by Grafford, Jo
“What!”
“Mista believes you share a father, albeit under less than honorable circumstances, but what if you don't? What if your father is indeed Baldr as your mother insisted, and not Thor? Which would make you the grown-up version of the boy Mista was seeking all along. Walking and talking right under her demonic nose."
Her words struck at the heart of his doubts, but he wasn’t ready to believe. He waved a hand dismissively. "Bah! I say the whole thing is naught but a myth, made popular by those who've had the pleasure of living in our city. You'll soon understand for yourself, m’lady. 'Tis a paradise like no other place on earth. New Dorset is to the living what Valhalla is to the dead."
“My point exactly.” She clapped her hands in satisfaction. "No secret tunnels or gateways to the hereafter, just as you stated. Death is the only path to Valhalla. But…” She raised a finger, her voice turning sly. “If your father is indeed Baldr, then your mother was impregnated by a ghost. That makes you half alive and half dead. Mayhap you’ve not yet exercised your ability to do so, but I suspect the unusual circumstances surrounding your birth make it possible to pass through the veil. ’Tis only a matter of time before you figure out how.”
“You think I can pass between our two worlds? Between the living and the dead?” The idea was preposterous.
“Why else would Mista be seeking the existence of a son of Baldr?”
“But that would make me a—“ He stopped as a lifetime of questions were answered. It made perfect sense. He was a seer of ghosts, wasn't he?
"A shadow walker," she supplied.
5
A Ghostly Visitor
"Half man and half god. Half alive and half dead," Eirik mused with a shake of his head. "Have you journeyed to the other side yet?"
"Nay." Sven curled his lip. "But I've certainly spoken to more than my share of ghosts."
"And you never thought to mention this to me, your only brother, because…?”
"You'd take me for an imbecile.”
"Clearly, we have much to talk about." His brother’s gaze narrowed dangerously. "More than simply what we intend to do with our mermaid captive."
"There now," Branwyn interrupted hastily. "We'll have plenty of time for brotherly chats during our upcoming days at sea." She tapped a finger against her chin. "I can't help wondering what sort of dealings a black sorceress would want with the dead? Valhalla is a place for those who died with honor. What could Mista possibly want from men of honor?”
"Whatever she wants, it is nothing good.” He picked a small twig from his beard that had swirled in on the wind and become lodged there. "That is all I know."
But she was no longer listening. She stared wide-eyed at the mouth of the cave. "Willow! She walks." Her green gaze waxed thoughtful, then suspicious. "Indeed she carries herself like a woman who has walked before. Methinks there is much more to this creature than we first imagined.”
Willow paused for a moment in the opening of the cave. The morning was almost fully born now, though still grey and overcast. Despite the borrowed workaday gown with the fur cloak pulled tightly about her narrow shoulders, she carried herself like a queen, head held high as she surveyed the wreckage of the landscape. Certainly not a stranger to standing on her own two legs.
Sven was unprepared for the inelegant cry that tore from his bride’s lips. She ran to the nearest tree, more agonized sounds spilling out of her, and fell on her knees.
She reached for the broken at the base of its trunk. The top portion of the tree was bowed to the ground, connected on one side by a few jagged threads. Running her hands along the trunk, she gently caressing the perimeter of the damaged area, muttering words he could not understand in a sobbing singsong voice. The bows of the fir shuddered against the ground and slowly righted themselves into place. She rested her head against the mended tree, bosom heaving and looking entirely spent.
That was when he noted the path she had taken from the mouth of the cave to the fir. A swatch of fresh green grass carpeted the path, a truly remarkable feat considering it was October.
He rushed to take a knee before her. "Willow, wife of my heart, are you well? What just happened?"
She tipped her head to gaze up at him, shaking her head a few times to rid her hair of the debris that had floated down on her during the mending process. "Our lovemaking gave me strength.” Her eyelids fluttered modestly against flushed cheeks. “But the damage is too great. I cannot heal them all, Sven.” She swept a hand to encompass the damaged forest. "My time beneath the sea has taken its toll on my magic."
