Wolfskin (44 page)

 

It was quiet. It was so quiet he knew the moment he woke that the old woman was gone. A glance around the howe found no sign of her. Eyvind made his way outside, hoping Rona was merely dipping water from the spring, or perhaps rummaging through the pitiful remains of her home, hoping to salvage some small treasure. But the place was deserted. A gray film of fine ash coated the small bushes and dusted the banks of the stream. Rona was gone, and so was Shadow. A raid, an abduction, even murder—had he slept through that?
Think, Eyvind.
No sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing touched as far as he could see, though the boot prints Somerled's
men had left behind them still marked the soft soil. Where did Rona's footsteps lead? Did she walk as subtly as she wove charms of green mist and ghostly voice, so cleverly she passed with never a trace?

“Rona!” he called, knowing in his heart she would not reply. “Where are you, foolish old woman? Who will guard you, wandering alone?” Here were Shadow's paw prints overlaying the others, a steady trail across the sacred space and off up the eastward track toward the hills. They were gone, the two of them. Rona had solved his first problem for him; the wise woman had freed him from the need to protect her, so he could pursue his quest. Eyvind wondered in what chill corner of the land she would lay her aged bones tonight.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, and went back into the howe, for he must move now, before Somerled sent his men back with instructions to conquer their fear of ghosts and complete the task he had set them.
Find the girl.
Why? Why was Nessa so important to Somerled, who respected matters of the spirit only when it suited him?

It had been easy yesterday. His burnished helm and weapons, the terrible voice that had not been his own, the dog's courage—these things had set the attackers sprinting in retreat before he needed to wield sword or axe in earnest, before he had to test himself. He still didn't know if he could have done it. There was no saying if he could even begin to fight a man without the voice of Thor to spur him on. The time would come, soon enough, when he must find out. Could he kill, now he had begun to understand how precious life was?

He must erase all sign of his presence from the women's place. There was no doubt in his mind that Somerled's men would return. He must take all his things, his weapons, his boots, his cloak. He must wear his wolfskin. Setting it on his shoulders felt very strange indeed, as if he dressed in another man's clothing. He should take the helm as well. Where was it? He was sure he had left it there in the alcove beside Biter, but now it was gone. Eyvind had no desire to go back into that shadowy chamber far underground, the place where he had found Nessa lying limp and white after her long, lonely ritual. For an instant, that night, he'd thought he had lost her, and a wave of anguish had swept through him that was like death itself. In the moment of realizing that she still breathed, Eyvind had begun to understand why Thor had released him from his vow, and he had thanked the god from the depths of his heart.

Now there was no choice but to descend into the darkness and seek what was his. The helm was back on the shelf beside the little skulls with
their blank, staring eye holes. Eyvind tried not to look at them as he reached up. He needed no reminding that this chamber was a forbidden place. The talk of a Hidden Tribe was more than enough to curb a man's curiosity. His fingers encountered something hidden underneath the helm, a small soft object. He shuddered, and tried not to imagine what it might be. As his hand felt it, he seemed to hear a voice, a fierce, dark whisper:
Take it. Take it, warrior.
He did not look around, but seized the small bundle in one hand and the helm in the other, and fled up the crumbling stone steps to the top chamber and out into the light of day. Only then did he squat down to lay what he held on the ground before him and examine it.

