DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Aren found Annikke’s cottage without difficulty, thanks to the Smith’s directions. It sat alone at the end of a long track that wended deep into the woods. Only one other path split off, but the smith’s directions had been clear, and Aren didn’t veer from the main trail, though he paused briefly where the two tracks came together. Rain had washed away all sign, but his Talent told him that the women had traveled that other way more recently than the path to the village.

The cottage looked like a thousand others. Grey stones had been dry set, the gaps chinked with moss. Unlike most, the turf roof sported a collection of wildflowers like a colorful bonnet and a long wide porch supported by peeled logs spanned the front. Off to the right of the cottage half a dozen chickens scratched in the herb garden. The whole sat in the center of a wide clearing surrounded by forest. It looked as though the mistress of this domain might step out the door at any moment to toss the wash water, but to Aren it felt empty. The soul of the place was gone.

Aren dismounted, tied Pinter to the rail, and went inside. Broken crockery testified to a hasty departure, or perhaps a careless search. The hearth was cold, its fire burned down to grey ash. The cot in the corner and the bed in the alcove had both been stripped of their blankets. The women were not coming back.

Aren went back outside to walk around the building, going first to the garden. Two rows looked to be planted with vegetables, the rest in herbs. He knelt there. This was Annikke’s livelihood. A place she nurtured and depended on. He traced the tender shoots, surprised to find their growth so far advanced for the season. His Tandra had the Talent of nurturing plants, but not so strong.

Was this Annikke’s Talent? Or Benoia’s?

No matter. Aren rose and continued his circuit of the cottage. On the other side he found the way they’d taken. The rain had obliterated any mark, but his Talent put him on their trail. He knew exactly where they’d slipped into the trackless forest, hoping to elude pursuit.

Aren mounted his horse and followed.

*

Late afternoon light slanted through the trees as Annikke and Benoia crested a rise near the end of the day. Annikke lifted a hand to shade her eyes to survey the terrain. What she saw made her heart fall.

“Odin’s Eye!”

Before them a deep cleft cut across the landscape like a giant furrow plowed by the gods, disappearing into the forest in both directions. Only a bird could cross something like that.

Benoia groaned and sat on the rocky hillside, letting her carry sacks rest beside her.

Annikke knew the general direction Quartzholm lay in, but not the terrain. She’d never left her village, nor seen a map of the area. That ignorance would now cost them precious time. She’d avoided the road on purpose, not wanting to make it easy for Lord Tholvar’s men to intercept them. Now they’d have to either go far out of their way to cross the Rift at the lowlands near the Nuvinland river, or back-track to the road, putting them at risk of discovery. Either way held risks. All they could hope was that Tholvar’s men wouldn’t be looking for them this far from the village.

“We’ll rest here,” Annikke said to the girl already sitting on the ground. Annikke’s bones ached from hiking over rock-strewn terrain and sleeping on the unforgiving ground.

Benoia shook her head and scrambled back to her feet. “No. We need to find a thicket to conceal us. And water.”

Annikke nodded. Their water-skins were growing light. “Lead on, then. My choices haven’t served us well.”

Benoia’s head came around. “You got us out of the cottage so Tholvar’s men didn’t find us that first morn. It’s not your fault that your Talent isn’t Pathfinding.”

Annikke’s throat tightened at hearing the girl’s staunch defense, but she waved it off. “Even a blind hog can find a truffle now and then.”

Benoia’s lips thinned, but all she said was, “Let’s try this way.”

*

Aren’s keen observational skills were of little use to him as he followed the women’s trail into the forest. All that led him was his Talent, that
knowing
where a person or animal had gone. His Talent had its limitations. He couldn’t
Find
his quarry, he had to
follow
, though if he encountered two intersecting tracks he knew which was the most recent. His Talent had emerged in his thirteenth summer and it had served him well, along with the hunting skills he’d also learned, to feed his family after his father had become an Oathbreaker. No one in their village would do business with such a man. Shamed, his father had packed a carry sack one day and left the responsibility of providing for his mother to Aren.

