Dangerous Talents (21 page)

“Watch yourself, Bergid! You nearly knocked Lady Celia off her feet.” Thora rebuked the girl.

The young woman stopped and turned, her face tight and apprehensive. She bowed as best she could with her arms full. Another servant carrying a chest sidled past, hugging the wall.

“No harm done,” Cele said. The girl’s face relaxed. She bowed again, then hurried on.

“That’s hardly the point, my lady. The girl should be more careful. We’ve a houseful of nobility gathered for the Althing. If she doesn’t watch herself, the person she runs into next may not be so generous as you.”

As they turned to continue, Cele noticed a tall, dark-haired man without the ever-present hawk crest on his shoulder observing their exchange with the servant. Cele felt self-conscious. Did she appear so out of place that she drew attention?

Cele ran her hand over her skirt and gathered a fold of cloth in her fingers, savoring the soft hand of the forest green fabric of her dress. Intricate embroidery at the hem gave weight and substance to the skirt. She was beginning to get the hang of walking in it. Thora had braided her hair and pinned the looped and swirled plaits in an elaborate pattern similar to the styles on the better-dressed women they passed in the hallway. Cele knew she looked good, but the man’s gaze was more watchful than admiring as they passed him leaning against the mezzanine railing.

Thora seemed not to have noticed him. “Come, my lady. We’ve got to get you dressed for the Feasting tonight.” Thora led her up a flight of stairs and down another hall. “It’s fortunate we got you in and out of the baths already. There will be a press in there now.”

A feast
? “What are you celebrating?”

Thora’s eyes widened. “Fanlon’s Feast, of course.” At Cele’s blank expression, Thora looked incredulous. “You’ve not heard of Fanlon? How could that be?”

They stopped in front of a door Cele recognized as her own. The older woman unlocked it with one of the keys hanging from her waist and ushered her in. “How is it you’ve never heard of Fanlon, my lady?”

Cele shrugged and shook her head. She didn’t want to go into the whole story about her transit to this world again. “I’m from a long way away. Why don’t you tell me?”

“No need. You’ll hear the story tonight; the bards always tell it.” Thora went to the closet where she’d stored Neven’s gifts, then withdrew a red gown heavy with gold embroidery around the low neckline and hem. Slit sleeves of gauzy white cloth with gold and red decorative stitching flowed from the shoulders nearly down to the floor. “
This
will do very well, indeed.” Obviously, Thora was still impressed with the elegance of the clothes Kon Neven had sent.

Cele reached behind her neck to unfasten the buttons closing her dress, but Thora brushed her hands away after laying the red dress on the bed.

Cele hadn’t been dressed by someone since she was three, but remembering Thora’s expression of hurt when Cele had said she’d bathe herself, she decided to let Thora have her way. To cover her awkwardness, she asked again, “Please, tell me about Fanlon and the Feast.”

Apparently, Thora had only been waiting for a little encouragement. “Well, it won’t be as pretty as the bards tell it, but I can acquaint you with his story.

“As everyone knows, Lord Fanlon was born nigh onto two hundred years ago, heir to the Jarl of this very province.”

“Like Dahleven?”

“Yes. Just like Lord Dahleven. In that time, the Jarls were a contentious and quarrelsome lot, long descended from the adventurers who had left behind the settlements of the First Families in Nuheimjord.”

“The First Families?”

Thora paused in her unbuttoning and spoke as though to a dim-witted child. “Those who crossed the portal from Midgard, some eight hundred years ago.”

Excited, Cele turned to look at Thora. “Your people came through a portal? Gris said something about that. Could I go back that way?”

Thora shook her head. “No one has ever returned to Midgard, my lady. Who would want to?”

Disappointment washed away Cele’s excitement. “I would.”

“I’ve heard no tales of anyone passing back over the bridge, my lady.” Thora’s voice was kind as she turned Cele and resumed her unbuttoning. “But I’m not privy to the deeper secrets and magicks. You should ask Father Wirmund, the
Overprest
. He’ll be at the feast tonight. He would know.”

Cele nodded. “Please go on with your story.”

“Well, those Jarls had Great Talents back then, and they could do such things as shape stone, call the winds, or bring the mortally wounded back from the brink of death. But they used their Talents in endless bickering and war.

