Old Dark Things

by Hob Goodfellowe

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH

  Dull drifts of snow snaked through he woods and formed white hills against the windward side of everything: the trees, the rocks, the little cottage they left behind. Even, thought Kevlulf, against his own boots if he stood still much longer. "The cave?"

  "About half a day's walk along the Woodbourne, so the old stories go," said Lilia.

  "East then, along the riverbank. We should keep to the south shore, for Alraun's ilk haunt the other bank. And the other two champions have quite a head start?"

  She nodded, and wrapped her arms a little tighter about her chest. "They will have left hours ago, I expect."

  He was quiet for a time before saying, "You know, we may have to take it from one of them? The crown. If it comes to that."

  Her voice was small. "I know. Let's not speak of that for now."

  They found the rivulet and followed it. The course cut lazily through snowy mounds and swirled beneath thin crusts of glassy ice. There was a path along the southern bank--an old, narrow, muddy track that was often eaten away completely by the stream wherever it ran up to the outer edge of a bend. Several times they had to make a path by clambering over roots or a clayey bank, or descending to the stream and jumping from rock to slippery rock. It would have been sort of fun in summer. Kveldulf shook the thought away. It was not summer, and this was not some outing in the woods. He was finding that his mind was sliding back to old memories more than usual lately.

  A summer day. The sound of children's laughter. Odd, how he had not thought of that day for so long. So many years ago. Strange to think of it now.

  "Kveldulf, look." Lilia was a little way ahead, and standing lopsided on the slope. Kveldulf blinked, and pulled his mind out of past.

  Up the bank, through a carpet of dead, brown bracken Lilia was pointing at two great shadows. At first glance, Kveldulf thought he saw some sort of guardians lurking in the woods, looming watchers, powerful and hunched.

  "Kveldulf?"

  A voice from somewhere.

  "Kveldulf?"

  He shook his head. The feeling was gone. It was just a rock. Two towering stones set in the earth.

  "This place feels bad." Lilia shivered. "Cold. I think we should move on, quickly."

  "That would be wise. This is an old path they were on now. A way for the dead to walk, and there are more guardians upon it than your sister or your lover could conjure." Kveldulf did not dare take his eyes from the stones. He watched for the slightest sign of life as they walked nearer the rocks.

  "Please don't call him that."

  "What?"

  "Alraun. You called him my lover. If you must make fun of me, then, past-lover. One-time lover. But he is not that now. Don't call him that."

  "I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun of you. I just didn't think?"

  "That's alright," she said, then, pausing for breath, she added, "Kveldulf? Look."

  Kveldulf looked up at the stones, blinked, and the vision of the guardians appeared and flickered away again. It was disconcerting, and he did not like the feel of the two stones at all. "Yes? What is it?"

  "There is a path between the standing stones. It follows the stream. It is a little overgrown, but..." her voice trailed off.

  "But?"

  "It is trampled. They have come this way. Sigurd and Alraun's champion."

  Kveldulf caught up with her, then stopped on the slope and looked down at the pair of standing stones. His insides felt like they had shrivelled into a frozen ball of ice. He noticed that Lilia's teeth were chattering too. Scanning the ground, Kveldulf knelt, then ran a hand over the muddied path.

  "You're right. Two went this way. A horse and rider, and..." his brow knotted, "a deer perhaps? But a deer like none that I have ever hunted. It was huge. As large as a big plough horse. Hm. Well, whatever left these tracks, they moved with swift abandon, not caring to conceal themselves. Should be easy to follow."

  They moved on, passing between the two stone guardians. Kveldulf kept a hand on his silver knife while they were under the shadow of the looming stones, but nothing untoward happened. Soon enough they were past the twin stones and following the river path. Without encountering any immediate barriers, they wandered on, keeping the river on their left. Beneath a forest grown old, and hung with the rot of years, the hoof-prints were etched into the snowy soil. Soon, flagstones began to appear, now and again, though mostly they were overgrown with last summer's brown weeds. This had been a paved way once, if very long ago.

  Kveldulf detected an odd sensation, and turned his eyes to the woods, paused.

  Something quick and small passed from behind one tree to another. Kveldulf said nothing, but as he followed Lilia he kept a more careful eye on the shadows. Then, glancing at his feet, Kveldulf nearly tripped over with surprise.

  Around one of his feet was a patch of grass. Green as emerald, and studded with small flowers. Daisies.

  "Lilia?" he looked up, but she was gone. Winter was gone. Summer clothed every tree, birds preened, and bickered, and chirruped in the branches.

  A step forward. Where was she? Where was he for that matter?

  On the path ahead, another small and darting shape appeared, only to vanish.

  Kveldulf took off at a sprint. Laughter tumbled on the air--sly, happy, childish laughter. There, he spotted a stir in the green leaves. Breaking through a tangle of honeysuckle Kveldulf leapt out into a sun-shot glade. "Where are you, what manner of sorcery are you..." But he stopped. And he stared. And then, his lip trembled, and a tear gathered at the edge of his eye.

  "Father?"

  "No," he stepped back. "No." Little Dotta stood in a blaze of sunlight. She was wearing her blue dress, the one embroidered with a pattern of flowers and bees. Just as he remembered her, before... "Dotta?"

  "Yes, father."

  "I..."

  "Kveldulf, always lazing about. Did you even think to start a cooking fire." Yrsa stepped lightly between two silver birches, carrying a basket in one arm. Kalv, and Joar were jostling one another behind her. "Stop that," said Yrsa to the boys. "Anyone would think you two were uncouth little monsters."

  "Father, father," cried Kalv. "Did you bring a deer? You did."

  He looked down. At his feet was a gutted, but not yet skinned carcass, of a large doe. Just as he remembered. He would skin it now, and they would roast the meat and eat it with chunks of Yrsa's thick grainy bread, and he and Yrsa would drink from a skin of mead, and they would all laugh, all afternoon. Yrsa would make the doeskin into a cloak for him. And he would wear it for years to come. It would be the last gift she would give to him before--

  "No," he said. "No, this is not the summer of my youth. You, you are all--"

  "Father?" said Dotta with a worried voice.

  "You are scaring the children, Kveldulf. Can you not let bygones be bygones. Let us rest for a bit. Let us enjoy being here, with you? We've been so long apart."

  "You are not real."

  "I know not how," said Yrsa, "I know not why, but we are here. We are real. With you. I remember nothing since... since, the last day we were together. Nothing since then, but here we are. Can't you just be happy. You cannot have soured so much over the years. Look at you. She walked up to him, touched gentle fingers to his cheek. Your lovely face is all marred with permanent scowls."

  "This is a trick."

  "You would send us away? You would send away your children? Into darkness? Into cold?"

  "You are not real," said Kveldulf. "Oh by the old gods and new, you cannot be." But his defences crumbled a little inside then. What if they were real? What if the magic in this place wasn't weaving illusions, but had actually summoned their shades? They looked so much like he remembered. Come here." He gathered Yrsa in his arms, he smelled her. Surely illusions did not smell like that. Not so good. "Yrsa," he whispered.

  "I know, I know. I have missed you too. We all have."

  "Where have you been?"

  "I told you. I cannot remember. A moment ago, everything felt c
lear, but now, all I can feel is this, here, now. You and me, and our perfect summer, and the children."

  "I want this so much. I have wanted this for so long, but--"

  "But what?" She leaned back a little and brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. "What could be more important than what you have here?"

  For a long time Kveldulf looked in her eyes. Searched her greens and golden browns. He looked over at Dotta, drawing a butterfly in the dirt with a stick. Looked at Kalv and Joar tussling on the grass.

  "Hold me," she said gently. "Just hold me."

  "No."

  "Kveldulf?"

  "I want too." He ran a finger down her cheek. "You cannot fathom how much I want to. But this is not real. Maybe you are, in some strange way. I hope to the ice and high sun that you are real, but this," he waved a hand at earth and sky, "this day, this summer, this is memory. This is no longer real. It is all gone. Years and years ago."

  "Don't leave us. I am real, Kveldulf. Put your hand to my chest. My heart beats there."

  Placing his hand to her chest, he gazed at her and his face expressed a sad smile. "No," he said, "you are mistaken, no heart beats there." It was true. He couldn't feel a heartbeat. "Goodbye, my wife. I love you, Yrsa. I will love you until the world ends in brimstone and storm. My heart bleeds for you."