Having touched Annikke’s belongings and the seedlings in her garden, Aren had a sense for the woman. He knew Benoia’s feel, too, but the cottage was Annikke’s and his understanding of her was stronger. He didn’t think the women would separate, given what Nellor and the smith had said of them. They’d painted a picture of an isolated woman shunned by most, except when they needed her healing skills. Aren knew what that kind of isolation felt like. Many in his old village would look past him unless he had venison or pelts to trade, not willing to see him as any more trustworthy than his father.

Annikke may have purchased Benoia’s service, but she treated the girl more like a daughter, or so the smith had said. Finding one would be as good as finding the other.

Aren paused beside an oak thicket. They’d tarried there a long while, probably that first night. It wasn’t very far inside the forest. Why hadn’t Lord Tholvar’s men seen them? The cover wasn’t that good.

He continued on, moving quickly, guided by his Talent, stopping only briefly to rest his mount, dig out journey-bread, or by necessity, when the light fled completely. His Talent would have guided him even in the dark, but it wouldn’t protect him from turning an ankle.

The next day was much the same. The women were heading northwest, roughly in the direction of Quartzholm, following the downward slope of the land. Odd. And misguided. They would run into the Rift if they didn’t turn aside.

Late in the afternoon he began to see signs of the women’s passage. Drifts of disturbed needles. A rock overturned. He was gaining ground on them as they tired. He’d probably catch up with them tomorrow morn. Again he stayed on their trail until dark made continuing too risky. As the last light faded, Aren saw to his mount’s needs, and then made another meal of foul-tasting journey-bread before rolling himself in his cloak and falling into a light sleep.

*

The nearly full moon had passed its zenith, casting the forest in slanting black and silver when Aren awoke. Stars sparkled overhead between the tall trees and the crisp mountain air was still. Too still. He sat up abruptly, reaching for his dagger, and saw that he wasn’t alone.

An Elf dressed in leathers stood limned in moonlight not ten feet away, a recurve bow in one hand, and a brace of rabbits dangling from the other.

“Torlon,” Aren named the Elf. It had been half a lifetime since the Fey lord had saved him from a charging bear with an arrow loosed from that same bow, but Aren remembered him clearly despite the intervening years. A meeting with the Fey wasn’t easy to forget.

Torlon lifted the rabbits. “I brought dinner.”

For a moment Aren wondered if he were dreaming. He awoke sweating at least once a year from nightmares about a giant bear charging him, its foul breath hot on his face, its tooth-filled jaws about to crush his skull. In truth, the bear had indeed been huge, but it hadn’t come so close. Torlon’s arrow had sprouted from the beast’s eye before it could eviscerate Aren with its finger length claws. But in Aren’s fear-drenched dreams, Torlon was sometimes too slow.

Aren blinked. Torlon was indeed here, not a figment of dream or nightmare. Though miles away from the place of their previous encounter, Aren’s one-time rescuer was matter-of-factly offering to share the fruits of his hunt.

“More like breakfast,” Aren said, gauging how far gone the night was. He set about clearing the ground and building a fire ring.

Torlon crouched and began cleaning the rabbits. “As you say.”

Another Elf came silently through the wood bearing deadwood and joined them, setting his armload down next to Aren. He sat beside Torlon and began gutting the second rabbit.

Torlon gestured with his knife. “This is my brother, Gaelon. Gaelon, this is Dances-with-Bears, otherwise known as Aren.”

Gaelon chuckled, nodded to Aren, then continued with his task.

Aren winced at Torlon’s joke, but if Gaelon knew the story, he didn’t seem to hold Aren in contempt for his indebtedness. Then again, Elves didn’t hold mortals in much esteem anyway, so he wasn’t sure the distinction was meaningful. He looked from one brother to the other. The two Elves looked much the same, but they also wore their glamour, so their appearance was no proof they were related. “While the rabbits are welcome, I already ate.”

