DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3) (5 page)

Should she and Benoia try to slip away, to put more distance between them and their pursuers? Or should they stay still like rabbits, hoping to avoid unwanted attention?

A man shouted to another, nearer this time. “… forest?”

Beside her, Benoia startled awake and she put one finger against the girl’s lips. Her foster-daughter nodded with the barest movement of her head.

Annikke wished she’d pulled some deadfall around them, or done something else to hide themselves better, but it had been nearly dark when they stopped. It was too late, now. All they could do was stay still.

Moisture dripped from leaves, pattering softly around them. Dim light filtered in under the edges of the oilcloth. Annikke’s heart thudded and she held her breath, straining her ears, but the moist ground muffled the men’s footsteps. Annikke couldn’t tell if they were coming closer or moving away until a man stopped not twenty feet away.

Chapter Five

Annikke stopped breathing, fearing the slightest movement would draw attention.

Too close, a man said, “This is a waste of time. Everyone knows she was afraid of the forest. She’d never come in here.”

“We’ve looked enough to satisfy Tholvar’s orders. Let’s go,” another man agreed from a little further away.

Footsteps that quickly grew too distant for Annikke to hear suggested they had left, but she and Benoia remained still for many minutes before carefully peeking out to look around. A thick mist hung in the air, turning trees into forbidding shadows. The man was right. She would never before have come into the woods, especially not on a day when Elven magic could hide behind every tree. Today, however, she gave thanks for the cloaking mist that had hidden her and Benoia.

Annikke paused, listening. She heard nothing other than birds chirping sleepily, and a squirrel scrabbling up the nearest pine.

Annikke breathed a sigh of relief. If the small creatures were out and about, the men must truly be gone. It wouldn’t do to linger, though. They gathered their few possessions and departed, not pausing to break their fast.

*

Aren walked through the tunnels below Quartzholm with the Jarl’s young nephew, Ari, by his side. Aren would have completed his assignment to locate Lord Dahleven’s six year old grandniece, Kaleth, more quickly if he were on his own, but the boy was a treasure of information, so Aren welcomed his company. At eleven summers, Ari’s Talent had not yet Emerged, but he was known to little Kaleth as Aren was not, and the boy’s presence would set the little girl at ease when they found her.

Aren held his torch high as they came to a branching of tunnels and examined the dusty floor. Many feet had traveled these passages created hundreds of years ago by the Great Talents to facilitate trade and warfare. He could make out the occasional small print overlaying the others, but mostly he relied on his Talent which told him that Kaleth had gone down the right hand path.

“I never get lost down here, not the way some do,” Ari volunteered. “I fell in the lake when I was five summers old and almost drowned, but I wasn’t lost.”

Aren’s Talent told him they were close to finding the girl, but a jolt of alarm spiked through him at the mention of drowning. “Is the lake near here?”

“No. It’s way over there.” Ari waved his hand to the left. “It’s really cold, not very good for swimming.”

Aren blew out a breath of relief. “I’d guess not. Did the Jarl save you?”

“Uncle Dahben? No. He wasn’t the Jarl then, anyway. The skalds say Aunt Celia breathed the ‘breath of the gods’ into me, but she says it’s called rescue breathing. She’s taught a lot of people how to do it, including me. I’ve also learned how to swim, so I won’t drown again.”

It was strange to hear the Jarl referred to by a family nickname. “I’m sure that’s a relief to your father.”

“Da is dead. He drank poison meant for the old Kon.”

Aren felt a twinge of sympathy for the boy growing up without his father, but at least his da had saved the Kon and died a hero. And the boy wasn’t without strong men to guide him.

“I promised Kaleth and Sorn that I’d teach them how to swim, but Uncle Ragni said we needed to have an adult with us.” This last was said with a hint of disgust.

“You mean Father Ragnar, the Overprest?” The Jarl’s brother and the head of the priests of Baldur.

Ari shot him a look perfected by the young when they knew something an elder didn’t. “Yes, but we don’t call him that.”

“Who is Sorn?”

“Sorn is Uncle Dahben’s heir. Sorn was Kaleth’s Da and Uncle Dahben’s sworn brother, and that’s why he named his son after him. He died before she was born.” Aren sorted through Ari’s explanation and decided it was the Jarl’s sworn brother who had died before his daughter Kaleth was born, and that Lord Dahleven had named his son after him. Aren could well imagine that neither the Overprest nor the Jarl would be willing to put the safety of the Jarl’s firstborn in the hands of a child.

“Who taught you to swim?”

“Lord Fender. He knows where all the best swimming holes are. That’s his Talent: Finding Water. He said he’d come with me when I teach Kaleth and Sorn.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“But I’m a good swimmer! And I’ll be a man soon. I’m going to go through Emergence soon, I can tell. My Talent will be a really good one, too.”

The two of them came to a four way split in the tunnels but Aren turned down the left-most without hesitation. A flicker of light soon confirmed his confidence that the little girl was close. “Kaleth?” he called.

“Kaleth!” Ari called immediately after. “Come here! Your mother’s worried.”

Aren signaled the boy to be quiet. Ari made a face, but he obeyed.

“Ari?” a little girl’s voice answered.

Aren held their torch higher and picked up his pace. Around the next bend a six year old girl was standing at another meeting of the ways. Her torch was nearly burned out, sputtering as it sagged in her drooping arms.

“I got lost,” she said simply. She didn’t seem particularly upset by the experience.

Aren smiled. Kaleth had the same dark hair that his own daughter had. “And now you’re found. Shall we take you back to your mother?”

