by T L Greylock
The orange-haired man leaned over Raef, his eyes dark with concern.
“Sleep, cousin,” he said. His face disappeared.
“Wait, wait,” Raef said, his voice no more than a whisper. But the stranger was already gone and Raef was already asleep.
FIFTEEN
“How long?”
“Two days.”
Raef touched a hand to his forehead and found it dry and cool.
“Your fever broke early this morning.”
Raef was propped in his bed, cushions supporting his shoulders and head so he could see the orange-haired stranger without straining his neck. The bearskin had been replaced with fresh linen and Raef could smell and taste the sharp tang of the salve that had been spread on his forearm and palm.
“Are you hungry?”
Raef was famished but he did not glance at the steaming broth the stranger had brought and set beside the hearth. His heartbeat was steady and sure for the first time in many days and Raef felt calm. But weak.
“Perhaps some mead?” The man filled two cups and settled one in Raef’s fingers where they rested on the bed though he made no move to take it. He was not sure he was strong enough to lift the cup to his lips, but that was not the only source of his reluctance. The two men eyed each other, suspicion threading through Raef’s mind. The stranger raised his own cup. “To your return and your health.”
“Who are you?”
The stranger grinned. “I am Isolf Valbrand. The blood of Tyrlaug runs through both our veins.”
“My mother was a daughter of Tyrlaug of Innrivik.”
“As was mine.”
Raef studied Isolf’s face, wondering if there was something of his mother in his cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of Isolf’s eyes. “My father never spoke of relatives of my mother still living. Tyrlaug’s line died with his son.”
“This is true, and why would your father speak otherwise? My mother married a warrior of little repute and I was born in a wild corner of Innrivik. When our grandfather perished and our uncle with him, I was but a boy of nine. You could not have been more than four.” Raef confirmed this with a nod. “Innrivik fell to the hands of Bjard Arvalungen, that brute and his four sons, and my mother kept me well out of harms way. I grew up in obscurity and it may well be that your father never knew of my existence.”
Raef waited until Isolf turned his back to poke at the logs in the fire before trying to lift the cup. He failed and the mead sloshed over the rim. If Isolf noticed, he said nothing. “I am pleased to learn something of my mother’s family, but your story does not explain your presence in my hall.”
Isolf’s face remained cheerful. “It does not. Only give me a moment and all will become known to you.” Isolf took a drink and licked his lips. “As I grew to manhood, it became clear that I had something of a warrior in me, a remnant of Tyrlaug himself rather than my own father. I won renown in local skirmishes, making a name for myself, and men began to follow me, though I was no lord and the Arvalungen pups resented my growing reputation. They sullied my name in any way they could, blaming their thievery on me, naming me the murderer behind the deaths of their enemies. I wanted to fight them, to overthrow them and take up the seat in the Styrkholm in Tyrlaug’s name. But their forces were too strong and I lingered in Innrivik only until my mother died, keeping my head down at her insistence. That was three years ago, and I have wandered deep in the southern lands in the days since.”
“And this war of the three kings? What part did you and your men play?”
Isolf shrugged. “None, if truth be told. When news of the war reached us, it was already stale. By the time we returned to Innrivik, Torrulf Palesword was already dead.”
“Then why not throw your lot in with the Hammerling or Fengar?”
“These men are nothing to me. Names, that is all. Which should I have chosen to be my king? Which could I follow to death or victory?” Isolf poured more mead into his cup. “Imagine my surprise when rumor reached my corner of Innrivik of a young Skallagrim waging and winning a great battle to the east only to turn away from the war and return to Vannheim.” Isolf grinned again. “I am a curious man and I knew you were my cousin. What sort of man was this, I asked myself. And so I resolved to travel to Vannheim, to meet you in your return, and see what we might make of our shared blood.”
Raef was silent for a moment, soaking in Isolf’s words. “And when you arrived and found me missing and presumed dead?”
“I was grieved to be sure. The last relation I had in this world, taken before I might see his face. But there were some who had traveled with you who spoke differently and it was their words that convinced me you yet lived.”
