Foxmask (42 page)

“I don't—” he whispered.

Asgrim's dark gaze met his across the fire. “Please, son,” said the Ruler. “Do this for me.”

Thorvald felt his heart stop altogether and his breath cease. Despite himself, he gave a half-nod; it was enough. It was only after the men began to cheer again fit to lift the roof off the shelter, that the steady thud in his chest resumed, and he sucked in his breath and stared back at Asgrim, wondering if this was just another cruel trick. The Ruler smiled, the merest twist of the lips. He said something more, but Thorvald missed it, for he was enveloped in a huge bear-hug—Skapti—followed by several vigorous slaps on the shoulder and a number of friendly punches in the arm, as all came to offer their heartfelt thanks. Tight-lipped Wieland had tears in his eyes. Hogni was beaming. Einar wanted to sit down then and there and discuss a tactical plan he'd been working on. Orm wanted to drink with him. And Skolli, it seemed, had a gift: a gift that had waited for this moment.

“From all of us,” the smith said gruffly. “Blade's my work, of course; saved a bit of good quality ore for it, better than the usual. Einar made the hilt; narwhal tusk, that is. Knut did the binding, being handy with knots. The fellows made the cord, polished it up, fashioned the sheath and all. Hope you like it. Kind of a thank you. You didn't have to help us. Would have given it,
even if you'd left. Better like this, though. You can use it on the hunt. Should be good luck for you.”

Odin's bones, now he had tears in his eyes. What was wrong with him? The knife was perfectly crafted; it sat in his hand as if it were an extension of his arm, finely balanced, elegant and plain. The hilt was warm, the yellowwhite bone conforming cleanly to his palm. Even the sheath was a thing of beauty, the leather tooled in a pattern of vines and creatures. He had not known these men had such skills among them. Last spring, they could not have done this; a man worn down by loss, a man who believes himself a failure, has not the spirit to create lovely things. Was it true? Was it actually he who had changed them thus?

“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I'll bear it with pride; I'll lead you with still greater pride. You're fine fighters, and fine friends. Now, did someone say something about ale?”

After that he allowed himself to drink, which he had not done earlier, but he kept it in check, for a leader cannot afford to lose control. Once he saw Sam watching him with a funny expression on his face, but he decided to ignore it. Sam had wanted to stay, hadn't he? Well, it looked like they were staying, at least until midsummer. So Sam had got what he wanted; there was no reason for him to look so disapproving. As for the Ruler, Asgrim had called him son. Probably just another sort of game, that. It was one that two could play. First he would lead the hunt and win back Foxmask. After that, Asgrim was going to find the rules had changed.

On a western shore in Hrossey, soon after sunset, three women stood quietly around a little fire. One was young, slender, pale. Her expression was remote and grave; her brown hair hung down her back in a severe plait. She wore a skirt and long tunic of plain gray, and a little leather bag around her neck. This was Eanna, priestess of the mysteries, sister of Creidhe. Her eyes were closed, her arms outstretched; the smoke arose before her, twisting in visions of past, present and possible future.

Margaret and Nessa stood together, waiting. They had sought answers; whether Eanna could give them remained to be seen. The wise woman did not usually come down to enact her rituals here; she dwelt alone in her sacred place, and if folk wanted truth, they came to find her. But Nessa, who was Eanna's mother, was now well advanced in her pregnancy, and this child could not under any circumstances be put at risk. The piercing desire of
Nessa and Eyvind for a son was well known, although it was not something they spoke of openly. And that was not all. Nessa was the last princess of the Folk, the ancient race of the Light Isles. Had the coming of the Norsemen not changed the islands forever, the son of such a princess would have been king here, for thus was the royal descent of the Folk determined, through its female line. There were no longer any kings in the Light Isles; nonetheless, this child would be a potent symbol of survival for the old race and the old faith. Nessa had given up riding; she would not travel in a cart, either, and it was too far for her to walk to Eanna's sanctuary. So the wise woman had come down to the shore not far from the family's dwelling, and had chanted her invocation as the sun set in the western sea. They had chosen this spot for a reason. Nessa believed the child would be at risk from the Seal Tribe, the ocean-dwelling race that had snatched small Kinart from her. She feared that above all as the infant grew apace within her and could be felt kicking vigorously against the confines of the womb. She was not sure the Seal Tribe had been adequately appeased by the taking of her only son, though when they had helped her, all those years ago, they had seemed to do so willingly, for love of the islands. She feared for the unborn babe, and she feared for Creidhe. On this occasion it had not seemed appropriate to seek out the ancestors herself; Nessa knew she lacked the detachment to see the vision and unravel its meaning calmly and coolly. Her daughter was the priestess now, and Eanna would bear this burden for her.

