“Make yourself useful!” he shouted. “Take the pot from the fire, but use the leather gauntlet.”
Marnej sprang to his feet, following instructions. The room smelled bitter and sour.
“I’m sorry Kalek,” Dárja began to apologize.
Kalek held up his hand. “The healing arts require patience and attention. I will remind us both of this in the future.” He left Dárja’s side, then unrolled a length of linen, giving Marnej a withering glare.
“And I will remind you that the apothecary is not the bunk quarters of heavy-footed warriors. If you are weary, go to your bed. It will save us all your bellyaching. If you require assistance with a problem then please act with restraint and decorum.”
“I’m sorry Kalek,” Marnej apologized. “I’m tired and I’m frustrated. I want to do my part and contribute, but Úlla seems determined to punish me when I’ve done nothing to her.”
Kalek rounded on him. “Úlla lost her beloved in the battle. For all she knows, you were the one who dealt the last blow.”
Chastened and unable to think of anything else to say, Marnej mumbled contritely, “I’m sorry, Kalek. I didn’t know.”
“I do not require your apology,” Kalek said. “Nor do I think Úlla will accept one. Your greatest hurdle, Marnej, is to be humble.” The healer paused, then sighed. “Please try to understand that any task you do, even the most mundane chores, serves the lives of us all. So I say, thank you for chopping wood today. It should be Úlla’s place to say it, but until she can, I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“YOU HOLD THAT MIEHKKI like an Olmmoš,” Dárja said, trudging out into the snowy clearing.
Marnej’s slashing sword jerked to a stop.
“I’m sure the snow thanks you for showing mercy,” she added, quite enjoying the opportunity to make Marnej flush red in the face.
“So your hand has healed,” he said, raising his blade.
Dárja revealed the vibrant pink flesh of her palm which had recently been an angry cluster of blisters.
“It’s not my fighting hand,” she said, lifting the blade she carried.
“Seems a little thin,” he said.
“Like your skill?” she suggested.
Marnej swung low, forcing Dárja to jump back or lose the tops of her reindeer skin boots.
Without thinking, Dárja sliced the air with her blade, the tip finding something solid.
Marnej winced, his breath a sharp inhale.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sheathing her sword to move forward.
Márnej lashed out, catching Dárja’s shoulder through her furs. She grabbed her arm and held it tight, the sting overshadowed by her surprise.
“Shouldn’t you care for that?” Marnej asked, his grey eyes as icy as the snow around her.
“It’s just a small cut,” she said as she dropped her hand. “I’ve had worse. Move back and I’ll show you.”
Marnej dug in his heels, making a great pretense of holding his ground.
Dárja feinted left, then slashed right. Her thin blade cut the air with a lethal swipe.
Marnej leaped back just in time to avoid its bite.
“Running from a nieddaš?” Dárja asked, making light of her attack.
Marnej tightened his grip on his sword. “No, just avoiding a Taistelijan.”
Dárja heard the mockery in his words and rushed him, but Marnej deflected the attack while stepping backward.
“You intend to back your way out of the Pohjola?” she asked, her attention on Marnej’s footwork.
Marnej ducked under her high swing, then scooped up a handful of snow and threw it into her face.
Dárja swung blindly as she cleared the snow from her eyes, then froze, feeling the cold point of iron on her neck.
“Surrender and accept my terms,” Marnej said.
“Never,” she said, still wiping away the snow.
Marnej stood tall, his face serious, proud even. “Accept my terms.”
Dárja flinched as the point dug deeper. “Name your terms, and I’ll consider them.”
“Return to the apothecary, treat your wound, and admit defeat,” he said.
A reasonable enough request in other circumstances, but Marnej’s imperious tone and condescending smile made it impossible for Dárja to consider it. She needed some way to escape, to deny him his smug authority. Unfortunately, his long reach kept his body safe from her kicks, and the blade against her neck made any advance to close the gap unwise. But if I can knock aside the blade as I kick, she thought. I might have a chance.