“So you are the benevolent spirit Branwyn sensed aboard our longship," Eirik announced. He and Branwyn had come to over over them. His piercing blue stare turned calculating.
"What is left of me." Willow sniffed in disgust and dropped her gaze.
"You're a tree spirit," Branwyn announced shrewdly.
"Once upon a time, yes. I've hardly the strength of a grasshopper left in me these days."
"A grasshopper?" Branwyn sniffed. "More like a Druidess, I'd say, from the mending spell you cast over this tree."
Willow glanced around fearfully. "Do not say such things aloud, my lady. You, of all people, should know how dangerous it is."
"Please call me Branwyn, and we are far from Exeter. I assure you will find the Vikings we sail with much friendlier to those who wield the healing arts."
His wife offered a wary scowl. "If you say so."
He imagined she was remembering the drawn crossbows and suspicious glances of the sailing crew.
Branwyn spread her hands and smiled. "Since you remember how to use your magic, can you remember anything about how you came to live beneath the sea?"
"Most unfortunately.” She shot a rueful glance at Sven. “My memory returned with my legs. A great witch hunt is what drove me away from my people. By my calculations, it took place nearly ten years ago. You might recall it?"
"Alas, not much has changed on that front." Branwyn's voice was taut with anger. "The hunt continues, thanks to men like my brother who currently serves as bishop of Exeter. If it were not for Eirik's timely rescue, there would surely be a stake somewhere in England with my ashes lying beneath it."
"Oh.” Willow’s voice was faint. She raised a hand to her lips. "I had hoped...more of us might have escaped, but 'tis not likely with the hunt lasting so long. I fear... That is..." She drew a tremulous breath and finished with a rush. "If all you say is true, 'tis quite possible I am the last of my kind."
"Maybe not," Sven encouraged, taking her hand. "No need to presume the worst just yet. You said yourself you've been absent a decade."
"I do not presume at all," she returned fiercely. "I was there, Sven. There when the witch hunters attacked during our harvest celebration. I do not know how they found us. It was sacred ground that I helped consecrate, and it was well hidden. But they fell on us as suddenly as if they’d been lying in wait." She shuddered. "They caught us while we dined and danced. Silver bullets flew everywhere, thick as rain. We didn't stand a chance. Nigh on a hundred wood sprites began the harvest celebration, and not a one of us was left standing when it was over."
"Were you injured?" Branwyn’s voice was hushed with empathy.
"Nay. I was taken. All I could do was watch the last Druidess fall, as I was pounced on by my abductors. Alas, that is where my memories of the attack end. I awoke beneath the sea with the conch shell around my neck and no inkling of how I'd arrived."
Branwyn and Eirik exchanged glances. "Maybe your abductors were only trying to protect you," he offered. "They kept you alive, didn't they? And placed you in a safe place where no one was likely to come looking for you."
"Safe?" She spat out the word. “Whoever they were, they more or less exiled me from my homeland for the past ten years while my people suffered and died. My people! I should have been there to defend them, to protect—“ She bit her lip, cutting off her tirade.
"Your people," Branwyn said softly. "Your responsibilit
y. It's all beginning to make sense. Why you're so powerful even in your weakened state. I know a little about how these things work. The Druidesses chose you, did they not? Linked their powers to yours in a special ceremony during Samhain. You may have been but a young girl, but they made you their queen."
"I am nothing now that my people are dead," Willow insisted in dead, flat tones. "However, I will use what little power I have left to avenge them." She rose on unsteady feet, angrily shaking wood chips and dirt from her skirts. "I will hunt down our attackers like the animals they are, the same way they hunted us. I— Sven!"
He swayed on his feet, eyes rolling back in his head as a different sort of vision took over. His arms were outstretched in front of him and knees partially bent as he wrestled the invisible force. He knew he must look crazy to those who witnessed his actions. They could likely see nothing but the cool morning air in his grasp.
