Dangerous Talents (23 page)

The skald’s rich voice captured Cele’s attention. She was
there
; she could
see
the people of Greenland struggling to survive.

“The people despaired,” the skald continued. “The priests of the White Christ pronounced the unending winter a punishment because some of the people still followed the old gods. By this suffering, they said, the people would be purified and saved.

“But wise Brynjolf spoke against the priests. He remembered the tales told by his grandfather, of a rich land to the west where the wheat sowed itself and the grapes grew heavy on wild vines. Freyr would lead his people back to that land where harvests burst their storage sheds and game was plentiful, if only they would again honor the Vanir god.

“The priests denounced Brynjolf as mad for believing such tales.

“‘Mad, am I?’ said Brynjolf. ‘The very beams of this house came from Vinland.’

“Then they pronounced him evil.

“‘The only evil here,’ said he, ‘is the heavy hand of a false Kon who robs us of the means to feed ourselves, and the evil whisperings that turn us from the old, true gods.’

“Finally they announced him possessed.

“‘Possessed, am I?’ he answered them. ‘Yes! Possessed by a hunger to make us a free people again!’

“But the lies of the priests turned the bones of some to water. ‘Vinland is filled with savage Skraelings,’ they said, ‘who drove our fathers away not once, but three times.’

“Brynjolf roared, impatient with such faintheartedness. ‘The Skraelings are on our own shores, and yet we live. Even if the Vinland breed is fiercer, would it not be better to live and die fighting than to starve here in the cold like old women and puling babes?’“

Cele shouted along with the rest of the audience as it erupted into shouts of approval of Brynjolf’s words.

When the crowd quieted, Eirik continued. “Many vowed to join Brynjolf, but others did not, listening instead to the priests of the White Christ. ‘This is but a test of our faith,’ they said. ‘Remain here, steadfast, and the White Christ will reward you abundantly. The ground will warm and the grasses grow again. Your cattle will fatten and increase.’

“Brynjolf bade the Geistlig, the seer of the true gods, to cast the runes, and the stones spoke true. ‘The cold will grow, and the Frost Giants will take the land,’ they said. ‘Those who hunger now will starve, unless they follow the Bright Road.’

“The priests denounced the Speaking Stones and those who listened to them, but Brynjolf cared not. He gathered those of stout heart and embarked with the last of their cattle and sheep and geese for Vinland, bidding farewell to the priests and those who listened to them.

“Freyr smoothed the way, speeding their ships with a brisk wind over a smooth sea. On the fifth day, the brave-hearted folk with Brynjolf found Vinland just as he had promised, and there he cast his dais beams ashore.” The gold brooches on the skald’s black tunic winked in lamplight as he mimicked the gesture of casting the decorative panels into the water. “As they followed the beams aground, the truth of Freyr’s blessing was proved. On a hill above a fertile valley, just beyond their landing place, they found an altar to Freyr awaiting them: a great round stone, balanced on three. Praising Freyr’s gifting, they built their houses in the meadow below.

“That year their cattle grazed and fattened, their sheep grew more wool than could be spun, and fish jumped willfully into the Northmen’s nets. The cheeks of the women grew round again, and their bellies filled with babes.

“When at last the Skraelings skulked from their hiding places, Brynjolf greeted them with gifts. These the Skraelings greedily accepted. The next season the Skraelings returned, wanting to trade for the strong blades and spears forged by the brave Northmen. Wise Brynjolf said them nay, but offered milk to drink. At the first taste the Skraelings delighted, and offered furs in trade for skins of milk. This Brynjolf accepted, and the Skraelings left with all they could carry.

“But the Skraelings in the new land were wretches indeed. Some weeks later they attacked Brynjolf’s folk. Not facing them bravely in honest battle, but lurking in darkness and shame, accusing honest Brynjolf of black arts even as they died.”

Cele cringed at the misunderstanding. Native Americans had no enzymes to digest milk. It would have tasted wonderful—and made them horribly ill. They would have thought they’d been poisoned.

“Thus began the season of fighting for the brave Vinlanders, always on watch for theft and fire and murder,” Eirik continued.

“At the dawn of their third spring, as day and night hung balanced, Brynjolf went to Freyr’s altar alone. Though stout of heart, his people were tired from their long vigil against the Skraelings. Brynjolf longed to gift them peace as well as plenty. Thus, he petitioned Freyr, god of fruitfulness and peace, to lead them to a land free of strife.

