by Resa Nelson
He flipped the blade over to expose its other side. “There’s a solid pattern welded into it. That’s the mark of a fine craftsman. The point and the edges are good and sharp. The crossbar’s in decent shape, as are the grip and pommel.” The merchant looked up. “I can give you enough silver to pay for transport to a remote place, give incentive to your neighbors to help you build a modest house, and buy enough land to support a small garden to keep you fed.”
For the first time, Frandulane realized how he’d taken his life on Tower Island for granted. He’d never thought twice about the tower covered in gold and the wealth it gave to the Scalding clan. The Scaldings hired workers from the Northlands to grow and harvest the crops on Tower Island, as well as cooks to prepare meals. All his life, Frandulane had taken that for granted.
The life I’ve known is gone forever.
All because of Skallagrim. If not for him, I could be the dragonslayer. I could be the one that merchants tell stories about. If I were the dragonslayer of Tower Island, then the entire Scalding clan would worship me instead of Skallagrim.
When Frandulane had retrieved his milkmaid wife and young son from Tower Island, too many Scaldings questioned him about the whereabouts of his cousins. Frandulane had ignored them. It would have taken too much effort to explain how the debacle in Gott came about and why his cousins Einarr and Tungu had died there.
Frandulane suspected many of the Scaldings would understand if he’d had the time to explain everything, but too many of them had suspicion in their eyes when he ignored their questions.
His parents would never understand.
Tower Island had been his home for a lifetime, but now Frandulane believed he could never return.
The best solution he could see was to run and hide and pretend he knew nothing of the Scaldings.
“I’ll take that offer,” Frandulane told the weapon merchant. “The dragonslayer sword is yours.”
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, Frandulane’s milkmaid wife woke up, left her sleeping son undisturbed in his rented bed, and went downstairs to the tavern’s main floor in search of her missing husband.
The dry straw covering the floor crunched beneath her leather shoes. In a far corner, a few men slept with their bodies draped across a table top. One of them snored.
The milkmaid found the tavern keeper—a middle-aged widow with broad shoulders—sweeping up in the opposite corner. The milkmaid described Frandulane and asked when the tavern keeper had last seen him.
The tavern keeper continued sweeping. “Can’t say I’ve seen anyone of that description.”
Worried, the milkmaid said, “Hasn’t anyone been asking about me? Or my son?”
The tavern keeper shook her head. “No one I’ve met.”
“I don’t understand. He gave me silver and told me to pay for a room. Are there brigands in this city? Thieves? Pickpockets?” The milkmaid’s heart sank in fear. “Murderers?”
The tavern keeper paused and leaned on the broomstick as if it were a cane. “Your husband sent you here with instructions? Instead of coming with you? Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“I don’t know,” the milkmaid said. “That murderers caught him before he got here?”
The tavern keeper held back a laugh. “Every city has its share of bad people and good people alike. I’ve heard nothing of any man being murdered, and I’m often one of the first to find out.” The tavern keeper’s voice softened. “You’re a married woman with a child. You’re not a maiden anymore. You know what men are like.”
“He’s a good husband.” Even the milkmaid found her words unconvincing.
“Does he cheat on you?”
“No.” The milkmaid understood why the tavern keeper would be among the first to know of a murder. The milkmaid didn’t know why but talking to the tavern keeper about difficult things felt easy. Maybe because the tavern keeper listened. “But he doesn’t seem to care for my company. Not the way he did before we got married. He’d rather spend time with his family.”
“I see.” The tavern keeper resumed her sweeping. “Maybe he’s with them now.”
“That’s impossible. We left them behind just yesterday.”
“Maybe he’s gone back.”
“To Tower Island? I doubt it. The sea was so rough I thought it would kill us all.”
The tavern keeper froze. She wrapped both hands around the broomstick so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Tower Island?”
“Yes. That’s where my husband’s family lives.” Almost as an afterthought, the milkmaid explained, “He’s from the Northlands. He’s a Scalding.”
The tavern keeper took a long and hard look across the tavern floor, even though the establishment’s only patrons were the men sleeping in the opposite corner. Even so, the tavern keeper whispered, “Then get out!”
Befuddled, the milkmaid stammered. “But I paid for three days! I’ve nowhere else to go.”
The tavern keeper leaned close as if they belonged to the same conspiracy. “If you’re married to a Scalding and he’s gone missing, this is the best opportunity life will ever give you. Don’t you understand how dangerous the Scaldings are?”
The milkmaid scoffed. She’d heard silly stories when she’d lived and worked in the Midlands. “Only children believe those stories. It’s how their parents scare them into behaving. Everyone knows that.”
“Not true,” the tavern keeper whispered. “Rather, the stories are true—not the stories they say are merely fantasies meant to scare children.”
Normally, the milkmaid would laugh away such a protest. But having lived on Tower Island for the past several years gave her pause. While she cared for Frandulane’s parents, any time she spent with anyone else in the Scalding clan left the milkmaid feeling as if she needed to bathe. “No one ever hurt me or my son when we lived on Tower Island.”
“Because you were one of them. That’s what protected you. But once you’re no longer a member of that clan, it’s wise to steer clear of them.”
