Dangerous Talents (15 page)

When they found her, Aenid had been leading young Ljot and Solvin back to the Knot, the meeting and parting of ways. No one had noticed the boys missing except Aenid. And that was when Aenid had known she was a Pathfinder, too, just like her uncle. For all the good it would do her, since Ingirid hardly let the girl out of her sight. How a sister of his could be so tight on the reins, Dahleven would never understand. But then he didn’t understand how she could choose Jon to marry, either.

Sorn had become Aenid’s champion after that. And between him and Dahleven, they’d won his niece a measure of freedom. Dahleven imagined the tears his niece would shed when she learned of Sorn’s death. His eyes stung. He might shed a few himself.

Dahleven pinched the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. Sitting in the dark like this only made it worse. “Get your things together. We need to move.”

*

Cele flinched at Dahleven’s unexpectedly gruff tone.
What did I say
?
Are the tunnels a sore spot with him
?

Dahleven stood and quickly shrugged into his pack.

“Wait here a minute. I need to, um, go.” Cele could almost feel Dahleven roll his eyes.

“Don’t go far.”

“I know, I know. I won’t be long. I’ll just step around the corner.” Cele carefully climbed the five steps out of the alcove, feeling her way slowly along the wall. The further she went, the more the dark pressed on her. She barely turned the corner before she stopped. This was far enough.
He can’t see anything anyway
.

As quickly as possible Cele returned to the alcove. Too quickly; she misgauged the second step and fell the rest of the way, her tumble stopped by Dahleven’s feet.

“Ow! Damn it! Son of a—” Cele grabbed her shin and bit off the curse.

Dahleven knelt by her side. “Are you hurt?”

“Of course I’m hurt! Damn it, that smarts!” She clenched her teeth.

“Where are you injured?” Dahleven ran his hands over her head then down her arms, feeling for cuts and broken bones. His touch was firm and sure and warm.

“I’m okay. It’s nothing serious, it just hurts like the dickens.”

Dahleven’s hands were on her legs as she curled to sit up. His hands found hers clamped to her shin, and gently pulled them away. The cool air stung as it hit the scrape.

“You’re bleeding.”

Despite his care, Cele hissed and pulled away from the pain. “Where’s my belt-pack? I’ve got some first aid stuff in there.”

Dahleven left her side for a moment. Then he was back, pressing her pack into her hand. “I’ve water here.” He steadied her leg with a warm touch on her bent knee, then cool water splashed and stung over her new wound.

Cele sucked in breath sharply. “Damn. I’m not usually such a klutz—though you wouldn’t know it from the last few days.” She fished around in her pack until she found by feel what she needed. “Here, hold this.” She put a square of gauze in place.

Dahleven’s hands quickly found where his help was needed and gently held the bandage till she could tape it down. It was awkward, working blind, and their fingers bumped several times. The cloth of his long sleeve brushed lightly against her bare thigh as he passed one hand beneath her bent leg to hold the other side of the bandage without getting in the way of her taping.

By the time she finished, she had become acutely aware of Dahleven’s nearness. His heat made her shiver. She couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to have him touch her because he wanted to instead of helping her with some injury.

Yeah, like that’s going to happen
. “Done,” she said.

Dahleven pulled back a little as she re-packed her first aid kit, but he didn’t move away. “Can you walk?”

Cele snapped her belt-pack around her waist. “Of course!” She might be clumsy, but she wasn’t that badly hurt. Hadn’t she proven by now that she wasn’t some delicate little flower? “Just give me a second to get my stuff together.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, and that made her even angrier. She gritted her teeth behind clamped lips. She’d been about to thank him for his help before he opened his mouth.

Cele felt around for the pack and waterskins. Crawling on the cold stone floor was awkward as she tried to keep her shin from touching down, and her discomfort didn’t improve her mood. She was almost grateful for Dahleven’s stupid question. It was a good reminder how really dumb it was to be thinking sexual thoughts about him. She ought to be glad for the dark, too, since it kept her from ogling his perfect ass and flat abs. Finally, she stood and shrugged into the pack she’d inherited from Lindimer with abrupt, angry movements. Dahleven didn’t say anything when she indicated she was ready. He just groped for her left hand, brought it to his belt, and headed out.

