Dolor and Shadow (4 page)

There was a pause while Bergen waited for Rune to find his feet again.

“Tension on the trade routes was high,” Bergen said once they started again down the road. “Still is. Two years after my arrival, the Empire in the South invaded Râ-Kedet. It ransacked the city and set the Academia on fire. We managed to put out the flames, but the library was beyond repair.”

The sudden stench of camel flooded back to Bergen, bringing back every detail of that night. His stomach felt like it would fall out of him as he recalled the brush of Zabbai’s breast on his arm when he hoisted his Lady—
not my Lady, never my Lady
—onto her camel. The high moon seemed to have filled her black eyes. She was still flushed red from the wine and tipsy when they started out across the endless dunes to the Ufratu River. It was there on the banks of the Ufratu that they departed. There, that she gave him the egg, and there he gave his promise.

It was there that he left her for dead.

Fire nipped the tip of Bergen’s nose as he tightened his jaw and swallowed the bitter bite in the back of his throat. There was too much he wasn’t saying, too much he couldn’t say.

“When it was over, I gathered up the last of the surviving scriveners and we moved what was left to the new library,” Bergen forced out the end of his story.

“And your manuscripts?” Rune asked.

“Lost in the fire,” Bergen said.

There was a moment of silence as if grieving the loss of his works.

“What happened to your queen?” Rune asked.

A disquieted look blanketed Bergen’s face. “The last time I saw her, the emperor had her walk the streets of the Imperial City.”

Wearing nothing but chains of gold
, Bergen couldn’t bring himself to say and instead fell silent as he recalled the shimmering gold in the desert sun and her dark, bronze skin. Her hair had fallen down her back like black rain that barely covered her rounded backside.

She held her head high even then,
he recalled.

“And so you stayed,” Rune finished for Bergen, pulling him out of the withdrawn daze he had drifted into.

Bergen nodded. “To care for what little was left.”

There was another prolonged silence as they made their way deeper into the wood.

“What aren’t you telling me, Brother?” Rune asked.

Indifference blanketed Bergen’s eyes, but Rune didn’t seem to notice.

“There was another fire.”

Rune kicked his own foot and stumbled, then regained his balanced.

“It’s why I came home,” Bergen said coldly. “The emperor got to it. There’s nothing left.”

A breeze swept their path, giving Bergen a chance to breathe in the fresh Nordic winds he had spent five years missing.

“I got to see the Lighthouse of Râ-Kedet,” Bergen said.

“How was it?”

Bergen shrugged. “Big.”

Rune dropped his shoulders. “Oh, is that all?”

“Almost as big as the pyramid I saw in the Black Land across the River.”

Rune made a sound that combined a loathsome grunt and an impressed scoff.

Bergen fell silent again.

“What does it look like?” Rune asked.

Bergen scratched the unshaven, black bristles on his face.

“Wet.”

“Not the river,” Rune said. “The lighthouse.”

Bergen shrugged as if it was every day he saw a behemoth rise from the sea. “A tower extends from a white octagon that stands on a square base. There’s a room at the top where they use a kind of metal plate to catch the sun. At night, they light a fire.”

“Your description exceeds your skills,” Rune drummed sarcastically.

“Four statues adorn the octagon,” Bergen said, “and Odinn stands at the top, welcoming the ships to port.”

“Your words move me,” Rune said as they entered the edge of the valley.

A cold, empty smirk pulled at Bergen’s mouth. “Also saw the Statue of the High Mountain and the Mausoleum at Halikarnas.”

“I hate you.”

“You missed me.”

* * *

In the valley, Swann made her way up a lively little brook, stepping lightly upon the stones poking out from beneath the water. With her precious egg clutched in one hand and a bundle of pussywillows bunched in the other, Swann swayed as she balanced barefoot on each moss-covered stone. As she hopped from stone to stone, she sang her sweet song, skipping to the next stone on the downbeat of each new phrase:

“Sing and skip o’er Faerie mounds,

O’er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the Fae King’s halls are gold,

Where they sing their songs of old.”

On the final downbeat, Swann slipped and fell, ankle deep, into the water. Hopping back to the stones, she continued with the chorus, undeterred by her wet feet.

“Through the wind the spriggans play,

O’er the sea where they stay.