“Who, who returned?”
“A young captain named Finnolf called Horsebreaker was chief among them. He said you had disappeared under strange circumstances. That there was no body, no demands of silver and gold in exchange for your life, no battle. What could I do, as your cousin, but hold the Vestrhall in your name, keeping the vultures at bay until you found your way back to us. And the vultures have come, Raef. They spit and scuffle at your doorstep, ravenous for a chance to take Vannheim for themselves.”
“Do these vultures have names?”
“They do, names that will be familiar to you, I think. But you must be weary. You must rest and I will send the healer to examine you once more.” Isolf frowned. “The war has taken its toll on you, that much is certain.”
“The names, first, then I will rest,” Raef said.
Isolf began to protest, but thought better of it. “Very well. The first to arrive was called Rudrak Red-beard but close on his heels was Snorren Thoken. They came sniffing for word of you but my men put them off. Since then, I have heard that they watch the most common routes in and out of Vannheim, searching for you so that they might kill you on the road.”
“Not Tulkis Greyshield?”
Isolf raised his brows. “That name is unknown to me. You would expect him to prey upon Vannheim in your absence?”
“Long ago, before we kneeled to the first king, his ancestor was lord of Vannheim. The Greyshields have never forgotten this, nor forgiven the death of Thannulf Greyshield at the hands of Finnvold Skallagrim. Their grievance has passed to Tulkis and he bears it with great pride.”
“Then I am sure he watches from the shadows, seeking his opportunity.” Isolf took a long look at Raef, as though he was sizing up his cousin’s ability to throw off those who would seek to supplant him. If Isolf found him lacking, his face did not betray his doubts. “Rest now, cousin. We will speak again this evening.” Isolf rose from his chair and went to the door.
Raef closed his eyes, though he wished not to show weakness in front of Isolf. “What of my men? Those who went to war with me? We traveled apart. They made up the greater part of Vannheim’s strength.” He opened his eyes, though it was with effort.
“As far as I know, they have returned to their homes and fields, scattered into the far reaches of your lands. But information has been scarce.” Isolf looked down at his feet. “My own men are not great enough in number to learn what I wish to know and I find your people do not trust me with what they know.”
Raef smiled. “As they should, when a stranger walks among them. But I will see that they know what you have done for me.”
“Till nightfall, then, cousin.”
Raef nodded, his eyes half closed. The door closed quietly behind Isolf and his flaming hair, leaving Raef alone with the beat of his heart and the crackle of the fire. His mind drifted, though not into sleep, and he paid little mind when a woman entered and began to redress his wounds. Raef had known her since childhood, though she was only a few years older, and her hands moved quickly and deftly as she explained that, as best she could tell, his kneecap had come out of place and, though it had slid back in on its own, that was the cause of the pain in his leg. It would need rest, she said, and would take time to recover fully. She told him about the mixture of red
tail and fox root she had given him for the pain, the smooth hazel oil she had spread on his bruises, the ice bath she had given him when the fever was at its worst.
“You have eaten nothing but a few spoonfuls of broth.” She took her eyes off her work long enough to look Raef in the eye. “You must do better than that.”
Raef nodded and did not protest when she carried the bowl Isolf had left to the bed and began to feed him.
“Some bread later, I think,” she said. “Meat tomorrow.”
But half the rich broth was still left in the bowl when Raef’s stomach lurched and a wave of nausea churned through him. He leaned back against the pillows and swallowed hard. “Enough, Aldrif.”
Aldrif frowned but set the bowl aside and pulled the blankets back over Raef’s chest. “I will come back with something easier for your stomach.” She stood but hesitated by the bed. “Did you go a very long time without food, lord?”
Raef met her gaze. “Yes.”
Aldrif nodded, brisk and sure once more. “Then we will take it slow.”
Raef thanked her but before Aldrif could leave, the door to Raef’s chamber burst open.
“I must see him!” First through the door was a tall man, wrinkled before his time, the clawed, twisted fingers that made up his withered right hand reaching to Raef, but he was brought up short by Isolf’s firm grip.