He took the lead, and from the sound of metal scraping rock, Cele guessed he was feeling his way with his sword. Apparently, knowing the way didn’t keep him from stubbing his toes. The blackness pressed around them, so thick that Cele thought it ought to have substance. With nothing but the steady ache of her leg to indicate its flow, time slowed.

She hated stumbling around in the dark. She wanted out of this musty hole in the ground. She wanted light. She thought of the clear, clean sunlight that shafted down through the pine trees on the mountain somewhere above and felt that odd
tug
that said,
This way
. Off to her left and above there was light. She knew it. But there was also who knew how many tons of solid rock. Cele shook her head and dismissed the peculiar sensation as Dahleven towed her through the inky blackness.

Twice she felt a change in the air, as though they walked by an opening on the right, but Dahleven never turned from the passage they followed. The third time it felt like the opening was on the left. The peculiar sensation flared. The pull was almost physical, and Cele turned toward it.
This is the quickest way to light
.

“What is it?”

Dahleven’s voice distracted her. What could she say? The feeling she had didn’t make any sense to her, so how could she explain it to him? And she certainly had no business suggesting which way to go. “I, uh, thought I felt a change in the air.” She felt stupid for giving in to her imaginings.

“You
are
feeling fresh air. We’re next to a ventilation shaft.”

“Could we get out this way?”

“I suppose so. But it’s steep and we have no climbing gear. It would take us longer in the end to get to Quartzholm.”

With some surprise, she realized her feeling wasn’t wrong, just impractical. She still wanted light, though. Any light. “Did you say something before about torches?”

“Yes. There’s a store of them not too far ahead.”

Cele thought about dancing firelight. Even the light of inconstant flame would be welcome in this void. Her odd certainty shifted. Now it pulled in the direction Dahleven had been headed. “Great! Let’s go!”

They continued down the tunnel, each step the same as the last, but eventually the sound of their footsteps told Cele they’d entered a larger chamber. The air seemed a little fresher.

Dahleven dropped her hand. “Wait here.”

Cele wanted to follow the tugging sensation that compelled her forward, but she did as Dahleven commanded. She could hear the occasional
ting
of his sword as he felt his way around the chamber. Then she heard him put his sword down and fumble with something. Bright, brief flashes of light made Cele wonder for a moment if she’d been staring into the darkness too long, but an instant later she realized Dahleven was striking sparks. In a moment the tinder caught, and a tiny flame flared to life, bright after so many hours of absolute dark, riveting her attention. Dahleven held a torch to the flame. The pitch caught, flaring with the scent of burning pine tar, and its brightness overwhelmed her eyes, long adapted to the dark. She squinted, blinking back tears of relief as the dark retreated. Dahleven put the torch into an iron wall bracket.

The light revealed a round chamber with three black openings cut into its walls. Wooden chests bound with iron rested against the stone between each doorway. A sconce hung at shoulder height next to each opening, with a bucket of sand beneath. The domed ceiling arched high overhead.

Dahleven returned the flint and tinder to the chest nearest him, then shucked his pack and rose, stretching his shoulders and arms until his chest cracked. He gestured at the stone floor. “Sit. Be comfortable,” he said without apparent irony. “We’ll rest here tonight.”

The stone floor was cold, and they each sat cross-legged with the edges of their blanket-shawls tucked beneath them. Cele became aware she was ravenous and pulled the last of the dried fruit from her pack. Dahleven chewed his jerky. They ate in companionable silence, the only sound the soft sizzle of the torch.

Dahleven cleared his throat. “We honor our dead by telling their tales, that those we have lost may live on in our memories though they no longer live among us. May Bragi inspire my words.” His speech had a ritual cant to it. Cele remembered he’d said the same thing before the men had started their stories about Sorn the night before. Tonight he talked about Lindimer first, telling how he’d once saved nineteen men from ambush by hearing one of the enemy scratch as they lay in wait to attack. Cele had heard Lindimer’s Talent called Heimdal’s Ear and understood he’d had sharp hearing, but Dahleven’s tale seemed far-fetched in the same way Ghav’s story about Sorn had.
It doesn’t matter. The point is to honor a fallen friend, not historical accuracy
.