The queen of Fae, she sits there still,

Tending the earth beneath her hill.”

On the last three words of the verse, Swann leapt from the stone into the cold water, and giggled, delighted at her own game. With branches fisted in hand, Swann hiked her skirts to her knees and sloshed her way to the bank of the brook, then stepped onto dry land. Skipping ahead through the birch trees, with her golden hair streaking the forest, she sang:

“Sing and skip o’er Faerie mounds,

O’er the hill and through the dalr,

Where the mystical Fae King’s throng,              

Fills the earth with ancient song.”

Swann timed her song so that, at its end, she fell to her knees on the ground before a mound of dried leaves and dead branches. Setting aside the willows and gently placing the egg’s chest into the grass beside her, Swann hummed as she cleared the leaves away until, bit by bit, a golden light seeped then threaded itself up and out of the earth like a spring of gold water.

“Through the wind the spriggans play,

O’er the sea where they stay…”

With a wide grin, Swann fixed her silver eyes upon the golden light and sang quiet and low beneath the wind:

“The Faerie queen, she sits there still,

Tending the earth beneath her hill.

“Beneath her hill,” Swann whispered as she pulled away the last of the branches.

Too entranced by the shimmering spring, too enthralled by the glittering gold, Swann failed to see the shadows lurking as darkness moved in.

The clouds overhead had filled the sky, blocking the sun’s warm light and casting a dismal gray over the earth. A cold, lifeless wind swept through the valley and Swann shivered as she hummed her song.

From the corner of her eye, she saw, too late, the glimpse of a shadow. Startled, she turned, opened her mouth, and screamed as the darkness filled her lungs, plunging itself down her throat to her belly. Engulfing her, it left her screams to fill the valley.

CHAPTER 4

Lorlenalin

Kallan breathed in the fresh morning air from her balcony. The clear skies permitted an unobstructed view of the jagged precipice that plunged into the waters below where the ocean’s waves slammed into the mountainside. Unyielding, Lorlenalin’s foundation stood strong against the sea.

Kallan grinned. The scent of sea and spring and holiday clung to the winds that tossed her hair about. She was certain she could smell Cook’s cloudberry glaze dripped over holiday breads and custards.

The feasts of Austramonath.

Her smile widened and in a sudden bout of energy, she sprinted into her bower. Taking up her boots, she dropped to the elaborate chest that ran flush with the foot of her bed and pulled them on. Still grinning, Kallan grabbed the sword from her bed and fled from the room, leaving the main doors of her chamber wide open.

Down the hallway, Kallan ran down the steps to the main corridor that encircled the Great Hall. Inside, the servants and Cook were preparing the last of the delights for travel. Nearly three hundred wives had already left with their children and a small guard. Today, she and her father would be leaving to join them in Gunir, located on the other side of the Alfheim Wood where the northernmost tip of Lake Wanern met the forest. There, on the eve of Austramonath, they would break bread with King Tryggve and his kin. Still, she had time to get in a morning’s worth of swordplay.

Too eager to find Eilif in the city’s hall of records, and too impatient to stop when one of the kitchen servants offered her a handful of cloudberries, Kallan dashed down the hall to the courtyard, which buzzed with a liveliness only an approaching holiday could bring. The first warm spring day had lured everyone into the streets where Dokkalfar women were busy decorating Lorlenalin in the festival colors of Austramonath.

Piles of branches bursting with pussywillows lay beside children who had followed their mothers into the sun-filled courtyard. Strips of fabrics dyed with bright reds, yellows, blues, and greens hung balls of evergreen sprigs. Wreaths of flowers and wild branches covered one side of the battlement. It would take the next day to hang the rest, just in time for the holiday.

Kallan ran past the piles of branches and skirted around the children running about, before cutting across the vast center square that brimmed with village life. Everywhere, Alfar bustled, doubling up their chores to complete them in time for the celebrations.

Decorations trimmed the streets, feeding the excitement that flowed through the city. At the town’s center beside the vast fountain, Freyr’s Pole stood. Like a beacon, it fed the people’s enthusiasm as it waited, erected for the feasts of Austramonath.

