Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

  By deep twilight, the fires dotting the encampment were surrounded by drunken merriment and gap-toothed grins. But around one fire, five men sat huddled together, their expressions brooding as they drained their cups. The hair on the back of Áigin’s neck stood up and a tingle of anticipation spread through his body. For a man like him, who had spent the majority of his life rooting out coveted secrets, the chance of discovering a new one was headier than the spirit in his cup.

  Áigin dipped down into the thick band of smoke that blanketed the gathered troops. He skirted the fringes, rather than approaching the five men directly. From where he sat at a neighboring fire, he was able to observe them as they leaned in close to speak. Their secretive postures beckoned him to creep within range to hear their hushed conversation. Edging closer, he pretended to lay back and rest where he sat. Still, he watched and listened.

  Of the five, Áigin could see the faces of three, and those three looked as if something sat poorly with them. By the way the others deferred to him, it was the soldier with the shorn head and close-cropped beard who held authority in the small gathering. The grey in the man’s beard made him appear older than his compatriots and there was definitely something about him that suggested hard-earned experience.

  One of the two men with his back to Áigin spoke in a rush of mumbled words. The weathered leader looked around at each of the men, as if he searched their faces for something. Reassurance? Compliance? The man leaned forward, his voice too low to understand. Straining to inch closer, Áigin heard, “I didn’t choose the lie, and I didn’t relish the task. But, it was an order, and I followed it, just as you all did.”

  The other soldier with his back to Áigin nervously glanced around, his face visible in the firelight. Jonsá. The shock of recognition momentarily stunned the spy. Then he heard their leader say, “Our safety is in our silence.”

  Wise, but a little too late, Áigin thought, his mind racing to piece together the puzzle. Deceit is to be expected when ambitions ran high, he mused. And, the Vijns had made it well known that he would reward any who brought an end to the Brethren. Áigin was certain these five were not instigators. They were pawns. Still, like all pawns, they served a purpose, and he had the rest of the evening to think upon that purpose.

  Niilán sipped his juhka with Jonsá, Joret, Osku, and Matti. None of them shared the good cheer of their comrades.

  “They were ours,” Jonsá said softly, looking nervous as he shifted. “Are we supposed to ignore that?”

  “Surely some family member has recognized one of them.” said Matti.

  In Matti’s wild eyes, Niilán saw his own fears materializing and harshly pushed them aside. “If they have not yet been recognized, it is safe to say they will not be.”

  “How can you be sure, Niilán?” Matti demanded.

  “Because I cut off their heads and even I do not recognize them,” Niilán said, passion raising the tenor of his voice.

  Osku’s hands fidgeted with a stone, picking it up, then putting it down, before picking it up again. “Let’s forget it and be done with it.”

  “But the Piijkij remain at large,” Joret argued.

  “True, but their numbers are not known. So none can take a tally of their dead and come up short,” Niilán said.

  “The heads began to rot as I rode with them from farm to farm,” Jonsá whispered in disgust. “The flies followed me everywhere I went.” He paused to drink from his cup. “I can still smell it.”

  “It was no different for the rest of us,”Joret complained bitterly.

  A grim quiet descended upon the group. Joret leaned forward and poked at the fire with his knife.

  Niilán felt the pressure to say something more, something that would give heart to men who felt a black mark upon their souls. But he had very little left in him that spoke to hope. The best he could offer was to strengthen their resolve.

  “The commander crafted the lie and the order,” he said. “But if it comes to light we will deny everything.”

  Jonsá looked as if he wished to argue. Niilán cut him off. “I take no comfort in this, other than knowing it will protect us. If we do not break, then none can break us.”

  When the others tired and drew out their bedrolls, Niilán left them to their dreams. His own mind would not quiet long enough to allow sleep to descend. Doubt about the others ranked foremost in his thoughts. They had agreed, for the moment, to remain quiet. But the gods only knew how long it would last. At least the five of them were all in the same regiment where he could keep a watchful eye on them. In time, perhaps they would be able to forget. Or maybe some greater problem would take its place. Regardless, he would need to remain vigilant. Too many men now held his fate in their hands.

