Authors: Margaret Weis
Bear heaved
another sigh that dislodged the snow from his shoulders. "Yes,
laddie. And that is why it is said, 'Be careful what you wish for.'"
"But if he
does love her, then he couldn't harm her. And if he does do what the
dream foretells, then it's because he wills it. Nothing and nobody,
not even God, could force Derek Sagan to do something he didn't want
to do."
"And yet,
he is gone, isn't he? And would he have chosen this time to go? The
good God be with him, I say. And with his lady. But I am surprised to
hear you talking seriously about dreams and destiny and the good God.
You used to scoff at such things."
Dion brushed
back his snow-wet hair, smiled ruefully. "I've done some
thinking about it. I'm not saying what I believed was wrong. I'm only
saying that now I'm not quite certain what's right."
Olefsky cocked
the glinting eye over his shoulder again. "Perhaps you aren't as
young as I thought."
The Bear's
castle, or Lair, as he dubbed it, half joking and half not, was made
entirely of stone and was massive, imposing, medieval, and drafty.
Dion had the strange feeling that they had not left the spaceplane
and ridden down the side of a mountain. They had left the spaceplane
and ridden backward in time.
He'd had a
sneaking suspicion, on first entering the castle, that the moat and
the drawbridge, the gigantic iron portcullis, the flagstone courtyard
with various animals underfoot, were all for show, a pretentious bit
of playacting by a man who hadn't quite grown up. But when he saw
Bear in the huge stone hall, warming himself before a roaring fire,
fondling some sort of enormous dog with one hand, his other hand
wringing water from his beard, Dion had to admit that Olefsky lived
this way because no other way of life to him would have been living.
And after a few
moments, Dion began to understand how the big man felt. Chilled to
the bone, his face blue and pinched with cold, snow crusting his
eyebrows and eyelashes, the king crowded close to the crackling
blaze. Steam rose from his wet clothing. He thought how fascinating
it was to watch the flames, what a pleasant smell the wood smoke
produced, and how good it felt simply to stand here and revel in the
luxury of such a simple pleasure as being warm.
The walls of the
high-ceilinged hall were covered with tapestries and shields.
Bright-colored flags and bunting hung from a ceiling partially
obscured by haze from the fire's smoke. What articles of furniture
were present in the hall were plain and functional—consisting
of a wooden table that was nearly as long as the hall and numerous
heavy, high-backed chairs. The Bear and several of his hulking sons
manhandled the chairs to stand before the fire. Olefsky, with his
blunt, rough courtesy, invited his guests to be seated.
This simple act
was rather difficult for the guests, due to the size and girth of the
chairs. The short-statured Nola had to practically climb into hers
and nearly disappeared from sight when she tried to rest against the
chair's back. Tusk sat rigidly on the very edge of the seat, trying
to look as if it didn't bother him that his feet didn't quite touch
the floor. Dion, taller than his friend, was somewhat more fortunate.
His feet touched the floor but he discovered that he could not rest
both arms on the armrests at the same time. He couldn't reach that
far across.
They had just
settled themselves and Tusk was commenting that he didn't think he
was going to have to cut off his frostbitten fingers after all, when
a woman entered the room, carrying in her hands a large wooden tray
filled with tall flagons. Bear walked forward to meet her, saluted
her with a kiss on her cheek.
"The
shield-wife," he said, presenting the woman to his guests with
as much pride as he would have presented them to the sun, had he been
able to catch it. "Sonja, my wife."
The sun might
have brought more light and warmth into the room, but the contest
between the two would have been close; Sonja's blond hair shone
almost as brightly. She was tall, nearly as tall as her husband, and
as wide around, with big bones, big hands, big arms, and a smile that
was the largest thing about her.
"His
Majesty, the king," said the Bear, waving a hand at Dion.
The young man
slid out of the chair to his feet and bowed politely. Sonja,
laughing, blushed and curtsied, continuing to hold the tray of mugs,
never spilling a drop. Bear introduced Tusk and Nola.
"Do not get
up," he added, waving at them. "We do not stand on ceremony
here."