"Nay," he rasped, "I am not here to play meat suit to another blasted specter." With a mighty grunt, he tossed whomever or whatever he grappled with away from him. Panting, he blinked a few times until his gaze cleared. He dusted the arms of his rumpled tunic. "Bloody meddling ghosts!"
"What happened?" Eirik demanded, jaw clenched with worry.
"I am not entirely certain." He tossed his long hair over his shoulder and viciously kicked a stone on the ground, sending it rocketing across the clearing. “It’s never happened quite like that before. Felt like the blasted ghost was trying to step into my skin."
"He wanted to possess you?" Branwyn sounded perplexed.
"Aye, that is exactly what it felt like. All the others I've encountered wanted help with unfinished business, things like saying farewell or providing in some manner for loved ones they've left behind. They are usually content to rest in peace afterwards. I rarely hear from the same one twice.” He stamped the ground, more unnerved by the encounter than he cared to admit. “This one was different. Bristling with guilt. Something he was desperate to get off his chest. For a few seconds, I heard what he was thinking."
“Tell us,” Branwyn urged impatiently.
Sven cast a perplexed glance in Willow's direction. "At first, he was picturing small creatures, not much older than babes. They had wings and were laughing and playing and flitting around like bees. Dressed in miniature feathered hats, green felt vests, and short pants."
"Sprites," she supplied softly. "Fae younglings. They flit from flower to flower, plant to plant, filling the world with vibrant growing things." Watching her husband’s expression, she shuddered. "What happened next?"
He shook his head soberly. "It lasted only a second or two. I couldn't see the details clearly, but it appeared to be an ambush. The sprites fought against a group of tall, dark-hooded men with swords. Four, maybe five of them. All bearing the insignia of the holy cross intertwined with a thorny rose." There had been blood. Lots of blood. Small broken bodies lying around the clearing. The plants had shriveled beneath the spots where each small creature had fallen.
At that juncture, he had wrestled the ghost out of his head and skin, and the scene had disappeared like a candle being snuffed out.
Eirik frowned. "I've seen that insignia before."
"Aye, you have," Branwyn acknowledged dully. "'Tis my brother's shield. It was commissioned for him when he took on the bishopric of Exeter." She tapped her small leather slipper in agitation. "He and his cronies consider all magical creatures an abomination and are determined to rid the continent of us."
Willow leaned into Sven, resting her head weakly against his chest. He anchored her there with a steady arm. Her violet eyes beseeched his. "Did any of them live?"
"I do not know," he answered honestly, brushing a tender kiss against her forehead.
"Where did you send this ghostly creature? We must try to speak to him again, find out what he knows."
He rubbed his hands up and down her cloaked arms. "It does not work that way, lass. I do not conjure up the ghosts. They come to me."
"Then we must return to Exeter." She straightened her spine and pulled away from him. "I must know the plight of my people."
"Nay. You will remain with us," Branwyn said firmly. "We were discussing this very thing before you arrived. How our coming together was meant to be. These are dangerous times, my friend. We must stick together."
Willow wrinkled her nose. "Pardon me for saying so, my lady, but I've yet to decide if meeting you is a good thing. I am missing a tail, after all.”
She gave a long-suffering smile, one born of years of hardship. “Ye’ve a right to think what you will, but pray call me Branwyn whilst you do. I believe the Fates themselves decided our paths should cross. It cannot be a coincidence we both nearly died at my brother's hand, and now we are together."
"I've no time to debate the semantics of how we became acquainted," Willow stormed. She raised her skirts and swiveled inland. “Your brother must be stopped, and I intend to be the one to do it. I hate the necessity of parting ways so soon. However..." She cast a half-pleading, half-apologetic look over her shoulder at him.
His chest emptied of all emotion at her words. Married for one night, and his wife was already leaving him.
Branwyn arched a brow. "How do you plan to get yourself hundreds of miles or more to Exeter?"