“But I’m married to a Scalding.” The milkmaid found her own protest half-hearted.
“Are you?” The tavern keeper clucked in disappointment. “Haven’t you learned about the Northlanders and their laws? They’re not like us Midlanders. They don’t hesitate to end their marriages, because they can do it so easily. All a Northlander has to do is gather his friends and family around the marriage bed and declare that the marriage is over. According to Northlander law, the marriage ends as soon as a husband or wife says so in front of witnesses.”
The milkmaid had heard talk of such a law but never paid much attention to it. “My husband hasn’t done that.”
“How do you know?”
More confused than ever, the milkmaid could do nothing more than blink.
The tavern keeper explained. “How do you know he didn’t dissolve your marriage before you left Tower Island?”
The milkmaid struggled to come up with an argument. “I was by his side. And if he’d ended our marriage, someone would have told me.” She corrected her words. “My husband would have told me.”
“That doesn’t always happen. I’ve heard of many a wife or husband who found out the hard way.”
The tavern keeper’s words made the milkmaid feel frightened and exhilarated at the same time.
Then she remembered how yesterday she’d scolded Frandulane about arranging the right kind of transportation. The milkmaid remembered what he’d said in response.
I’m a fair and generous man. You deserve a second chance. Maybe you’ll be a better wife to the next man. Assuming you don’t lie to him.
A second chance.
A second husband?
A better wife to the next man.
Did Frandulane mean he’s leaving me? Now?
“You paid for three days but used only one,” the tavern keeper said. “Let me give back the silver for the two days you no longer need. It’ll help you start a new life.”
A new life?
What will I do? How will I live? How can I take care of my son?
She spoke a new idea out loud. “I worked as a milkmaid before we were married.”
“That’s good. I know a fine man who runs his own dairy east of the city. He’s always in need of help. I’m expecting his son to bring a delivery this afternoon. He can drive you back to the dairy on his cart.”
“And my son?”
“Your son can go with you.” The tavern keeper paused. “I don’t remember seeing him yesterday. Does the boy take after you or his father?”
“He looks mostly like a Midlander, but he’s got his father’s blue eyes.” The milkmaid corrected herself. “They used to be blue. They’ve gone lavender.”
“The curse,” the tavern keeper said under her voice. “The boy’s lavender eyes could cause a problem.”
“My son’s eyes are fine. They’re still blue. It’s just my husband’s eyes that have gone lavender.” Startled by her own words, the milkmaid finally pieced together what had happened.
Mandulane’s eyes should be lavender, too. That’s what they say—once a parent’s eyes turn lavender, the children’s eyes follow.
The truth hit her like a slap across the face.
Frandulane isn’t his father.
The tavern keeper’s piercing gaze made it clear she understood. “Count your blessings to be rid of the Scaldings and that your boy isn’t one of them. Your lives will be better because of it.”
“But he’ll remember it,” the milkmaid said, now worried. “He’s old enough to remember living on Tower Island and how his father abandoned us.”
“He doesn’t have to remember it. There are ways of erasing memories. Or at least muddling them.”
“How?”
“There are plenty of good alchemists in the city and time for you to take your boy to see one before the dairy farmer’s son arrives.”
The suggestion made the milkmaid uneasy. She’d heard of alchemists but had never met one. She wasn’t sure of what they did or any danger that might be involved. “What could an alchemist do for my son?”
“They create potions. Elixirs. Salves for the soul. There’s a talented alchemist down the road. Tell her you need your son to forget he was ever part of the Scalding clan. To forget about Tower Island. To forget about your husband.”
The milkmaid remembered every frightening story she’d ever heard. “I’ll not take my son to a witch!”
“Come now,” the tavern keeper said. “Alchemists are healers. Wouldn’t you like your son to heal from all the harm the Scaldings have done to him? A pretty girl like you will have no problem finding another husband soon. Wouldn’t you like your son to think of your new husband as his father? And forget the Scalding father he once had?”
The idea soothed the milkmaid.
If Mandulane could forget the Scaldings and Tower Island, it would give him a clean start. We could begin a fresh, new life if I find a new father for Mandulane. I don’t want him to be haunted by the past.
“Alchemists are healers,” the milkmaid said, vanquishing her old ideas from the past to make way for a new way of thinking. “I’d very much like to meet an alchemist who will help my son forget.”
CHAPTER 7
Skallagrim slept by the fire he built in the cave behind the waterfall on the Northlander shore. By the time he woke up the next morning, the sun already hung high in the sky. All that remained of his fire was cold ashes. He shivered and stood in front of the waterfall to study the sea and the distant sight of Tower Island.
No one followed me.
After building a new fire to warm his bones, Skallagrim scoured the incoming tide and collected a handful of shells fat with clams. After cooking and eating them for breakfast, he considered his options.
Growing up on Tower Island had done little to prepare Skallagrim for adult life but becoming a dragonslayer had made up for it. He’d grown up surrounded by wealth and his early life was one of leisure. He’d had no knowledge of the differing types of terrain beyond the island. He’d never had to fend for himself in any way. All his food had been grown by hired farmers and prepared by hired cooks.