The new Elf made a face. “Journey-bread.”

They know what I had for supper?
“You’ve been
watching
me?”

“Yes.”

How often had the Fey observed him while he hunted? The thought was disturbing, but had Torlon not been close at hand that time years ago, Aren would be dead. Nonplussed, all Aren could think to say was, “I would have gladly shared my meal with you.”

“Kindly meant, I’m sure, but only the desperate would consider journey-bread food.”

Aren laughed. “True, but it packs light, and it’s sustaining.”

Torlon spitted the rabbits and propped them over the growing flames. “Starvation might be preferable.”

As the rabbits cooked they talked of hunting and harvests and weather, all matters essential to people living close to the land, and nothing important enough to merit a visit from the Fey.

The sky was showing the first kiss of dawn when Torlon threw the last of the now clean bones into the fire. Gaelon pulled a metal pot from his pack, filled it with water from a skin, then threw leaves into it. As the water heated, it released a lovely aroma. Aren forced himself to relax. He hadn’t asked any questions of the Elves, but they must have a reason to be here, with him. They would speak when they were ready. At any other time this would pleasant, though strange. But now that the sky was growing pale, it was time for him to be off.

When the water came to a simmer, Gaelon produced three cups. It was light enough to see that they were beautifully wrought, with rolled gold at the edges and delicate scrollwork carved down the handles. Not what Aren would think was typical camping gear. The Elf carefully poured the tea and handed the cups around, then saluted with his before drinking. “To Freyr and Freya. May they bless you and your herds, and increase your family.”

“To Freyr and Freya,” Aren echoed. “May they reward your generosity for this meal. It was indeed better than journey-bread.”

Torlon sipped his tea, then said, “Now it’s time for talk. I have come to collect on your debt.”

Aren nodded, hiding a stab of alarm. He owed this Fey his life. Whatever Torlon asked, Aren would do if it were in his power, but what would the Elf require, that he couldn’t do for himself?

“You are following Annikke and Benoia. Why?”

Aren lifted his brows, surprised at the Elves interest in his mission, and further surprised that they knew by name the women he was tracking. “The Jarl has tasked me with bringing them to Quartzholm.”

“Why?”

Aren saw no reason to hide the truth, and suspected it would be useless to try in any case. “Lord Tholvar has accused Benoia of a crime, and Annikke of aiding her escape. I’m to bring them to Lord Dahleven so that he may sort out the matter.”

“We know of Dahleven, but who is this Tholvar?” Torlon asked.

Aren shook his head. “I have no direct experience of the man. Only rumor.” But that rumor wasn’t good.

“It’s of no consequence,” Gaelon said, waving a hand dismissively. “I ask that you return to Quartzholm, and leave the women to our protection.”

“I cannot. I’ve sworn to serve Lord Dahleven.”

Torlon exchanged a look with his brother. “You would not have lived to swear that oath had I not saved your life,” he said softly.

Aren’s heart clenched in dread. What the Elf said was true. He was cross-sworn, and his debt to Torlon preceded his oath to Lord Dahleven.

He looked at Torlon. It was to him that he owed his debt, not Gaelon. “Is this what
you
ask of me?”

Torlon finished his tea, then flung the dregs into the fire. A spurt of steam sizzled and rose into the air. The Elf held his empty cup in both hands, staring into it as if reading the leaves. After a moment he raised his head and his pale, un-glamoured eyes met Aren’s.

“I ask that you protect Annikke and do all in your power to see that no grief befalls her. Then your debt will be repaid.”

“What you ask is impossible!” Aren exclaimed. “No mortal can spare another from all grief! I doubt even you could do so.”

Torlon cast an inscrutable look at his brother, then said. “True enough. But as you owe your life to my intervention, I ask that you intervene to protect Annikke until she is home again and safe, and bring her no grief. Can you do
that
?”