by T L Greylock
His steps slow and halting, Raef rounded the end of his bed and reached the window, yanking aside the thick covering. Sunlight spilled in and splashed across Raef’s chest. The day was still young. He let himself admire the light for a moment, then limped to his chest of clothes and drew out fresh things. A soft linen shirt and thick wool to layer over it. A sleeveless leather jacket fastened with thin cords dyed green and gold, the colors of Vannheim. Raef dressed himself while Aldrif watched and waited, ready to assist if he asked her. At last Raef cinched his belt and lowered himself to the chest to pull on a pair of boots.
When he stood again, he saw Aldrif suppress a smile. “Can I get you anything, lord?”
“A walking stick.”
SIXTEEN
A biting wind ripped across the steps that led up to the Vestrhall. The icy air was refreshing after the stifling warmth of his chamber and Raef, leaning on a tall, smooth ash staff, closed his eyes and sucked in a long, slow breath.
And yet the winter wind sapped what little strength Raef had in a single moment. As he glanced out on the village, the smoking chimneys and the snow-covered roofs, all bright and sharp under a clear sky, he felt dull, as though his body lingered still in the shadows of Jötunheim and the winter scene before him was but a memory.
“Cousin?” Isolf waited three steps down, his eyebrows raised as he wondered at Raef’s hesitation.
Using the staff to take his weight, Raef eased down the stone steps and they began the descent down the slope, watching the people of the village go about their business. Some traded in the market, others tended hides, all watched him. Some smiled and he called them by name, others kept silent, noting his stiff, slow gait and the frequency of his need to rest the troubled leg.
By the time they had walked halfway down the gentle slope and back, Raef’s limp had worsened and his mood with it. With as much dignity as he could muster, Raef climbed the steps to the hall, but it was Isolf’s guiding hand that kept him steady. Raef paused on the stones that led to the doors and turned to face the man who called him cousin.
“I need proof, Isolf,” Raef said. “You call me cousin and say we share the blood of Tyrlaug. Your story rings true, but I would be a fool not to question you.”
“Question me? I have done nothing that would not bring you honor.” Isolf looked wounded but Raef persisted.
“Proof, Isolf, that we are blood.” Raef’s voice rang out in the cold air, the only thing about him that had a sense of purpose. Raef took one ragged, limping step, drawing himself up to stare in Isolf’s eyes. “I return from war, from the shadows of Jötunheim, to find a stranger in my home, a stranger who commands warriors and who has taken control of my gate. How can I not be wary?” Raef had not meant to speak of his strange journey beyond Midgard, but the words slipped out and there were more than Isolf’s ears to hear.
“You are wary of good fortune?” Isolf cheeks burned to match his hair. “Think of what would have happened to your people had the vultures arrived here uncontested. Those loyal to you would be slaughtered, caught between the talons of one would-be lord and the teeth of another, and left to rot in the snow.”
Raef, hand clenched on the walking stick, did not let Isolf’s indignation sway him. But as he began to speak, Isolf held up his hands and sighed.
“You are right, you are right. No man would want less than what you have asked for.” Isolf turned away. “I do not know what I can tell you.” He pushed back the collar of his cloak to reveal a pin shaped like a snarling bear. “The mark of Tyrlaug, as you must know. It is all I have of him. But I might have taken it from a dead man, or had it made. It proves nothing.” Isolf looked into the distance as if the fjord could hold an answer in its depths. “I never met your mother.”
“This we have in common. She died at my birth.”
“I was told she had the beauty of Freyja and Idunn. My mother was envious but spoke of her fondly. She could sing. And she danced like no other.”
Raef closed his eyes, glad Isolf was not looking at him. The words called to mind his father’s memories of Sunnlod, rare glimpses into Einarr’s past seldom shared with his son. Raef strained through the darkness of his mind to picture his mother, to see her as Einarr had seen her, as he had so often tried to do as a boy. Here and there a shadowy figure danced across his vision, long dark hair flowing, feet light and graceful, but nothing more, nothing Raef could grasp.