There were two items there, and one of them was his own: the pouch he'd worn on his belt when first he blundered into this forbidden place. Until now, he had not even thought about it. The other was a folded scrap of cloth, tied with blue ribbon into a neat, tiny bundle. The ribbon was Nessa's, the same that had fastened her long braid the day she had dried her hair before the fire. Carefully he untied the knot and spread the small cloth flat. Looking at what it held, he could hear her voice, calm, serious, and see the graceful movements of her hands as she gestured, explaining.
Here is all that the islands are, Eyvi, all that the Folk are, and all that I am. Earth, fire, water, air: the enchantment of light, the patterns of being. Hold these things close, for they are life itself.
On the unfolded cloth there lay a small gray feather, whisper-soft; a smooth brown stone from the shore, which bore a delicate network of lines in silver-white, like some strange earth runes; a frond of dried seaweed with fine grains of sand still clinging to its crevices; and a twig from the hearth fire, white at one end, charred black at the other. As well, the little bundle held three tiny round pebbles, pale as winter moonlight. Holding them in his hands, Eyvind felt his breathing grow slower, his mind become calmer. The beating of his heart seemed strong and steady. It was as if he sat in an island of quiet, outside ordinary things; as if he were back in that place the two of them had shared the night he first met her. He thought how exhausted she had been in those last days; how fear had shadowed her sea-gray eyes and turned her cheeks wax-pale. Yet she had made time to gather these things for him; had probably asked Rona to keep them safe until he should be ready to receive them. Carefully, he wrapped and fastened the tiny bundle again and opened the pouch to stow it away inside.

His hand encountered a tangle of cord or string twisted about something metallic and sharp. He drew the object out. A buckle: Ulf's belt
buckle, he had thrust it in here that day on High Island, thinking to return it to Somerled, and he had completely forgotten about it. It was a fine silver piece of considerable value; it should have been buried with its owner, or gone back to his brother. He must take it now…Eyvind's heart lurched; a chill seemed to creep over him. His eyes understood, but for a moment his mind refused to accept. By all the gods, how blind had he been to miss this? Why hadn't he taken the time to look at it properly, the day of Ulf's killing? The belt clasp was twined about with scraps of fine, strong cord, the same cord that had pinioned Ulf there on the cliff face so tightly that his struggles had only served to sever his wrist nearly in two. Eyvind's knife had slashed him free. The stained cord was frayed where the buckle's edges had chafed it, and it was unravelling where the knife had slit it, but, above and below those points, he could still see the knots tied in the cord. No wonder Ulf had been unable to free himself. Eyvind knew this knot. It was neat, small, and decorative; it looked a little like a flower. It was a knot that tightened quickly at first and then more slowly, an infallible knot for a snare. There were only two people he knew who could make this knot: himself, and Somerled.

He thrust the buckle back in the pouch and fastened it to his belt. His gut churned; his mind was in turmoil.
Think, Eyvind.
Very well, he had evidence, though he almost wished there were none. For now he must confront the truth: Somerled really had done the unspeakable. The friend to whom he had sworn lifelong loyalty had killed his own brother, killed him with cold premeditation and devious, imaginative cruelty. And he had lied; he had convinced them all of his grief, of the guilt of the islanders, of his genuine wish to discover the truth about his brother's murder.

Images ran through Eyvind's mind with terrible clarity: Hakon laying his wolfskin down before his brother warriors for the last time; a bull's horn piercing a man's chest; a girl lying open-eyed under a stream of clear water. So many lies: so many betrayals. If Somerled was guilty, was not Eyvind equally guilty in his blind adherence to the oath that bound him to silence? And yet, a promise made in blood was a promise never to be broken. What was to be done? There was no Jarl Magnus here, no priest of their own kind, no impartial men of law to whom he could go for help. He could try to find Eirik or Thord, he could ask them to support him. But there was no place where charges might be brought formally, since Somerled had dispensed with the Thing. Besides, even if a charge of murder were proven, what penalty could be imposed here in this isolated
realm? Somerled could not be banished; he could hardly pay reparations, since he himself was the dead man's closest kin. This could not be done openly, as if they were still in Rogaland. Besides, he did not want to destroy Somerled. He did not wish to wrench from him all that he had desired in life: recognition, authority, a place of his own. As a true brother, he must persuade Somerled to change, to become the kind of chieftain they needed here, a man of vision and balance. That pale, fierce-eyed child had had the seed of greatness in him; Eyvind had seen it. Somehow, he must turn Somerled from the dark path he followed, and into ways of true leadership. That was the answer. If he could convince Somerled to remake the treaty, Nessa's people would be saved. After that, Eyvind must ensure this chieftain led his people justly and fairly. He would use what he knew to force a change.
Stand back from this battle, leave the Folk in peace, or I will tell the world you killed your brother. Renew the pledge of amity Ulf made, or I will expose your crime before all.
Rona had known. Somehow she had known what this buckle meant, and saved it until Eyvind was ready to use it. A wise woman indeed.

