Dangerous Talents (30 page)

Her heart pounded.
I might never get home
. She’d avoided the thought until now.
Marooned
. In a place where nothing worked the way she expected it to and she kept making the wrong assumptions about what was going on. A place where people killed each other with swords and arrows and could control your mind just by thinking about it.

Cele hugged her knees and hid her face in her arms. The terrible thought that she might never get home weighed on her, crushing her silently, paralyzing her thoughts, grinding in her chest like the ache from a deep, unhealing bruise.

She had to find a way home. Where she understood the rules. Where she belonged.

Hope flickered. Could she Find a way back? Cele opened herself, focusing on the comforting safety of Home. She held the picture of the little adobe cottage she shared with Elaine in her mind’s eye, and imagined snuggling into the overstuffed leather couch in the wood-floored living room.

She didn’t feel a thing.

She squinched her eyes shut, imagining herself leaning against the headboard of Elaine’s bed while her friend tried to decide what to wear on a date.

Nothing.

Not a tingle, not a tug, not a whisper.

Everything familiar and comforting suddenly seemed even farther away and more out of reach than ever. She felt small and alone in the wide expanse of the featherbed, tiny and lost in the cold stone labyrinth of Quartzholm, cut off from everyone who’d ever cared for her. When her mother had died, when Jeff left, there had been Elaine and others offering the comfort of friendship. Here there was no one.

Except Thora
.

She sat there, aching, as the last light from the setting sun crept up the wall.

And Fender, and Ghav
.

Her stomach felt like it was full of rocks. She was stuck here. She was foolish to keep hoping.

Ragni. And Dahleven
.

Cele sighed and flopped back on the bed.
Okay. So I’m not quite alone. But I’m still stuck here.

Being miserable won’t solve anything
. She’d learned that after Jeff had left. She had to do something, and helping someone else was the best way she knew to push aside her own grief. The only people who were more unhappy than she was were Sevond and Aenid. Cele slipped into her shoes.
Misery loves company
.

She made her way through the twists and turns of the hallways and stairs to Sevond’s door. Servants bowed or bobbed curtsies to her as she navigated down the long halls, and higher-ranking folk nodded to her in passing. Cele acknowledged the courtesies, surprised at how easily she was adapting to her position in Nuvinland society. A position she enjoyed, she reminded herself, only because Neven had granted it to her, and could easily take away again.

As she turned a corner, Cele thought she recognized a tall, dark-haired man following her. She wasn’t sure if he was the same man she’d seen at the market or not.
I’m tired of this. This is one mystery I
can
solve
. Cele slowed her step, waiting for him to catch up. He didn’t, and when she stopped to look behind he turned down a different way.

She started to follow him, then remembered Sevond. It was already late in the day. Vowing that next time she saw her dark-haired stalker she’d get some answers, Cele returned to her original path.

Sevond was alone, except for his apprentice Hrolf. “Ah, my dear, I’m glad to see you again,” Sevond said. “I’d begun to think you might not come today.”

“I’ve been asleep most of the day. Ghav and Lord Dahleven say my Talent for Finding is Emerging.”

The overlay of grief vanished for a moment from Sevond’s face as he smiled broadly. “Congratulations, my dear! How wonderful! I have a fine little wine set aside. We must celebrate.” He reached into a dusty cabinet and pulled out a hand-blown bottle, then bellowed down the hall. “Hrolf! Bring three cups!”

A moment later Hrolf appeared, followed by Father Wirmund. “Perhaps you can make it four?” the priest said.

Cele stiffened at the sight of the gaunt old man.

“Father Wirmund!” Sevond bowed deeply. “What brings me such unexpected honor?”

Father Wirmund smiled gently. “Should a priest not visit a man so recently deprived of his only child? I’ve come to offer my condolences, and praise Sorn for the fine man and warrior that he was.”

Sevond lost his smile. “Thank you, Father. He was that. No man had a finer son, and it makes me proud that others know it…Hrolf! Four cups!”

The apprentice was already returning with four goblets on a tray. The glass bowls were set into silver stems, beautifully detailed like flowers on a vine.

“I’m rather surprised to find you in such good spirits, Master Sevond. What are we drinking to?” Father Wirmund asked.

