FORBIDDEN TALENTS (51 page)

He opened his eyes. Was his hand a little pinker? A little less shriveled? Or was fear clouding his vision? Clenching his teeth in anticipation, he tried again to move his thumb. No pain.

No movement.

The world fell away as he stared at his hand, then up at Valender.
A priest must be whole
. His plea must have shown on his face.

“
I’m sorry. There is little I can do, as it was caused by human magic.
”

He could not be a priest with this hand. Nor heir. Nor a man.

*

Dahleven watched as Wirmund entered the central courtyard just after noon, followed by Father Vali and two other priests. Dahleven had posted extra men on the walls. He hoped a few of them would keep their assigned watch over the unchanging mist instead of being distracted by the spectacle about to occur. Everyone who didn’t have duties elsewhere, and some who did, had crowded the windows and causeways that overlooked the bailey to watch Father Wirmund call upon the gods to save them.

A circle had been scribed on the stone and an altar set up and sanctified. Images of Freyr and Freya supported a stone slab, and on its surface lay a silver bowl of precious purified water, a goblet of wine, and a sprig of mistletoe.

Wirmund approached the altar. He picked up the mistletoe, dipped it in the water, and faced north. As he raised his arm, sunlight glinted off the gold woven into his finest priest garb.
“
May the blessings of Baldur be upon all who are faithful in their service to him.
”
Wirmund shook droplets of water free from the plant with a dramatic flourish.

What a showman
. But Dahleven had to admire the Overprest’s abilities. The man had captured the crowd’s full attention. Dahleven glanced up at the battlements. He was relieved to see that at least a few of his men were looking outward.

Wirmund repeated the blessing to the east and the west and finally to the south, where Dahleven stood ten feet away, just outside the circle. Wirmund met his eyes as he spoke, then flung a spattering of water on him.

The three other priests linked hands, and the two on each end put their free hands on Wirmund’s shoulders. Then the Overprest opened the purple velvet pouch that hung around his neck, took out his shard of crystal, and bega
n to chant the words of ritual.

“
Hear me, Baldur!
”
Wirmund’s voice rang over the stone courtyard.

Slowly, like a gathering of storm clouds, the air grew thick and heavy. Dahleven felt the hairs on his arms prickle at the coalescing power.
Is the old goat truly favored by the gods
?

“
Bless us, Baldur!
”
Wirmund’s aged voice sounded sharp and demanding.

Time crept by as the Overprest continued chanting, repeating his invocation.
“
Heed me now, Oh Baldur! I have served you well these many years. Do not deny me!
”
Wirmund’s exhortation held a hint of desperation.

Unease tightened Dahleven’s shoulders.
Shouldn’t he be asking rather than demanding
?

The pressure mounted and there was a growing hum, like the drone of angry bees. Dahleven’s breath grew short. He’d never witnessed such a ritual before. Was this how the gods spoke? Did Wirmund understand what Baldur was saying?

Some of those standing just outside the ritual circle stepped back. Dahleven felt something crawl over his skin, but there was nothing there. He shifted his weight, holding his ground. He didn’t want Wirmund to be right. But he wanted Quartzholm to fall to her enemies even less.

A bone-biting chill fell upon them, as if clouds had obscured the sun, but light still streamed from a clear sky. Wirmund’s breath fogged with each word. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. Still murmuring, he put his shard of crystal on the altar. Reaching for the silver knife at his neck he pulled Father Hamma close in front of him.
“
Accept my gift,
”
he shouted.

Dahleven’s breath caught in his lungs as the understanding of what Wirmund intended to do struck a bare instant before the Overprest’s blade. Dahleven had no time to react. Suddenly blood was everywhere, as Wirmund sliced the young priest’s throat.

A booming crack rent the air. People cringed and shouted. Every hair on Dahleven’s body lifted as if wanting to flee. The pressure exploded outward with a blinding flash and a smell of lightning, flinging Dahleven onto his back.

In an instant he was on his feet again, blade drawn. The air was clear, the oppressive droning silent. No enemy threatened that he could use his weapon on. All four priests were on the ground, but Vali and another were already stirring. He sheathed his sword and ran forward, checking the other two. The young priest whose neck Wirmund had sliced had drowned in his own blood. And Wirmund’s dead eyes stared sightlessly into the cold winter sky, a smoking, blackened hole where his heart used to be.

The crowd erupted with shouts and cries of fear.

Dahleven looked for the commander on the east wall.
“
The mist?
”
he shouted over the din.

Around him the people fell silent.

Commander Komigg shook his head and cupped his hands around his mouth to shout back.
“
No change, my lord.
”

*

Saeun frowned as Ragni pushed himself to his feet, leaning against the tunnel wall just beyond the cavern where the battle had been waged.
“
You should be resting,
”
she protested. The battle had ended less than a candlemark ago.

“
Fender and I are the only ones who can sing Rovdir to Valhalla. His courage deserves no less.
”

Ragni was pale, but steady on his feet. He said his hand didn’t pain him much, but it was hard to believe. She’d only seen it for a short time, while her own mind was clouded with the pain of her broken arm, but it had looked bad. Ragni had pulled a mitten over the twisted, reddened flesh as soon as Valender had finished with him.

She closed her mouth on further protest. He was a priest of Baldur. He had to do this. He needed to do this.

Ragni and Fender went back into the cavern, along with the Light Elves who were seeing to their own dead. Masale stayed behind, standing guard over the women and the injured.

