, and the thanks of my family.” Lord Dahleven slipped a gold cuff from his left arm. “Accept this symbol of my gratitude for the service you have rendered us.” He clasped the band onto Aren’s forearm.

  This was more than Aren had hoped for when he’d brought his family to Quartzholm. “I am honored to serve you, my lord.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, because I have another task for you.”

  Chapter Six

  Annikke was glad that the oak thickets grew fewer as they moved deeper into the forest. The pines kept the undergrowth that clutched at their skirts to a minimum. Little grew in the soil blanketed with needles, just a few ferns and the rare orchid. Their travel would have been as easy as a walk in a lord’s manicured garden if the layers of pine needles didn’t hide rocky, uneven ground beneath. Their path looked smooth, but it took awareness and care to keep from turning their ankles.

  “What will we do if Lord Fender won’t help us?” Benoia asked when they’d stopped for a mid-afternoon rest.

  “He will.” Annikke dug into her carry-sack and pulled out an oatcake for each of them.

  “But what if he doesn’t?”

  “And be an Oathbreaker? No. He didn’t strike me as that kind of man.”

  “Who would know? It will be only our word against his and you’re Fey-marked.”

  “Lord Fender would know. I was Fey-marked when he gave his promise. He’ll keep his word.”

  “But what can he do? He wasn’t there. He didn’t see what happened. And if Lord Tholvar names us Outcast, who will believe us?” Beno
ia’s tight grasp threatened to crumble her oatcake.

  “Lord Fender will.” Annikke put her hand over Benoia’s. She understood the girl’s fears. How alone and vulnerable she felt. “Don’t borrow trouble. We aren’t Outcasts yet.” At least not as far as they knew.

  “He could be cross-sworn,” Benoia persisted. “An oath to Lord Dahleven would take precedence over a promise to a Fey-marked woman.”

  “Benoia.” Annikke waited until her foster-daughter met her gaze. “Do not fret. Not all men are as faithless as your father. Lord Fender will keep his promise, and if he cannot give us aid, he will not hinder us. We’ll go to the Daughters of Freya. They understand that women must sometimes take action when men forget their duty to honor and protect as Sveyn did.”

  Or so Lord Fender had told her. Annikke hoped it was true.

  “Why don’t we go there first?”

  “I would not have you live your life with a cloud of accusation hanging dark over your head. Lord Fender serves the Jarl. He’ll make sure you get a fair hearing.”

  Benoia fell silent and nibbled the edge of her oatcake. After a bit she said, “You should have sent me off on my own,” she said in a small voice.

  “I do not want to hear you say that ever again!” Did the girl really think Annikke could have lived happily, having cast off her foster-daughter like a broken dish? “You are my daughter, if not my blood.”

  Benoia’s eyes filled with tears. She dropped her oatcake into her lap and covered her face with both hands as she began to sob.

  Annikke gathered her into a tight hug. She rubbed the girl’s back, letting her cry out the fear and anger of the attack, the grief of losing the only safe home she’d known, and the uncertainty of their future. Annikke’s eyes filled as she grieved for the young woman in her arms.

  Little more than five years ago Annikke’s life had been barren of affection. Then Benoia’s father had sold his daughter’s indenture to Annikke, and Benoia had brought warmth into Annikke’s carefully guarded heart. When Benoia’s service had ended at the end of the year, her father had come for her, but Annikke had bought the girl’s service for another year to keep her away from her father’s belt. So it had gone, year after year. In law, Benoia was her thrall, but the law didn’t govern her heart. As far as Annikke was concerned, the Norns had woven Benoia into her life as her daughter. She would not abandon the girl at the first test.

  *

  Lord Dahleven’s steady grey eyes met Aren’s. “Lord Tholvar came to me not a candlemark past, nigh frothing with anger, demanding that I send my best Tracker after the woman who injured his son. I would have you locate her and bring her back to Quartzholm for justice.”

  Aren bowed. “I’ll leave at once, my lord.”

  Dahleven chuckled softly. “Your eagerness is to your credit, but tarry long enough to get the particulars. The woman in question is seventeen summers in age. Her name is Benoia and she is indentured to a Fey-marked woman.”

  “Annikke?” Lord Fender’s tone held surprise.

  Lord Dahleven’s brows rose. “You know her?”

  “I met her five years ago. She did me a service when it would have served her not to, and she healed my horse of lameness. I believe the girl had only just entered service with her.”

  “Well, apparently this Annikke has aided Benoia’s escape from Lord Tholvar’s justice. I want to speak to her, also.”

  Lord Fender snorted. “His vengeance, you mean. What does he say happened?”

  “He says Annikke taught her protégé Fey magic, and that the girl used it to cripple the young man’s leg.”

  Fender groaned. “What provoked her to that?”

  “Do the Fey-marked need a reason for the harm they cause?” Lord Dahleven’s tone held a bitter edge.

  Aren cringed inwardly and wondered what Lord Dahleven would think if he knew that Aren owed his life to a Fey. Even though the Light Elves had aided Quartzholm, most people still feared the Fey and regarded those touched by them as tainted. It would take more than a few songs of praise before folk changed beliefs handed down for generations.