All week, Kallan had stopped to gaze at the ribbons and colors that decorated Freyr’s Pole. Today, Kallan paid no mind as she hurried toward the barracks on the farthest end of the square. The stone streets, the distant ‘plink’ of the smith’s hammer, and the stables did nothing to deter her from her goal.

With ease, she fastened the sword to her waist as she came to a stop at the barracks’ door.

Breathe
.

Kallan eased her excitement and slowed the beating of her heart until her hands were steady and her nerves unyielding. She unsheathed her sword, enjoying the pure ring of the metal, and she placed her hand to the door. Kallan pushed on the wood, and the door swung wide. Kallan raised her sword above her head, angled the tip to shield her face, and entered.

The room appeared empty. Swords hung on the stone walls. Barrels of training swords remained undisturbed in a corner where a line of dummies, beaten to all sorts of conditions, spanned the farthest wall. The occasional round shield rested in waiting propped against the wall. Streaks of sunlight poured through the windows onto the floor. She watched the sun dust settle.

Empty.

Still holding her sword in position, Kallan returned her hand to the door, drew in a long deep breath, and threw her body into the door, slamming it hard into Daggon on the other side.

Daggon howled and Kallan swung the sword down toward Daggon’s red head. He raised his sword and blocked her strike, forcing Kallan to take several steps back. She poised her blade, blocking her torso as Daggon stepped from behind the door and matched her position.

“Princess,” Daggon said with a grin buried beneath the wild red mass of beard and hair. He lunged, thrusting the blade for her shoulder.

“Kallan!” she corrected, swinging her blade for the exposed artery in Daggon’s leg.

Her sword crashed into his and Daggon bore his blade up, forcing Kallan to leap back. She swung her blade up for his neck then down for his head as Daggon moved with her.

He deflected her sword and mirrored her attack, swinging his blade down as Kallan raised her palm flush with the end of her blade. She blocked his attack, then shoved it aside and smashed her pommel up into his face.

As Daggon stumbled back, blood gushed from his broken nose. Knowing his skills with the blade, Kallan gave him no time to recover. She swung for his shoulder as he dabbed at his nose.

Daggon blocked her attack then hooked her hilt with his cross-guard. He reached across her arms and grabbed her hilt, which held her in place as he spun and slammed his back into her front.

“Thank you!” he said, giving a yank and relinquishing the sword from her hands. He shifted his weight and Kallan fell to the ground in a heap.

Daggon threw back his head and laughed long and loud as Kallan sat grinning from the floor.

“You think you have time to smile, Princess?” he jeered.

“Kallan,” she corrected again. “And fools are meant for smiling at.”

“Fool?” Daggon wiped the moisture from his amber eyes and dabbed at the blood on his nose. “You’re the one sitting on your arse.”

Kallan widened her grin. “You’re the one with your guard down.” She flicked her wrist and Seidr flame burst to life in her hand.

“By Baldr,” Daggon cursed and leapt, taking up a round shield from the wall as Kallan sent her Seidr streaming for Daggon’s torso.

Neither saw King Eyolf standing in the door.

Fire rolled off the edges of the wood while Daggon cowered behind the shield. Kallan’s flames grew hotter.

“Kallan!” Daggon shouted.

“Kallan! Stand down!” Eyolf ordered and Kallan extinguished her flame doing her best to already hide her waning strength.

“Do you yield?” she asked, staring at the shield charred black.

“No!” Daggon said and threw the wood at Kallan.

Kallan raised her arm and caught the shield with her elbow. Blocks of blackened charcoal fell to the floor and Daggon charged, his sword positioned to impale Kallan as she mustered the last of her strength, readied her Seidr, and braced for the impact.

Sweeping her feet out from under her, Eyolf dropped Kallan to the ground in a pile.

“First rule of battle, Kallan,” Eyolf said, putting his full weight onto her. “Don’t turn your back to your opponent!”

“Get off!” Kallan shouted, squirming between the floor and her father.

“Say it!” Eyolf said, indifferent to his daughter’s wheezing.

“No—Ow!” Kallan bellowed.

“Quit squirming and say it!”

Kallan raised her head to Daggon who threw back his head and laughed, then sheathed his sword.

“You’re next, Daggon,” she said. “Now help me up so I can kick your a—”

Daggon threw his hands in the air. “I can’t help you, Princess. My orders come from the king.”

