Lord of Falcon Ridge (27 page)

There was so much Cleve had to learn. And there was his wife, whose hand was holding him, and he knew she was awake, for her breathing had quickened. He grinned and rolled over atop her.

“I did promise,” he said, and began kissing her. She was warm and willing. He expected that, but he knew it
would take her time to accustom herself to the pleasure he would bring her every time they came together. When she finally cried out softly in his mouth, his fingers slick on her warm flesh, he felt in that instant free and whole and complete. It was frightening and it pleased him enormously. He said again, softly against her parted lips, “You won't ever try to control me, Chessa. Don't forget what I've said. You may try, it will give me amusement, but don't forget I'm like no man you've met before in your life.”

She hugged him. The witch hugged him. He would have to be careful of her. And that seemed an interesting thing to do.

She would have killed Ragnor of York.

As for William of Normandy, Cleve was grateful William had never laid eyes on her. William wasn't stupid like Ragnor.

 

Argana looked at Cleve closely. “Strange,” she said, “that when you were a small boy I never realized that your eyes were exactly like Varrick's—one gold, one blue. Perhaps they weren't then and changed over time.”

“I don't know,” Cleve said. “I don't remember ever looking at myself.”

“I believed our mother when she said you were the son of my father. But then he died a violent death, as most men do. Varrick killed him. I've never doubted that. And Varrick married our mother.”

“I know,” Cleve said. “I'm merely surprised that my father would then wed his wife's daughter. It isn't usually done. If you were Christians, I believe it would be forbidden.”

Argana, nearly as tall as Cleve, straight limbed, eyes as blue as the summer sky, dimples in her cheeks, didn't smile. “Mother died. I was almost thirteen, nearly ready for a husband. Varrick didn't touch me until I was fourteen, then he told me that he would bed me, to test my innocence, to see if I would respond to a man's touch. He told me if I proved to be what he wished, he would wed me. I asked
one of the women how I should behave. She told me exactly what to do. Varrick was pleased. Understand, Cleve, there was no one else. We are isolated, except for trading at Inverness and to the northward islands. The men naturally trade southward at York and enjoy themselves raiding Pict and Briton holdings. I had believed my eldest son, Athol, would be the Lord of Kinloch upon Varrick's death. But you're back, Cleve, and Varrick is more pleased than I've ever seen him. I mourned you for a very long time. I'm glad you're alive even though my son is no longer the heir to Kinloch.”

He looked at her closely, heard the disappointment in her low musical voice, felt the pain she felt for her son. “I spent fifteen years in the Christian's hell, Argana. Surely I didn't deserve that. I was a boy of five and I was cast forth only to become a slave. Surely I deserve to have what now is rightfully mine. Athol is a fine boy, nay, he's nearly a man. He is also my half brother. I pray he will feel no hatred for me, that he will recognize what is mine. But heed me, Argana, what is mine is mine. Surely you must agree with that. You're my half sister.”

“Aye, it is a logical thing you say, but there is still Athol, nearly a man grown as you said, and now he has nothing. You don't remember my father but I do. His passions ran deep and strong. He believed in his family, in his sons. Then he died, fighting outlaws, so it was said, but as I told you, I believe Varrick killed him.”

“Athol will make his own way, as most sons do. I would have had nothing if our brother had lived. Varrick told me last night that Ethar disappeared soon after I had gone, that all believed him to have fallen into the loch and the monsters drew him down into its depths and devoured him.”

“It is more likely that he was sucked into one of the caves that honeycomb the loch. I know not, but our mother died, then you were gone, and finally Ethar. There was Varrick, always Varrick. I soon realized that our mother lusted after him. She came to fear him. He was sometimes harsh with her. Of course, all of us fear him. It is what he
wants. It is what pleases him. He is a strange man, his origins murky, cast in dark tales, but my mother took him and that was that.”

“Do you still fear him?”

She smiled then, her white teeth strong and straight. She was still a lovely woman, not of the same beauty as Cayman, but she seemed more real than Cayman, as if there were more substance to her, more sheer force and will. The lines on her face were from living, from suffering, aye, it made her more human, and thus more to be feared, perhaps, or to be studied, before Cleve came to a decision about her. He was nothing to her, merely a small boy who'd disappeared so many years before. He remembered adoring her when he'd been just a babe. Ah, how she'd made him laugh.

“Fear Varrick? Certainly I fear him. Everyone fears him. It pleases him to have the stench of fear around him, created by him. He expects all to worship at the veil of darkness that he sweeps over himself.”

“You speak eloquently, Argana,” Varrick said.

She started, but she didn't pale or move back from him. She said, “I have been wedded to you for a very long time, Varrick. You have taught me as much eloquence as a woman can learn. Have I done it well enough to suit you?”