  "Bleeds?" said Yrsa. Her voice shook with fury. "Bleeds, Kveldulf? You talk of love and devotion, and yet you shirk your family off so easily? You know nothing of bleeding, Kveldulf. Nothing." Her whole body was tense, her hands were fists. "Look at what it is too bleed."

  Everything changed.

  The air turned from clean and warm, to musty and smoky. They were inside their little cottage. Inside the cottage Kveldulf built with his own hands from golden yew and coppery rope. And everything was red. Soaked with crimson. Spattered with it. Even Yrsa. No. Especially Yrsa.

  He looked away.

  "Look at me." Look at what you did to us. Look."

  Dotta, and Kalv, and Joar were there too, huddled together, with red streaks clotting their skin, running in sluggish ribbons over their whole bodies.

  "Dadda?" said Dotta, "why?"

  "No," said Kveldulf, holding his voice level. "I did not do this. I would never have done this. Never. Not in my most fevered dreams. It was her. It was the other. The she-wolf. She came here, into my home. It was she who killed you."

  "You don't believe that."

  "Yrsa would know." He fixed his wife with a firm gaze, and laid a hand on her bloodied, torn open shoulder. "She would know that I would never have done this. She would know there is more good in me than this. I am not evil."

  Her eyes were cruel. "So say you."

  "You," said Kveldulf, "are not my wife. Perhaps you once were. Perhaps you are nothing but englamoured memories and doubts." Kveldulf stood back from her and turned his anger to the sky. "Alraun," yelled Kveldulf, "Alraun, call off your glamours. I will not lie down and die of cold, thinking I am warm in the arms of happiness. Nor will I crawl up in a ball of terror and self-loathing. Call them away."

  He waited a moment. Nothing happened.

  Kveldulf laid a hand on the iron knife. "I warn you, Alraun."

  And with that all the red bleed away, drifting on the air as blood would in water. Little Dotta, curly-haired Kalv, smiling Joar, and Yrsa, beautiful, caring, gentle Yrsa--they all blew away on the wind. And all he could hear for a moment was their cries of pain, and sobs of tears.

  Kveldulf fell to his knees. He was shivering terribly. It took a while to realise that he was doubled up in the snow. He was cold. Blue tinged the tips of his fingers, and frost whitened his beard. He wanted to retch.

  Lilia was nowhere to be seen.

  -oOo-

  "Yes?" Lilia turned about and took a step back to reply. The path was empty but for shadows and mud-blackened snow.

  "Kveldulf?" She put her hands on her hips. "Where in the Night-Queen's hall has that man got to?" Turning back to the path, she was assaulted with an almost overpowering wall of warmth. Rich smoky air eddied around her; air that arose from a blazing hearth.

  A hearth? Lilia shook her head, tried to clear her vision, and looked around herself again. A small, comfortable room. A tapestry of horsemen and greyhounds splashing through a ford, with hills rolling behind them. A rug of bearskin stretched by the fireplace.

  "I know this place."

  "Of course you do, love. Come and sit awhile. I am feeling a little better today."

  "Maybe you will be well again soon, mother." It was what she said the first time, so long ago. It seemed like the only right thing to say now.

  "I hope so. Oh, I hope so." He mother was rocking in a chair, with some embroidery heaped, forgotten in her lap. The smells were so warm and inviting. Dried sage and rosemary hung in bundles from the rafters.

  "Is father here, too?"

  "No, love. He had taken Rosa out hunting."

  "He does like to take her hunting, mother. Very often." She was departing the memory now. She had not said that last time.

  For a moment, her mother looked away. When she turned back, her expression was uncomfortable. "Let's not talk of it. Let's speak of more pleasant things, shall we, you and me. I can send for some wine. Do you prefer white or the poorman's red? Dear me. I do not even know what my own daughter likes in a drink. You keep yourself to yourself too well, Lilia."

  "Yes, I get shy sometimes. It is easier to be away from people." This was back in the rut of memory. Just exactly what they had said the first time. Now mother would send for the wine. And they would drink. Then talk. Then another bottle. They would talk some more. Talk as a mother and daughter ought to. Talk about hopes, and dreams, and gossip, jokes, thoughts and idle reflections. It would be the first time Lilia would feel close to her mother since the day she stopped hanging from her skirts. And tomorrow, mother's unnatural illness would take a sudden turn for the worse. It would be over very soon then.

  "Mother?"

  She looked up, taking her gaze away from the smouldering flames. Her eyes looked older, more watery than Lilia remembered. Was this how her unconscious mind's eye recalled her? Sad. Old. Withered. Her hair had grey in it that never streaked the memories. Yes, thought Lilia, this is how she had really looked. Lilia had spent so much time making herself forget.

  "Yes, love?"

  "Rosa is not a good child," it was she who poisoned you and father." Her face flushed hot, as if she were a tattletale, with stories about her sister stealing apples from the orchard, "I mean, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. It was cruel. I just..."

  Sadness spread over her mother's lips. "I know dear. I know. But, please, remember its not all her fault, and also remember that I loved you both." She let her hands run over the embroidery. "I still do. Did anyone finish this? There are two birds left to stitch into the pattern. One white, one red. It's probably lying dusty in my keepsake chest, isn't it?" The embroidery took on a terribly stark aspect to Lilia's eyes, as if the birds and beasts were outlined in shadow and fire, and ready to leap from the cloth. "You must know. You cannot blame her, not truly, not bitterly. She would be angry, after all. Angry with your father. Angry with me, for though I suspected, I did nothing. I said nothing. It is not an easy thing to discuss."

  "Know what?"

  "Oh, it is better this way, love. Better not to know." Her smile was warm, but waxen. "Better this way. Here. Sit. Drink. Lets us talk, you and me. Talk like we did that night. A strange thing--that night, I realised I'd spent so much time worrying about one daughter, that I had entirely forgotten that I had another."

  "You didn't seem to be very worried about me."

  "No, of course not. I was worried about Rosa."

  "I see. I have to go, mother."

  "One drink? Please. I am so lonely here."

  "No. The Veld is in peril, mother. There is no other. No one but I can save it, the people, your home. My home. Do you understand?"

  Her mother breathed a sigh. Her thin shoulders sunk w
ith it, her once-full lips saddened. "Yes," she said. "I think I was not such a good choice for this. Whoever conjured me out of the past to keep you here, they made a mistake. You never loved me very much, Lilia. I suppose that is fair. Why would you love a mother who never really looked at you? Never."

  Lilia held back an urge to tears. She bit her breathing, short, sharp, truncated little huffs of air. She could only say, "I'm sorry. Truly, sorry, mother," and then, "goodbye."

  Like smoke rolling over water it all fell apart. Every last stone of the room. The colours of the tapestry. The hot embers in the hearth. Her mother. Soon it was nothing but mist and memory, and she was standing in a drift of snow with pines around her.

  -oOo-

  Kveldulf found her standing there, staring into the deepening night air. She had not walked off the path at least, but her cloak had fallen open around her shoulders, letting in the cold, and her hands were lax at her side. Her staff lay where it had fallen, forgotten in the snow. The wind must have been chilling her bitterly about the neck and chest, but she hardly shivered.

  "Lilia?" He touched her arm.

  "Yes." When she turned to answer her eyes were wet and red-rimed.

  "Where are you?"

  "Here, with you. In this accursed wood, at night, in the snow. Damn this. Damn Rosa. Damn Alraun."

  "Your staff. You left it on the ground." He scooped it up and held it out.

  She took it and clutched it in white knuckles before shutting her eyes. "Thank you."

  "Do you need to talk? Do you want to?"

  "Do you?" The reply was scathing.

  "No."

  "Then good. Let us be going. The lady and her champion. The loveless two. Oh, how they shall remember us. Lilia, oh Lilia, oh who would champion Lilia? Lilia the cold. Lilia the alone. Lilia the aloof. She had to buy her champion, that one, bought him with promises and bargains."

  Kveldulf narrowed his eyes. "It was Alraun's peril, I think."

  She said nothing. Just stared into the night.

  "I could smell his charms on the air as the visions faded away."