“By agreeing to your terms, what do I get in return?” Dárja asked cautiously, alert to any changes in Marnej’s stance.
He began to laugh. With his head leaned back and his focus distracted, Dárja saw her opportunity. She swung both her sword and her leg around at the same time. Her blade pushed aside Marnej’s weapon and her foot landed in the crook of his arm. Off balance, he stumbled to the side, and Dárja sprinted into the open ground.
Behind her, she heard Marnej’s mumbled swearing, but she kept running, looking to the stone wall of the herb garden. She planned to use its height to her advantage.
Dárja was within sight of the herb garden’s border when Marnej’s great weight pushed her to the ground, burying her face in the snow. Dárja kicked and bucked to free herself until hands spun her around, dropping her on her back. She punched upwards with her sword hilt. Pain spiraled up her arm as the bones of her hand met even harder bone. Then, before she could move, Marnej sat astride her, pinning her arms to her side. Blood oozed from a cut above his left eye.
“Accept my terms and admit defeat,” he said, panting.
Dárja arched up to push him off, grunting. “Never.”
Marnej’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened into an ugly grimace. Then, to her amazement, he pushed himself off of her to stand.
“You are singularly incapable of accepting defeat,” he said, his disgust writ large as he wiped the blood streaming into his eye.
Dárja rolled to her feet, her heart pounding. “The same can be said of you,” she shouted at Marnej’s back as he stormed off through the dormant winter garden.
“You can’t accept being bested by me,” she taunted venomously. Marnej opened the apothecary door, then slammed it closed, loosening the snow on the long, sloping eaves. Dárja bounded after him. Ready with more cutting insults, she pulled open the door that just moments before had closed on his swaggering backside, then ran ahead into the apothecary’s work room.
Marnej was nowhere in sight. Dárja doubted he would disrespect the healers by hiding in their sleeping quarters. More than likely he had gone toward the forge. It was the only other place that his oversized opinion of himself had room enough to exist. Cheating son of a mud-covered boar!
With her indignation insisting on the last word, Dárja crossed the apothecary. She yanked open the door to the interior corridor, wincing. The cut to her shoulder began to throb in earnest, rapidly draining her interest in proving her point. The fire’s warmth behind her beckoned. She closed the door with a resounding thud, then stomped back to the fire where she threw herself into a chair.
“Cheating Olmmoš,” Dárja mumbled as the fire’s warmth seeped into her, making her aware of all the places in her body that ached.
When the door to the apothecary opened, Dárja jumped to her feet, ready with a fresh litany of outrage against Marnej. Her words died on her lips seeing Kalek enter the room.
“You are wet,” he commented, walking directly to the work table.
“It was Marnej!” Dárja all but shouted. “We were sparring. He got me at blade point, then demanded that I admit defeat. When I escaped, he chased me into the snow.”
Dárja slumped back down into the chair before the fire. “And I’m the one who can’t accept defeat,” she muttered to no one. “He’s the one who can’t accept defeat.”
“You are bleeding,” Kalek said, taking hold of her shoulder.
&n
bsp; Dárja twisted to look down at her arm. “It’s a small cut. I didn’t want to stop.” She shrugged out of the healer’s grasp. “Besides, you told me to practice with him.”
She resettled herself, a slight smile curling up. “Well, I showed him something of Irjan.”
“Take off your furs and shirt,” Kalek said, sitting down beside her. “You have earned another opportunity to learn something about healing.”
Dárja sighed heavily, then dutifully removed her outer layers and finally her tunic.
Tossing the clothing upon the work table, she stood with her hands on her hips. “Well, what will I need?”
“Let us see what you have learned so far,” Kalek said, leaning back. “Take what you believe you need and begin. I will correct you if you need correction.”
Dárja stared at Kalek, gauging his mood.
Comfortably ensconced in his chair, he gestured for her to begin.
Gods, Dárja hung her head, then resolved herself to gather what she needed. Clean linen, honey, wild garlic, and salt. As she made this mental list, she walked about the apothecary loudly protesting Marnej’s cowardly tactics and his loutish behavior.
