Iduna (6 page)

After walking for hours, Vilir felt he was far enough from his tent and joined one of the sleeping piles that surrounded one of the many campfires. It was late. His dog flopped on his feet and gave a tired grunt.

The dwindling fire had the heavy smell of smoke and ash, but embers still glowed with a warm light. A tall man sat on a tree stump with a woman leaning back against his legs. They both stared into the fire as she sang a song of their homeland. She sang of the long winters and life within their massive tents and ice fortresses. It was an old song, and Vilir knew the words. Laying here among his people and listening to the song brought a sweet pain to him.

His brother.

Roen had a gift for dealing with people and being tremendously wise even from a young age. The people had chosen him for higher and higher positions until eventually his little brother, Roen, was Leder Roen of the Snow Elves and responsible for guiding the Ull in accordance with their beliefs and values. With Vilir’s talents in hunting and in the arena, it was natural for him to become Roen’s choice to lead Ull’s warriors. The force wasn’t large, but it was enough to deal with the occasional border marauding and to survey the lands.

The Ull lived spread across the tundra and in the glorious city of Himmlen. Roen had to spend most of his time in Himmlen, seeing to the laws and the managing of a society that always had to be ready for exceptionally hard winters. The Ull took care of their own.

Himmlen was also where all the art of the Snow Elves came to be shared and celebrated. Artists poured into Himmlen with the spring melt and stayed to manifest amazing buildings crafted from layers of ice; both fluid and geometric designs could be found throughout the city. Plays and music prospered and fed the great soul of their society. These creations were celebrations of the wonder of nature and humanity. They fostered compassion and appreciation that were core values of the Ull.

One day in the coldest depths of winter, Vilir discovered a village had been burned down. All the buildings and tents were charred skeletons, and bodies lay where they had fallen. There was one survivor—a young girl.

Her eyes were wild, and she struck out at anyone who tried to calm her. With no options, Vilir bundled her up, and tied her hands and feet to keep her safe from herself and from attacking others. He would bring the girl to the court and would introduce her to Roen. Leder Roen would know what to do.

He’d never forget that day.

Roen was sitting on his ice throne that had long ago been lined with cushions, listening to a large group of musicians while many of the Ull danced. Music echoed off the tall ceiling of the hall, and Vilir felt the scene of the decimated village wear less heavily in his heart.

“Brother, welcome home. How are our lands?” Roen called to him as Vilir approached the throne.

“Thank you, Leder Roen. They are mostly well, but I bring you sad news and a conundrum. The village of Aysen is burned to the ground,” Vilir said and paused for the gasps in the hall to subside. “All the other surrounding villages appear to be fine,” he assured them.

“How are the people of Aysen?”

“All are dead except for this girl,” Vilir said and signaled to have the girl brought in. “She appears to be out of her mind and hasn’t said a word. The girl is a danger to herself and anyone else right now. I don’t know what to do with her.”

The girl stood awkwardly, her blue eyes blazing. Her hands and feet were still bound; blood dripped from the wounds she’d inflicted on herself as she’d tried to break free.

“What is your name?” Roen asked, while looking admonishingly at his brother. When the girl didn’t answer, Roen said, “Vilir, remove her bindings. She’ll be more inclined to talk when she is free. No Ull likes to be tied up.”

Vilir looked from the girl to Roen and back again. Her eyes shown like the blue fire around a hot flame. He could only imagine the intensity of her emotions and wondered for the thousandth time what had happened in the village. He had never bound her mouth, even though she bit anyone who got too close. They kept hoping she would finally talk.

Even now the line of her lips was tight and firm, as if frozen together.

“She’s quite unpredictable, my Leder,” Vilir said.

“She’s just a girl,” Roen said. “Free her, and we will talk with her to find out what has happened and how we can help her.”

Vilir had cut the ropes binding her feet together first. She’d stood mutely, and he’d felt encouraged that she hadn’t kicked him. He’d held her hands tenderly and cut through the rope. Her expression remained unchanged while she wiggled her fingers one by one, working out the kinks. He had watched her slowly flex her wrists, moving her hands up and down, then rotating them in small circles. She must be working the blood back into her hands, he had thought, and hoped that they hadn’t become too numb. Her fingernails were dirty and long. He’d wished they’d considered finding a way to allow her a hot soak to remove the dirt and grime from the fires and everything else that had happened in her village.