  "Where they real?" asked Lilia.

  "I thought you didn't want to talk about it."

  She looked down. "I don't"

  "Good. You were right. We should be moving, or else the cold will kill us before Alraun or Rosa have a chance to."

  "Yes."

  They moved on, shushing through the now thicker snow. The path became wider, and though rife with overgrowth, also easier to follow. It was a tunnel, roofed with the myriad hands of a thousand trees, edged with a hundred thousand fingers of frost. In places they had to really slough through the dunes of snow. Putting one weary foot after another. Even following the mess of hoof marks, trailing after the two champions who had tramped down the snow ahead of them, it was hard going.

  "Do you smell that?"

  Lilia breathed deeply and tilted her head, as if she were indulging in a heady perfume. "Yes. There is something. How odd. The air smells of flowers."

  A little way ahead, the path shrunk down into a hollow of shadows, and a gap where the air looked open. As they drew nearer, the lines of the trees began to edge with small scratches of light that flickered. But they were not the hue of flames. They were whiter, and more eerie.

  "I think we may have found Rosa's peril," said Lilia, then her lips curved with a wry smile. "Or maybe a roadside campfire, with grinning traders, and liberal barrels of wine."

  "I would say the former, Lilia. Though I'd not mind the latter."

  "You? Laugh, sing and dance? No. That, I would have to see to believe."

  "I was happy once, Lilia." The words were difficult. They dredged up too much with them. "Once." He shrugged and put the thoughts out of his mind. "But it was a long time ago."

  "It is growing brighter."

  "We are closer, m'lady."

  The forest dwindled away on both sides of the path, and turned to a low scramble of gorse, and great snow capped boulders. A huge gash tore through the earth here, a rocky crevice, and from deep in this blackness arose the tumbling noise of rushing water. Spanning this gap was a bridge, old and made of roughly cut slabs of slate packed tightly together.

  The thing that was giving off the light and smell of roses was on the bridge, a burning, towering pillar, a white torchflame seven or eight feet tall. No. Not a torch. Something else. They edged closer on careful feet, and Kveldulf did not take his eyes off the blaze of light. Somewhere in there was a shape that might have been human, and behind it fanned out two great wing-like flares that beat rhythmically. Light played all about it, and rippled, liquid lightning brushing on the stone of the bridge.

  A sudden, forceful grab at the arm took Kveldulf's attention back to Lilia.

  "Look," she said, "dear Ladies both, look." Where she pointed, there was a heap on the road before the vision of wrought-light. Two legs that looked something like a horse stuck into the air, and the rest of the body was twisted into an uncomfortable mangle. For a moment Kveldulf thought it might be Sigurd and his horse, and he was surprised by the relief he felt when he saw that the blood that seeped and pooled was silver, and sparkled in the fiery light. As they stared it twitched.

  "Alraun's champion," said Kveldulf. "And not quite dead.

  "No sign of Sigurd?" said Lilia.

  "No, he must have passed by."

  "Perhaps Rosa told it to only stop Alraun's ilk? We might be able to pass it without it even raising a glance." She peered at the pillar of light. "What is it?"

  Before Kveldulf could answer, the being of light seemed to decide that they had come close enough. It raised a hand and spoke. It was as if everything, every crystal of ice in the trees, every rock, the air itself reverberated and formed a voice for it.

  "I am Etheram Lo Ethastaroth, and I am set to guard this bridge."

  Kveldulf bowed to it, and husking his voice said to Lilia, "Be polite. If there is one way to treat with spirits, it is with politeness." Then raising his voice a little, he said, "Good day to you, Etheram Lo Ethastaroth, and well met. May we not pass over your bridge? We were not sent by Alraun of the woods. That is true and my oath is given."

  Though the spirit owned no eyes, its graceful head turned once to Kveldulf, then once to Lilia, before he said, "She may pass. You may not."

  "Why?" said Lilia, strangely calm.

  Kveldulf looked at her with as much seriousness in his gaze as he could muster. "Do not anger it," he said through gritted teeth.

  "I have been set here to prevent any that is not of mortal soul from passing this bridge. She is of mortal soul. You? You were once mortal, I think, but I am unsure as to what you are now. Therefore you may not pass. That is my decision."

  "What are you?" said Lilia, then looked down, and cleared her throat. "I was wondering, are you one of the host of herself, the Brightness Queen? Are you a godling?"

  "Men have called me both godling and demon in the pages of their countless foolish scriptures. I am both, and I am neither. I am spirit. I am outside this world. I am before all, and after all. I am glorious, and wrathful. I am spirit."

  "Damned spirits," said Kveldulf, "always speaking in bloody riddles. So, you must wait and guard this bridge--until?"

  "There was no stated end to the sorcery that chained me here. I await until I am released by she who bound me."

  "Ros-" but Kveldulf put his hand up to Lilia's mouth. For a brief moment she glared at him as if he had assaulted her in a drunken rage, then slowly, she pushed his hand away and said, "What?"

  "Do not say her name. Names have power, and spirits and sorcerers both know this. Your sister might not have given the spirit her real name." Kveldulf ran a hand over his trim, stubbly beard, and licked the inside of his teeth. "She who bound you here? How she is known? "

  "She is known as the Lady of Veld. By that I am bound."

  Kveldulf smiled. "I thought as much. She would not tell it her real name. Too risky." He spoke more loudly. "And you are bound until the Lady of Ve
ld releases you?"

  "I am."

  "Lilia?"

  For a moment her eyes remained confused, then she understood, and gave a tremulous smile. Wetting her lips she said, "You may go free. I release you."

  "You did not bind me."

  "No, but I am a Lady of Veld. Listen to my words, if you have that power. You will know the truth of it."

  Etheram Lo Ethastaroth was silent for some time, and the floating wisps of light that tasselled his body fell to stillness too. "Tricks of words, though I am bound by them. I am free then, no more bound to my charge, no more shall I do what I was bid." Its voice was level, devoid of even the slightest hint of emotion as he said this. "But this I will ask. For I am said to be both kind and vengeful, and it is right to seek revenge on any sorceress who binds me on a whim. I see no love in your soul for the other, the sorceress who bound me. Tell me, what is her true name, for I could work great misery on her, if I but knew that."

  Kveldulf remained silent. When Lilia looked at him, he merely shrugged. This was her decision.

  "No," she said at length. "I know not what you would do to her, but... yes, I may not love my sister, but I do not hate her either. Not that much," she said in a smaller voice.

  With a slow nod of his head, Etheram Lo Ethastaroth's body began to drift away, caught up on the wind.

  "Should you not return to whence you came?" said Kveldulf as the spirit lifted higher in the air.

  "No, for I am now free in this world, and have wont to wander for a time. There is a village where folk curse me for a demon, and another where they worship me for an god. I must visit blessings on one, and pestilence upon the other."

  "Just because some people fear him, he is going to set a plague upon them?"

  "Perhaps," said Kveldulf, "or maybe the thing means to plague those who love him, and bless those who hate him. Spirits are like that." He folded his arms and looked up at the fast vanishing phantom of light, "Come, Sigurd must have already passed the bridge. We've precious little time. That is, unless--"

  "He is already dead. In the caves somewhere."

  "Yes. Unless that."

  Their feet scuffled the stone as they crossed the bridge. There were fewer trees on the far side of the defile, just small scrubby hawthorns and gorse, mostly. The path grew wider again here though, and it was lined in places by small standing stones. Some were toppled. Some still stood upright. Many looked as if they had been purposely brought down, and a few were broken and cut as if someone a long time ago had taken to them with a pick.

  "You know," said Lilia, "I have no wish to hurt him. Sigurd, I mean."

  "And you think I do? He is a kind man. A good man. He reminded me for a while what is was to have something like a friend. A pity how things turn out sometimes."

  "Yes. Do you know, in all the years that he courted my sister, I never knew his whole name. Never asked, not even once." A moment of thought. "No wonder she hates me so much. She must think me cold and unfriendly."

  "I doubt she hates you," said Kveldulf. "She may resent you, or feel she has reasons to be upset. But hate?"