“We shall feast tonight, in your honor, cousin.”
Isolf turned, his face lit with gladness. But then his forehead creased and he took half a step forward. “Is it true?”
Raef knew what Isolf asked but he hesitated.
“You have seen Jötunheim.”
“I have seen things only the gods can know, Isolf. And, yes, I have walked in barren Jötunheim.” Raef turned away from the questions he could see forming on Isolf’s lips.
The riders came at twilight, grey shapes streaking south down the narrow valley floor, then gliding along the edge of the fjord until they pounded through the gate. Shouts roused Raef from his chamber and he made it to the wide hall doors just as the riders came to a stop beneath the steps. At their head was Finnolf Horsebreaker and the young captain jumped from his saddle and bounded up the steps.
“Lord,” Finnolf said, bowing low. The young man’s gaze swept over Raef, showing a flicker of concern when it caught the walking staff clutched in Raef’s hand. Then Finnolf looked Raef in the eye, though he seemed unwilling to do so. “We searched for you. There was no trace,” he said, trailing off with only uncertainty left on his tongue.
Raef held up a hand. “Enough, Finnolf. You were not at fault.” Raef reached out to Finnolf’s shoulder. “Come. There is much to discuss.” Raef looked out to the men who had ridden with Finnolf, hard, battle-worn faces, but familiar and loyal. Raef tried to wear a smile and forced out a laugh that he did not feel in his heart. “Come, all of you. We celebrate my return this night.” The men cheered and soon the hall flowed with ale and rumbled with voices, the benches crammed with villagers and warriors intent on enjoying their lord’s hospitality.
Raef sat at the high table, Isolf at one hand and Finnolf the other. He drank when they drank, ate when they ate, laughed at their jests and the unruly antics of the men, but all the while he felt distant, as though he watched the scene unfolding from far away. There was music, a single flute singing a cheery tune, reminding Raef of Gudrik. He felt ashamed at not having remembered the poet before then and turned to Finnolf on his left.
“Where is Gudrik? Where is the Palesword’s poet?”
“My sister and her husband agreed to look after him,” Finnolf said, his mouth full of roasted goat.
“And his leg?” Raef remembered the terrible break that had brought the poet so much pain and nearly claimed his life.
“It mends, but slowly.”
“I will visit him tomorrow.”
The hour was late when Raef limped from the hall and few eyes watched him go. In his chamber, Raef dreamed of spring, a whisper of green life hiding on the edges of dark winter. He seemed to be searching for something but could not name it. When he woke, his chamber burnished red with the faintest remainder of dying coals, the dream slipped away like a dark-scaled fish in a bottomless fjord and Raef sat up, his throat dry. Spinning his legs over the side of the bed, Raef got to his feet and lurched to the side table, his knee stiff and sore. Reaching in the darkness, Raef’s fingers found the cup of water that had been left beside his washbasin. He drained it quickly but froze with the cup still at his lips as he heard a whisper of movement and then felt cold steel at his throat.
There was silence until Raef broke it. “What do you want?” If it was his life, he would be dead already, but the attacker made no demand. Instead, after a moment of hesitation, the blade retreated from his skin.
“We had to be certain it was you.” The voice was soft but unapologetic and Raef turned to see a hooded figure, face deep in shadow. The knife was still raised but Raef closed
his fingers over those of the attacker and pried the handle free while his other hand reached out and plucked the hood back.
“Eira.”
It was the same as the first time he had laid eyes on her. Her hair, dark and smooth, her defiant eyes, and her pale face wreathed now in shadow rather than the sun of their first meeting. The shadows suited her, Raef saw, and he leaned in close to kiss her.
When she pulled back, Raef paused and then persisted, hungry for her lips on his, but when she placed a hand on his chest and deftly stepped to the side, he drew himself up. Their eyes met, each sheltering unasked questions. Raef looked away first and, tossing the knife onto his bed, limped to the hearth, feeling a sudden need to banish the shadows. He stoked the coals, sending flares of orange light into the farthest corners of his chamber.