Ragni and Fender’s voices rose in song, echoing in the cavernous chamber until they sounded like a multitude. They sang of the fierce delight of vanquishing a foe, the pleasure of bedding a woman, the joy of fathering a son. All the things that made up a man’s life. Tears choked Saeun’s throat. The Valkyries could not help but hear and wing Rovdir to Valhalla.

She ought to be happy. They’d succeeded. The Dark Elves’ plan to open the way between the planes to ignite Ragnarok was foiled. Treskin had said it would be many long years, if ever, before the Dark Elves tried such a thing again. Yes, she ought to be happy. But her heart wouldn’t cooperate. As soon as the dead were honored and tended, they were going to Quartzholm.

Saeun glanced at Lady Celia, where she sat leaning against the wall, eyes closed. She was anxious to get back, to see Lord Dahleven, to know whether their home still stood.

They all wanted to know. And yet Quartzholm could never again be home, not for her. If she hadn’t promised the Aspen Mother to take Dances-in-Light there, she’d have no reason to go at all. She had no roots there anymore.

And what of Ragni
? If his hand didn’t heal, what would he do? Saeun swallowed against the tightness in her chest.
He loves being a priest
. But his damaged hand would rob him of that.

Saeun groaned and shifted her aching arm to rest across the sapling by her side. Lady Celia had splinted it as gently as she could, but it still hurt.

Che’veyo leaned forward, turning unseeing eyes in her direction. Somehow Edelstena’s magic, or his own, had taken his vision.
“
You’re in pain.
”

“
A little. My arm will heal.
”
As soon as the words left her mouth she wanted to call them back. Valender couldn’t help Che’veyo any more than he could help Ragni. The Shaman might never recover his sight.

“
It is your spirit I speak of, Lady Saeun. It suffers even more than your arm.
”

Saeun blinked back unexpected tears and nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her.
“
Yes.
”

“
It is natural to grieve that which is lost to us. But we must remember that for the green shoot to grow, the old must pass away.
”

“
Does knowing that make the grief any less?
”

“
Not usually.
”
Che’veyo smiled.
“
May I sing? It may sooth your heart.
”

Tiva’ti lay her hand on his arm.
“
You’re tired.
”

“
This will do as much for me as for all of you,
”
Che’veyo answered. His sightless eyes twinkled.
“
You can even sing along if you want.
”

His voice lifted in a simple melody. He’d hardly sung more than a few words when Tiva’ti laughed and joined in, her higher voice complimenting his deeper tones. The song wound through Saeun’s mind, repeating in variation. There must have been some magic in it, because she felt the anxious gnawing of her fears subside, and before she knew her eyes were heavy, she slept.

She awoke to find Valender leaning over her, one hand on her arm, another on her brow. He’d removed her splint. Her arm tingled and grew warm. It ached sharply for a moment, then the feeling faded.

He smiled down at her.
“
You didn’t think I’d forgotten you? I just needed to rest a bit.
”

Someone had eased her to the floor, saving her from a stiff neck.
“
How long?
”
she asked, sitting up. Her injury didn’t even twinge and the dark purple of the bruise was fading. Saeun lifted her arm, turning it this way and that, smiling at the pain-free movement, then looked up and saw Ragni’s avid expression.

“
Could you, would you, when we get to Quartzholm
…
”
He cleared his throat.
“
Lord Valender, my father the Kon lies stricken in his bed, unable to move or speak,
”
Ragni said.
“
Could your skills help him? Would you try?
”

Valender looked at him gravely.
“
You honor me.
”
He nodded.
“
I will do whatever I can.
”

Treskin stood.
“
I do not believe we will be set upon, but I would rather not rely on that. Edelstena’s allies are probably all arrayed against the mortals now, but I think it best we move from here.
”

No longer concerned with taking the Dark Elves unaware, they used the glow globes to light their path. Treskin was confident they would find the passage ahead clear—at least until they neared Quartzholm. Fallir remembered every turning they’d made, and once they were out of the narrow fissure, they moved as fast as those still recovering from their wounds could go. Baruq rode on Che’veyo’s shoulder and between his constant description of the terrain and Masale’s guiding hand, the Shaman kept pace with the others.

They reached a place where they departed from the way they’d come, and Lady Celia took the lead again, using her Talent to Find the route to the tunnels below Quartzholm. It felt like they walked forever, sometimes climbing, other times descending, always in a bubble of light.

They walked until the humans were wavering on their feet, then they slept and ate and started over again.

Saeun tried to note the changes in the rock they passed, the colors, the shapes, to find some sense of progress. Sometimes the ceiling lowered until they had to stoop; in other places the floor was broken and uneven. They coughed and hurried past places where the air was thick and stagnant, rested in the rare spots where some hidden shaft brought a hint of fresh breeze. Despite that, it began to seem as though they never moved, and merely tread the same section of tunnel over and over endlessly.

And with every step, Ragni grew quieter. He’d cursed the first time they’d stopped to rest. He couldn’t tie his trews again after relieving himself. Holding his laces, he’d turned away from Utta and herself, letting Lord Fendrikanin fasten them, his expression set in a rigid mask. She’d bit her lip to keep from weeping.

Saeun wanted to offer him some comfort, but what solace could there be for the loss of the life he’d known? She knew all too well what that felt like, and no words could make it any easier to bear.