  "You do not know Rosa very well, do you, Kveldulf? Ah, what does it matter? She was the one everyone in the Veld loved, you know? They all thought I was a poor excuse for a noble daughter. They all thought the inheritance should have been the other way around. No one wanted me to ascend the throne. I could hear it in their voices, whenever I spoke to anyone. Eventually, it was too much. I hid to stop them judging me."

  "And now you desperately want the throne?"

  "To stop Rosa or Alraun ruling? Yes. Both of them are too much in love with having power over others."

  "And what if your people are unhappy with you? You said yourself, they probably prefer her."

  She nodded. "I will make amends. I will work for the Veld. I know that I am not a very lovable person, but will convince the Veld, in time, that at least I have their interest to heart. I hope." She looked at the path in front of them. "Are those Sigurd's tracks?"

  "Yes." Kveldulf stopped to look closely at the ground, then said, "Sigurd rode this way, but he has not yet come back by it." He paused. "And you should not say such things about yourself. You are still young, and alive, and, well, someone who others might love too, in your way. You've still time yet to make others see that."

  "In my way? What a fine compliment."

  "Don't unpick a complement. Life is to be lived, Lilia. Seize it. Enjoy it. That is all I can say. I've walked a long time among shadows. So long, that I have almost forgotten what it is to stand in the sunshine, and just laugh for the sake of it. Laugh to be happy. Like I said, you're thoughtful, even tempered, clever. Sometimes even funny, too." He smiled. "Maybe not wise, but I'm sure what friends you will make in life will be very happy to share their wisdom with you. Most people are happy to do that."

  She kissed him politely on the cheek without warning. He stopped and looked at her with a puzzled expression clouding his face.

  "Thank you." Her smile was shy.

  "For what? If you are thanking me for getting you this far, it might be better to wait until we are done."

  "Yes," and she began walking, "well, for that too."

  They walked together around one of the more massive, weather-pocked standing stones, and then over the crest of a small stone rise. Stretching before them was a low expanse of snowy earth spreading up to the foot of a high-peaked hill. The hill was crowned with a ring of broken stones. The sky behind was grey and boiling with thick cloud, making bold the hill, so that it seemed almost silver and unearthly. There was a small trickle of water snaking beside the path. It twined across the ground before disappearing into the gaping mouth of a large, black cave that stood like a gash, torn into the base of the stone-topped hill.

  "Look," she pointed. "It's Soothoof." Lilia broke into a short run, and threw her arms about the horse's neck. Soothoof whisked his tail, and folded his ears back. "This used to be Thane Hergard's horse. Not Sigurd's. I wonder where Rauthus is?" She patted the horse behind the ear. "I used to go down to the stables with apples now and again. You like half an apple, don't you?" She scratched his chin.

  Kveldulf walked towards the cave, circling a little away from the horse, while keeping a good distance from the beast. Still, the animal looked at him as he approached, and scraped the ground with one hoof.

  "He is worried."

  "He would be. But it's nothing to trouble us." He nodded at the hill. "The cave. I presume that is where Sigurd has gone, and where we will find the crown." Kveldulf peered at the inky interior. "Perhaps he is in there still?"

  "Yes. I have a wisp-torch. Three actually. Helg thought to pack them. Will they be enough?"

  "Hopefully."

  Kveldulf worked with a flint and a small pile of dry tinder until he had a flicker of flame dancing for him. As soon as they put the straw and resin torch to flame, it crawled greedily.

  "The smoke is going to make it tricky to breath," said Kveldulf, "and caves are not kind places. They are cold, and damp, and muddy. There are deep chasms, which may not even have a bottom."

  "Then you had best lead."

  "Are you sure you would not rather stay here? With the horse?"

  "I have come this far, Kveldulf. If you think that here, now, I will slink off to cower, and wait for someone else to risk their life and--"

  "Merely asking," said Kveldulf.

  He held the torch in his right hand, and used the left to steady himself as the trudged past ferns, then onto the slope that led down into the maw of the cave. There was a pool of water in the throat of the entrance. A little stream of water flowed into it from above then trickled away deeper into darkness.

  "Careful," said Kveldulf, "the mud is treacherous here. Step where Sigurd has stepped." His footsteps were clear and sunk deep in the silty cave-mud.

  "You know, I can barely see anything with you waving the torch about."

  "You can still go back?"

  "No." She slid once on the mud, an
d then walked half-stooped past the pool. "This reminds me of the fine clay potters use." She sniffed her grey-caked fingers. "It has such a strange smell."

  "Hm? I suppose so." He held the torch up and cast light around the dripping stone of the tunnel. "I don't think there are any side tunnels. Old tombs are often entered by crawl-spaces. Just as the babe crawls out of a womb, the shamans of the dead used to crawl with the dead back into the earth. But there is only one main passage. I suppose the dead were brought down here, and carried along this way?"

  Kveldulf walked up to a surface and held the torch close to it. It guttered and flared as he waved moved it. "There are carvings here. Old carvings. Men and horses. Battles. Hunts."

  "If there is just one path, then it should be easy to follow, then?"

  "Well, 'easy' is a relative term, but yes."

  They had not gone far when they found the first of the alcoves. It was little more than a nook carved into the wall of the cave with a heap of ash-blackened bones and a human skull. More and more of the alcoves appeared as they moved deeper.

  "So many of them," said Lilia. "I feel as if they are staring at us."

  Kveldulf glanced back at her. "You're shivering."

  "I'm cold."

  "Of course."

  "Look, a bracelet." Lilia was reaching out for the gold band. It lay in a jumble with its former master's bones. Her fingers were almost brushing it when Kveldulf's hand grabbed at her wrist.

  "Let the dead keep their treasures."

  When he let go, she rubbed her wrist, and frowned.

  "Sorry," said Kveldulf, "I did not mean to hurt you."

  "And I did not mean to keep it."

  "And how would the dead know that? If there are shades in these caves, they will be shrivelled, ugly, jealous things. They'll only remember what is was to be human in the saddest, most distant and miserly way. The dead who do not sleep turn either wild or bleak in time. It is the good who sleep in the earth."

  "And how would you know this?"

  "I know what it is like to have been human, Lilia. Believe me. Nothing that has ever lost its humanity can be the better for it."

  "Even you?" she said.

  "Even me."

  The rows of stone-cut graves thickened until the cave was a honeycomb of dark spaces spotted with skulls. Some were very old, yellowed, and little more than dry bone. Others, although still ancient, seemed more recent. A few still had hair, or small clinging tatters of armour.

  "Steps," said Kveldulf holding the torch so that it cast a wide pool of sputtering light and shadow. "Cut into the bedrock."

  "And a door," Lilia pointed up at an arch of stone, also carved into the living stone, and graven deep with a riot of serpentine patterns, and deep angular runes.

  "Here enter the dead," said Kveldulf.

  Lilia looked at him with a peculiar smile. "Suddenly poetic?"

  "The runes read that. Here enter the dead."

  They descended the steps, and trod lightly into the cavern beyond. It was an echoing hole, too tall for the light of the torch to reach the roof, and as wide as the great hall in the Toren. Every inch of the walls was now incised with an alcove, and from every alcove stared two black eyes. Somewhere in the distance the melodic drip of water from the roof pervaded the silence.

  "There," said Kveldulf. "The lordly dead."

  Made murky by distance and smoke form the torch, there stood fourteen low plinths of rock, not limestone as with the rest of the cave, but marble. The marble must have been quarried in distant lands, imported, and hauled into this place from above.

  "Fourteen," said Lilia, "the fourteen heathen Eorls of the Veld. Buried here before Erhath the Devout threw the idols of the old gods into the river and commanded that all worship the Sun Queen. But where is Sigurd? He should have found his way here, and we could not have missed each another on the way."

  The first of the plinths was the resting place for a man dressed in the rotting, rusted links of an old hauberk of steel. A knotted sword lay on his legs, and a shield was his pillow. Kveldulf brushed some mud and dust from the base of the plinth.

  "Erhald."

  "Erhath the Devout's father," said Lilia. Her arms were wrapped tight about her chest and she was trembling visibly. "The farthest of the dead must be Feold."

  "Let us hope he is still wearing his crown."

  Kveldulf turned his startled face up--a thunder of echoes had just flitted about the cavern--it was Lilia. She had leapt into a sudden sprint, but not towards the last plinth.