“He needs rest, priest,” Isolf growled.
The wrinkled face turned on Isolf and the grey eyes narrowed. “And you need to keep your tongue behind your teeth before I pour molten gold down your throat. I must see him. Would you deny a priest of Odin?”
Isolf scowled and looked to Raef, who nodded.
“Let him in.”
“And leave us,” the priest hissed, still staring at Isolf. Another nod from Raef cleared the room.
“Fylkir.” Raef pushed himself up against his pillows, trying to match the priest’s height as best he could.
“I have not answered to that name since you were a child. Will you treat me with as much disrespect as your father did?”
Raef bristled. “There was no disrespect, priest. Not from my father or from me.”
“And still you will not call me the name I am owed.” Fylkir’s twisted fingers clenched.
Raef kept his voice calm. “What do you want?”
Fylkir turned and paced the length of Raef’s chamber, using his left hand to pry his fingers one by one out of the fist he had made. Only when this was done did he speak. “I had to be certain. Had to see you for myself.”
“Certain of what?”
“Have you ever seen a shadow in a man’s skin?” The priest sneered. “You are too blind to have seen it. But I am not. The Allfather has given me the sight to see what others cannot.”
“And what do you see when you look at me?”
“Flesh and bone. No more.”
“You sound disappointed.”
The clawed hand clenched again, a reflex Fylkir could not control. Pain flashed through his eyes. “Do not play with me, boy.”
“I am no boy, priest. Take care.”
Fylkir lunged at the bed and for a moment Raef thought he might strike. “You should be more careful. The Allfather speaks to me, not you.”
The laugh burst from Raef before he could swallow it down. Harsh and hoarse, it transformed into a shout of anger that caused the priest to draw back involuntarily. “Go back to your cave. Drink your sheep’s blood and dance under the moon. I will not see you here again, Fylkir. Do you understand? Only Josurr is welcome in my hall if you have not already driven him mad. My father gave you far more respect than you deserved and I will not make the same mistake.”
Fylkir stared at Raef, his jaw moving as though he were mustering a response. The fingers still clenched at his side were turning white.
“Leave,” Raef snarled. “Or you will not walk out of here.”
The priest left in a swirl of robes, the door thudding shut behind him, and Raef exhaled. His anger had awoken the pain that ate at his body and Raef clutched a hand to his traitorous knee until the throbbing dwindled. Forgetting his stomach, Raef swung out of bed and hobbled to the pitcher of mead Isolf had left behind. Ignoring the cup, Raef brought the cool stone to his lips and drank long and deep, swallow after swallow until he could take no more. The stone pitcher crashed to the floor, cracking open, as Raef doubled over and retched up mead and broth. He reached for the edge of his bed, missed, and fell, his knee giving out. His stomach continued to heave and Raef, his cheek pressed into the pool of spreading mead, brought his knees to his chest to try to still his shaking body.
It was Isolf who found him, who lifted him from the floor, who was the first to wipe the mead and vomit from Raef’s face. Then Aldrif was there, pressing a cup to Raef’s lips. He shook his head and tried to refuse it, but she murmured in his ear and he let the cool liquid slide across his tongue and down his throat. Her concoction stole through his body swiftly and soon Raef felt his muscles loosen. His stomach relaxed and even his knee no longer tormented him. He reached for the cup again and Aldrif gave him another swallow, then left at a gesture from Isolf.
In the wake of the pain, shame crept over him. He turned his head, taking in the mess he had made, saw the contents of his stomach soaking through Isolf’s tunic.
“Forgive me,” Raef said.
“You are ill, cousin, and injured. And you should not apologize to me in your own home.”
“I let him anger me.”
Isolf raised an eyebrow.
“The priest. I know him, I know his foul nature. I should not have let it happen.”
“Shall I have him brought to you for punishment?”
Raef shook his head. “No. He knows he is no longer welcome in the Vestrhall.”
“Will you not need him? He is a priest of Odin.”