"Why, I'll swim, of course. Oh, blast it all!" She pursed her lips as the foolishness of her statement sank in. "I suppose that might pose a bit of a problem without my tail." Her voice turned wheedling. "Pray return me to Exeter, and promise to—“
"Nay, we cannot.” Finality infused Eirik’s voice. "I sympathize with your plight, madam, but we already sail on borrowed time. 'Tis imperative we reach the New World by wintertide."
"A wintertide that is determined to present itself early.” Sven scowled at the heavens.
"So far?" Willow rounded on him. "As my husband, you expect me to simply turn my back on my people? To gallivant across the ocean, half a world away from where I last saw them alive?" She caught her trembling lower lip between her teeth. "I may be weak in my current state, but I am neither spineless nor heartless." Violet sparks flew from her eyes.
He drew an appreciative breath at the sight. But the gods, he wanted to toss her over his shoulder and haul her back to the cave right then and there. But from the shocked expressions of their comrades, he was unlikely to get his wife alone again anytime soon.
“Heartless and spineless you are not,” Branwyn assured in a dazed voice. "On the other hand, your impulsive nature is staggering. Rushing to Exeter to martyr yourself will not aid anyone, least of all those you seek to avenge. As for rushing just as rashly into marriage without telling a soul..." She spread her hands. "Why? Or when, for that matter? Did you not just meet yesterday?”
Eirik's glare was thunderous. "I do not recall giving my blessing over any such union."
He was hurt at not being consulted. And fearful. For all his brother knew, he had been bewitched by Willow's mermaid magic.
She blushed a brilliant shade of sunset. "Now that you ask, it was sudden and rash and..." Her voice dwindled as she caught and held her new husband’s gaze. Whatever she saw there evaporated her confusion. “…completely right," she finished on a breathless note, raising a hand to rest against his chest.
He reached up to clasp her hand and hold it over his heart. "It started off as a dream."
"A dream we shared, which is exceedingly strange because I rarely dream. And we were dancing." She swayed closer, her slender frame moving in an unconscious remembrance of the song they'd shared.
"You're a lumbering ox," Eirik accused. "No one would mistake your movements for a dance."
"True.” He slid an arm around his wife's waist, threading his fingers through the hand remaining on his chest. He twirled her once and dipped her slowly. "Only with Willow I seem to have found the right steps."
"A woman who does not dream shares your dream, Sven.” Branwyn counted the details on her fingers. "And a man who does not dance shares your dance, Will
ow. One begins to wonder who is entrancing who here."
For some reason, her words, reminded him of the conch shell resting in his pocket. Removing it from around Willow's neck had pulled her from the sea. Did possessing it somehow bind her to him? Against her will, perhaps? Surely not. He knocked the dreaded thought away. Had she not approached him first and declared she wanted him?
He tried to take comfort in Branwyn's earlier declaration that the Fates had brought them together. But the fear of losing his wife grew with each passing second. He had two choices: Continue to keep the conch shell to himself, thereby harboring a secret from those who loved and trusted him the most. Or produce the conch shell right away and risk losing his wife for good to any remaining magic it might possess.
In the end, the fear of losing his wife proved too great. He would keep the shell a secret a little longer. Let the will of the Fates play out a bit more before he interfered. Again.
6
Lessons In Magic
To Willow's obvious disappointment, the ghost did not reappear to Sven while they remained on land. In the late hours of afternoon, the Viking carpenters completed the repairs and heaved their longship out to sea with a series of ropes and pulls. They hustled to load their chests of personal belongings, supplies, and food stores. Final checks were made of the rudder and steerboard, then he gave the commands to set sail.
"Every man to the ready. Pull anchor,” he called. Raising anchor took little time in the shallow waters. "Let the sail fall." The longship sprang into motion as the wide canvas sail caught the breeze and the rowers dug in their oars.
She joined him at the rail as they sliced their way through the churning waters, away from the storm-ridden shores of England, and set their course for Iceland. "Maybe we should stayed," she murmured regretfully. "I could heal the land, and you could demand answers from the specter who pursues you.”