Eira spoke. “We heard the Vestrhall had a lord once again. Some said it was you, others a stranger. We wanted to know.”
“And so you sneak into my chamber in the dead of night and put a knife to my throat?”
“I did not wish to be seen.”
“And why did you so desperately need to know if I was alive or if some pretender stood here in my stead?” Raef knew what he wanted to hear and knew she would not say it.
Eira retrieved the knife and sheathed it, returning it to her hip. “Your lands are in chaos. There has been fighting to the north between men who seek power and riders from Silfravall to the south have been seen patrolling your border. They can smell weakness and will strike if they catch the scent of Vannheim’s infighting. At the very least, they will raid and plunder the farms that are in easy reach.”
“What does it matter to you? This is not your home. You could be far from here, winning glory for yourself.” As he said it, Raef realized part of him wanted this, wanted her gone and out of sight. And yet the far greater part of him yearned to hold her close and kiss her.
Eira looked as though she, too, wanted to be gone. “I made a vow.”
“I will release you from your vow,” Raef said, aware of the hurt in his voice and wishing he could keep it away.
“Quiet,” Eira hissed, clearly uncomfortable with his words.
“You are free to go,” he went on, but she cut him off with two quick strides and kissed him deeply. And though Raef knew the kiss was meant only to silence him, he took her in his arms and let the kiss burn away his other thoughts like the sun does a morning fog.
When they broke apart, she did not retreat but Raef could feel distance between them nonetheless. He cursed himself for wanting her, for wanting her to care for him, and wrapped a strand of her silky hair around his fingers, then brought it to his lips. Releasing her, Raef sighed. “You speak of we. Whom have you been scouting my land with? Vakre and Siv?”
Eira nodded. “When you disappeared, we searched for days without ceasing. When hope was lost, your warriors moved on and crossed into Vannheim. We followed. The young captain was kind and eager to give us supplies. But as word spread of your death, trouble soon followed. We felt we should stay and do what we could.”
“To do what? Keep the peace? You let a stranger walk into my home.” Raef let the bitterness creep into his voice but knew he was being unfair. Eira opened her mouth to answer but Raef waved a hand. “No, no, forgive me, protecting my home was never your responsibility.” Raef sank into a chair by the hearth and put his head in his hands. “Where can I find Vakre? I would speak with him.”
“How? You can hardly put one foot in front of the other.” There was scorn in her voice. Raef wanted to silence her with another kiss. He did not respond to her insult.
“Tell me.”
She studied him for a moment as if gauging what he would be willing to do if she refused, but then she answered as though it mattered not at all. “We made camp not far from here. In a ring of stones.”
“I know the place. I will ride at first light.” The visit to Gudrik would have to wait. Raef stirred the charred wood once more and a few feeble sparks cracked the silence. Raef leaned back in the chair and looked into her eyes. “I must ask, Eira. Did you see anything that night?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
Raef sighed and returned his gaze to the fire, though it wandered, then, to the window and the dark night that lay beyond. “Why was I set adrift on the sea? Far easier to slit my throat and let me bleed into the snow. But if I was meant to live? Why?” Raef looked to Eira once more but there were no answers in her eyes. “Do you stay or do you go?”
“That has the sound of a challenge.”
“If you like.”
Eira came close and traced her finger down the thin, still-healing mark across Raef’s palm. It was pink and fresh, the self-inflicted cut that had propelled him from the labyrinth. She moved on to the wound on Raef’s upper-arm, sustained in battle in Alfheim. It had mended well but had never been serious. She came at last to the bandage wrapped around his forearm. The deep slash caused by Hrodvelgr’s beast was knitting closed, the skin itching as it healed. Whatever Eira read from these marks and scars, some new to her eyes, some well known to her fingers, they seemed to make up her mind. She met Raef’s gaze. “I will stay.”
They were in the saddle with the first light of dawn. The hall slumbered still, remnants of the feast snoring peacefully with half-full cups of ale still at hand, and the only eyes that watched Raef and Eira ride from the gate belonged to two silent warriors. They were Isolf’s men, strangers to Raef, and he did not tell them of his intentions.
