All the Windwracked Stars (The Edda of Burdens) (42 page)

She said, “There will be more pain than that.”

The light in the wolf’s eyes dimmed—grief, or something darker. “Why did you forgive me? After all the darkness, and the blood on my hands?”

She shrugged. “Do you think you have to die to be reborn?”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

But she touched his sword-hilt, and silenced him. “You know what the eighteenth rune was? The secret one?”

“Rebirth,” he said. “Resurrection. When the old world went down, the All-Father carved that rune in the root of the world-tree. And so what died did not die forever.”

“It’s in the swords too,” Muire said. “And now it’s in me. We’re all stuck. All of us. And the others don’t know
anything,
because those that die before they’re born again forget. They’re
not the same person anymore, and no matter what we do to them, how much we hate them for it—”

“I know,” he said.

“Cathoair and Selene. They’ll never know what we know. You. And me. And the valraven. It’s only the ones who live through the transformation who remember. And somebody has to tell the others.”

“Oh,” he said. He squared his shoulders under the gray cloak, and Muire laughed at him. “Yes, Historian.”

The first thing you may explain
, said a great iron voice that rang between them,
is what you meant, exactly, when you said that we were brothers.

Kasimir!

He spiraled out of the sky, gleaming in the starlight like a stallion blown from glass. And Muire laughed out loud when she saw him. Each feather on his wings was perfect and alabaster, and his hide shone so clean in the moonlight that the shadows on him were as blue and glowing as shadows on the snow.

He landed and folded his wings with a precise flip-and-settle, brushing Muire’s cheek with the softest of feathers.

She threw her arms around his nearest neck.

His muscle was warm and firm under her hands, his hide strong and taut as silk. Flawless.

Your doing
, he said.
Your miracle, again. The world renewed.
And then, ears flickered flat:
If any of my brethren lived, they would say I was careless of riders.

She kissed his noses and rubbed his ears; he sighed and stretched with pleasure. “You’ve been a long time without your ears scratched, beloved.”

His eyes were dark liquid amber, appraising, sorrowful as
the eyes of warhorses become.
No such courage in all the world
, he said slowly, nosing her breast over her heart.

Mingan stood and watched for a moment, and then turned to go. And Kasimir said,
Do not.

The stallion bowed one head over Muire’s shoulder and leaned his porcelain muzzle against the small of her back. His horns shone ivory and gold, reflecting in the river along with the streetlights. The wolf turned and looked over his shoulder. “You have tasks,” he said quietly.

You are not to be alone.

Mingan shook his head. “She’s made her choice,” he said, and tried to smile.

I know
, the warhorse replied, shaking out his gorgeous manes.
I am Kasimir.

Muire stepped back to see him more clearly. “Not Selene?” Mingan’s jaw just worked, soundlessly.

And Kasimir tossed his heads, speaking in familiar, exasperated tones.
This one made me wait two thousand years for her. Will you do the same?

“You will do this,” Muire said to the wolf.

“I’m not worthy,” he said at last, and Muire laughed out loud and skipped back a step, pulling him closer to her horse.

“He would not choose one unworthy,” she said, still laughing, and laid the wolf’s hand on his nose. They regarded one another—Kasimir placid, waiting, and Mingan like the victim of an arranged marriage.

“Shadows!” Muire swore. A sort of translucence was shivering through her, as if she were somehow becoming a thing of light and cloudy glass. She had to hurry; there was no time. The child kicked in her, stronger. Determined. “If I’m to suffer all the ills of the world, you two
are
going to keep yourselves busy
making sure that it’s as pleasant a place as possible. And that starts with you, wolfling, not making your steed unhappy.”

“Lady,” the wolf said, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, “we are but four. You lay a task before us.”

“Wolf,” she answered, stepping away from that darkest of warrior angels and his shining, shining stallion, “at least
you
don’t have to do it by
yourself
.”

“You grieve me, Bright one.” The light in his eyes was at war with tears and shadows.

I
GRIEVE
for
YOU
, came the answer. And, spreading white, sudden wings, what had been Muire knew that it was time to go.

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By the Mountain Bound

Elizabeth Bear

Available November 2009 from Tom Doherty Associates

A TOR HARDCOVER
ISBN 978-0-7653-1883-1

Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Bear

M
englad was married on a day late in fall in the five hundred and seventy-first year of my immortality, the five hundred and seventy-first year of the world. And the Grey Wolf joined us for the wedding. He was not a stranger in our midst, but neither was he a commonplace. Instead, he came like a raven on the storm, to festival, to weddings, to council of war when war came upon us.

I remember it well. I remember the night because I was the one who served him—him, and Strifbjorn, whom I loved. The other waelcyrge did not wish to wait upon the Wolf, so I walked the length of the shield-hung hall, a horn of mead in each hand.

I remember the night very well, for it was the beginning of the end.

Strifbjorn, disdainful as always of his sisters, barely turned when I brought his mead. The Wolf . . . after draining the mead horn, he studied me with that disconcerting gaze, a frown on a face one might more expect to see hewn from a mountainside. I
could not make my eyes meet his. A mortal thrall, captive of war, brought me new horns of drink, and Mingan’s gloved hand lingered on mine for a moment more than propriety demanded when I handed him the new one. His flesh burned hot as forged metal through the gray leather. I thought of sunlight on dark fabric.