Cleve watched Varrick reach out one hand, the long pale fingers so slender, so finely carved as if by a Rune master, no callouses, no sign of any labor, nothing but the purity of white flesh. “Nearly eighteen years,” he said. “It's a long time, Argana, a very long time. Athol is sixteen, as you said, nearly a man grown. He will revere his brother, Cleve, who has come back to us magically, as if transported by the netherworld gods. Cleve will follow me now, not Athol. You understand that, do you not, Argana?”

“Actually,” Cleve said to Varrick, “my escape and rescue was far more practical. The netherworld gods would have spat upon the dullness of it.” Aye, this man was his father, looking at him was like looking at his own image, and it surprised him deep inside, and was also frightening.

“By the winter solstice,” Varrick said, “your escape from Kiev with Lord Merrik and his lady, Laren, will reach even the limits of a skald's talents. Tell me, Cleve, why did you not try to return here the moment you were free?”

“I'd forgotten everything until the dreams came to me. Finally I remembered almost everything. I remember now that I was riding my pony when a man stopped me. I was speaking to him when someone struck me hard on the head and left me for dead on the eastern side of Loch Ness. A trader found me, nursed me back to health, named me Cleve, and sold me. I remembered nothing of this life until the dreams began three years ago.”

“Fetch me porridge, Argana,” Varrick said. “Mayhap I sent the dreams to you, Cleve. I have that power and it comes to me when I am not even aware of it.”

“If it pleases you to believe so, then why not?”

Argana gave Cleve a look that clearly told him to be careful, but she said nothing, merely nodded and walked to the huge fire pit whose flames burned sluggishly in the summer morning. The iron pot was huge, much larger than those on Hawkfell Island or at Malverne.

“How many people live at Kinloch?”

“There are nearly one hundred. My men produced many children after I married your mother. Aye, I can see it in your eyes. You are my son, yet you remember the man you believed was your father, an animal of a man, a man of little reason, really, something of a warrior, but without the brains to keep himself safe. I forced your mother, Cleve, forced her because I wanted her and she was bathing in the loch and I took her and you were the result. Since your father didn't know of me, he saw your different colored eyes as a gift from the Dalriada god. Ah, my porridge. Come and sit with me, Cleve. We have much to discuss. I wish to hear all about the dreams.

Cleve looked toward Chessa, who was playing with Kiri, tossing her a small leather ball. Laren was speaking with Cayman, Merrik with Varrick's soldiers who were working on their axes and swords.

Suddenly, with no warning, there was the sound of a great wind. The huge wooden fortress actually shuddered with the force of the wind. There was utter silence amongst the forty-odd men, women, and children in the great hall. No one screamed, no one moved. All stood still as stones, as silent as the immense iron pot suspended from its chains.

Then there was the sound of churning water, so much water twisting and roiling, crashing against rocks and spuming surely hundreds of feet into the air, all that water bulging upward to surge over the fortress, which was surely wrong since the fortress sat high on a promontory.

Varrick rose from his beautifully carved oak chair, its arm posts serpents, but not the sea serpents of the stems of Viking warships. These serpents were like none Cleve had ever seen before. They were magical serpents, knowing serpents who seemed to stare back at the men who beheld them. Varrick stepped up to the raised wooden dais and walked to the huge shuttered windows. He flung them open. Cleve saw that he held some sort of odd-looking wooden stick in his hands, that now he was thrusting it upward, toward the open window. What was that stick? How long had Varrick been holding it?

It was early morning, the sun had been bright one moment, the light mist burned off, yet now, it was black. The light inside the fortress seemed to be sucked out through those shutters into that deep, forbidding blackness. The wind was so powerful that Varrick had to hold onto the clawed post carved into the base of the shutters. Cleve would swear that he saw huge sprays of water rise up before the darkness outside, then heave downward, splashing loudly, spuming outward.

Varrick turned his back to the open shutters and that eerie blackness. He raised his arms. The full sleeves of his black tunic billowed outward. He said, “I have called to Caldon. I must see what has happened. All will be well. Have no fear. Remain within. No one is to venture outside.”

He stepped off the dais, strode to the great front doors, and flung them open. He looked like a man of Cleve's
years, Chessa thought, watching him, certainly not a man twice Cleve's age, certainly not the man who had fathered Cleve. He looked young and strong and agile as a goat.

Kiri pressed her face against Chessa's neck, and whispered against her ear, “Varrick is very strange, Papa. What's a Caldon?”

“Aye,” Chessa said slowly, “very strange. He likes it, Kiri, else he wouldn't do it. I think Caldon is the name he's given to the monster that lives in the loch.”

“But it's morning, Papa. Why is it dark?”