The Overprest’s rank didn’t spare him a sharp look from Sevond. “My grief is beyond speaking, my lord. But when a young woman’s Talent Emerges, she deserves a toast.” Sevond pulled the cork and poured three small portions.

Wirmund bowed graciously to Cele, letting Sevond’s rebuke slide by without comment. “My congratulations, Lady Celia. May I ask your Talent?”

She didn’t want to share it with him, but had no good reason not to. “I find things.”

The priest’s brows lifted. “You are most fortunate. Most who have the Finding Talent can locate only one or two kinds of…
thing
.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I should keep you close, my dear,” Sevond said, smiling ruefully. “I’m forever misplacing all sorts of items. My lady wife was in despair of me.”

“You never lose your jewelry tools, master,” Hrolf volunteered.

“That’s right, boy. Never my tools. I might lose my head, but never my pliers and files.” Sevond lifted his glass. “Congratulations, Lady Celia, on the Emergence of your Talent. May it serve you well.”

The others lifted their goblets to her, then downed the wine in one gulp.

It felt strange to be congratulated for something she wasn’t sure she wanted and didn’t fully understand. “Thank you.”

Sevond refilled the goblets, filling the fourth this time for her. Cele sipped the thick amber liquid. It was intensely sweet, and not to her taste, but she finished it anyway. She wouldn’t be so rude as to refuse Sevond’s hospitality, and it was something to do while waiting for Father Wirmund to conclude his courtesy visit.

Unfortunately, Father Wirmund didn’t leave. He talked with Sevond about the jeweler’s current commission, complimented him on the golden mistletoe he’d crafted for Baldur’s altar, and drank a second glass of wine.

Cele finally decided she wasn’t going to get her cozy chat with Sevond, and in a break in the conversation, she rose to leave. “Master Sevond, Father Wirmund, please excuse me. I guess I’m still a little tired.”

“Of course, my dear. Practice, eat, rest. That’s the way of it during Emergence,” Sevond said.

“I must take my leave as well, I fear. Thank you for your hospitality, Master Sevond. And accept my heartfelt sympathy for your loss, and my blessing on your son’s valorous death.” Father Wirmund turned to Cele. “May I escort you, Lady Celia?”

She really didn’t want to remain in his company any longer than necessary, but she smiled anyway. “That’s kind of you, but you probably have much more important things to do. I’d hate to take you away from your duties.” She wondered if he could see how insincere her expression was.

“Nothing could be more important than escorting a lovely lady.” He nodded to Sevond and took Cele’s arm.

She cringed inwardly at Father Wirmund’s dry, papery touch, but didn’t pull away. She turned to Sorn’s father. “Thanks, Master Sevond. May I visit you tomorrow?”

“Of course, my dear.”

They hadn’t taken three steps from Sevond’s door when Cele became sure that Wirmund had come to find her, rather than to visit Sevond.

“Tell me, Lady Celia, is the belief in Baldur strong in Midgard? Or do they yet exalt His servants, Odin and Thor?”

Cele knew he wouldn’t like the answer, but she didn’t care. “Neither. The dominant religion is Christianity, but Islam is gaining on it. Buddhism is popular too.”

Father Wirmund looked both alarmed and confused before he adopted a neutral mask. “The White Christ is still followed in Midgard?” His voice was mild.

Cele had to admire his control. The people they passed in the hall would never know he was upset, but she wasn’t fooled.
Wirmund is worried
. “Yes. All over the world.” She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m afraid no one believes in Odin and Thor anymore, except maybe the Icelanders. And almost nobody’s heard of Baldur.” She probably shouldn’t yank his chain, but she didn’t like the condescending way he’d treated Sevond.

Wirmund’s face didn’t change, but Cele felt his fingers tighten ever so slightly on her arm.

“And what do you believe, Lady Celia?”

Now we come to it
. “My beliefs are my own, Father Wirmund.” She smiled a little to take the slap out of her words.
Let him chew on that for a while
.

She didn’t let him chew too long. As they turned down a familiar hallway, Cele remembered Gudrun’s suggestion to query the priests about a homeward path, something about a rainbow or a bright road, and she kicked herself for baiting him.
Maybe it won’t matter
. If she guessed right, he’d be only too happy to get rid of her. “You know, I’m glad we met today, Father. Lady Gudrun suggested I speak to you. I’d like to know more about how your people got here. Do you know of any way for me to go home?”