Margaret did not set much stock in gods, nor in ancestral spirits. On the rare occasions when she had requested their help, she had found the result less than useful. Besides, she thought grimly, watching as the wise woman raised her hands slowly toward the violet-gray sky, she suspected she would have made just as many errors in her life even if she had possessed faith, even if Freya or Thor or one of the others had decided to take a hand in her affairs. She seemed fated to get it all wrong. So most of the time she simply performed the tasks required to live a life: overseeing the fields, the barns and byres, the neat, orderly home, the vegetable patch; setting her skilful hands to spinning and weaving, embroidery and the fashioning of fine garments. Before, there had been Thorvald: both boon and bane, her only child, Somerled's child. Now he was gone, and she could not believe the emptiness he had left behind him, a gaping hole that spoke a truth she had long denied: she loved her son, no matter who his father was. He was hers, a good boy, a fine boy for all his flaws. She did miss Creidhe, her golden girl, her sunny apprentice; but it was Thorvald's loss that cut deepest. So she had come, not
only to support her friend, but knowing that news of Creidhe was also news of Thorvald.

Out of sight, over a rise of ground, Ash and Eyvind were waiting to accompany them home. The wise woman's rituals were not for men, though long ago, so long it seemed another life now, Eyvind had come very close, when Nessa and the old priestess, Rona, had sheltered him. Ash had been looking tired this morning. Margaret suspected he had not been sleeping. Perhaps she kept him awake, the way she paced in the night, her memories tormenting her. There was a solution of sorts, a simple one; these last dark times, she had found herself drawn toward it with an urgency she had never experienced before, not even in the early days of her widowhood, when she was little more than a girl. One would think the urgings of the flesh, the hot cravings of the body, would wither and die, denied so long. She was six-and-thirty, surely too old for passion, surely past being comforted so easily, with gentle hands and the hard, fervent body of a man. Nonetheless, the longing was there, and she seemed to be getting worse at smothering it. Stupid woman, she was, foolish woman with a grown-up son and a household to run, and a body that wasn't admitting it was too late for everything to change. If she had not lain with Ash in all the eighteen years they had lived in the same house, why would she suddenly do so now? The answer came into her head instantly, quite uninvited.
Because, after eighteen years, he is still there, and he still loves you
.

Eanna was emerging from her trance, moving her arms, her hands in slow gestures to awaken the clay self, humming a scrap of melody under her breath. Nessa was sitting on the rocks now; she grew easily tired, for the babe was large and she had ever been slight and frail in build. Eanna's eyes snapped open: gray, wide, blind for a moment as she made the change from spirit-vision to ordinary sight. She blinked and bowed her head. Then, straight-backed, she sank to sit cross-legged by the small fire, and Margaret moved to pass her a cup of water. Nobody asked,
What did you see?
Answers to such questions come in their own time.

Eanna drank deeply, shuddered, and cleared her throat. It is no easy matter to return from a profound trance; it exhausts the body and numbs the will.

“This was confused,” she told them eventually. “Many small images tumbled together. I could hazard a guess as to what was close to this time, rather than yet to come: Creidhe with a little ragged child on her knee, and colors in front of her, beautiful colors, as if all the hues of the four seasons
rippled and changed around her, passing by. A man at her feet. Not Thorvald, not Sam, but another, wild-looking, though he sat quiet. They were alone; sea, sky and magic separated them from the world of men.” Eanna paused; she would not tell all, not even to her own mother. One must weigh the possible consequences of sharing such visions in their entirety. The seer bears a heavy burden.

“Was Creidhe well? Did she look happy?” Nessa asked shakily.

“Well enough. She looked tired, but not discontent. Thinner. The child was odd, a little birdlike creature.”