One second he was watching her small hands, the next he was pivoting to try to catch her as she sprinted toward the throne. She leaped onto Roen as he rose from his chair and made him fall back in the seat. Taking advantage of Roen’s moment of lost balance and surprise, she gouged her fingers deep into his eyes.

The image of Roen’s tears of blood as he died in Vilir’s arms wavered and blurred in Vilir’s memory.

He came back to the present, and the woman’s voice singing the closing stanzas. The song was an illusion, but it was also his most fierce hope. Vilir knew they’d been living a false and fragile dream in Ull.

Senbo had helped him see that.

Senbo had been the one to show him the hidden magic that the Ull were vulnerable to. And what Vilir was capable of. They wouldn’t be safe until they dominated the land and all the power that went with it. His brother’s death had been proof. There was only one way to get back home and live as the Ull should. It wouldn’t be easy. He needed Senbo’s knowledge of these lands, but he needed to slow down for the sake of his people. He could only delay so much.

He could feel the darkness envelope the camp while his own ambition burned with an ever-growing flame. His palms were practically itching with their desire to grab more power. He needed to rid the world of weakness. He would let his power grow until he was the only power, the only strength. Strength was what was required to keep his people safe and prosperous.

Vilir’s eyelids twitched as he slept. He dreamed of death and a fortress made of ice that kept melting.

The next afternoon, Iduna was plucking feathers from a scrawny goose when Vilir made his way to a tree stump near the camp's fire. He climbed up and stood in silence. He was barefoot, shirtless, and wearing simple leggings. She had never seen a man with such muscles and was glad she hadn’t tried to take him on last night. Poison would be the way, she thought idly, while noting that people were gathering around the tall charismatic man — like moths to a flame, they kept coming.

Vilir took three deep breaths, each inhalation drawing in massive amounts of air, filling his lungs. His ribs showed the pressure. Each exhalation shallow as he gathered air for whatever was to come. On his third exhale he made a loud vibrating hum, creating a long-drawn-out monotone baseline. Stopping when his long breath ended, he paused, surveying the ever-growing crowd.

They looked up to him. Iduna could feel their curiosity about what they were doing in Gaelen, wondering how long they would stay, how much some of them missed home.

He sang, weaving the notes and harmony that made Iduna feel a dark stirring of melancholy. Suddenly she felt her heart convulse, like she'd just lost someone she loved and would never see them again. She toppled into despair. Then a light seemed to appear, and it was fed by anger. The anger seeped into her, filling the emptiness. When his song ended, the feeling faded but left a shadow of memory, like the feelings had carved out a new spot in her soul.

…

Shaking her head, Iduna realized she was sitting cross-legged in the mud. She wouldn’t have chosen to sit here. People rose to their feet in their own time and went about what they had been doing without a word. The contemplative silence seemed to be a universal agreement.

The day passed in a haze. She cooked, served, ate, and went to bed.

When she woke the next morning, the sun seemed too bright, the light too harsh, the ground hard. She heard grumpy grunts and saw sleeping people with frowns. She must have slept on her neck wrong; she couldn’t turn her head without soreness. She gathered dishes from Vilir's tent, and he was snoring contentedly, snuggling a woman. His modest signs of happiness offended her. It seemed like no one should be happy.

She stomped to the stream, loaded with dishes and grinding her teeth with vague annoyance. She dropped them in a pile with a clatter — one pot hit her foot, and she screamed with rage. She kicked the pot so zealously that she lost her balance and toppled into the deep part of the stream. The pain from her toes hit her brain right before she was submersed. Cold water seized her lungs and overwhelmed her senses.

Blinding cold gripped her. Air left her frozen lungs in a bubbly whoosh. She hovered underwater while her nervous system shut down. Her thoughts stopped. Her legs and arms were still. She floated with eyes wide open, but unseeing.

She hovered without thought or movement.