Kalek sat with arms folded, his head cocked to the side like a curious bird.
Dárja drew water from the barrel, then stalked over to where the braided garlic hung.
“All he can ever do is argue,” she said, pulling off a head of garlic with a rough snap. The braided bunch swung into other drying herbs. Delicate leaves fell like a small flurry of snow. Dárja noted Kalek’s disapproval, but ignored the mess she’d made. She pulled free several garlic cloves, then crushed them on the work table under her palm with a satisfying crunch.
“In the time we’ve known each other, Marnej hasn’t changed at all. He’s arrogant and rude and insufferable.” Dárja banged her hand down again on the cloves as if to emphasize her point.
Kalek remained impassive, neither defending Marnej nor admonishing her. Dárja began to feel silly. She’d just called Marnej insufferable, but she was the one who had tromped around the apothecary like a mánná having a tantrum.
Dárja scooped out some boiling water and ladled some into the crushed garlic to make a paste. To the remaining water she added salt, stirring until the salt dissolved. Still she could not escape her fury. Marnej made her mad with frustration like no one else. Even her petty squabbles with Úlla were nothing compared to Marnej. Úlla had always judged Dárja harshly. That hadn’t changed since her return. And Dárja certainly didn’t envy Úlla having Marnej underfoot every day. A few moments was enough to make her want to scream. It was as if he deliberately wished to upset her.
Dárja blew across the salted water, then tested it with her elbow. Finding the liquid cool enough to apply, she placed her arm over a basin, then poured the hot, salty water down her shoulder. The sting made her draw in her breath through her clenched teeth. Dárja rinsed the fresh blood that seeped from the cut. The wound was deeper than she first thought, but she didn’t want to admit that Marnej had been right to be concerned. She scooped up the garlic paste and rubbed it across the wound. Besides, he’d pushed her into the snow. Dárja’s irritation flared, sparked in part by the bite of the garlic in her cut.
“Do you know, that clumsy Olmmoš sat on me like a moose about to calve,” she said, looking over to Kalek for some support. He merely raised his eyebrows.
Annoyed with his lack of response, Dárja went on, pleading her case. “I couldn’t get him off me. And when I refused to admit defeat, he stormed off.”
She went to the basin, rinsed the paste off, and then dried the cut. Pleased to see the wound no longer oozed, she spread a swath of amber honey across the cut, then took a strip of clean linen and went over to Kalek.
Handing the healer the strip of cloth, she held out her arm for her shoulder to be wrapped.
“He said I was incapable of accepting defeat,” she snorted in disgust.
Kalek worked quietly, intent on his task of tightly binding her shoulder. But Dárja perceived a reproof in his continued silence.
“What do you think, Kalek?” she asked, wanting to be vindicated.
The healer looked up, giving her a vague smile. “I think you should ask yourself why you are really angry.”
He stood and patted her arm, then reached for the broom. “Your work just now was quite good.”
Dárja looked over her wrapped shoulder to her mentor. Kalek was absorbed in sweeping up her earlier mess. She wanted to ask him what he’d meant, but that would just prove her querulousness. She knew why she was angry, but admitting it to herself was proving harder than she’d imagined.
Marnej stormed down the hall toward the forge. One moment Dárja acted the friend and then without warning she turned into a spitting badger. It made him think she still held him responsible for all her troubles, even though she now claimed it to be no one’s fault.
Marnej passed the dining hall. It was early for the midday meal, plus he’d no stomach for food. But he didn’t want to go to the forge just yet and endure the smug stares of the other smiths as he submitted to Úlla’s pecking scrutiny. She is worse than a barnacle goose on a nest. He backtracked to enter the dining hall, happy to find it sparsely occupied. Even though the Immortals no longer avoided him, no one welcomed him to sit with them either.
Just as well, he thought. Isolation suited his mood today. He just needed a moment’s peace to calm down and to collect himself.
