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Chapter Thirteen
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He longed for nothing so much as to open his mouth and tell her that she had it exactly right. What he couldn't say left a bitter taste on his tongue—a bitter taste he would simply have to bear, for he was bound by his vow of silence.
And not only his vow. There was also the hope that had not yet completely run out: that in time Valbrand would come back fully to his true self and willingly reveal himself to the family—and the nation—that thought him dead.
If Eric admitted to Brit now that her brother did live, what would that be but a betrayal of a lifelong friend to whom he'd sworn undying loyalty? And not only that; not just a sacred vow broken; not just the possibility that Valbrand might never forgive him. Were it that alone, at this point, he might have told her anyway.
No. It was what his broken vow might do to Valbrand's fragile equilibrium. He had seen Valbrand living like a creature only half-human. Eric, alone, had lured him from his cave, had coaxed and cajoled until the creature stood upright again and behaved as a man. Eric's vow of silence had been the linchpin that had brought Valbrand home to Gullandria. Eric simply wasn't ready to take the chance of pulling that pin.
Brit was up from her rock again, pacing back and forth before the still-bright fire. She stopped and whirled on him. "Okay, so much for a little give and take. Let me tell you what I intend to do. I'm going—today—to have a look at my plane. And then, once that's done, I'm going back to Isenhalla. I figure I've learned all I can around here."
He knew once she made up her mind to a thing, there was no stopping her. What could he say? Please don't tell our fathers what you think you know? Hardly. "You will do what you must."
"You got that much right. Let's go."
"Not yet. Not until you tell me who has helped you at the NIB."
She pushed back the sides of her thick jacket and braced her slim hands on her hips, revealing the butt of the weapon she never let get too far from her reach. "Let me get this straight. I get to wander around in the dark—but I'm supposed to tell you everything I know."
Eric didn't answer; no words would serve him as well as silence right then. There was no pettiness in her. Given a little time to think it over, she would see that, even in the face of all he hadn't said, it gained her nothing to keep this information from him.
She made a small, grumbling sound. "I keep asking myself, why do I trust you? You won't answer my questions, you won't stop lying to me about my brother…"
"My actions have been trustworthy. Actions should always carry more weight than words."
She plopped to the rock again. "Right. Of course. Thank you for explaining it to me."
"Concerning this person at the NIB…"
"You are relentless."
"The same could, most assuredly, be said of you."
Brit stared into the fire. She was going to tell him and she knew it. Putting it off only postponed their getting out of here. "Okay…" She glanced over to meet those waiting eyes. "I have a … what? An ally at the NIB, I guess you could say. Someone I've even started thinking of as a friend."
By then, he was scowling. "This 'ally.' A man?"
"I said a friend. It's not a man-woman kind of thing—not that you'd have any business getting heated up about it, if it was."
He didn't argue. But she saw in his eyes that he thought he had every right to object if it turned out there was some other guy on the scene—and, okay, maybe she could understand why he felt that way. Maybe she kind of felt that way herself. He said, "Tell me about this friend."
"His name is Jorund Sorenson—Special Agent Jorund Sorenson. I met him about two weeks after I first came here to Gullandria, in July."
"How did this meeting come about?"
"Jorund didn't instigate it, if that's what you're getting at."
"Just tell me how it happened."
"I was nosing around a little, asking questions about Valbrand. And, well, you know how my father is. He got nervous I was going to get myself into some kind of trouble."
"Now, where would His Majesty get an idea like that?"
"Ha-ha. Shall I continue?"
"Please do."
"So … first my dad gets Hauk—my brother-in-law?"
"I know Hauk."
"Well, my dad gets Hauk to put some of his people on me." Hauk Wyborn was the king's warrior. In Gullandria, the king's warrior was the head of an elite fighting squad—a sort of Gullandrian Secret Service, referred to by many as King Osrik's Berserkers—who took their orders directly from the king. "Hauk's men can fight with the best of them. They can also be very discreet. Still, I recognized one of them and had a little talk with my father. Dad promised there'd be no more bodyguards on me. Right. So next, he calls in the NIB—figuring, I suppose, that I wouldn't recognize any of those guys. I didn't. But after four or five days I couldn't help but notice the goons in bad suits tailing me everywhere, looking away whenever I tried to catch their eyes. I got tired of it, so I waylaid one of them. Ducked into a hallway at the National Museum of Norse History and when he came by, looking worried, trying to figure out where I'd gone, I jumped out and shouted, 'Boo!'"
"Charming."
"Believe it or not, I did surprise him. While he was still sputtering and backing up, I demanded to know who his superior was. He blurted out Jorund's name. I tracked Jorund down at the Bureau offices. At first, you can imagine, he was reluctant to … work with me. But I had a little talk with my father and soon enough I had Special Agent Sorenson checking my rooms at the palace for bugs—even though the bugs were put there at my father's orders. Jorund told me what he knew about Valbrand's disappearance."
Eric sat up straighter. "What did he know?"
"Not a lot, really. Only what you said the other morning. That Valbrand went a-Viking and was killed in a storm at sea. Nothing I hadn't already learned. But Jorund would … talk with me about it. You know, we'd take the facts we had and brainstorm with them."