Gradually she noticed the world around her: the swaying river-weed and a few fish darting. With a burst of movement, like her body had exited a stunned state, her arms and legs scissored her to the surface. She emerged with a gasping breath, lungs sucking in air, arms churning and legs treading water. Shaking her head, she headed to shore. Crawling onto a large boulder, she lay on her back with her eyes closed, panting.

She felt clean and alive.

She wrung out her clothes, laughing at herself for falling in the stream. She took off everything except her underclothes and spread them on the rocks. The sun was shining brightly and should take care of drying them. She hummed to herself while she began cleaning the dishes.

All done and with time to kill, she crawled up onto a boulder by the stream and sprawled in the sun. The feel of the heat on her skin and the warm rock under her was a welcome luxury. The dishes and clothes would dry while she took a nap. It was a beautiful day.

…

An hour later she woke, dressed, and gathered the dishes. She whistled a peppy tune while walking back to camp. As she got closer, her stride became shorter. Then her steps became slower. She felt like she was moving in mud, and the air felt thicker around her the closer to camp she got.

This was not right.

What was going on?

Her mind took steps back and reviewed the past few days, running from when she had parted ways with Freya to serving Vilir, to … “Oh, Yorin!” She gasped. Turning on her heel, she put her back to the camp and took an instinctive step away. This could not be happening. What dark magic was this?

Challenging her thoughts, she spun about, set her shoulders, and took a running start in the direction of camp. After three running strides, a black explosion burst in her brain. Her gut wrenched. She fell to her knees and lost the contents of her stomach. Wiping her mouth, she looked toward the camp.

She had to get back.

She tried crawling, sinking lower and lower into the dirt.

She held her hand to her wet mouth, oblivious, her mind reeling. Freya. Unger. The others. She wouldn't be able to get to them. They were in that dank, wretched darkness. She wouldn't even be able to get her horse. The Ull were such warm, affectionate people. What had happened? Her stomach roiled, and her head throbbed. The singing, the emotion, what was it all about? She searched her feelings and became aware of a hollow pit inside her that she’d never felt before.

She needed to get back to Cha and talk to her mentor. She knew what Senbo wanted—the complete domination of Lawan. He seemed motivated by some petty need for dominance. That Vilir had worked his magic meant that he was going to follow Senbo’s advice.

Lawan was in trouble. Her home was in danger. She couldn't let this dark sickness take over her home. She thought of the quiet gardens of Cha, the easy smiles of strangers, and the tranquil waters. The empty pit in her seemed larger when she thought of losing Surat, Tinh, and Sensei Angko to this darkness.

She surveyed the pile of objects she'd dropped. She had to travel all the way back to Lawan, and this was everything she had — some dishes, the clothes on her back, and her knives.

She staggered to her feet and began running.

Freya quietly despaired over the food they'd just served Vilir. She and Unger stood in Vilir's tent, with heads bent and hands clasped humbly behind them. Her husband was a good cook, but there just wasn’t much food left in the area that anyone would want to eat. Vilir had already fired Unger once before, and she hoped it wouldn’t happen again. Vilir and Senbo were sitting at the table, with Vilir in the center, his dog at his feet waiting for scraps, and Senbo positioned at the end of the table.

Vilir ate his first spoonful of the stew placed in front of him quickly and with loud slurps. He stopped and looked at the bowl with disgust. Picking it up, he hurled the bowl across the tent.

“This is horrible. Bring me something better,” he demanded.

Freya and Unger hurried out of the tent, responding automatically to the command. Back at the cooking area, they grabbed the wiry rabbits that had been roasting for the lower ranks. They wouldn't care. No one cared much about anything today. Fortunately the camp was packing up and would be moving tomorrow.

“Where did Iduna go?” Unger asked her.

“You keep asking that. I don't know.” She went about placing the rabbit on the serving dish. Thinking of Iduna abandoning them made her sadder, and she was already despondent with a haunting emptiness. She would think of their daughter Edda and couldn’t even cry.

They went back to Vilir's tent and put the food in front of Vilir. Senbo was still eating the stew, his mind elsewhere. Vilir quickly saw that the meat was thin and stringy.

“Senbo, why is the food horrible?” Vilir asked.

“It's time to move. Our camp has exhausted the local food supplies.”

“Yes, but last night's dinner was good.”