Marnej sat down at one of the long tables, away from the fire. He rested his arms on the welcoming surface, then lowered his head, releasing the breath that he’d been holding.
“Didn’t they give you a place of your own to rest,” a voice behind him said.
A little peace. Is that too much to ask for? Marnej thought, raising his head.
Twisting to see who spoke, Marnej recognized Dárja’s friend, Birtá. The nieddaš stood with her arms crossed in front of her.
“I needed a quiet moment,” he said, his cheeks flushing as he met Birtá’s frank gaze. He turned quickly, hoping the she hadn’t noticed. What’s wrong with me? he inwardly cringed.
“Well, I’ve been friends with Úlla my whole life and she is nothing if not demanding,” Birtá said, drawing her own conclusions about what Marnej had shared. “Let me get you some stew. It’ll help.”
Marnej turned back in time to watch Birtá’s round face soften into a knowing smile.
“You stay here,” she said.
Birtá left him, a sigh escaping her which Marnej couldn’t decipher. Perhaps he irritated her as well. And why not? he thought. It seemed to be a skill he’d perfected since coming to the Pohjola.
Birtá returned to his side sooner than he’d anticipated. Her plump curves had fooled him into believing her more measured than the others. It was another mistake in his judgment.
“Thank you,” Marnej said, taking the bowl of stew she offered, not wanting to give offense.
“You should eat while it’s hot.” Birtá motioned to him not to dawdle.
Under her watchful gaze, he took his first bite of the stew still convinced he had no appetite.
The wonderful meaty broth filled his mouth. “Mmm,” he mumbled as his body changed its mind and decided it was, in fact, hungry. Marnej took a couple of spoonfuls in quick succession.
Seemingly pleased, Birtá left him to return to the kitchen.
Marnej ate what remained, then used his finger to wipe down the sides of the bowl. He licked his finger with a wet smack of contentment.
“That good?” a voice said.
Marnej looked up from the empty bowl to see another of Dárja’s friends, and nearly groaned, managing a cough instead.
“Can I sit with you?” she asked, and before Marnej could answer, the red-headed nieddaš with freckles bridging her nose sat down across from him.
“I’m Ello,” she offered.
“I’m Marnej,” he answered slowly.
She giggled, revealing small white teeth, perfectly l
ined up like soldiers. “I know who you are. We all do.”
Marnej put his bowl down. “I suppose that’s true.”
Ello leaned in over the table to whisper conspiratorially, “We talk about you all the time.”
Marnej’s alarm must have been evident because Ello immediately added, “Nothing bad. I mean mostly. Is it true Dárja saved you?”
The nieddaš took a bite of her stew while watching him. Marnej wanted to be annoyed with her but her sweet open face showed only inquisitiveness.
“We saved each other,” he said.
Ello blew a red curl out of her face, then took another spoonful of her food. “Úlla told me you’re her apprentice. I work in the fields.”
This time Marnej could not stop himself. “She calls me her apprentice?”
“When she’s feeling kindly,” Ello snickered, then began choking.
Marnej stood to help, but the nieddaš waved him down. She cleared her throat.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Ello nodded.
“I’m more her lackey than her apprentice,” he said, sitting down.
“Well, Úlla doesn’t like you. You’re a Piijkij, and you fought in the battle,” Ello paused. Seeming to sense she was headed into a dangerous subject, she promptly changed topics. “But, Úlla probably treats everyone who works with her as a lackey. She treats me like I’m still a mánná, just because she’s so much older than me. But she hasn’t had a guide child yet. Well, she refused it when she found out Kálle had died.” Ello’s lively chatter ended abruptly. She shoved a spoonful of the stew into her mouth, looking embarrassed.
“How old are you?” Marnej asked, curious now that the subject of age had come up.
“I’m between my third and fourth mihttu,” she said, still chewing on her stew.
“Is that old?” he asked, not really understanding what she meant.
Ello wiped her mouth, then grinned. “No. I’m quite young. Dárja’s younger than me though. She’s between her second and third measure.”
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 22