But years of service as a dragonslayer had taught Skallagrim how to survive. He typically traveled his dragonslayer route alone, which meant searching for food and creating make-shift shelters. He learned how to follow the sun and what its path could tell him at various times of the year.
He also learned that most villages settled by rivers. And when lost, the best way to find a village was to follow a river.
Skallagrim looked up at the waterfall.
It plummeted over the edge of a short cliff. Sharp rocks jutted from the exposed earth across its face.
I can climb that.
Being a dragonslayer required being in tune with one’s body and its capabilities at any given moment. Skallagrim drank his fill of fresh water and waited until he felt revived by his seafood breakfast.
He then scaled the face of the cliff, taking care to steer wide enough of the waterfall to avoid areas softened by the water that might break loose.
Once he reached the top, Skallagrim hauled himself onto grassy land and stared at the sky. Clouds broke apart, and a burst of sunshine warmed his skin.
When he felt renewed again, Skallagrim walked to the river’s edge and followed it north.
By the end of the day, the river led him to an abandoned village. Thankful to find a house with a thatched roof still intact, Skallagrim gathered scattered straw into the shape of a bed and slept on the floor.
He dreamed of rabbits.
In that dream, the village bustled with men planting and tending crops as well as women cooking in cauldrons over hearth fires. A boy chased his pet rabbit throughout the village, all the while calling, “Fluffyhop!”
Seasons passed in moments. Crops grew and were harvested. Neighbors worked side by side, content and happy.
Skallagrim dreamed of a rumbling storm that encroached on the village. He dreamed that fire fell down like rain, and thunder rattled like metal weapons.
The villagers didn’t notice. Instead of taking cover, they went about their daily tasks.
Only the boy and his rabbit escaped the village before the storm decimated it, leaving nothing behind but smoldering corpses.
The rabbit ran away from the boy, who whispered its name.
Skallagrim dreamed the storm came upon village after village, destroying them all.
The sound of a crying baby echoed in the empty air, scented with burnt ashes.
In the dream, Skallagrim reached for his dragonslayer sword but found it missing. He then reached for the dagger he kept under his belt, only to remember he’d lost it when the ocean storm demolished the boat he’d taken from his cousin on Tower Island. Clenching his fists as his only weapons, Skallagrim wandered the village’s dirt roads, now empty.
“Father!” a young voice cried out. “I found the dragonslayer!”
Skallagrim turned and looked in all directions but saw no one, despite the hollow sound of footsteps running down the road.
“Where are you?” Skallagrim shouted, unnerved to hear footsteps without seeing their owner. “Show yourself!”
“Stay back,” another voice said. “He’s dreaming.”
Impossible.
Skallagrim felt the sun on his skin. He smelled the ashes.
But the cry of the baby had disappeared.
“We should tell him to wake up,” the first voice said. “Dragonslayer! Come awake!”
Although Skallagrim continued to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the world turned to darkness. He reached out in the dark until the sudden and unexpected feel of his sword startled him to wake.
Skallagrim blinked until his vision adjusted enough for him to make out the shape of two figures by an open doorway. Standing against the bright outdoors, they looked as dark as shadows. Skallagrim noticed the sunlight that spilled on his skin and his hand touching the dragonslayer sword where he’d left it on the floo
r by his side.
“That’s more like it,” the first voice said. The owner of that voice, a young Northlander man looking to be Skallagrim’s age, stepped forward and offered him a hand up. “I’m Kitel. That’s my father, Harald. I suppose you must be Skallagrim.”
Startled by Kitel’s words, Skallagrim hesitated to take his hand. Still shifting from sleep to consciousness, he questioned the men who had found him in the abandoned village. “I don’t understand. How do you know me? Why are you here?”
“The alchemist told us you’d be here,” Kitel said. “She said you’ll be wanting to see her before—” Kitel stopped speaking. He clamped the hand he’d offered to Skallagrim over his own mouth to guarantee he’d say no more.
“Before what?” Skallagrim said.
“The day’s young, and there’s plenty of time for asking questions,” Harald said. He stepped next to Kitel and clapped a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Plenty of time for getting answers, too.”
Skallagrim climbed to his feet. He winced at the aches in his bones and crick in his neck acquired from sleeping on a pile of hay on the floor.
“We’ve got better accommodations in Hidden Glen,” Harald said. “Plenty of food we can share with you. What do you say we go there now?”
“Hidden Glen?” Skallagrim said. “My folks come from Hidden Glen.”
My adoptive mother. My true father.
Harald’s tone darkened. “We know who you are.”
A sudden chill ran across Skallagrim’s body and made him shiver.
Harald gave a grim smile. “I knew your mother Snip when I was a boy. I remember her before she left for Tower Island. And Benzel of the Wolf. I wasn’t old enough to know him well before he left Hidden Glen, but I knew him.”
Sorrow and anger stormed inside Skallagrim. Sorrow at the loss of Benzel and finding out too late he was Skallagrim’s father. Anger at confirming that the people he’d assumed to be his parents had adopted him—and that he shared blood with neither Snip nor Sven.