"Vilcome,"
said Sonja in a booming voice, pitched only slightly higher than her
husband's deep bass.
"That is
the only word she knows how to say in Standard Military, I am
afraid," said the Bear. "She is a great warrior and there
was never such a woman for bringing sons into this world, but she has
no gift for languages."
Sonja, seeming
to know what her husband was saying about her, laughed again, blushed
deeper, and shook her head. She handed round the flagons. Made of
metal, filled with a steaming, warming, sweet-tasting drink, each
enormous flagon had obviously been designed to be held by an enormous
hand. Dion nearly dropped his, and he felt new respect for Sonja's
strength. She held five of them, plus the tray, with ease.
"Vilcome,"
she said again, watching him anxiously as he grasped the flagon
firmly with both hands and sipped at his drink.
"It is very
good, thank you," he said to her in her own language. "And
I am honored to be in your home. May its walls keep trouble always
out and happiness always in," he added, dredging up from
somewhere in the back of his mind that one was supposed to invoke a
blessing on the house when one was the guest of a Solgart.
"You do our
house honor, my king," she answered, heartily pleased to hear
him speak her tongue. "Its walls were built to shelter you and
may they be torn down stone by stone before they allow harm to come
to those within."
"I knew I
should have brought my translator," muttered Tusk, trying—as
most people will when in the presence of those speaking an unfamiliar
language—to look as if he had at least some idea of what was
being said. "I left it upstairs, in my room. If you'll excuse me
..."
"No, no!"
Bear shook his head, tugged on his beard. "We don't hold with
those things. You will have no trouble communicating. I forgot that
this one"—he nodded at Dion—"has the head of a
computer."
The drink, that
Bear called mead, was passed around. Sonja brought out a large jug,
set it near the fire to keep it warm, and refilled their flagons the
moment the level seemed likely to drop near the mid-point. The
drink—wine mixed with honey—slid easily down the throat,
warmed the body and the mind, and soon Dion noticed a golden glow
light the hall, the table, the chairs, everything and everyone in the
room.
Bear's sons
gradually drifted into the hall, coming from performing various
chores, some bringing in bundles of wood to replenish the fire,
others stacking spears and bows in a corner, while still others—the
younger ones—brought in baskets of fruit and nuts that they
shyly offered to the guests.
The boys—there
were fourteen of them—all looked alike, each looked exactly
like the Bear. Dion could distinguish the fourteenth son from the
first only by the fact that the fourteenth was a baby, who, in the
company of the large dog, toddled in to see what all the commotion
was about.
"I have a
daughter," the Bear said proudly, "that I most particularly
wanted you to meet. But since we were not certain when you would
arrive, she has gone out on a hunting trip and will not be here for
dinner." He looked slightly downcast over this, but cheered up,
adding, "She will most likely be back tomorrow, however, and you
can meet her then."
Dion said
something polite, glanced at Tusk.
The mercenary
grinned back at him, mouthed, "Bringing home the ox!"
Sonja rose,
excused herself to supervise the preparation of dinner. Dion, knowing
that business was never discussed among Solgartians during the
all-important anticipatory time before eating, sat in his golden haze
and listened to Bear tell stories about their battles, which were
fought for honor and pride as much as conquest.
Dion knew, from
having studied the Solgarts under Platus's tutelage, that their
political system was always in seeming turmoil; wars were common,
taking place between families, cities, countries, and sometimes
entire planets. But the wars were generally friendly in nature, no
one held grudges and the fighting would all cease in a moment if
Olefsky—who was their leader and who watched over them as the
mother wolf watches over cubs rolling in the dirt—said the
word.
"We tried
peace once," stated Olefsky, "and we didn't like it. The
young people grew restless and bored and got into mischief. A good,
clean war is much healthier and does less damage."
"These
shield-wives ..." Tusk was slightly drunk. He waved a vague
hand. "I've heard . . . somewhere . . . that you people have
some sort of warrior engagement party. Couples proving how well they
can fight together." He grinned at Nola, who had climbed out of
her chair and was on the floor, playing with the baby.