  "Lilia? Lilia!" Kveldulf took off after her. The cave must have once, long ago, been cut smooth or laid with flagstone, for though it was still slippery with mud, it was as flat as any courtyard. Sprinting into the darkness, Lilia was a receding white ghost.

  "Lilia! What is the name of the Old Night Crone are you doing?"

  She stopped, and for a moment Kveldulf thought she was going to fall forward on her knees. Instead she crouched over something. It was a something that glinted whenever the torchlight fell on it. A burnished sword.

  And not more than a few paces on she stopped again. Kveldulf stood behind her, and waited.

  "I heard him groan. He is deathly blue and cold, but alive. Sigurd? Sigurd, do you know me. It is Lilia."

  His gaze was distant but his fingers grasped at her voice, stroked her neck and fumbled to hold onto her.

  "Help me, Kveldulf. Help him. He is dying. I do not know what is killing him, but he is dying."

  "Lilia. You should look up."

  "Kveldulf, damn your cold soul. Help me."

  "Lilia. I do think you should look up."

  Lilia froze.

  Encircling them on all sides, creeping closer and closer was a wall of faint grey shadows. And in the nearest wall glimmered a hundred pairs of corpse-candle eyes. The eyes of the skulls had all lit up with tiny flames. Whispers rose and fell, hateful things, said with dead tongues in an ancient language.

  Kveldulf moved the torch in an arc and it burned brighter as it devoured the air but the light was still poor. The host of shadows edged nearer.

  "What are they saying? What are they muttering?"

  "Black tidings in an ancient tongue."

  "Did they do this to Sigurd?"

  "Yes. They say he was here to steal their treasures. To take their gold and silver and jewels." Kveldulf switched to the old tongue. "Your treasures are rotted, dead shadows. Like you, they are gone, and nothing, and worthless. Keep them, and go back to your mouldering graves. Let alone the living, and the living will let you go in peace, too."

  "This one speaks our tongue." This voice was strong, though still as cold and dead as the others. "Though he speaks it with no beauty, nor eloquence."

  "What place is this for beauty? Bring a flower here and it will wither. Bring the living here, and they will die. If I have no beauty, nor do you. Go back, ghaists. Go back and lie down in your graves."

  "So if not to rob me and my subjects, why would the living come to the Tombs of the Everlasting Lineage."

  Kveldulf swallowed, and felt the hard knot sink into his gut. His fingers pricked, and turned hot and cold. They were here to steal, of course. "This is not going well," he said to Lilia, then again, stalling for time, he said in the old language, "And who am I speaking with."

  Out of the misty throng of bodies one resolved into a clearer form. Lilia gave a slight, startled gasp. His ash-grey face was puckered and sunken, his eyes half-glued shut by death, his hands long and withered. Over his shoulders hung a too-loose mantle of armour, and in one pallid hand he held a ghostly sword. When he spoke his lips did not move.

  "I am the first Eorl of Veld. Eorl of all who have followed me into the dark earth, and though none have come to mine shadowy realm for centuries now, I still rule here. So tell me, why do the living come to speak with the dead? If not to thieve? If not to rob?"

  "We seek a crown."

  "Ahaaa," whispered the voices all together, "the truth--the truth--thieves indeed--robbers-
-make them cold--keep them here with us."

  "Silence," said the first Eorl. And there was. When Feold spoke again his voice was stark and alone, "We have no crowns of gold. You speak aright when you say that nothing here is worth a grave robber's life. You waste yours in vain."

  "No," said Kveldulf, "for we want no treasures. The Veld hangs in the balance. It depends on a bargain struck by a sorceress and the king of the faer wilds. A bargain to end a bloody war, but a bargain that may well see your home slip into the hands of those who were never meant to rule mortal souls. Whomsoever owns the crown of Feold will rule the Veld. This, here, is Lilia, Lady of Veld. Eldest of the Eorl's children. Rightful heir to the throne. She is your descendant, Feold Wormslayer. She comes to claim your crown, for it is her crown, truly."

  "Ahh," said Feold, "family? I am so lonely for family," and the shade reached out his empty hand, and formed a grasping claw, slowly he edged a single step closer to Lilia. She did not cry out. Instead she pulled Sigurd closer to her, and stared back at the shade with seething defiance. Not understanding what he had said, she mistook his action and said, "You will not have him. He is of the Veld. You will have to kill me first."

  The shade did not come closer, but held himself about a foot off, his fingers clawing the air. He was poised, seemed to be considering.

  Lilia was frantic. "What is he saying, Kveldulf. What?"

  Kveldulf gave a quick explanation. She was silent for a moment. "Tell him that I am the last of his bloodline who can save the Veld from faer creatures and sorcery. Tell him if I die, then the world of the living will forget his name. Forget his legacy. They will come to forget that the Veld even existed. Gone forever. Tell him that."

  "Wait," said Kveldulf holding his hand up to the gleaming eyed shade, "do not end your bloodline like this. Do not let your legacy turn to dust. Do not let the name of the Veld be forgotten."

  His fingers hesitated then withdrew and formed a loose fist. He seemed less interested in what Kveldulf had said, but kept his eyes locked on Lilia and Sigurd. "Is he sworn to her, too? Why does she shelter him from me?"

  Kveldulf answered carefully. "The thane belongs to another faction in this. He is, in a fashion, her enemy. But the Lady Lilia says she will not let you harm him. He is of the Veld still."

  The shade was more thoughtful now. "She would rule the Veld. My Eorldom? She would have my name sung and honoured?"

  "Yes. She would. Gratefully, I expect."

  "And for this, she needs my crown?"

  "She does."

  A moment of heavy silence stretched, in which the grey shadows began to stir and grow restless.

  "Then I demand a sacrifice. She may take the crown and go. You may leave too, for I think you are not of mortal kith, and this is a place for the dead, not for demons. Your soul is a wolf that walks beside you. No one who is mortalkind lets their soul wander about like that." He seemed to sneer. "It is undignified." He pointed at Sigurd again. "But he must stay. I demand it. Tell her so."

  He turned to Lilia. "The ghaist says he will let you have the crown, but only if Sigurd remains here."

  Lilia did not hesitate. "No. Tell him, no."

  Kveldulf did.

  "She would give up rulership, the riches of an Eorldom, the throne, all the pleasures of court, and her own life, to defend the life of one subject?"

  "She says so," said Kveldulf. "I believe her."

  Feold stared at her with his eyeless sockets, and bowed his head once. "It is right that an Eorl would say thus. To rule the land is to be the land. To rule the people is to be the people. It is right that she knows this. You may go. All of you. None of mine will harm you, for I will forbid it."

  "And the crown?"

  But the shadows were already receding, their eyes guttering and fading to pinpoints of nacreous yellow before snuffing out, one by one. On the ground, where Feold had stood there lay a rusty old helm. Fashioned of steel, inlaid with ribbons of gold, and studded with rotted iron, it was a fragile looking thing.

  "Feold's crown," said Lilia. "What did you say to convince him?"

  "Nothing. It was what you said."

  "What did I say?" At that moment Sigurd shook with a spasm and rasped with several dry coughs. "Explain it to me later. He is growing weaker."

  "Fine with me." Kveldulf went to the helm, lifted it up, gently in his fingers, and returned to Lilia. "Your champion presents you with the crown of Feold. May you rule wisely."

  "The Lady Lilia thanks her champion." She pulled out a small sack from her belt and he gingerly lowered the helm into it. Knotting the mouth, she tied the sack to her belt again. "We must bear Sigurd out of this cave. If he dies here," she peered at the dark walls, "I hate to think."

  It was a struggle, but at least the effort was keeping him warm, thought Kveldulf, as he stumbled under Sigurd's weight. The man in his armour was not light, and of course, someone had to carry the torch. So it was left Kveldulf to heave Sigurd's dead weight over his shoulders.

  "We have the crown now. We are probably safe to go back to Helg's first, recover a little and then go to the village green. Will you join me, Kveldulf?" She was already bubbling with plans. "You deserve to be there. But--?

  "But what?"

  "What am I going to do with Rosa. I can't have her killed. I can't. Locked up? Exiled? I don't know. It all feels so cruel."