“Three nights and days Brynjolf waited there for a sign. On the third dawn, he heard a loud crashing and saw a great boar rushed toward him. Though weak from hunger and sleeplessness, Brynjolf drew his mighty sword, but the boar didn’t charge him. Instead, it leapt over the altar. In the instant the creature crested the stone it vanished, its bristling coat flashing gold. Then wise Brynjolf knew the beast was Gullinbursti, Freyr’s steed.

“His petition answered, Brynjolf returned to his people and told them what he’d seen. ‘Bravely you followed me to this land of plenty,’ he said to them. ‘Follow me once more, to the place which Freyr has shown me, where no Skraeling will challenge our peace.’

“Again, the brave Northmen heeded his words. They gathered their cattle and sheep and horses, took their new sons in their arms, and followed Brynjolf to Freyr’s altar. Bold Brynjolf took his fair wife Groa’s hand, and together they climbed over the altar.

“The world around them vanished, replaced by the rainbow colors of the Bright Road swirling about their feet.”

“Oh!” Cele exclaimed softly, remembering the kaleidoscope of color when she’d fallen. This was the portal Gris and Thora had mentioned. Ragni glanced at her curiously, but she leaned forward, eager to hear what the skald would say next.

“With a flash of light, Brynjolf and Groa stepped into their new home. Behind them, no altar stood to Freyr, for this was Alfheim, and the Vanir needed none here. In moments, all the brave Vinlanders had followed. Thus came our forefathers to this land, gifted us by Freyr’s promise, and Brynjolf’s boldness.”

The attentive silence shattered into shouts and cheers and stamping feet.

Cele stared as the skald took his bows and left. Dahleven had sworn by Odin and mentioned Thor and the Vanir; she’d even thought of him as a Viking. Eirik’s story had just confirmed it.
Norway, Greenland, Vinland
. By their own account, these people had come from her world. Or their ancestors had.
And they got here the same way I did
.

Distracted by her thoughts, Cele barely noticed when musicians entered the gallery above the arched entrance and began a lively tune, but she could hardly ignore the servants clearing away the tables. Neven and his wife rose and went to stand in an area opened by their removal. Guests of the highest rank formed two rows with the Kon and his wife at the head. The music slowed and the dancers began to move in a complicated pattern of traded partners and positions, with men and women weaving in and standing out of the pattern at various times. At intervals, everyone stamped or skipped, clapped their hands or clasped hands with another.

Cele stared, rapt with concentration, trying to follow the form of the dance. She thought she was beginning to understand the order of the figures when the last movement resolved itself once again into two rows, each dancer facing their original partner. They paid courtesy to one another and drifted back to their seats. No sooner had the floor cleared, when another, expanded group formed a huge ring.

Ragni pushed back his chair and stood holding out his hand. “My lady?”

The relaxing effect of the wine barely dulled Cele’s alarm. “I don’t know the steps!”

“This is an easy one. Just watch the other women and do what they do.”

Cele started to shake her head.

“When in Rome…?” Ragni grinned, tossing her own words back at her.

She groaned and conceded, letting Ragni lead her to join the others. She tried to move gracefully in the unfamiliar long dress and ignore the fact that people were watching her with renewed interest and speculation. Then Ragni dropped her hand and bowed to her. All her concentration focused on imitating the other women, gathering and lifting some of her skirt in both hands, and moving as they did. She didn’t want to look clumsy and ignorant of what was obviously a basic skill here. Fortunately, Ragni was right. The steps were simple, and after a couple of slight bobbles at the beginning, Cele found herself caught up in the pattern as she wove in and out of the line of men facing her, moving in the opposite direction. When the music ended, she was smiling and exhilarated. “That was fun!”

Ragni took her hand and held it close to his chest. “Dancing agrees with you.” He brushed the knuckles of his other hand above her elbow as he had earlier.

It felt like a kiss and Cele blushed, enjoying Ragni’s flirtation. Then a nasty thought surfaced. “You’re not married, are you?”

Ragni smiled and shook his head. “I could hardly hide a wife from you here at the Feast!” He nodded at the dancers forming for the next dance. “Would you care to try another?”

Cele laughed, relieved her suspicion had proved groundless, and shook her head. “No, thank you. I was lucky this time.” But she let Ragni retain her hand. She enjoyed his playful attentions; the admiring look in his eye buoyed her confidence. She felt a twinge of regret he wasn’t his brother, then suppressed the feeling.