  Niilán stood apart from the crowds of drunk and slumbering men. He looked up into the sky’s deep twilight, regretting his decision to stay with the army. A cool breeze swept up smoke to choke him. He coughed, reality replacing his regret. He snorted to himself. There’s no farm waiting. It’s the soldier’s life or the binna.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ÚLLA SAT WITH THE other nieddaš, eating the morning’s warm porridge, a meal she normally enjoyed. But her dark thoughts made even the honey and cream taste bitter.

  “He doesn’t belong here,” she said.

  Birtá put down her spoon. “Why do you bring him up when we’re trying to enjoy our meal?”

  The other three nieddaš agreed.

  Úlla reddened, but she did not back down. “I mention him because you are all like rabbits, too scared to poke your heads out to see the world as it is.”

  Ravna snorted. “When did you become an Elder, Úlla?”

  “When I took over the forge,” Úlla snapped. “Melting metals burns away one’s silliness.”

  “Please, Úlla, do not pretend you are the only one among us to work hard,” Ravna turned up her already upturned nose. “We all work hard. Ello is tilling the fields. Tuá butchers the animals, and I am tanning hides. None of us are cowering in our holes like rabbits.”

  Momentarily chastened by her friend’s sharp words, Úlla joined the others as they quietly resumed eating.

  “Well, I think he’s fine-looking,” Ello said abruptly, scraping the porridge from the side of her bowl with concentrated effort. When heads snapped up to look at her, Ello blushed clear to the crown of her red hair. “I mean, for an Olmmoš.”

  The others sat aghast while Úlla gathered up the remnants of her earlier righteous indignation.

  “You see!” she said, pushing her food aside. “He should not be here. He is a danger.”

  “A danger to Ello,” Tuá snickered and received a pinch in return. “Ow!”

  All but Úlla joined in the laughter. “You make jokes,” she reprimanded her friends. “He is a Piijkij. He killed our kind.”

  “Well, I heard his own kind were going to kill him after they found out he was one of us,” Ello said, arching her brows.

  “One of us? One of us?” Úlla’s eyes widened in disbelief. “He is not one of us.” Her voice rose in frustration. “He is an Olmmoš! A Piijkij!”

  “The war is over,” Ravna said. “He is an extra pair of hands to help with the work. Besides, Irjan fought for us. The Elders have made a wise decision. Can you not let it be?”

  Úlla hit the wooden table with the flat of her palm, nearly spilling everyone’s tea.

  “The war is not over! We are still dying. You see Lejá over there? The time has come for her to return to her Origin and she is terrified. She does not want to go. But she knows if she does not there will be one less Jápmemeahttun in this world. The war is not over. It is with us each day we live.”

  Emboldened by the pitying glances the others made in Lejá’s direction, Úlla pressed on.

  “Marnej is worthless!” she said. “He does nothing that serves us. He just runs about in the woods swinging his sword. Perhaps come spring we will have need of someone to kill the biting flies. Then he might serve a purpose.”
>
  Úlla’s heart raced, and her breath had turned ragged. “As far as I am concerned, he is just another mouth to feed.”

  “Úlla,” Ello’s soft pleading voice escaped her half smile.

  Úlla flushed with anger and disbelief. “No, Ello. If you want to grow his grain and Tuá to butcher his meat and Birtá to cook for him, that is your own folly. He gets nothing from me, except what he deserves.”

  She stood, disgusted with the silly nieddaš she called friends—sisters even. They knew how she had suffered, and still they sided with that human. She could not bring herself to even think his name.

  Úlla grabbed her bowl and, in her haste, finally spilt tea across the surface of the table. She hesitated for an instant, feeling that she ought to clean the mess, not wanting to burden another. They were all too burdened as it was. Then she noticed Dárja standing off to Birtá’s side. Her resentment crystalized, putting a decisive end to whatever doubts that lingered.