  As Kveldulf staggered up the last slope, past the small, cold pool, and into the open air, he locked his eyes with profound relief on the first grey light of a rising dawn. They must have gone into the caves near enough to midnight, he thought, and then been in the darkness for the whole night through. Mists still lingered in the hollows, but where the winter sun grazed the hills, the fog was burning away.

  Laying Sigurd on the ground, Kveldulf patted him lightly on the face, and lifted one eyelid. "Sigurd? Sigurd do you know my voice? Can you ride?"

  "Maybe we should set a fire for him. And warm some tea. Helg gave me some leaves and a pot for something to brew, in case we were trapped out in the night."

  Lilia soon put the smoking torch to a pile of dry kindling that she had in an oiled calf-skin. The fire soon blazed. When the dried leaves plopped into the boiling pot, they stained the water immediately, creating a swirl of rich rusty red that spread, becoming eventually a deep hazel. And though the smell was bitter, when he was offered it Sigurd drank the hot tea greedily.

  All the while, Kveldulf stood watching the dawn transcend the sky, watched the clouds turn from black to grey to silver. He watched the first light of the dawn appear in a blaze of rays, and then the sun peek up above distant mountains.

  "Kveldulf," his voice was weak. "Kveldulf? I dreamt I was dead and in the grave already. I dreamt terrible, nightmarish things."

  Kveldulf turned to Sigurd and knelt down. His felt his expression shifted into something a little more serious. "Not a dream, my friend. But you are safe now."

  "Here," said Lilia, "have another swallow of this."

  He gulped it down, then sputtered, and coughed. "The cave. I must go into the cave and fetch the crown of Feold. Rosa has demanded it. I must."

  Kveldulf shook her head. With a sad guilty feeling in his heart he said, "We have the crown, Sigurd. It is safe and sound."

  At first he seemed pleased, perhaps not fully understanding, then, his eyes widened. An expression of wretched horror crept over the thane's face. His lip trembled as he said, "Then I have failed, but Rosa will be happy with you."

  "No, Sigurd. No she will not."

  "But the crown."

  "The crown is not for Rosa."

  It was not that Sigurd's blue eyes focused properly on Lilia, her hair limned by morning sunlight, her eyes, wide and worried. "You," he said. His face hardened. "I see."

  "Sigurd," said Lilia, "you saved my life once. We have saved yours now. Let that be enough, for now."

  "I... I... cannot blame you in this, Lady. You have a right to want what is yours, but Kveldulf?" He got up on one elbow. "How? How can
you have done this to me? To Rosa? Have I not been a friend to you? Have we not been through some bleak hours together, and lived by one another's good luck and skill. This is treachery. How, Kveldulf? Why?"

  He was stony in his silence. For all that his heart still beat he might have been a statue carven of rock and set to stare forever. Slowly he shut his eyes and shook his head. "No, Sigurd. You cannot call me that. You cannot name me betrayer. The treachery did not start with me. Rosa sent you to hire me because she thought I would be a charlatan. She wanted a foul-minded witch-hunter to set on Lilia. When she understood that I was not that--that I knew witchcraft from trickery and would not be bought... well, Rosa did her best to have my throat slit, my friend. If you want to put treachery at someone's door, look to her." After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry. I know you love her."

  "Liar!"

  Sigurd's fist swung up and had an unexpected strength behind it. Kveldulf's jaw caught the first squarely, and he felt a snap of pain as his head was knocked backwards by the blow. The world spun for a moment and turned grey with sharp pain. When he next knew what was happening, Kveldulf was somehow struggling to fight off a wild fury of fists and bitter, half-hissed words.

  "Liar," screamed Sigurd, "Traitor!"

  Kveldulf managed to snare his fingers about Sigurd's throat. He struck back twice, but did not put his full force into the swing and felt no give at all. Somewhere above the scuffle, Lilia was yelling, scolding them both like a mother trying to break up two brawling boys.

  "Get off me," cried Kveldulf, but it did not good. He threw a solid punch into the side of Sigurd's temple. It was enough to stun him. His face twisted up in startled pain and he collapsed, actually pinning Kveldulf down by accident. Kveldulf had to push and scramble out from under the man and his heavy coat of mail. Only then was he able to clamber to his feet.

  Sigurd now lay rather unceremoniously sprawled in the snow and mud. He wrenched himself up on his arms, trembling with exhaustion and rage. "So this is how it ends, friend?"

  "No, Sigurd, I will not have you think this of me. I am no oath-breaker. I am no betrayer. Listen to me. I know things, Sigurd. I see things. I was there that night in the storm. The night you buried Snoro. I was there in the shadows when the demon in the dark spoke to you."

  "You... you saw that? How?"

  Kveldulf drew himself a little taller, made his gaze more stern. "I know what the shadow said to you. I know that you rode like the wind to return to her, Sigurd. But what did you find? That, I do not know. What did you find?"

  He hung his head. "That sometimes demons have truthful tongues."

  "And so the worm of guilt, of unease, and suspicion gnawed at you. When you might have stopped Lilia escaping, you let her go. That is not the action of a man whose heart is filled with unquestioning trust."

  "Do not tell me what my heart feels." Sigurd began to groan, and then, his shoulders shuddered. "And even if that were true, a person may love without trusting. Will not love bear out? It must in the end."

  "And so it will," said Kveldulf. "I think so."

  Lilia, who had stepped away from them now that they had stopped fighting like boys in the dirt. She stood now silent, and watchful, through all of this. When she spoke, her voice was both quiet and commanding. "This is the end of the scheming, Sigurd. By this evening all of Rosa's ambitions will have turned to so much dust. Whether you choose to abandon her, or stand by her, well, that is your choice to make. But with all her plots reduced to ruin, there will be no more secrets between you. You will have that, at least."

  "And what will you do with her, Lady? What will you do to revenge yourself upon the one who imprisoned, and..." he swallowed, "falsely accused you of murder? Rosa would have had you burned."

  "I think my sister will be banished. That is all. And maybe not even forever. Just for a time--enough time for matters to heal between us. They will, I hope. Eventually."

  "And then, so I with her. I will not abandon her. We will be two lone beggars, turned out on the cold winter road. You should have left me in that tomb with the mournful dead. How can I face her, like this, in defeat? How can I go to her with my back bowed, and my head hung, and tell her I have failed her?"

  Lilia was apologetic. "I don't know. But, it seems clear that you must."

  "Or lie here and die."

  "Or lie there and die," echoed Kveldulf. "Life is full of choices, Sigurd. But Lilia and I must return to the Veld. And I do not think you truly want to lie down and die. Surely, it is better to be a pillar for Rosa to lean against in exile." He shook his head, huffed out a breath and changed the topic. "Are you steady enough to sit in a saddle? The heat from the horse will warm you too."

  Sigurd hung his head for a time, but eventually, he nodded.

  Kveldulf helped him into Soothoof's saddle, but took the reins to lead the gelding. Lilia put out the fire, and packed away the pot and other things. When she was done, she lifted up the helm and cradled it gently in her arms. All the while, neither Sigurd nor Lilia looked at one another. It was as if they were afraid of what they might see in the other's face.

  Kveldulf could only watch, and wait, and then lead the horse at a gentle walk along the ancient path of the dead, over the mossy bridge, and then back, deep into the forest.

  "Kveldulf?" said Lilia as they wove between a stand of old oaks. "Do you think Rosa will keep her word. Will she let me take the throne?" It was the first thing she since leaving the cave.

  "I do not know," he replied. "I don't know her well enough. Sigurd? What do you think?"

  He shrugged, at first seeming determined to say nothing. Then, with a sigh he said, "She will keep her word. Rosa does not break promises. Or, at least she never has to me."

  "Ah," said Lilia, "but she loves you."

  "Yes, she does. She did. I do not know now."

  "She does," said Lilia, "I am naive, but I've have to be blind and a fool to not see how much she cares for you. She loves you. She will love you. Even in this."

  "Perhaps it would be best if she did not. I brought her to ruin. If I had not let you go that night, you would not be here now, stringing this fine dolt Sigurd along on his own horse. You would not be claiming the crown."

  "And if I had not come for the crown, you would be dead. No one would have it. The agreement would come to moot and naught, and war would boil up again. A terrible war. This is the best way. The only way."

  Again, a shrug. "But Rosa might have still had some chance at happiness, in time. Better than this." He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "I do not know what I am going to say to her at all."