As they turned to their seats, a gray-haired man with a face deeply seamed by wrinkles called to Ragni. He was dressed in the same gray as her escort, and had a similar purple bag hanging around his neck. Cele felt Ragni’s posture become more reserved, but he didn’t release her hand.

“You must introduce me to your lovely lady, Father Ragnar,” the older man said.

Father
Ragnar! She’d been flirting with a
priest
?

Ragni nodded a bow and his tone became formal. “It would be my pleasure. This is Lady Celia Montrose. Lady Celia, may I introduce my sponsor and superior, Father Wirmund.”

Somehow, Cele managed a normal tone of voice. “Father Wirmund.” She offered her hand to him, using the gesture as an excuse to withdraw it from Ragni’s grasp. “It’s a pleasure.” Then she remembered.
This is the guy Thora said I should talk to
.

The older man took her hand gently by the fingertips, not like a handshake, reminding Cele again that she was a fish out of water. His skin felt cool and papery. “Would you join me for this dance, my lady?” It was obvious despite his mild voice that Father Wirmund expected his request to be accepted.

Cele hesitated. Something about his gimlet gaze convinced her he didn’t wish her well. She didn’t want to insult him; he might be the only person in the place who could help her get home, but she didn’t want to be around him any longer than she had to. Cele glanced at Ragni, unsure of how to respond.

“Lady Celia only just arrived in Quartzholm today, after a long journey, and is fatigued, I fear. She just refused me another dance, did you not, my lady?”

“Indeed, I did.”

The look in Father Wirmund’s mild brown eyes chilled Cele. “What a shame you used the last of your strength before we met. You must sit and rest, my lady.” He bowed. “Father Ragnar, I would speak with you, when you have escorted the lady to her chair.” He inclined his head to Cele. “Until later,” he said, and turned away.

Cele relaxed as Father Wirmund removed his scrutiny. “Thank you. But I’m afraid you’re in trouble now,” Cele said softly to Ragni.

“It won’t be the first time—or the last,” Ragni said with a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. “And I only told the truth.”

“Speaking of the truth—”

“Lord Ragnar, well met!” The tall man who’d hailed Ragni had nearly white blond hair and his pale blue eyes were startling in his deeply tanned face. “Pray introduce me to your companion.”

“Lady Celia Montrose, may I present Lord Ingdall, heir to Lord Yngvar of Kyst-havn.”

Lord Ingdall smiled and bowed his head. Cele returned him what she hoped was a passable curtsey of the appropriate depth.

“You are the most exciting thing at the Feast, Lady Celia. A new face at the high tables is a rarity for us. Did you come from Nuheimland? Or one of Nuvinland’s daughter settlements?”

Cele had the feeling that Ingdall was asking more than she understood, and glanced at Ragni. He just smiled and made no move to intervene.
Honesty is the best policy
. She smiled. “Neither, Lord Ingdall.”
Guess again
.

Lord Ingdall didn’t seem upset by her obscure answer. “A lady of mystery. Doubly so, since you didn’t come through either Kyst-havn’s port or Lord Ozur’s. How did you come to Nuvinland, my lady?”

I fell out of the sky
. “I walked, my lord.”

Lord Ingdall laughed, baring perfect teeth. “Very well, keep your mystery. But you hardly need it to increase your allure. Would you dance with me, my lady?”

And let you continue grilling me? No, thank you
. “I’m sorry, I’m quite tired, Lord Ingdall, and I’ve already declined Father Wirmund. Please excuse me.”

Lord Ingdall pursed his lips in exaggerated disappointment. “Another time, then.” He nodded a bow to them both. “Lord Ragnar, Lady Celia.”

They made their way haltingly back to their seats, stopped frequently as more people sought to meet her. Each new person brought an assault of questions. Most of the questions were the same, just variations on the theme. Having answered them once, Cele had her replies ready, but she dreaded a query that she couldn’t evade. She didn’t want to broadcast that she was from out of this world; she was already uncomfortably the center of too much attention.

One of the curious was the plump, determined woman whom the skald had honored as the Lady Jarl. Her name was Solveig, and she spoke with more genuine warmth than the others seeking Cele’s acquaintance. Most of her inquisitors made her nervous, though they didn’t radiate the subtle hostility that Father Wirmund had. Instead, it felt as though they were quizzing her on a subject she’d skipped all semester. Lady Solveig, on the other hand, was friendly. As they parted, she said, “Please call upon me while I’m here in Quartzholm.” And Cele felt the older woman meant it sincerely.