She watched Dahleven as he spoke. His eyes brightened as he related Lindimer’s warning, and his face grew fiercely joyous as he told how Lindimer and his fellows turned the ambush into a trap for their enemies. She’d seen that kind of intensity on Jeff’s face when he watched football with his friends. But Dahleven wasn’t talking about a game. His story was about life and death, and the loyalty of comrades who depended on one another for their lives.

The achingly beautiful death song, sung by the men at Lindimer’s cairn, repeated its melody in her mind. Dahleven was part of a tightly woven community, no thread of which could be pulled without affecting the whole. They held values and goals in common, supported one another in life, and honored each other in death.

That kind of belonging called to her, but the violence of the world it came in was frightening. In just a handful of days she’d been in two battles, seen a friend die horribly, seen another man die with his throat cut by a traitor, and a third man go down with an arrow in his back. The price paid for community was a high one here, and as Knut had proved, loyalty wasn’t guaranteed.

Dahleven seemed to have followed her thoughts. “Knut’s family will pay a high price for Lindimer’s death. What could that cur have been thinking? What gain could be great enough?” His strong hands clenched till the knuckles whitened and his voice rose, edged with outrage. “The
wereguild
alone will near break his brother. Unless they find Knut first and execute the sentence for his perfidy, their family will forever be shamed by it.”

Why should Knut’s family suffer for his actions
? “Will Knut be held responsible for the last attack, and for Halsten?”

Dahleven’s attention snapped to her. “Halsten?”

Shit. He didn’t know
. She shrank from telling him that another of his men had fallen, but there was no help for it. “When we were running I saw Halsten go down…with an arrow in his back.”

“Halsten, too.” The muscles in Dahleven’s jaw jumped. “Another good man.” His eyes narrowed and his voice was tight. “The Council may not hold Knut accountable for Halsten, but I will.”

Cele wanted to change the cold expression carved into Dahleven’s features. “What was Halsten’s Talent?”

“True Aim. I never met a man who could best him in archery or with thrown axes. But he’ll be missed even more for his music.” Dahleven’s face relaxed as he related how Halsten had won competitions with his music, amused his comrades with his drinking ditties, and seduced more than one maiden with his melodies.

“Do you know any of his songs?” Cele asked. At his nod, Cele urged, “Sing one for me.”

Dahleven didn’t demur. Maybe he saw it as the best way to honor Halsten—to remember him through his music. He paused for a moment, then he smiled and cleared his throat.

The melody was a simple one, but Dahleven’s rich baritone brought it life. It told the adventures of a hapless hunter who returned home empty-handed time after time to an irate wife and vegetable stew. Cele started rocking to the song’s rhythm and felt herself smiling in response to Dahleven’s grin. It was a long song with lots of verses and an often repeated chorus. At the end, Dahleven gestured she join him.

Cele hesitated. Her voice was untrained, but she liked the song and she could hardly refuse to honor Halsten’s memory. She sang softly at first, but she knew the words after so many repetitions, and by the end of the chorus, her voice was strong.

“
Hot pot, what have you got
?

Naught but a meatless stew.

A carrot, a turnip, a green tomato,

Is all I can offer you
.”

“That was one of Sorn’s favorites,” Dahleven said when they’d finished. “He liked to pretend to bare competence as a hunter, but he was nearly as good a shot as Halsten.” Dahleven’s face took light with affection as he talked about Sorn. “Sorn saved my life, but he never liked me to speak of it. His valor assured him of a place in Valhalla many times over.”

Valhalla
? Dahleven had sworn by Odin before, but somehow it hadn’t clicked into place for her till now.
As in
Vikings?
But how would they get here
? Cele grimaced at the stupidity of the question and shook her head.
How did I get here
?

Dahleven misinterpreted her expression. “It can be painful to speak of those gone, but we honor them by doing so.”

He was right. It hurt. The more she heard, the worse she felt about Sorn’s death, and the more she wished she’d had a chance to know him better. But the only way to know him now was through the stories of his friends. “Please go on.”