  "You could try the truth."

  "And watch her collapse into tears? Watch her lose all faith in me? Watch her realise the depth of my uselessness? The depth of her own misplaced trust in me?"

  Lilia walked in silence then, and Sigurd didn't seem inclined to break it.

  Kveldulf glanced over his shoulder, looking first at one, then the other. Sigurd with his golden hair, and blue eyes, and a face so used to smiling. Lilia, sad, pale, Lilia. Still young. Strong and proud in her own shy way. Two human beings who, for all the world, should not have ended up as enemies, but did. After tonight, they would very likely never exchange another word. After some hours of tracking along the river path, Kveldulf led them away into the woods, and then overland, into the trackless forest. Another hour passed, and the woods grew lighter and thinner, more dominated by beech and alder than the gloomy frost-needled pines and old bare oaks.

  "We are nearing Helg's cottage," said Kveldulf. "There is wisp of smoke ahead," he pointed, "And it is nearly noon, too. Perhaps she'll have something on the hearth?"

  "Or baking," said Lilia. "I have found that Helg makes a good loaf of bread. Full of grains and with such a thick crust."

  "I recall enjoying her ale."

  They both looked at Sigurd.

  "I am hungry too. And thirsty. And I've been here before, remember? Maybe Helg has some wood that needs cutting, eh?" There wasn't much hu
mour in the joke. It came out flat and seemed more resigned than good-spirited.

  But Lilia laughed softly all the same. Her laugh was brief, gentle and had a kindness in it. As her laughter faded, it felt to Kveldulf that something precious in the moment had been lost.

  -oOo-

  Helg came with them to the village green. So too did Gnissa, though he kept to the branches and insisted that he hoped merely that the bargain would be broken, so that there would be more slaughter. When Kveldulf chuckled at him, the raven hissed with offence and wouldn't come down from the highest branches. Still, he followed along with them, all the same.

  Below the Toren Vaunt the parties of the two folks of the Veld stood ready to bare witness to what may come. Armed thanes arrayed themselves behind Rosa and a small encampment they had set in the field. Their array of spears and gleaming shields shone in the fitful light, and Rosa herself stood dressed in the full regalia of a warrior queen. Pennants snapped at the end of lances, and oxblood flags billowed lazily on the wind. The heraldry of the Toren Vaunt was everywhere, a man killing a twisting worm, both of them tangled together, black on oxblood.

  Of Alraun's folk there were just as many, and they stood in their own beautiful ranks, wearing a wintry raiment of white and silver and blue. They raised no tents, nor pavilions. Presumably they needed none. Or could simply conjure up such things, if required. Alraun still wore his crown of ice, but though his eyes were proud and cruel, he held himself rather rigidly. Perhaps he had sensed the death of the herald and already knew his claim was dashed?

  When Sigurd broke free of the woods, nudging his mount's flanks, to trot along the road, then over the stonebow bridge, Rosa's followers gave a great cry of hurrahs and cheers. Many waved flags or brandished swords or axes. Some whooped, stamped and clapped.

  But he did not ride fast and he carried no bundle under his arm. There was no easiness to his movement as he dismounted and then swept his cloak out of the way to kneel before her.

  From a distance Kveldulf could only see the cheerers turn limp, and Rosa let her head fall forward. He listened as the cries dwindled and died.

  "Now?" said Lilia.

  "As good a time as any. Helg?"

  "I can watch from here. Too much walking about already for my taste. My old legs are not what they were, and what they are is weary. I'll just sit down here on a log and light myself a pipe."

  The air was crisp for a winter evening. Clouds scudded in papery, torn fragments over the sky, and the intermittent sun shot the patches of snow with a lukewarm glow. At first, no one other than Sigurd noticed the two small figures walking out of the woods.

  There was bickering already. Alraun was demanding something of Rosa, and she was refusing. Men were yelling at the faer creatures, and those strange spirits now shook their fists and weapons, and spat back insults. Only Sigurd stood and watched the two lone figures draw nearer. When they were crossing the bridge he leaned forward and gently touched Rosa on the shoulder.

  Within moments all was silent.

  Kveldulf allowed Lilia a few extra paces on him. He had his right hand lounging on the hilt of his knife of iron. With narrowed eyes he scanned the two throngs for any sign of mischief. Any sign that the oath would be broken.

  When they were close enough to speak, Rosa titled her head and affected a somewhat haughty expression. Her eyes glittered. "My sister?" she said, "so your lover has failed you, and you come a walking out of the woods like a wild mongrel bitch, trailing... and what is this?" Her face paled just a fraction. Her voice wavered for just a moment. "Witch-hunter. I thought you were dead. And so, now you too betray me?"

  "Rosa. Dear sister, well met. I hope you are well. Are you?" Lilia laboured a smile.

  "Yes, dear sister. I am very well."

  "I am no lover of Alraun's. Not now. Nor evermore."

  Alraun's implacable face wore a curious sneering smile, but he nodded all the same. "This is true. This one has forsaken me. I will have nothing to do with her. Let her go back to the woods and starve, or freeze, or sleep with dogs, for all I care."

  Rosa's expression was for a moment confused, "But then why all this?" She shook her head. "You said that you made your war for her sake."

  "For her sake, yes. For no mortal has ever denied me, and I must be revenged upon that she loves, for such an insult."

  Rosa laughed a bitter, ironic laugh before saying, "Oh, what a fool am I? But it matters not. You, dear Sister, matter not. Things have come to pass as they have come to pass. Perhaps you should do as the Alder King suggests and get from all our sights. Go away. Starve. Sleep with dogs. I do not care. I want you not in my household." A cruel smile. "Not now. Nor evermore."

  "No sister. My household."

  Lilia undid the cord of a satchel that hung at her waist and from it drew an old-fashioned, rust-mottled helm. She said not a word as she lifted it and put it on her head, but Kveldulf said, "whomseover wears the crown of Feold int he village green, shall also rule the Veld."

  Rosa's face was a mask of beautiful spite. "The bargain was never meant for you. Give that to me at once, or I'll have you cut down."

  "Whomsoever," and Alraun threw his head back and laughed his own a silvery peel of ironic mirth. "Whomsoever, does mean the likes of her. It means the likes of whomsoever. Oh, how delicious. How wonderful. Lilia, my dear, I never meant a word of what I said. Let us be happy, as we were. Let us rule the Veld together. This must all have been terrible for you, but now we can be together again, happy forever."

  A stir of uneasy voices arose in the crowd.

  "Sister," said Rosa, "you would not dare..."

  "Be silent. The both of you. Alraun, Rosa. All of you mumblers and whisperers, too"

  Alraun was still chuckling under his breath. She glared at him. "All of you, I command it." She took a deep breath. "I wear the crown of Feold, and Feold gave it to me. Eldest in our lineage, the first Eorl of Vaunt chose me for his living heir. Know that. I am now the ruler of the Veld. Does any here dispute this?"

  "How do we even know, this rusted obscenity is Feold's crown, let alone that of our cherished forefather?"

  "It is." All eyes turned to Sigurd. "I was there. I failed you, but this is true. They hold the crown of Feold."

  Rosa was incredulous. "Sigurd? How could you say this? Why?"

  "It is the truth, Rosa. That is the crown of Feold, and the dead shade chose to give it to Lilia. I would have been dead in that tomb, but Lilia and Kveldulf saved me. I will not lie in this. I cannot."

  "Then you murder me with your words. You think that little whore will let me live?"

  "You will live, sister. But you have until dawn tomorrow to gather all that you can load onto a good horse. Gold. Jewels. Strongboxes if you like. I care not. On tomorrow's dawn, you are banished from the Veld for nine years. That is the traditional punishment. It will be enough for me. You may not dwell in my Eorldom, nor may you have any recourse to my good laws. Any person may commit crime or harm against you within the Eorldom of Veld, and it will be neither crime nor harm in the eyes of my law. You are thus outlawed. This I command. Nine years, Rosa. If in nine years you think you may be able to live peacefully with me, under my rule, then you may return. And I will welcome my only sister home with open arms, and tears. For I think I shall miss her, though she does not know it."