  “Aren, I would have you ask around her village about this woman,” Lord Fender said. “When I knew her, Annikke didn’t strike me as the kind who would condone harm being done to another. Not without cause.” Aren’s commander tipped his head and gave the Jarl a chagrinned smile. “If you are in agreement, my lord.”

  Lord Dahleven chuckled, apparently not offended by Lord Fender’s presumption. “Indeed. Ask a few questions. But don’t delay your search. Lord Tholvar may be a pompous, self-important ass, but I need his vote in the Althing to change the laws of inheritance. I finally have enough lords in agreement to allow direct inheritance by women, and I don’t want to have to explain to Celia that it didn’t pass because of one disgruntled and petty lord.”

  Aren suppressed a smile. Even so powerful a man as a Jarl stepped lightly around his wife. Aren would too, if that wife were pregnant and had been learning to wield a knife.

  “Your lady would not want the law passed at the cost of injustice, though,” Lord Fender said.

  Lord Dahleven shook his head. “No. Never that. So be thorough, Aren, but be quick.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was too late in the day for Aren to leave for the village where Annikke and Benoia had lived, so he returned home to sleep in his own bed that night. The cottage he’d rented was sound, and not far outside the walls of the castle. Being close allowed his daughter, Tandra, to serve in Quartzholm’s kitchen garden during the day and be home at night, and the Healers in Quartzholm were able to ease his mother’s painful joints where those back home had not been. He’d worried about his decision, but uprooting his family from their familiar place on the periphery of their old village had been the right thing to do.

  As usual, his mother fell asleep beside the fire after the evening meal, but at fifteen summers, Tandra was excited to hear every detail of his meeting with the Jarl.

  “What’s he like?” she asked, as she washed their wooden supper bowls.

  Aren leaned back and slung one leg over the corner of the table. “He is a true leader of men, worthy of respect, and he wears his authority lightly.”

  “But is he handsome?”

  He considered his daughter, who had come into her Talent of nurturing plants two years ago, and was now filling out her woman’s body. Sometimes he noticed the young men watching her as she did her chores, and it filled him with trepidation. It wouldn’t be long before she thought to marry. He needed to distinguish himself in Lord Dahleven’s service so she could choose a husband worthy of her. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Do you think grey eyes, and hair the color of burnt copper pleasing?”

  “Ooh, yes! And is he tall?”

  “I don’t know. Am I tall?”

  “You know you are. How does he compare?” Tandra stacked the last of the dishes on the shelf.

  “He is perhaps a hand taller than I.”

  “And his shoulders, are they broad?”

  “Broad enough to shoulder the responsibilities of the Jarldom—and the two children Lady Celia has already born him.” Aren lifted a brow at his daughter, reminding her that the object of her interest was both married and far above her.

  “Then he is indeed handsome. But old.”

  “He’s not much older than I am,” Aren protested, dropping his foot back to the unpolished floor.

  Tandra laughed and he joined her, mingling is own deeper chuckle with her lighter toned mirth.

  *

  Aren departed when the eastern sky began to grey. Lord Fender had arranged for provisions and a swift mount, for which Aren was grateful. His old horse was at the end of its useful days, and was good for little more than carrying packages home on market day.

  Lord Fender’s directions to the village were clear, and Aren’s mount got him there by noon with energy to spare. As he rode closer, Aren passed several narrow tracks that disappeared int
o the forest, but he stayed on the main thoroughfare, a dirt path barely wide enough for a cart. On the outskirts of the village he was greeted by a woman hanging laundry outside a cottage with a bright red door set in an otherwise plain exterior. Aren dismounted. If custom was the same here as in his old hamlet, this woman was the village whore, and probably a rich source of gossip.

  “A fine day to you!” she called. “You look thirsty and road weary. Would you care to water your horse and rest yourself for a bit?”

  “I would indeed, mistress … ?”

  “Nellor.” The woman smiled, then turned and hollered over her shoulder. “Koreg!” A boy of about nine summers came running around the side of the cot.

  “Yes, ma?”

  “Take the man’s horse to the trough, then walk it so it doesn’t get stiff.”

  “Aye, mam.”

  Aren watched carefully for a moment to make sure the boy and Pinter were safe together, but the boy clearly had managed horses before.

  “I’ll not be long, mistress.”

  “Now that’s a shame.” The woman grinned. “But a man as hale and hearty as you isn’t likely to be, I’d guess. I’d be happy to take my time with someone like you, though. Come inside, and I’ll see to your needs while Koreg sees to your mount.”

  The woman seemed friendly enough but Aren felt no inclination to accept her offer. Still, that was no reason to be impolite. “Nay, mistress, though the thought is tempting, I’m here on the Jarl’s business and cannot tarry. What I need most from you is information.”

  The woman sighed a bit wistfully, but she speared him with a sharp look. “My time is still valuable, however you use it.”

  Aren dug a half-kron from his belt pouch, no doubt twice what she usually earned of an evening, and held it up. “So is mine, mistress.”

  The woman nodded. “What information do you seek?”

  “What do you know of the women Annikke and Benoia?”

  Nellor’s eyes narrowed. “You say you’re here on the Jarl’s business?”