  “I should go,” she said. “I have work to do.”

  Dárja felt Úlla’s thick golden braid lash her as if it were a whip. She shrank back, feeling the loss of her own beautiful braid keenly. Then she recalled Úlla’s thin-lipped smirk as she’d turned on her heels. Pulsing anger built in Dárja’s chest, threatening to charge like some wounded bear. But before she could do anything, she felt the soft touch of a hand upon her own.

  “Do not pay attention to her, Dárja.”

  At the sound of her name, Dárja glanced down and saw sweet Tuá, looking up at her.

  “When Kálle did not return . . .” Tuá began. “Well, Úlla has not been the same.”

  “She’s miserable and wants the rest of us to join her,” Ello said. “Have you noticed that she’s wearing Kálle’s tunic and belt?”

  Tuá frowned at the young nieddaš, then tugged on Dárja’s hand with an apologetic smile. “Come, sit with us. We have not seen much of you since your return.”

  The others chimed in quick succession.

  “Sit with us.”

  “We have missed you.”

  “It hasn’t been the same since you left.”

  The entreaties ended with a red-faced Birtá.

  Dárja’s gaze followed Úlla’s broad shoulders and swinging braid. Úlla had always been so quick to judge, so ready to find fault in others. Nothing, it seemed, had changed. Then Dárja felt the cold prick of her own conscience as she sat down with a heavy thud.

  I’m no better than her, she silently admitted, shame clouding her thoughts. She’d condemned Irjan without looking beyond her own broken heart. She’d blamed Marnej without ever knowing the truth of his life.

  “Dárja,” Tuá’s gentle voice roused her.

  Dárja blinked, suddenly aware of four pairs of eyes staring at her intently. What was she to say? Should she confess her guilt over Irjan or share her horror of the battle? Panic gripped her as she realized that she had nothing in common with these nieddaš.

  Dárja’s distress must have been evident because Tuá said in a rush, “We know you have suffered so much and experienced things we have not.”

  Then Ello’s bright voice interrupted, “I think you’re the bravest among us and I’m happy to see you.”

  “You do not have to speak of the past,” Ravna added.

  The lump in Dárja’s throat swelled. Her hand rose on its own to rub the exposed nape of her neck.

  “That’s right!” Birtá added, clapping Dárja vigorously on the back.

  Dárja rocked forward, a tiny cough escaping her.

  Birtá blushed, and they all began to laugh, including Dárja.

  “So, tell me about Marnej,” Ello encouraged, a sly smile twisting her full lips.

  “Ello!” the others chorused.

  “What?” she asked, her eyes wide with mocking innocence. “I’m merely curious about him.” Ello leaned in toward Dárja. “Does he snore?”

  The other nieddaš groaned, but Dárja laughed.

  “Yes! And he smells!” she confided.

  Ello grimaced, causing a round of giggling.

  When the laughter died down, Dárja wondered how long it had been since she’d truly felt light at heart. Before the battle. Before she learned the truth. But that was the past. In this moment, she just wished the lightness could continue.

  “Have you decided what trade you’ll take, now that you’re back?” Birtá asked, her plump cheeks still rosy atop her smile. “I’d love some company in the kitchen!”

  “Or in the fields,” Ello added hopefully. “Or maybe on the looms. Ávrá needs a good quick hand, one with a sharp eye.”

  “No one wants to work with hides,” Ravna said, her lament half-hearted.

  “Or the messy work of butchering the animals,” Tuá said.

  Dárja looked at their expectant faces, feeling heartened. It is good to be home, she thought. But some part of her was reluctant to answer their question. In truth, she didn’t have an answer. She’d trained to be a warrior. But their kind had no need for fighters now, nor would she be accepted among the remaining Taistelijan, even though she’d fought in the last battle. She was a nieddaš and would remain so for the rest of her long life. None of her friends would understand. None of them would share her experience. With or without Irjan, she was alone. The weight of this ill-timed insight pressed in on her, crushing her, body and spirit. In a panic to free herself and regain the carefree moment that had passed, she said without thinking, “I guess I’ll be a healer.”