“That,” Chessa said, “is something I can't explain. Now, sweeting, let's give your first papa some porridge. Surely all this will cease soon enough. Don't be frightened.”

“You're not afraid. Why?”

Chessa was thoughtful. “I'm not sure, but you're right, sweeting, I'm not. I think it's all a fine performance, like the ones your aunt Laren gives when she tells us tales of monsters and heroes who become real to us when she weaves her magic. And then her tales are over and the magic with them. It is the same with Varrick.”

“All right,” Kiri said. “I'm hungry again, Papa.”

 

 

“
H
OW DID YOU
do it?”

Varrick merely smiled, or at least his lips curled slightly, giving a brief illusion of pleasure. “You should ask your wife. Her father is the most powerful magician I have ever seen or heard of. She knows some of his magic. I can tell this by looking at her, at her eyes—an odd green, her eyes, holding secrets and power. You are lucky, Cleve, for she will protect you from your enemies.”

“If ever she protected me, it would be because she is smart and cunning, not because she cast some curse. Ragnor of York wanted her. William of Normandy wanted her. Now she's my wife and I just pray that neither man will come to skin my hide, including her father, King Sitric. Now, Lord Varrick, how did you manage that terrifying wind, the utter blackness, and all that thrashing water?”

Varrick picked up that odd-looking stick. Cleve saw up close that it looked more like a carved wooden spear. It wasn't really a spear, for it was much too short, not more than a foot long. It wasn't a knife either, for it wasn't sharpened at its tip. It was wood, but a heavy wood that really didn't look like wood. There were strange designs on it: circles and squares, in bright reds and blues. “This comes from a Pict chieftain who ruled not farther than a long day's ride from here, to the east of the loch. I knew it had power,
this
burra,
for that is what it is called. It comes from the Druids, used for hundreds of years in their ceremonies. It is older than Caldon, older than Thor and Odin-All-Father perhaps. I have studied it for years, learned all its secrets. I let it take my magic and focus it.”

“How did you get it from the chieftain?”

“I killed him and took it. Here, hold it.”

Cleve took the
burra.
It was heavy on his palm, so heavy that it dragged his arm down with its weight. He couldn't believe such a small slender piece of wood could be so heavy, yet Varrick had held it easily. He felt something in it, something that made him want to shiver.

“I call it Pagan,” Varrick said. “What do you feel?”

“Nothing, merely that it is heavy, that the man who fashioned it added something to the wood.” He willingly handed the
burra
back to his father. He never wanted to see or touch the thing again.

Varrick called out, “Chessa, please come here. I have something for you to see.”

Chessa, who was speaking with Laren, looked up, saw that Cleve was seated perfectly still, and walked quickly to Varrick. “Aye, my lord?”

“Here,” he said simply, and handed her the
burra.

Chessa cocked her head to one side as she accepted the strange looking spear that wasn't at all a spear. It looked to be naught more than a simple stick of wood with strange markings on it. Suddenly she gasped and tossed the wooden piece into the air, then caught it again with three fingers. It was very light. Strange, because it looked heavy, but it wasn't. “It's very hot,” she said, and tossed it back and forth from her right to her left hand, as if it were naught but a feather. “Very hot indeed and it weighs nothing. Why is that? It looks heavy, as if I wouldn't be able to lift it, but it isn't.”

“Look at the markings on it, Chessa.”

Suddenly the wood was different. She dropped it to the earthen floor. “I'm sorry, but it became so very cold, painfully so. I couldn't hold it.” She frowned at Varrick, then
leaned down and touched the
burra.
It felt warm to the touch, not hot or frigidly cold. She picked it up again and studied the circles and squares on it. “It's very old,” she said. “I feel that it's older than this promontory upon which this fortress rests.” She frowned in confusion at her husband. “Cleve, this is very strange. I touch these circles and these squares and my fingers seem to sink down into the wood, yet they don't, not really. But I can feel how very deeply they're carved, and you know, it's not like they're really carved at all, for they're smooth and deep and there doesn't seemed to be an end to them.” Then she was silent, looking down at her fingers as they traced each pattern very slowly. Suddenly she turned white, her eyes wide and deep with fright. Cleve jumped to his feet and grabbed that damned heathen stick from her hands. He tossed it to Varrick. It was difficult, for it was so very heavy. Then he took Chessa in his arms. “It's all right, Chessa. What happened? Can you tell me?”

Her face was against his shoulder. She said, “I saw my mother, Naphta. I saw her as clearly as if she were here, standing before me. She was so real, Cleve, and then she smiled at me, and I knew I was very small, no more than a babe. She was so very real, Cleve, so very real.”