"Brainstorm…"
"That's when you—"
"Never mind. I'm aware of what the word means. I'm just trying to understand why an NIB special agent would decide to be your 'ally.'"
"You know what? So am I—now. Though you've really told me nothing that proves there are traitors within the NIB." Still, Eric had planted the seeds of doubt. It wasn't a good feeling, to find herself wondering at the true loyalties of a man she'd come to trust.
"What else did you learn from this friend of yours?"
"We talked about you. Jorund said I'd have trouble getting anything out of you." She licked her finger and drew a mark in the air, putting her tongue to the roof of her mouth to make a sizzling sound. "Point for Jorund on that score."
Eric was looking excessively patient. "Did he offer to accompany you here?"
"We talked about it. And we agreed that my showing up with an NIB agent in tow would only make it harder for me to get you to tell me anything."
"Whose reasoning was that?"
"You know, I don't remember."
"Is it possible he simply didn't want to be on that plane with you—or anywhere nearby when you met your tragic end?"
Defensiveness curled through her, tightening her stomach, making her edgy and fed up with talking. "Anything's possible—can we go now?"
Those watchful eyes were on her. She thought for sure he would have more to say. But in the end, he only stood. "As you wish. Let me douse the fire."
* * *
They emerged from the cave to find the dawn coming, the sun not yet risen, a soft glow on the far horizon. The thin layer of snow from yesterday's storm crunched beneath the horses' hooves as they picked their way upward to the crest of the hill and then down the other side.
The new day was starting out warmer even than the day before. As the sun rose, the snow melted. Within a few brief hours it lay in shrinking patches here and there on the trail. They reached the rim of Drakveden Fjord at a little past ten and paused, still moun
ted, to admire the view. It was a sheer drop-off, walls of rough black rock going down and down through layers of mist. Far below, faintly, Brit could see a thick ribbon of water, gleaming. Across the yawning misty space, a waterfall tumbled from the facing cliffs, white and foaming, roaring as it fell.
Brit checked her compass. They'd been traveling parallel with the fjord for several miles, but this was the first time the trail had met up with it. She spoke to Eric, raising her voice to compete with the roar of the falls. "Where do we go down?"
"We follow the rim for another two kilometers. Then the trail begins a slow descent."
"We're close."
He nodded, turning his horse to the trail once more.
Soon they reached the place where the trail began going down. They followed the twists and turns, ducking hanging tree branches, until they reached a spot about midway along. For another hour they moved due west, climbing awhile, then moving down, then up again, most of the time with the waters of the fjord in sight below them.
Finally, when they'd been climbing for some time, Eric turned his horse from the trail, away from the water. They wove their way through the trees for several yards and came to a small clearing.
He dismounted, taking his rifle from the saddle holster and binoculars from his saddlebag. "Hobble your horse. We go down now, to the crash site. The trail is narrow from here on, little more than a rocky ledge. It's safer—and quieter—to go on foot."
She thought of the roving bands of renegades, of the bears and Gullandrian mountain cats that she knew roamed the hills. "You think it's safe to leave the horses here alone?"
"Safer than to try to ride them any closer to the crash site. We'll be quieter on foot." He must have read her look. "Yes, they could be gone—stolen, or attacked by predators—when we return, if that's what you're wondering."
She swallowed. "Yeah, that was what I was wondering."
"We have to take that chance—unless, that is, you'd prefer to turn around?"
"Nice try." She dismounted. "Let's go."
They went back the way they'd come, rejoining the trail at about the same spot they'd left it and forging on to the west. In half a mile or so, they came out onto a point with a clear view of the gorge floor and the fjord below.
"Stay low." Eric dropped to a crouch and signaled her to follow. They crept to the edge, where two waist-high boulders blocked the view as they ducked behind them.
"What now?"
"First, look between the space in the rocks. Down there. Do you see?"
She saw the narrow spit of land where she'd brought down the Skyhawk, saw the crumpled fuselage not far from the trees at the end of the rocky ground. "My plane," she said, "or what's left of it." A moment of silence elapsed and then she asked, "What else?"
"We wait," he said.
"For…?"
He set his rifle carefully aside and indicated the binoculars he'd taken from his saddlebag. Then he pointed to a wide gray-bellied white cloud drifting near the sun. "That cloud will soon cover the sun and minimize the chance that sunlight will reflect off the lenses and give our position away to anyone below."
"Waiting. Great. Not my favorite activity."
He grunted. "I have noticed."
Time crawled by. About five endless minutes later, the sun slipped behind the outer edge of the cloud. Eric brought up the binoculars and peered with them through a gap in the rocks. He scanned the terrain below. "There," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "And there…" He gave her the binoculars. "Look for yourself. There are three of them visible from this vantage point." He guided the binoculars to her face. "First look straight across, to the opposite slope, then down a little…"
She picked out an armed man, in the trees on the hillside opposite, but below the point where they crouched. "I see him."
"Lower now. Track west—to your left."
She found him. "Okay. That's two."