Nessa nodded. “I, too, have seen that image.”

Margaret did not speak; would not ask. She waited with her hands clenched together.

“I saw nothing of Sam,” said Eanna. “Thorvald I saw, on a clifftop at night, weeping. And a white-haired man clad like a Christian priest. Darkness and light, a link of some kind . . . death and life in the balance. I saw men armed, and the spilling of blood.”

“No sign, nothing to tell us when they will come home?” asked Nessa. “Not that I expect such neat answers; I have enacted this rite often enough myself to know its images are never easy to untangle.”

“Folk singing at the birth of a babe,” Eanna told them in a whisper. “Not a joyous sound, but one fit to wrench the heart, an unearthly lament. Creidhe's voice then, defiant, full of courage. And tears. That is all I can tell you. I felt Creidhe's presence strongly. I know she has had no training in a wise woman's arts, but it seemed to me she was trying to reach me, to tell me something. Perhaps that she loves us and holds us in her heart. Perhaps only that.”

Nessa nodded soberly, rising to her feet. She gave a little bow of formal thanks; although this was her own daughter, the respect due to a wise woman must be demonstrated. “Thank you,” she said. Nessa would not give in to tears. The news had been mixed; she would ponder it awhile and see what insights came to her.

“Thank you,” said Margaret, thinking she had never seen her son weep, not even as a small child. It seemed to her such scant news merely made the heart ache more painfully; she would almost rather have none at all.

Eanna spent the night with her family. In the morning she returned to her own place, a tiny stone dwelling in the hills, set in a fold of the land where one wind-bent willow grew by an outcrop of stone that somewhat resembled a gnarled old woman. A streamlet trickled close by her door; her fireplace set among flat stones overlooked a green-robed valley and, farther down, a
glinting, circular lake. Eanna made up her fire and sat awhile, quiet under the wide bowl of the summer sky. Her mother had laden her with provisions; fine bere bread, fresh vegetables, a round of sheep's cheese, a sack of beans. Eanna's little cat had been quite put out that she had spent a night away from home. Somewhat mollified by a sliver of cheese, he now sat on the rocks close by her like a smoky shadow, washing his face. Margaret had given the young priestess a warm cape of her own making, plain gray with a narrow border of blue, little dogs and flowers.

Eanna considered her vision. What she had told them was exactly what she had seen; one did not falsify the ancestors' wisdom. On the other hand, there were parts of it she had not told. Her mother's health must be safeguarded; Nessa must carry her child to term, and even then there were risks, for she was well past the best age for safe delivery. It would be important to have Creidhe home in time. Eanna might say what prayers they needed, enact the ritual suitable for the occasion. She might call on the ancestors to help. But, when it came to it, what would really be needed was strong, expert hands and a calm, confident voice to keep control of the situation. Creidhe's hands, Creidhe's voice. And whether she would come in time, or whether she would come at all, Eanna did not know. She only knew the young man she had seen, sitting at her sister's knee as if he, too, were an infant entranced by a bedtime story, had had a very odd look about him, a look that chimed with her own memory of childhood tales. The long, bony hands, the pallor, the strange, deep eyes that seemed to mirror the liquid mystery of the ocean: were not these the marks of the Seal Tribe?

Recognition. Sacrifice. Expiation
.

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

S
tay close by me,” Keeper warned her as they made their way down the steep hillside toward the cove. “You must not go out alone here, not until after the hunt. It is not safe.”

“But you said—” Creidhe began, scrambling to keep up with his long stride.

“No danger from others. I will protect you. It is the traps, those that are set for the enemy. There is not time for you to learn them all. After the hunt they are dismantled; new traps next season, so the enemy cannot remember. I will show you.”

And show her he did, while Small One, apparently aware of where these sudden dangers lay and how to stay away from them, wandered about in his doglike form, sniffing at bushes and stones, racing after birds, and generally behaving just like a small hound enjoying an outing on a summer's day. The moment of changing back, Creidhe had not seen; she supposed that eventually she would get used to it, this slipping from one form to another when the time seemed right. There was a wonder in it outside her experience, and she wished her sister Eanna could see it. Eanna, being a priestess, might have answers.