Father Wirmund remained silent as they climbed the long staircase. Then he turned and leveled his cool, assessing gaze on her. “There are no altars to Freyr here in Alfheim, except those we have built to him as Baldur’s servant.”

Cele knew he was telling her something, but she didn’t understand what.

He must have seen her confusion, because he added, “The altar shown to Brynjolf was not built by human hands, and there are none such here in Alfheim. There is no path back to Midgard. Those who follow Baldur know that.” He wasn’t above a dig of his own. “Nor do we wish to leave. Why would we? The earth is fertile, the winters mild in the valleys, and Baldur himself led us here through his servant Freyr.”

Wirmund’s words chilled her. As he’d meant them to, she guessed. Cele looked at him closely. Did he mean what he said? Was there really no way back? Or was he punishing her for her lack of respect?

Wirmund’s face gave away nothing.

They walked in silence for a few steps, before Wirmund asked, “Tell me about your own passage, Lady Celia. I gather it was rather different from Brynjolf’s.”

“I thought Neven must have filled you in.” The other lords didn’t seem to know as much as Father Wirmund.

“
Kon
Neven trusts me. But I hoped to hear the tale from your own lips.”

The blow to her hopes made her answer sharp. “I told Kon Neven the truth, and Lady Gudrun, too, so you won’t catch me changing any details. I was climbing past the petroglyphs when I fell, and woke up here.”

“You saw no altar? No golden boar?”

Cele shook her head. “No.” Then she remembered something. “I saw colored lights. Lady Gudrun said I should tell you about them.”

Wirmund seemed to relax a little, though it was hard to tell, he was so tight and dried out. “Ah,” was all he said.

“Does that mean something?”

Wirmund nodded and patted her hand. “Only to a follower of Baldur.”

Cele wanted to scream, but she managed to remain silent. Wirmund had been playing these games for a long time by the look of him. She wouldn’t get anywhere by pushing him.

Ragni, on the other hand, might be more informative
. Cele made a mental note to talk to him. And it wouldn’t hurt her to be more pleasant to Father Wirmund—not too much, anyway. “Maybe I should learn more about Baldur, then.”

Father Wirmund smiled thinly. “That would be wise, Lady Celia.” He stopped in front of her door and took her hand in one of his, then touched the purple bag that was the symbol of his office with the other. He spoke in a ritual tone. “May Baldur’s blessings be upon you, may He guide your Talent, and give you joy.” He released her hand and nodded to her. “Good rest, Lady Celia.”

Surprised at the blessing, Cele watched him walk down the hall and turn the corner before she went into her room.

There was a visitor waiting for her.

“Fender! I hope you haven’t been waiting long. Did you come to take me to the market? I’m afraid I went last night with Angrim.”

“That one.” Fender made a face. “No. I’ve come to continue your lessons.” He looked her over. “You seem to have recovered well from Ghav’s tutorial. That’s a good sign. Now it’s my turn.”

Fender didn’t give her a chance to wonder about his opinion of Angrim, since he started to challenge her immediately. Cele had hoped that since he was a Finder of water, he’d be able to tell her more about her Talent, but he quickly reinforced what Ghav had said: everyone was a little different; it was misleading to draw conclusions from someone else’s experience. The only way to understand one’s Talent, he affirmed, was to use it until it was second nature.

Fender tried to stump her, and suggested items to find all over two floors of the castle, but Cele found them all. He seemed impressed, especially when she found something he’d only described to her. “You’ve never seen one of these before?” he said after she’d Found the bootjack shaped like a small animal.

Cele shook her head. “Is that important? I never saw Angrim’s bracelet, either, and she was too hysterical to tell me what it looked like. I knew it was gold, though.”

Fender whistled softly. “You’re good. Very, very good.”

When they returned to her room after two hours, Cele was ravenous.

Thora had a tray waiting for her. Cele barely managed to invite Fender to join her before falling on the food.

“No, thank you, my lady,” he said. “Thora, the fatigue will hit her soon. Make sure she’s in bed before she falls on her face.”

Thora directed an affronted look at Fender. “This is not
quite
the first time I’ve tended someone in Emergence, Lord Fendrikanin.”