  Rosa's curved lips hung open, her beautiful eyes stared unblinking, unthinking. "I... I cannot believe this. Sigurd? Will you forsake me too." There was a tear crawling down her cheek now, and her voice was choking.

  "I will not forsake you. Rosa, let us leave this place together. Let us leave behind the place that forbade us be married. Let us be happy. Elsewhere. Anywhere."

  She hung her head and put her hand in his. But without replying she slid into his arms, and began sobbing. What words she said were stifled beneath tears.

  Now Alraun was grinning, horribly, greedily.

  "As for you," Lilia turned to him. "Do not think you will escape lightly. You are boun
d by your word. I now rule you?"

  "Gladly, my love. Rule me and I shall be your devoted servant. Lead us to your great hall, and announce for all the world to hear: Lilia and Alraun rule the Veld."

  "No, Alraun." Lilia's head was shaking now, her eyes were sad. "You misunderstand me. I will not permit glamour in my realm. Strip yourself of your enchantments, lay aside your illusions, and shed all your powers. This I command."

  "But, my queen, my love, my heart's desire? That would make me into nothing more than a small and wild thing. A spright unfit to be your husband, your king..."

  "This I command."

  His mouth was a curve of horror. He seemed unable to speak a word as flakes of light peeled away from him. Mists like shimmering silks unfurled and dissolved and vanished. With each layer of charm he shrunk and became ganglier, uglier, less human.

  When all the magic was gone, Lilia stood over him.

  "This? This is all you ever were? An troublesome little spright, with too-long limbs, and claws, and needle teeth?"

  The scraggly little creature that had been Alraun snarled at her.

  "Get from my sight." She waved a hand at the faer host, which now crowded back, hushed, with fearful silver eyes. "All of you. Get from my sight, and never ever again darken the lands of my people. Never harm a mortal, never mislead or beguile a traveller, never do anything but live very far away from me." They drifted away then, fading into the woods.

  Turning back to the gathered thanes and spearmen, Lilia folded her arms, and said in a quieter voice, "Lies have been told of me. I am no witch. I am no murderess. But, I am now the Lady of Veld, and I will be as kind and fair and just a ruler as I can be. If you have ever done anything against me, know this now. You are forgiven. I want no revenge. I seek none."

  There was no great roar of approval. There was not even a murmur. Several of the folk whispered hurriedly to one another. But there was one who stepped forward.

  Dressed in a drab red-brown dress, she had been hidden towards the back of the fighters. Ermengarde shot a sad glance at Rosa and Sigurd with his arm around her. Walking up to Lilia, she extended an open palm and smiled.

  "Erma," said Lilia.

  Lilia laid her hand in hers, and Ermengarde leaned forward, and gave her cheek a light kiss. "Welcome home, niece. We seem to have come here by the long road around, but, I think things will be good. I think we can find a way to make this work."

  "Thank you."

  It was small show of trust, just a little seed of faith, but it was enough. Kveldulf could see it in eyes of the gathered crowd. There was some hope there now, faint but real.

  "Let's get you up to the Toren Vaunt. Your rooms are just as you left them."

  They filed away, over the frostbitten, foot-trodden village green, to Finold's gate, and then to the Toren above. But Kveldulf waited behind, watching. He looked over his shoulder once, trying to spot Helg and Gnissa, but they both seemed to have vanished too. Gone back home, I supposed, now that the show was over.

  As the last of the humble pages went by, Kveldulf looked back at the only two people left on the green. Sigurd held Rosa close and she sobbed heavily against him. She couldn't have seen what Kveldulf saw then. Sigurd turned a glance to Kveldulf. Would she have even understood why her lover let a sad smile spread on his face?

  Kveldulf smiled back. Good luck, thought Kveldulf, and he too tramped over the grass, and followed the rest of the host.

  -oOo-

  At the edge of the wood the ground arose to a small embankment. It provided a good view over the ploughed fields, the river, the village, and the crag with its brooding fortress and grey spires. Helg had moved from her log, where she had sat to watch the exchange, to this lip of earth, finding a place to sit under the shadows of the trees. She shifted her rump against rough wood of the thick stump she sat on. Woodchips still lay scattered in the snow about her feet and the air was pleasantly resinous.

  She sipped at the end of her pipe, letting the smoke seep out languidly between her lips, watching it curl. Now the smoke was the minarets of a fabled city. Now the flowing hair of a goddess. Now the souls of the dead rising to the sky and sun.

  Insubstantial things flitted about her. White shadows skulking back to their woods.

  "Good evening," said Helg as one wraithlike creature, scrawnier than the rest, crept closer. "I was wondering when you'd make your way back."

  It hissed at her, then said in a weak, high voice, "Beware of me, for I am the king of the Faer Folk. I am the Alder King. I am power and dreams made real."

  "Sure. Of course you are." Her chapped lips pulled into a smile. "Or were. Do you remember me, Alraun? Do you remember putting this out with your fingernails?" She laid a tip of an index finger to the welt of scar tissue under her missing right eye. "Do you?"

  "Leave me be, leave me be. I am the master of the wilds. The king of all the shadowy realms and secret things."

  "Yes, deary. Seems to me you are already forgetting yourself. I can almost see right through you. Soon you'll be no more than a shadow. Here though, I've a gift for you. It will keep you as you are now. Stop any more of the magic leaking out." Fussing about in a purse, which hung from leather cords over one shoulder, she drew out a small glassy, blue-glazed jug, with a wide cork for a stopper. Angular symbols, the colour of rust, were marked about the belly of the jug. Teasing out the cork, she held the bottle forward. "Here, have a looksy."

  Peering forward the scraggy creature hooked thin fingers over the lip of the jug and sniffed. "Musty. What is it?"

  At that moment Helg's one eye rolled back and she stared at the sky. Her lips fell lank, and spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. A wetness gathered in her eye, and the other hollow socket twitched. She spoke a single name of power and the air shook with the force of it. As the echo of power rolled away down to the village below, she slapped the stopper back into the jug's mouth.

  From deep within the jug came a clamour of scratching and mewing.

  "No, no, deary. You'll not be getting out that way. Not at all. There will be no more harvesting of power. No more souls of the newborn for you. You will not be building yourself back up into a thing of power. Ho hum. Just a nice shelf above my fireplace. Nice and warm, deary."

  Popping the jug back in her purse she eased herself up, using her hands for support, tottered just once, she began to amble homewards, singing a nonsense song as she went, "La de da, ho de hum, la dum de da," and so on. Soon enough, the ground was a foot deep with snow, and the trees were a ceiling of lacy shadows, dripping, thawing. "Dear me," she said, "I am not so young as I once was. All these aches and pains. You know Alraun, there was a time when I would spring about like a doe. And all the men in the village fancied me. And I was so very, very happy. That was before we met of course, so, no, you could not know anything of that."

  The jug shook and whined.

  "And then there was what's-'s-name. Gannuld? He was a lovely sight to see. So handsome. Oh my heart used to go all fluttering when he called. Course, he's been dead of the plague a long time now. Never did call on me after you took the eye out of my face. Once, I called on him, but he was just so afraid. I couldn't bear to talk to him after that. It made me sad."

  The jug trembled and moaned.

  "I'm not boring you am I? Well you know. Old folks do go on and on about the good old days. On and on."

  "How about that pork? Promises, promises."

  Helg looked up and blinked her watery eye. "What do you know, Alraun? Here, we've a friend asking to come over to tea." Then speaking up into the trees, "I suppose you may have earned some keep."

  Gnissa flapped down from the canopy, and with the flurry of black wings he alit on a low branch. He shook a few droplets of water from his wings. Fixing his head sideways, he set a gold-flecked eye on her, he said, "Earned my keep? With me about you'll never be bored again. I know fifteen songs, six ditties, and eight chanties, and that is just my winter repertoire."

  "Not all about the eating
habits of ravens, I hope?"

  Gnissa ruffled his feathers. "Well, some are. Perhaps a few. Most, actually. Pretty much all of them, truth be told. One is a love story, about a beautiful glossy feathered raven and her mate. You'd like it."

  "You know," said Helg with a smile, "I guess I could use the company. Snivel-in-the-pot just isn't going to be much of a talker, I expect."

  And a small, enraged mewling pipping up from the stopped glass jar, fading away into a barely audible whimper.