The space between Eira’s arrival and the dawn had been short and sleep had escaped Raef. His troublesome knee had protested the walk to the stable and brought sweat to his skin, and Raef had been glad to cast aside the walking staff in exchange for the horse. For a moment, as they moved swiftly over snowy ground, headed for the hills, Raef felt himself again. The brisk air, the horse moving beneath him, the ever-growing light on the eastern horizon, all served to shed the weariness that had plagued him for so long. But as they slowed their pace and began to climb into the hills, the sense of distance from himself returned, as though he were an eagle high in the sky, peering down on a man who moved toward an unknown fate.
The edge of the sun burned over the horizon as Raef and Eira approached the ring of stones. Two figures slept encircled in its grasp. Raef was tempted to let them sleep. Vakre was stretched out, limbs and blankets entangled, while Siv was curled tight, her braid nearly the only thing visible. They looked peaceful and Raef envied that. Eira spared no thought for her companions, though, and roused them loudly.
Siv was first to rise, her hand reaching for a knife until she saw Raef. A smile grew on her face as Vakre, cursing the blanket for snaring him, got to his feet. When his gaze, too, found Raef, he froze, disbelief etched on his face. Then he grinned wide and, laughing and closing the distance between them, first grasped Raef’s forearm and then pulled him close in a strong embrace.
“It seems you have some life in you yet, friend,” Vakre said as he released Raef and held him at arm’s length. The grin faded. “We had begun to lose hope.”
“He did,” Siv broke in, her face impassive but a twinkle in her eye. “I held true.”
Vakre rolled his eyes at her. “Forgive me, steadfast one, the error of my ways has been revealed to me.”
Siv grinned and then made her way to Raef, the merriment on her face turning to an inquisitive look as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her hold was without Vakre’s vigor and Eira’s unwilling, fiery passion, but there was solace that Raef found surprising. She stepped back.
“Are you well?”
He might have said yes, given any passing answer, but as he looked into Siv’s eyes he heard himself say, “No.” It was a simple thing and yet to him it conveyed a great deal more. She did not question him further and her eyes did not convey pity, and Raef was grateful for both of these things.
“What happened, Raef?” Vakre’s question was soft but insistent.
Raef looked at Vakre, the burden of h
is journey heavy on his shoulders, but when he opened his mouth to begin the story, he said instead, “There will be time enough for that.”
The four of them shared a morning meal of hard bread and dried meat and between bites they exchanged information. Raef told them of his new-found cousin, Isolf, then Vakre and Siv took turns telling what they knew of Vannheim and the growing sense of unrest. Eira kept silent.
“My cousin said two warriors are actively seeking my hall, Rudrak Red-beard and Snorren Thoken,” Raef said. “Both fought at the burning lake.”
Vakre confirmed this with a nod. “They arrived at your hall within a day of each other, but your cousin had beaten them there. They were surprised to find it defended and have avoided it since. We have seen Red-beard’s men to the north. They watch the road to Finngale and prey on innocent travelers. As for this other one, Snorren, we hear he has retreated to his land in the south of Vannheim, but I do not trust what my own eyes have not seen. Neither has ventured close to the Vestrhall again.”
“And Tulkis Greyshield? Has he come forth?”
Siv shook her head. “But you are not the only one to wonder. Not two days past, I heard villagers in the market speak of this Greyshield. They seemed surprised that he had not shown his strength.” Silence from Greyshield only made Raef uneasy.
“What will you do?” Vakre’s question lingered as though suspended on the rays of sunlight that stretched across the sky and crept along the snow.
“I do not know,” Raef said. He looked from one face to the next and knew behind each one were unspoken thoughts and suggestions. He was glad they remained unspoken. “I should return. My cousin will wonder.” Raef, stood, pausing as his knee threatened to buckle, grimacing at the soreness, wishing for Aldrif’s draught only to remind himself of what it had done to him, and remounted his horse. The others watched him, waiting. “I expect nothing from you.”