There were stories, of why he burned. I stammered in answer to his question, the hot blush rising. He released my hand; I fled back to the cross-bench, the trestle table and my sisters at the north end of the hall.

It was a long walk beside the fire trench, under banner-hung roof beams lost in the dark high ceiling. It seemed every eye in the hall watched my flight, although I knew from the murmurs that my brethren were engrossed in their gossip, renewing acquaintances. Nonetheless, I caught my skirts about me like the shreds of my composure and hurried to my place among the women.

Menglad, called the Brightwing, reached from under her crimson wedding veils and caught my mousy-colored braid. “Herfjotur says her steed says the Wolf desires you, Muire.” She giggled, gesturing to the proud-nosed waelcyrge on her left.

They all
were
watching
. I raised an eyebrow at the bride, amber-haired and fairer-skinned than I, her sword slung properly at her hip rather than across the shoulders as mine must be to keep from dragging. Skeold slid down the bench to the right that I might sit beside Menglad. I gathered my wide skirts, lifting them clear of my boots as I ascended from the scented pine branches littering the floor, onto the step where the women’s bench rested. Turning, I allowed the silk to flare, the snow-pale surcoat contrasting with the spangled midnight-blue kirtle.

My clothing matched that of my sisters, though they were taller and more golden. Gathered around Menglad in her crimson and gold, we resembled jays mobbing a cardinal.

The groom had not yet arrived, nor had most of the einherjar. Perhaps four hundred of my brethren. Half the number that would fill this, our largest hall. They sat along the benches or walked, chattering. Two extra trestles, running the length of the hall, held the overflow.

I leaned close to Menglad. “The Wolf could have his pick. He has no need of such as I.”

I saw by the gleam in her eye that she was teasing me. “He’s never offered for anyone,” she said. “Perhaps he’s waiting for someone to notice him back.”

I chuckled. “If he fancied me, he would speak to Yrenbend. Or Strifbjorn—they’re close as shield-mates.”

The mocking Light was still flickering behind the storm-blue of her eyes. “Are you insinuating that all those waelcyrge who sigh over Strifbjorn must compete with the Wolf for his passions?”

“Strifbjorn is waiting for something. And the Wolf—either he prefers to be alone, or the one he wants is bound to another.” I grew uncomfortable, shifting in my seat. “And strong as they are, they can do as they like. Who would dare censure them?” I wanted the subject changed. It was too close to mockery.

But Menglad always was rash, sharp and bright as a chipped glass blade. She shivered, her eyes on the Wolf, and kept talking. “Aye. But his prowess and courage aside, who could be truly glad to go to that wild bed, and share him with his mistress, Darkness?”

There was no answer to that. I watched the one black-brindled head among the golden as it bent close to Strifbjorn’s.
We dined only for pleasure; we slept only when hurt. We came together, my brothers and sisters and I, in the face of war or the cause of celebration: not as we used to, for the sheer joy of singing the world into being. Back before men were made, and creation was complete.

But that night was a wedding, and there would be a feast in the hall. And after the feast, there would be fighting.

Oh, it would be fine.

“Are you nervous?”

Menglad gave me a sidelong look behind her veils. “Nervous?”

“About the wedding night.” Her eyes behind the veil were more blue than gray. The starlight that suddenly filled them was tinted silver.

She leaned aside and dropped her voice. “Shall I tell you a secret, Muire? Of all of us, I believe you can keep one.”

“I am a historian, after all. The only secrets I whisper are those of the dead.”

She pursed her lips; it smoothed her brow. “You are not like the rest of us, Muire. I do not envy you. But I do not know what we would be without your voice.”

I brushed her strangeness away with my left hand. “You were about to give me a secret.”

She took a breath, licking her lips moist. “I’ve been to Arngeir’s bench,” she whispered, leaning so her veil hid the shape of her words against my hair.

“In the mead-hall?” I couldn’t imagine how she kept that secret. Despite the dark of night and the averted eyes of politeness, one notices such things as a shared niche. Especially when the benches are not often used for sleeping.

Tonight they would be, however. Used for sleeping, and for
other things. I might spend the night in the field, or on the mountainside.

She shook her head. “We’ve met in secret. I’m sure Strifbjorn knows, but as Arngeir offered for me, there has been no scandal. He can be kinder than he seems—Strifbjorn, I mean.”

I leaned closer, speaking so softly she must have strained to hear. “What’s it like? And have you . . . have you shared the kiss yet?”

She shook her head. “We decided to wait. It seemed safer: what if something happened? Before we were wedded, I mean. We’d both be . . .”

. . . unmarriageable.
Yes. It was one thing to marry a widow, knowing you would be taking on a bit of another as well. Different entirely to join with someone, expecting to find oneself half of a whole, and discover the taint of a third already woven into the bonding.

She picked up her thread after a moment of silence. “As for the other . . . Well, it hurts. At first. But it’s a . . . good sort of hurt. Not to be feared. Much less than a sword-cut.”

I shook my head. “I am content with your reports.” Over her shoulder, I caught a sneering glance from tall, fair Sigrdrifa, who I knew also coveted Strifbjorn’s hand.

I stood and excused myself with fortuitous timing, for as I took horns of mead from the thralls, more of the einherjar began to arrive—Arngeir’s party, but not yet the groom himself. We seated them across the fire trench from Strifbjorn.