  Dárja managed to affix a smile as a barrage of appreciative responses overwhelmed her. She imagined herself a healer, like Kalek, like her oktoeadni, Aillun. Dárja tried to dredge up the word Marnej had used. Then she remembered. Mother. Dárja repeated the word silently, sounding out its parts, telling herself, I will be a healer like my mother.

  “Oh, I’d like to be a healer too,” Ello spoke up. “Especially if I got to work with Kalek.” Ello’s grin widened, waiting for the other nieddaš to respond.

  “I thought you liked the look of Marnej,” Ravna said.

  “My eye finds many pleasing,” Ello said, looking down her freckled nose and feigning an air of dignity.

  Marnej had counted the days leading up to the full moon and then had counted those of its waning. He’d endured the sidelong glances of the Immortals and had ignored their disapproving whispers when he’d passed. Dárja had been withdrawn, rarely venturing from her sleep chamber. At a loss, Marnej had spent most of his time in the apothecary where at least the two healers welcomed him. But when both Okta and Kalek were working, his presence became too much. The healers endeavored to be kind and patient, but he had sensed their frustration, and had begun to make it his habit to go out into the surrounding forest.

  On these forays, Marnej encountered nature not as a force to be reckoned with or terrain that needed to be crossed quickly, but as a rich landscape of sight and sound that sometimes bewildered him with its beauty. Trees that had only been a forest to him became unique in their kind and their song. Birdsong that had merely heralded the arrival of morning or evening was transformed into a trilling of each moment in between, a reminder that everything was alive.

  At times, the Immortal world was too much for him. Too much to take in. Too much to feel. Too much to share. The profound discomfort he often felt drove him to action. But without guidance or a role among the Immortals, he fell back on the routine of practice and exercise from his days among the Brethren. Lately, however, he found himself creating an imaginary opponent to practice against until exhaustion claimed him. As a boy, he’d fought and killed his father in these made-up battles. But Irjan was now dead. That battle was over, if not resolved.

  Frost-outlined footsteps trailed behind Marnej as he crossed into the clearing where he usually practiced. In the golden hush of falling leaves, he drew his sword and cut the air before him. He wished he could’ve heard what his father thought of his form and style; whether his skill would’ve matched that of Irjan’s. On rare occasions, Marnej had heard
whispered praise among the Brethren of Irjan’s expertise. But now he knew why Irjan had been so skilled at hunting the Immortals.

  He was one himself. Like me, he thought.

  Both of them had used their hidden connection to do the impossible, and both had ended up traitors to their own kind. But Irjan had chosen to betray his oath. Marnej had not. He’d been forced to renounce his identity or lose his life. Then again, perhaps his father’s blood, his Immortal blood, ran so strong in him that he would’ve chosen this path eventually.

  Marnej swung his sword, slicing the crisp morning air, wanting to dispel the questions for which he had no answers.

  “Have care that you do not end up cutting yourself,” Kalek’s warm voice carried across the chilly clearing.

  Marnej spun, at once startled and embarrassed. In all the mornings he’d come here, he’d never seen another in this part of the woods. He’d begun to think of this glade as his own, which he knew to a real Immortal would’ve been preposterous because there was only ever the All. But then he wasn’t a real Immortal. Only part of him was. The bigger part was Olmmoš, and a Piijkij, as he’d been reminded on any number of occasions recently.

  Kalek knelt down on the edge of the clearing. Marnej retraced his steps through the melted frost. The bent grasses squelched under his weight. When he got close enough, he saw Kalek was studying the small, tear-shaped leaves of a low-lying plant. Marnej stood to the healer’s side, expecting Kalek to acknowledge his presence. But Kalek continued to observe the plant as if he were alone.

  Marnej became impatient. “Kalek,” he whispered.

  In the quiet forest, however, the whisper sounded like a shout.

  Kalek, if he did hear Marnej, ignored him and brushed the leaves of the plant, almost like a caress.