Raef sighed. “There is another. Josurr. Far more tolerable.”
Isolf nodded his understanding. “I will have Aldrif bring you something to eat.”
“Have her bring more of the drink she just gave me.” When the door shut behind Isolf, Raef curled onto his side and stared out the window, past the dust filtering through the streams of sunlight, his gaze roving across the soft white snow and sharp black trees. Closing his eyes, Raef drew the covers over his head and shut out the light.
For four days Raef lingered in his chamber, drinking Aldrif’s painkilling brew, the sun shut out by heavy blankets Raef had ordered draped across the window. Isolf visited often at first, bringing matters to Raef’s attention so he might fulfill his duties as lord of Vannheim. Engvorr, the shipbuilder, wanted to consult Raef on plans to refurbish one of the older longships. A pair of farmers trekked from their lands east of the Vestrhall to ask Raef to settle a dispute over a trade they had made. Ulli, the steward, wanted to know if Raef wished to sell excess wool to a trader from Danewyll or store it for the Vestrhall’s weavers. Raef refused to see them. Once, he asked to see Finnolf Horsebreaker, the young captain, but Isolf could only tell him that Finnolf was away from the hall and had not said when he would return. Raef thought of Vakre, Eira, and Siv and wondered if they knew he lived. Isolf could tell him nothing of them. When the sun dropped below the sea on the second day and Isolf came to Raef’s chamber, Raef sent him away with no more than a word. Isolf did not return the next day or the day after and Raef found he did not care.
His stomach grew stronger, prompting Aldrif to bring him bread, then tender bits of meat, but he made no attempt to test his leg. She was his only visitor and she began to speak less and less, though sometimes she lingered and worked a piece of embroidery with thread and needle while he slept. On the morning of the fifth day, she brought a small meal and began to leave as quietly as she had come but Raef stopped her.
“You have forgotten the medicine. For the pain.”
“I did not forget, lord.” She watched him from the door, deep brown eyes clear and determined.
“Please bring it.” Raef flushed at the strain in his
voice, the need.
“No. You have had enough.”
“And if I demand it?”
Aldrif did not waver. “I would refuse.”
The flush spread and Raef’s stomach clenched in anger. “You wish to see me suffer?”
“I will not watch you drown in it.”
Raef opened his mouth to rail against her, but nothing came out and the anger fled in the wake of his exhaled breath. He leaned back in the bed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Aldrif was sitting on the edge of the bed and Raef was suddenly aware of the disheveled blankets he lay in, his shaking hands, the smell of dried sweat on his skin, and the odor spreading from the chamber pot, poorly masked by sprigs of dried lavender and mint.
“Do you love Vannheim, Raef?” She had not called him by his name in all the time she had been tending him. Raef could remember her as a child, older by five years, quiet and confident. Seldom had she joined in the games the younger children played and Raef could only remember her using his name to scold him.
“The gods know I do.”
“I do not pretend to know what god or curse or ill fate kept you from your hall and your people all this time. I do not know what is in your heart, what you have suffered. I can see the hurt in your eyes, the damage in your mind, just as well as I can see the pain in your body. But the boy I grew up with never wallowed in self-pity.”
“Am I wallowing?” Raef felt a smile tug at his mouth and saw the same on Aldrif’s face.
“You are.”
Raef grinned but his good humor was only the work of a heartbeat. “What was it all for, Aldrif?” He asked the question knowing she could not give him an answer.
Aldrif frowned. “I think that is only for you to understand.”
Raef nodded, weary once more, the memories of Alfheim and Jötunheim weighing on him. “I do not think I will ever understand.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Aldrif’s hand resting on Raef’s forearm.
“Do you wish to rest?”
“I think I have done enough of that.”
Aldrif did not smile, but merely stood and offered Raef her hand. Placing his palm on hers, Raef sat up straight and lowered his legs to the floor. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to stand, wavering for a moment. Aldrif did not step in and take his weight, did not offer her other arm, instead letting Raef fight for himself. When he was steady, she let his hand go.