Senbo saw his point and narrowed his eyes at the two servants. Senbo addressed them. “Where is the cook from last night?”

“I'm sorry, but we don't know,” Freya answered. The loss of Iduna on top of everything else was too much for her. Her head fell further with despair, beyond caring what happened to her.

“Vilir, no one should have been able to leave the camp,” Senbo said, then turned to her. “Was the cook a good friend of yours? Tell me about her.”

The warmth in his voice comforted her, and, sensing a friend, she shared her thoughts with him.

“Yes, she was. Her name was Iduna. We had just met her, but she was a good friend. She was always helping out, and she had such a nice way about her.”

“Was there anything unusual about her?”

“She knew a lot about cooking and spices.”

“Anything else?”

“She was always calm,” Unger volunteered.

Senbo popped out of his chair, paced back and forth, gesturing sporadically as he held an internal conversation. Finally he swung around and pointed a finger at the two servants. Freya hated to see him upset.

“Did she meditate?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but what is ‘meditate’?”

“Did she ever seem very still? Breathe slowly? Clasp her hands at her chest?” Senbo mimed the gesture, bringing his palms together in front of his chest, his head arched forward, tense and expectant.

Freya smiled. “Oh, yes. Sometimes she was as still as a resting cat.” It was so nice to think of something pleasant. Something niggled in the back of her mind about discussing Iduna, but she grasped at the fond memory even while it faded like a sun being blocked by dark clouds.

“I knew it! Those Lawanians are trying to stop us. But they can't.” Senbo turned to their leader. “Vilir, we're going to need to find this cook Iduna and bring her back. She shouldn't have been able to leave, and she is a loose end we can't afford.”

“The cook was a young fighter and Ull. Why didn’t you notice her and take care of her like the others?” Vilir said, his jaw working the tough meat.

Freya felt the question was odd. What others? How did Senbo take care of them?

“She was Ull, but she was a little older than the others. Besides, she was clearly trained in the Path by the Lawanians. She knew how to hide her propensities,” Senbo said.

“How are you going to fix your oversight?” Vilir asked.

“You can change your spell on them, and we will send one of these two after her.”

“Why not both?”

“The one left behind will serve as motivation for the other.” Turning his attention back to the two servants, Senbo asked, “What is your relation to each other?”

“We are husband and wife,” replied Freya.

“Perfect.” Senbo turned back to Vilir. “We'll send the woman. She was clearly close to the girl, and I can see these two care deeply for each other.”

Vilir nodded, his mouth grim. “Come here,” he ordered Freya. She walked to him mutely, coming around the table to stand right next to him. He looked into her blue eyes and stared quietly. His breathing changed, slowed. On one of his exhales, he hummed quietly, so only she could hear. Her eyes widened, and her pulse raced. Her palms fisted at her side, and she looked furtively between Senbo and Vilir.

“That should be enough," Vilir said to Senbo. Looking back at Freya, he ordered her, “You are to find your cook friend and bring her back to me.” He let that sink in. “If you don't bring her to me before the next full moon, then I will kill your husband.”

Freya was panicked. That only gave her a month.

“This woman is no tracker. Where do you think this Iduna has gone?” Vilir asked his advisor.

“She's on her way to report to her masters at Lawan. Go to Lawan. We will be behind you,” Senbo said. “Bring her or her head back in time, or your husband dies.”

Freya’s world tilted and dipped.

Vilir snapped his fingers, drawing her attention. She felt numb. She couldn’t believe this was happening. “Say good-bye to your husband, then go.”

Freya backed away from Vilir and inched around the table to Unger, trying not to look at Senbo because his sharp gaze sent thrills of terror down her spine.

She went to Unger and hugged him. He didn't hug her back; he seemed in a state of despair beyond comfort. His head lolled listlessly to her shoulder, his arms hanging by his side. She stepped back and tried to look him in the face. He ducked his head and wouldn't make eye contact.

Her hand flew to her mouth to choke back a sob.

“You heard Leder Vilir. Be back by the next full moon,” Senbo said with stone-faced conviction. He addressed one of the guards at the door. “Give her only the basics. She will take my dagger.”

Freya left the tent reeling.