“To increase their holdings and keep the Talents of their children growing stronger, they married carefully, choosing their wives for the sake of their Talents as though they were breeding sheep or cattle. New and stronger Talents sprang up, but not the wisdom to use them well.” The multitude of tiny buttons undone, Thora slipped the dress off Cele’s shoulders. “When one young Jarl came into his Talent and used it to shake the earth so that all in his opponent’s province was destroyed, Lord Fanlon decided he must act.

“He called the Jarls together under the truce of the Althing. Then, with his own hand, Lord Fanlon dosed the guests with a sleeping draught, sacrificing his honor to save all he held dear. The Jarls fell into a deep sleep, and then he and his brother Arn, a priest of Baldur, combined their Talents. Lord Fanlon had the Viking Talent: Borrowing. Keeping was his brother’s Talent. In a Great Working, Lord Fanlon took all the Great Talents from the Jarls and their men, and Arn contained them in crystal, hidden deep within the mountains. But to make the Keeping permanent, Arn had to die in the Working.” Thora held the red dress for Cele to step into.

Cele paused with one leg raised. “Die! Why?”

“I told you, my lady. To make it last.” Thora used the dress to gesture that Cele should step into it. “Great magic requires a great sacrifice. Otherwise, the Working would have failed when Arn’s attention faltered, and the fractious Lords would again have had possession of their Talents.”

Cele slipped her arms into the sleeves. Her horror must have shown on her face.

“Lord Fanlon was no more happy with the idea than you, and almost put an end to the plan when Arn told him this, but Arn insisted on his right to serve the needs of their people. Seeing no better path, Lord Fanlon was persuaded.” Thora began threading the gold laces on the front of Cele’s gown.

Cele tried to ignore the awkward feeling of being dressed like a doll. “What happened?”

“When the Jarls awoke and learned what had happened, their anger knew no bounds. They declared Fanlon Oathbreaker for violating the truce. Even his father called him Outcast when he learned what his sons had done. The Jarls drew arms, and in the fighting, Lady Sigrid, Lord Fanlon’s beloved wife, was mortally wounded.” Thora paused again, pulling tight the gold ribbons.

Cele was about to urge her on when the maid continued.

“Seeing this, the Jarls expected Lord Fanlon to release the Talents, for all knew of his passion for her, and one of their number had possessed the Talent of Healing those near death.

“Fanlon held his beloved in his arms as her life slipped away, drop by drop. At first, they clamored for the release of their Talents, promising the restoration of his wife and forgiveness of his betrayal. He looked at them with dry-eyed grief carved on his stony face. ‘No man has the right to buy his happiness with the sorrow of others,’ he told them. ‘Our people deserve the peace and safety we have taken from them with our endless wars. They shall have some measure of it now.’ The Jarls fell silent, and when Sigrid released her last breath, the Jarls were stunned by Fanlon’s sacrifice.”

Cele blinked away tears.

“One by one, the Jarls swore to support the Alliance, though it took some of them a year or more to come to it. And though he had violated the truce of Althing, none called for the Outcasting of Lord Fanlon. Within a year, he took his father’s place as Jarl of Quartzholm, and then as Kon of Nuvinland.

“Lord Fanlon, realizing that eventually Great Talents might develop again, and that even normal Talents could be used to great harm, did another Great Working, his last. He poured his Viking Talent into another crystal and bequeathed it to the priests of Baldur to use for taking the Talents from those who misuse them. But he feared even a priest might be led astray by the power held in the single crystal, so he shattered it, and in doing so, died to make it permanent. The shards and the power were separated and shared among the priests.

“Now, when someone is judged by the Althing to be Outcast, a group of priests must gather and work together to take the Talent from the offender.

“And that is how Lord Fanlon became known as ‘Fanlon the Great.’ Since that day, the Jarls have married for political alliance, wealth, and love, but not to breed their Talents.” Thora tied the golden ribbons and tucked the ends down between Cele’s breasts.

Cele felt a little squeezed.

“Now bend over and plump yourself, my lady,” Thora urged.

Cele did as commanded, lifting her breasts to fill the low neckline.

“The Althing is always opened, now, with a Feast of Fanlon, honoring him who brought us to together in Alliance,” Thora finished, putting a drop of fragrance between Cele’s breasts.

Cele felt like her bosom was being offered on a platter. “That’s quite a story.”

“It’s a proud heritage. Lord Dahleven is heir to a great Family.”

“Dahleven is descended from Fanlon?”