“And why is that, Kallan?” Eyolf said as if they were seated in the war room. “Why do Daggon’s orders come from the king?”

Kallan slapped the floor, doing her best to pull herself out from under her father. But the Seidr left her too weak to fight him.

“Because,” Kallan gasped. “Daggon is your captain.”

“That’s right,” Eyolf said, patting her head like a dog. Kallan growled.

“And what am I?” Eyolf said.

“I won’t say it!”

“Say it, Kallan.”

“No!”

Eyolf picked his foot off the floor, adding more of his weight to her.

“Argh,” Kallan dropped her head and answered into the floor. “You are my king!”

“Good girl,” Eyolf said with a victorious grin. “And…?”

“No!”

“Give in, Kallan,” Daggon shouted over Kallan’s screams. “You overspent your energy again using too much of your Seidr on me. You’ve exhausted yourself because you lack the endurance to fight.”

“And besides,” the king said, shifting his weight, “my backside has you pinned to the floor. Now say it.”

“I won’t!”

“Say it,” Eyolf said patiently.

“Never!” Kallan punched the floor and winced.

“Say that you eat dragon dung,” Eyolf instructed.

“No!”

“Say it!” Eyolf gave a light bounce.

“Squish me,” Kallan gasped and relaxed on the floor.

Eyolf smiled. “Stubborn,” he said and pulled himself up, leaving Kallan free to stand.

Kallan didn’t move. Her breathing punched the air as she lay.

“You can’t rely on your Seidr,” Daggon said, attempting to wipe some of the blood away with his sleeve.

“I can—” Kallan gasped.

“Not until you work on your endurance,” Eyolf said.

Kallan lay, focusing on the Seidr she felt brewing inside her. Brewing, but locked somehow as if in a vault somewhere deep within.

“I can do this,” she said. “There’s more in me. I just can’t…” Kallan brushed the long, brown locks from her face. “I can’t get to it.”

“You’re not Gudrun yet, Kallan,” Eyolf answered. Kallan cringed at the severity in his voice. “You can hardly hold a stream longer than a handful of minutes. And when you do, it leaves you exhausted.”

Kallan rolled her head to the side to better look upon Daggon. “Daggon. Tell him.”

“I will forever side with my king, Princess.”

“Kallan,” Kallan corrected. “You always side with him.”

“As it should be,” Eyolf added.

“Until you are queen,” Daggon said, “my services belong to the king. I’m going to see Gudrun to fix my nose then I’ll ready the horses. My liege.” Daggon nodded to Eyolf and winked at Kallan. “Princess.”

“Kallan!” she shouted after the captain who had already left the barracks.

Daggon threw his hand to the air in goodbye. “When you are queen, Princess, that can be your first order to me.”

Kallan sighed and turned her head to the rafters. “Stubborn.”

“Like you,” Eyolf said and took Kallan’s hand, helping her to feet.

“Eilif doesn’t call me princess,” she said, combing her hair from her face.

“Eilif is a boy who doesn’t fight in the service of the king,” Eyolf said.

Kallan collected her hair then gave it a snap so that it fell in an orderly fashion down her back. “Well,” she said, picking her sword up from the floor.

Eyolf arched his brow too noticeably. “Well?” he asked.

“You’re hiding something.” With her skirts, she wiped down the blade and studied the elding steel closely. Unlike the iron blades, hers remained without chipping. “You came to the barracks for a reason and seeing as how you didn’t follow Daggon to the stables…”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Only to me,” Kallan said and sheathed her sword. Noting the delay her father was relishing, she picked up a bit of broken shield and turned over the black bit of charcoal.

“We’re meeting with King Tryggve for the festival,” he said at last.

Kallan looked up from the wood.

“We are.” She waited, holding her attention on him.

“Aaric’s done a lot of work, arranging this holiday with the Ljosalfar.”

“He has.” Kallan didn’t flinch.

“They kept out of our way while we…”

Kallan watched her father inhale uncomfortably, not daring to meet her eyes. “We invaded their land in a way…We were vulnerable. They could have wiped us out without any trouble and didn’t—”

He rubbed his beard, black and streaked with silver, once, twice…