"And the third … he's difficult to make out, near the base of this trail, after it flattens out, still in the trees, a short distance before they give way to bare ground." He took hold of the binoculars again, just enough to lower them to the right place. "There? You see him?"
She focused. Found the man. He was dressed like the others, in camo fatigues, dark boots and a plain black watch cap, a rifle in his hands. His broad back was to her—at first. But then, for a moment, he turned his head. She got a look at his face, a three-quarter view. It was a fleshy, roundish face, with a blunt jaw, a small mouth and close-set eyes…
She lowered the binoculars. "I know him. I mean, I've seen him before."
"Where?"
"That first day I went to the Bureau offices. He was coming out of Jorund's office as I was going in."
"So … a subordinate of your supposed friend?"
"It's as good a guess as any—and I don't like the way you say supposed."
"But you are willing now to admit those men are NIB?"
"Since I know one of them and I saw him at the Bureau offices—sure. It's not a big leap. But you know what? It's pure paranoia to think that means they're automatically traitors."
"They've been guarding this area for days now. And there is a fourth man, somewhere nearby, probably on the hillside below us, not visible from here. And not only those four—there are two more, at the boat they used to get here. They rotate in guarding the plane. We can't be certain when they'll change shifts—or if, right now, there are five of them nearby, or even all six."
"How do you know all this?"
His response to that was another of those oh-so-patient looks. He said, "The plane is unsalvageable. Your father believes you had an accident, that's all. Word has been sent that you survived the crash and a renegade's attack and are safe at my family's village. Those men have had plenty of time to look things over and remove any equipment His Majesty might have wanted saved. They should have been gone days ago. Yet they remain. Why else would they stay except in hopes that you might return—as you are doing—and give them another chance to finish what they started?"
"Eric, you don't know what my father thinks. You have minimal communication with him. You send him radio messages, right, telling him your version of what's up? And he replies in kind."
"That is correct."
"Maybe he suspects what you and I suspect. That somebody helped my plane to go down. Maybe he has those men guarding it so that, if any of the real assassins show up to look over their handiwork, those men can deal with them."
"Your reasoning is faulty."
"Gee, thanks. Why?"
"You know His Majesty. If he believed you'd survived an assassination attempt, he'd have ordered you back to Isenhalla. He'd want you near him, where he could make certain you were safe. And he'd want to interview you in depth to learn everything you know in order to find and punish the ones who dared to do such a thing."
His argument made sense. Too much sense. "I'm still not going to just assume that those men are traitors. I'm not going to—"
Eric cut her off by muttering grimly, "Enough. You've seen them. We can't risk hailing them and we can't be sure how many more of them are out there than the three we can find. We will return now to my aunt's village."
"The hell we will."
He was glaring again. "What more can we do?"
"We've got to find out if they're really my father's men—or not."
"There is no way to find out for certain without the chance of—"
She cut him off that time. "I have a plan."
His lip curled in distaste. "I don't like it."
"You haven't even heard it yet."
"I know by the look in your eye that I'm not going to like it."
"Just listen. Just let me explain."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not about this. Oh, Eric. We have all these suspicions—suspicions that mean nothing without some kind of proof."
"I see it in your eyes. To get your proof could mean your death."
"Not if we're careful—
and we might just find out those guys down there are on our side, after all."
"No. It's too dangerous." He dropped the binoculars and took her by the arms. "Listen. Let me take you back. I'll gather some men. We'll return here. We'll capture the agents below and question them. We'll discover—"
"Zilch." She pulled free. "They'll just tell you that they're NIB sent to guard the plane."
His square jaw was set. "If they're traitors, we'll find out."
"By torture? No, thanks. My way's a lot more direct and my way no one has to get hurt."
"I don't like it," he said for the third time.
"You haven't even heard me out yet. Please. Just listen for a minute." He looked at her as if he wanted to strangle her—but he kept his mouth shut. It was her chance. She took it. "We'll go down there now—carefully, making sure the guys on the opposite slope don't spot us, watching for any others as we go. We'll circle the one I recognize—yes, we'll have to be careful, not give him any chance to signal the others. You go behind him, get up close. I'll step out and say hello."
He blinked. "Hello. You'll say … hello."
"That's right. If he was sent here to kill me, he'll probably try it. Then we'll both get a chance to stop him." She said the rest, though she hated to have to say it. "And we'll know if my friend at the NIB wasn't really any kind of friend at all."
He stared at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. "This is madness."
"Not madness. Dangerous, possibly. But we're going to make it work. And no one is going to get hurt."
He made a growling sound. "You delude yourself. You could be killed. If the three Norns of destiny smile on us, you might survive. But in any case, if that fellow down there points his rifle at you, he will die. I will see to it."
"No. Now, that isn't the plan."
"He will die."
"Eric. You're not listening."
"Because you are talking dangerous nonsense."
She decided to let that insulting remark pass and stick to the point. "I don't want anyone to get hurt. I mean it. There's been enough bloodshed around here lately, thank you very much. If he points his gun at me, you can jump him. We'll shoot to wound if we have to—but the idea is to get through this without a shot being fired. Shots will only bring the others down on us."
The Marriage Medallion Page 13