"It is a
custom that dates back to ancient days, when wars were fought
honorably with steel and muscle, not in the coward's way we fight
today."
Bear heaved a
great sigh, his eyes grew moist. He smoothed his long beard with his
hand. Dion could see, through the golden haze, sunlight gleaming off
bright armor and shining spear tips.
"Couples
often fought together. The man, being the stronger, wielded sword and
spear. The woman fought at his left side, his heart side"—Bear
pressed his hand over his breast— "carrying a huge shield
that she used to guard them both. If her man fell, she laid the
shield over his body, picked up his weapons, and fought on until
death took her, when they would be buried together.
"And if the
shield-wife was killed ..." Bear's face grew stern. "Woe
betide the one who felled a shield-wife. Her man would never rest,
not even if war ended, until he had avenged her death or died
himself.
"Now, war
is different." Bear shook his head over the degeneracy of the
age. "Some of our own young people wanted to use bombs. We
refused to resort to such cowardly weapons. They make killing too
easy. One should look an enemy in the eye, know that he is a man like
yourself. Thus, we permit only the short-range hand weapons. And we
still keep the tradition of the shield-wife, though it is now only a
contest. All newly engaged couples must prove their worth on the
field of honor, prove that they will protect and defend each other
with shield and sword before they can be married."
Nola—the
baby in her arms—looked at Tusk, who smiled at her. The golden
haze around Dion was suddenly dispersed by a chill wind that tore his
dreams into shreds. He rose to his feet, without any clear idea of
where he was going or what he was doing. He just wanted out. At that
moment, however, Sonja came to invite her guests to dinner.
The meal lasted
several hours. The Bear refused to be rushed over one of the day's
most important events. Afterward, much to Dion's relief, they finally
settled down to talk business.
He explained his
plan for the fleet. The Bear listened attentively, and though he
sighed occasionally and frowned almost constantly, in the end he
admitted that the plan was good.
"We must
contact DiLuna and Rykilth. You have not done so?"
"No. We
figured that the Galactic Navy might be monitoring our transmissions.
I had hoped we could contact them from here, but ..." Dion
glanced around at the stone walls, the bright-colored tapestries, the
fire burning on the hearth, the dogs lying on the floor. "I
guess that's not possible."
Bear, grunting,
rose to his feet. "Follow me."
They climbed a
spiral staircase, almost too narrow to accommodate Olefsky's massive
bulk, that led them to a tower room high atop the castle walls. Bear
shoved open the door, stood glowering at the objects inside as if he
would be happy to send them all hurtling out the window.
"Jeez!"
Tusk breathed, entering. "Would you get a load of this! You
could raise President Robes with communications equipment this
powerful. Hell, you could probably raise the dead!"
The tower room
was covered ceiling to floor with instruments, control panels, and
sophisticated communication devices. One of the sons—of
course—sat grinning at them from out of the depths of a shaggy
beard. It was a strange sight, to see the young man, clad in leather,
fur, and homespun cloth, cohabitating with devices that could send
his image halfway across a galaxy in the blink of an eye.
"What do
you expect?" said the Bear ruefully, in response to their
questions. "I am a leader of several star systems. And it is
difficult to talk to them like we talked to each other in the old
days, using smoke and drums. Tomorrow, we will contact DiLuna and
Rykilth. Now, it is the time for sleep."
Dion hadn't felt
particularly tired, until the Bear mentioned sleep. Suddenly,
weariness overwhelmed him. It took an effort to stay awake long
enough to bid his host and hostess a safe night's rest. The Bear and
his wife lit the young man to his room. Sonja warmed the sheets by
sliding an iron pan filled with hot coals over them. Standing
together, arms around each other, they bid him good night.
The room was
unheated. Shivering, Dion undressed swiftly, crawled hurriedly into
bed. Huddling beneath a heavy goose-down comforter, he was soon warm
and slid gently into sleep, where he dreamed of battle and bright
armor and shining blades and a tall warrior woman, with golden eyes,
who held her shield before him and fought at his side.