Lord of Hawkfell Island
Page 34
His voice filled the longhouse. He spoke of Magnificent Sitric, an old man barely clinging to life who defied death itself and all the gods of the afterlife and emerged the victor, renewing himself, claiming once again a young man’s vigor and strength and shortened years. Aye, and this proud Sitric would rule now for more decades than could be comprehended by a mortal’s mind. He had seen men as babes and he would watch them die as old men. And he would go on still.
The king was ably assisted in his miraculous renewal by his brave wizard, Hormuze, who himself had bargained with Odin All-Father, failed, then challenged Odin to a contest of logic. Hormuze had won, for Odin became tangled in the wizard’s words and thus lost the skein of his thoughts, and old King Sitric thus wedded Mirana, daughter of Audun. She was also changed with him during the long magical hours of their wedding night, her name no longer Mirana, but Naphta, and she grew taller, it was said by some, but her beautiful black hair remained long and darkly glistening, covered with a soft veil of diaphanous silk. Her eyes had changed, too, it was said by some, from green to a vibrant blue, so clear and light they reflected the heavens and all the mysteries of the beyond.
’Twas said that the coming together of the old king and the one young virgin Hormuze had himself selected was the act that set the magic into motion, that the wizard Hormuze presided over them all during that night, and when the sun rose, and all the king’s warriors were there waiting, the king came to them reborn and young again and wondrous handsome, but the resemblance was there to the old king, all recognized that, and they saw, too, that the old wizard Hormuze smiled upon the young king and queen and granted them long life, and he disappeared then, simply vanished into the pearl light of dawn, into the soft shadows that still clung to the earth before the harsh shining of the sun, melting into the clouds as if he were as insubstantial as they. And the warriors and the people were awed and silent, and then they all went forth to tell of the miracle that had occurred at Clontarf that night.
Tamak spoke briefly of the disappearance of the master of Clontarf, one Einar Thorsson, whose spirit, it was said by some, was seen in the reflection of the wizard Hormuze when he himself vanished that early morning.
Tamak then spoke at great length of the just and honorable king, wise in the ways of men far beyond his years, and of his queen, whose lustrous black hair changed yet again, becoming silver as the vivid lights of dawn as they lit the darkest corners of the earth, and that her silver hair was the king’s pride and desire, hair so long and radiant that men were brought to tears by the sight of it.
He spoke of the queen’s belly, now swelling with the first of the king’s promised sons. He sang of the queen’s soft voice and her gentle manner that made all love her, the king most of all, and a small girl who had been the daughter of the old wizard Hormuze, left in the care of the king and queen, and beloved by them.
He spoke reverently of Odin All-Father, content now that he had lost to the wizard Hormuze, and how he blessed this king and queen and all the sons who would be born of their magical union.
There was utter silence once Tamak had finished his tale. The rush lights were dim, casting long shadows against the walls of the longhouse. No one spoke for the longest time, then Rorik, the lord of Hawkfell Island, rose and stretched, and told Tamak that he would remain for so long as he wished. He thanked him, and gave to him a magnificent silver arm bracelet won on a raid many years before near Kiev by Lord Rorik’s father. There was a smile in Lord Rorik’s amazing blue eyes—as vibrant as the light blue of the queen’s eyes, perhaps, which was surely odd—and a bigger smile on his mouth. He turned from Tamak then, kissed his wife’s fingers, then bade good night to all his people. A huge mongrel followed the lord and lady from the outer hall.
Tamak drank more mead to soothe the burning in his throat. Even though the hours had passed quickly and the words had flown easily from his mouth, the kennings smooth and precise, just to his liking, there was pain now and many hours of rest needed to come.
He wondered as he fell into sleep, listening to the snuffling of the goats too close to his sleeve for his liking, what King Sitric had meant when he’d said to Tamak, “After you have recounted this miracle to the lord and lady of Hawkfell Island, I wish you to return and tell me exactly what they said.”
They’d said nothing, Tamak thought, just thanked him, said nothing more. There had been that smile on the lord’s mouth. The lady’s eyes had been downcast. Had he seen amusement in the lord’s eyes? Had he possibly heard the lady giggle? Surely not. There was no reason for her to giggle. He imagined he would never know what they’d thought of his miraculous tale, for the lord of Hawkfell Island did not seem a man to blurt out his thoughts or speak an incautious word.
Tamak fell asleep finally, his throat soothed from the sweet mead, dreaming of the beautiful silver hair of the queen, a beautiful lady, indeed, but one whose temper wasn’t perhaps all that gracious and tranquil all the time, but no matter, and of the sweet smile of the woman Entti who’d given him the mead.
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