He slipped Nessa's small talisman inside his tunic, close to his heart. He would not lay this precious thing away beside the dark remembrance of a brother's treachery. He took a last look around him. The cottage was no more than a shell, the earth still bore the marks of raiders' boots, the little fire where the three of them had sat together was cold. Eyvind looked up at the sky as he had seen Rona do, and as he gazed, a flock of birds passed over, a scattering of silver flashes against the palest gray of morning.
The enchantment of light…the patterns of being…they are life itself.
Perhaps he would never come back here. Perhaps he would never see his two wise women again. With axe, sword, and knives, with wolfskin on shoulders and bright helm held ready, Eyvind felt as naked as a new babe, a warrior going forth quite unarmed to face the enemy. He set his face to the southeast and walked away from the women's place. All that he had was the truth; it must be enough.

It seemed much farther than he had remembered. He skirted the shores of the large loch that lay inland from the women's place, stopping to hide several times as parties of armed men passed by. He was not covering the distance as quickly as he had expected, and yet he was already tired, his legs aching, his head throbbing. By the time he reached a crossroads that he judged to be the halfway point of his journey, the sun was moving down toward the west, and the wind was brisk and chill. He noted that there were
far more of his own folk about than islanders. Now he was in a part of the island where King Engus had said Ulf's people might travel freely. Not that that seemed to matter anymore. Had not Somerled's men marched boldly into the most forbidden of places with weapons drawn? Perhaps it was already war.

Odin's bones, he was weary. Sitting down to rest under this rocky outcrop had been a mistake, for while he forced himself on he could ignore the pain in his legs, the dizziness in his head, the powerful urge to find a place of refuge and seek respite in sleep. He could not allow himself to give in to that. There must be no more running away. Before dusk today he must walk into Somerled's hall and ask to speak to him in private. He must find the right words and make Somerled believe them. He would sit just a moment longer, and then he would go on.

He slept, or half-slept. Nessa's image was in his mind. He saw her slight, ethereal figure walking on a lonely shore, turning to gaze at him with those strange light eyes, shell-gray rimmed with darker blue. They were like the eyes of some wondrous wild creature…A tiny sound roused Eyvind abruptly from his reverie. He was on his feet in an instant. There was someone on the other side of this rock, someone treading very softly as if to creep up and attack him unawares. Very well, two could play that game. Eyvind moved swift as a hunting dog, stepping around to pinion both the fellow's arms with one of his own, while he clapped his other hand across the man's mouth to stifle any screams for help. Good: this, at least, he could still do well enough. He glanced quickly across the hillside and over to the grazing lands fringing the lake. No sign of anyone; with luck this fool was a lone assailant. He relaxed his grip a little. The man was putting up no fight at all. As Eyvind removed his hand from the fellow's lips, his captive began to speak quietly, in measured tones. The language was vaguely familiar, the voice instantly recognizable.

“Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”

Eyvind released his grip altogether. “You'll get yourself killed one day, creeping about like that,” he said sternly.

Brother Tadhg fell silent, turning mild eyes on his captor. He did not appear much shaken; perhaps a man with such faith in his god is difficult to frighten. “Ah,” he said. “It's true, then, what they say. Your ghost walks, a warrior still wielding his axe from beyond the grave.”

“You speak in jest, I take it.”

“Not entirely,” said the priest. “For myself, my ribs tell me all too
plainly that you are flesh and blood, and that you have somehow survived a battle and a long disappearance. Others tell the tale of your manifestation in a most unlikely place, your axe and helm glittering with eldritch light, and a great ruby-eyed wolf-dog by your side. I see you are heading southward.”

Eyvind nodded. He had plenty of questions, but he could not ask them. It was not safe to tell where he had been, not even to this mild-mannered Christian; he could not say what he had learned.