“Yes. I’m hungry.”

The little girl handed him her torch, which Aren passed on to Ari.

“You caused a lot of trouble, Kaleth. Everybody’s looking for you. But we found you first! This is Aren. He’s a Tracker.”

Aren let the boy talk because he didn’t seem to be upsetting the child. She was probably used to his chatter. He dug a piece of sugared fruit out of his pouch and offered it to the girl. “Here. This should hold you until we get you back above ground.” Aren noticed Ari’s eyes had fastened on the sweet, so he dug out another piece for the boy as well, then led them back by the most direct route.

Aren carried Kaleth up a long stair to the courtyard. By the time they arrived, the little girl had fallen asleep on his shoulder. It had been nearly ten summers since he’d carried his own daughter, Tandra, that way, and it was with a twinge of nostalgia that Aren handed the slack-boned child off to her relieved mother. “She’s well,” he assured Lady Aenid. “Just tired.”

From the sun’s angle, Aren guessed that he’d been underground for not quite two candlemarks. Time enough to report to Lord Fender in the training yard, then make his way home for the evening meal. As Aren turned to go there, he heard his name shouted. Lord Fender was at the top of the stairs leading into the castle, gesturing for Aren to join him.

At the top, Lord Fender clasped his hand in greeting. “Well done! Lady Aenid barely had time to work herself into a panic over her daughter. Lord Dahleven wants to thank you personally.”

“The Jarl?”

Lord Fender grinned. “Kaleth is the daughter of his fallen oath brother and his niece. She’s doubly dear to him.”

“I was honored to serve.”

Lord Fender clapped him on the shoulder. “And Lord Dahleven is honored to recognize your service. Come along.”

Three flights of stairs and several long hallways later, Aren and Lord Fender were shown into an informal chamber by a guard with the swooping hawk emblem stitched on his left breast. Inside, a man of about Aren’s age sat in one of two cushioned chairs drawn close to a cold fireplace. He wore a green suede tunic similar to the guards’, but the swooping hawk embroidered on his chest was in gold thread. As Aren entered, the man set aside a sheaf of reports he’d been studying and rose. His russet beard was trimmed short in the style favored by younger men, but he braided his shoulder length hair back from his face so the gold hawk dangling from his left ear could be seen. He didn’t need the finery he wore to communicate his rank, however. The Jarl wore his authority with ease, and no one in his presence would doubt his status.

“Dahl, this is Aren, the man I told you about.”

Aren stood tall to meet Lord Dahleven. It was one thing to be one man among many in the Jarl’s service. It was quite another for the Jarl to know you specifically, especially when your father was an Oathbreaker.

Lord Dahleven must have seen something in his eyes, because the first words he spoke were, “Yes, I know of your father’s shame. But I also know you’ve done much to redeem your honor today. You have my thanks, and the thanks of my family.” Lord Dahleven slipped a gold cuff from his left arm. “Accept this symbol of my gratitude for the service you have rendered us.” He clasped the band onto Aren’s forearm.

This was more than Aren had hoped for when he’d brought his family to Quartzholm. “I am honored to serve you, my lord.”

“I’m glad to hear it, because I have another task for you.”

Chapter Six

Annikke was glad that the oak thickets grew fewer as they moved deeper into the forest. The pines kept the undergrowth that clutched at their skirts to a minimum. Little grew in the soil blanketed with needles, just a few ferns and the rare orchid. Their travel would have been as easy as a walk in a lord’s manicured garden if the layers of pine needles didn’t hide rocky, uneven ground beneath. Their path looked smooth, but it took awareness and care to keep from turning their ankles.

“What will we do if Lord Fender won’t help us?” Benoia asked when they’d stopped for a mid-afternoon rest.

“He will.” Annikke dug into her carry-sack and pulled out an oatcake for each of them.

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“And be an Oathbreaker? No. He didn’t strike me as that kind of man.”

“Who would know? It will be only our word against his and you’re Fey-marked.”

“Lord Fender would know. I was Fey-marked when he gave his promise. He’ll keep his word.”

“But what can he do? He wasn’t there. He didn’t see what happened. And if Lord Tholvar names us Outcast, who will believe us?” Benoia’s tight grasp threatened to crumble her oatcake.

“Lord Fender will.” Annikke put her hand over Benoia’s. She understood the girl’s fears. How alone and vulnerable she felt. “Don’t borrow trouble. We aren’t Outcasts yet.” At least not as far as they knew.

“He could be cross-sworn,” Benoia persisted. “An oath to Lord Dahleven would take precedence over a promise to a Fey-marked woman.”

“Benoia.” Annikke waited until her foster-daughter met her gaze. “Do not fret. Not all men are as faithless as your father. Lord Fender will keep his promise, and if he cannot give us aid, he will not hinder us. We’ll go to the Daughters of Freya. They understand that women must sometimes take action when men forget their duty to honor and protect as Sveyn did.”

Or so Lord Fender had told her. Annikke hoped it was true.

“Why don’t we go there first?”

“I would not have you live your life with a cloud of accusation hanging dark over your head. Lord Fender serves the Jarl. He’ll make sure you get a fair hearing.”

Benoia fell silent and nibbled the edge of her oatcake. After a bit she said, “You should have sent me off on my own,” she said in a small voice.

“I do
not
want to hear you say that ever again!” Did the girl really think Annikke could have lived happily, having cast off her foster-daughter like a broken dish? “You are my daughter, if not my blood.”

Benoia’s eyes filled with tears. She dropped her oatcake into her lap and covered her face with both hands as she began to sob.