Thora looked at her as if she were pulling a poor joke. “Of course! Through Kon Neven and sixteen generations of Jarls.”

No wonder Dahleven thought he had the right to play around with her. He was a prince, or whatever they called the son of a Jarl or a Kon. He thought he could get away with whatever he wanted. He probably could.

Cele turned in front of a mirror and the hem of her dress swirled around her ankles, revealing her matching red slippers. Though the clothing here looked strange compared to what people wore in Tucson, it certainly looked good on her. No one would look at her legs and think she was half-dressed now. Her breasts, maybe.
Dahleven, eat your heart out
.

“The red looks well on you, my lady,” Thora said. “You’ll not be left sitting when the music begins.”

“Thank you.”
Dancing
?
I can barely walk in these skirts
.

A brisk tattoo summoned Thora to the door. She opened it a modest amount, then wider as she curtsied the visitor in. “Lord Ragnar! Be welcome.”

A young man about Cele’s age stepped into her room and lifted Thora out of her curtsy. He wore an embroidered gray velvet tunic over a satiny gray shirt with a high collar and full sleeves. His dark gray pants were tucked into high gray boots. A small bag of rich purple velvet hung from a wide purple ribbon around his neck, the only color on his person. “It’s Ragni, Thora, as you know all too well. I’ve told you often enough. You don’t want to give Lady Celia the wrong impression of me, do you? ‘Lord Ragnar’ sounds so pompous.”

The tall young man turned his smile on Cele. He was slimmer, but something about the shape of his gray eyes and the cut of his high cheekbones echoed Dahleven’s. He came forward and honored her with a slight bow. His gaze hesitated for a moment on Sorn’s cuff, but then he focused his attention on her face. “Lady Celia Montrose, it is a pleasure to meet you. If I’d known there were such treasures to be found in the drylands, I would have gone there myself, rather than leaving such adventures to my brother.” He lightly touched her right arm above the elbow.

For some reason Ragni’s gesture felt suggestive. “Your brother?” Cele shifted, breaking the contact. Ragni withdrew his hand and she wondered if she’d imagined the feeling of familiarity.

“Dahben. Lord Dahleven, rather. I suppose I shouldn’t call him by his childhood nickname.”

“That’s what Aenid called him.”

“She’s the one who gave it to him. She couldn’t say Dahleven when she was little. ‘Dahben’ was the best she could manage, and the rest of us adopted it. We should drop it I suppose; he
will
be Jarl someday, and ‘Lord Dahben’ doesn’t quite have the ring of authority, does it?”

Cele didn’t have a response to that, but she found herself smiling at Ragni’s breezy manner.

“When did you meet Aenid?” Ragni lifted a brow in an expression much like his brother’s.

“This afternoon, when I went to visit Sevond.”

Ragni lost his air of amusement. “That’s a sad thing, for Sevond to lose Sorn on top of all his other losses. It was well done of you to go to him. And Aenid was there, too, you say? She was rather fond of Sorn. I expect she’ll feel his death nearly as much as Dahleven will.”

“More, I’d say,” Cele said before she caught herself. It wasn’t her place to allude to Aenid’s situation, especially since Aenid’s family clearly had no idea how far things between her and Sorn had progressed.

Fortunately, Ragni misunderstood. “You don’t understand. Dahleven and Sorn were sworn brothers.”

Cele thought back to Dahleven’s stoic behavior. “He seemed to handle Sorn’s death pretty well.”

“He won’t show it, of course. He can’t.” Ragni paused and shook his head as though shaking free of the unhappy subject. His smile returned. “I am here to escort you to the Feast, my lady. May I have the pleasure of your company?” he finished with a little bow and the offer of his hand.

*

The great hall had been set with two rows of tables down the length of the room, on either side of the fire pit. The setting looked like something out of a costume drama. Servants hurried up and down the aisles, replacing empty pitchers and carafes on each table with full ones.

A table with three chairs had been set up on the dais and another much longer one was below it, both crosswise to the length of the hall.

As Ragni escorted her into the chamber through an opening near the dais, a din of voices enveloped her. Cele scanned the revelers for Dahleven. Color flashed everywhere, but she didn’t see him or his wife among the throng. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. She knew she looked hugely better than she had the last time he’d seen her, with her scratched legs and dirty face, and wanted to show off a little, but she didn’t want to confront him in front of all these people.