Cleve felt his flesh grow cold, felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He didn't like this—not the damned darkness, black and impenetrable in the morning, the raging wind that had shaken the fortress, or the roiling waters that had seemed nearly alive, wanting to engulf the fortress and swallow all within. He didn't like this
burra
that had touched something strange in Chessa. He suddenly very much wanted to leave.

But he couldn't. This was where he belonged. Kinloch was his birthright. But he didn't like this, any of it. To soothe Chessa he said, “You are your father's daughter. He is a wizard. It's natural that you would have some affinity for things old and sacred. It's not important, Chessa. Now, I would like for us to fetch Kiri and see the land. I have memories and I would like to see if they are anything now
as they were for the small boy.”

Varrick said nothing. He gently placed the
burra
in a lined scabbard, then tied it to his waist with a strap of leather that was also painted with red and blue circles and squares. It looked as old as the
burra.
It was leather and it was still strong, no hint of fraying or decay to be seen. It made no sense. Cleve hated things that made no sense. Men were helpless enough as it was, but with this, all this unexplained magic, this confusion of senses, the fact that the damned
burra
weighed no more than a feather to both Varrick and Chessa. “I will have your brother Athol show you the land, Cleve. The boy knows every glen and hillock. He will take care. There have been few attacks by the Picts or the Britons. The Scots are the ferocious ones but they usually don't bother us. We must always be on guard against the outlaws and the thieves, homeless men who roam the land and steal and murder. The Scot king, Constantine, encourages them, at least against us. We fight back, naturally. My men are ferocious warriors. They show no mercy. You must have at least a dozen men with you if you ride south. I am pleased that you want to learn all about what will be yours one day when I am dead.”

Varrick gave them horses to ride. Cleve had ridden a pony before he'd been taken from Kinloch and then learned to ride again only after he'd come to Malverne. He was comfortable enough astride the raw-boned bay stallion, but he would have preferred to walk, something he couldn't do, for Kinloch lands stretched far to the west and to the south. Chessa was at her ease on a mare with white stockings who kept tossing her head, making Kiri laugh. Laren rode well and she looked thoughtful. As for Merrik and the other Malverne men, they looked uncomfortable. They looked wary, as if they expected demons to rise from the dark waters of Loch Ness and attack them.

Several of Varrick's men, all of them with their faces painted with blue lines and circles, garbed in bearskins, rode at their rear, eyes alert. Varrick had told him they were Pict warriors and owed their loyalty to him. Their leader,
Igmal, as evil looking as the Christian's devil, had very white teeth, a blue-painted face, and a ready smile. Kiri ordered him about and he would smile that evil-looking smile and throw her into the air. Such a contrast, Cleve thought. Silence within the fortress and at least a bit of an occasional smile without, smiles that Kiri brought, no one else. He wondered if Kiri would lose her smiles soon enough living here. He wouldn't allow that.

Chessa pulled her mare close to Cleve's, saying, “Look at the mist coming toward us, like a tide, and you know it won't stop until there is naught but chill and gray and no sunlight. This place is savage and as pure as the sweetest music, but it is summer and this mist will take getting used to. Ah, but the green, such a deep pure green, just like in Ireland, where it rained all the time as well.”

“It isn't Norway,” Cleve said. “Do you find it beautiful, Chessa? Truly? Can you make your home here?”

“Aye, I find it splendidly untamed, yet the sheep and the cows graze so peacefully, and the birds, Cleve, there are so many birds. Mirana would be blissful were she here, so many birds. I can't begin to identify them all and I'm trying so I can tell her all about them. Aye, Scotland is a perfect place. And why shouldn't it be? It is our home now.” She paused a moment, then added, “Cayman won't say anything to me. Neither will Argana or her three sons. They don't treat me badly, but I know they don't want me here. None of the women will speak of anything but cooking and weaving and dyeing. Nothing at all. All fear Varrick.”

“You don't.”

“Nay, but then again, there is my father, the greatest magician the world has ever known. It would be cowardly of me to fear him.”

“Tell me the truth, Chessa. Is your father really a magician? Did he really renew King Sitric? Did he really then just disappear leaving you to be raised by the king?”

“I would have told you,” she said, turning to smile at him. “I just didn't think of it. So much has happened since
we've come together. Too, I've been silent for so very long. Merrik and Rorik know, of course, and all the people of Hawkfell Island and Malverne. King Sitric is my father. He is also the magician, Hormuze. He killed the old king and then became the king himself. My father's only magic is his brain. He understands people, understands what makes them do what they do. There's nothing more to it save that he wanted to wed Mirana. She looked very much like my mother, you see. But since she was already wedded to Rorik, my father had to settle for Sira. Unfortunately, she pleases him greatly. Four sons, yet she hated me for no reason save, naturally, that I hated her.”

“I remember thinking that you and Mirana looked alike, not really your features, but when you and she both smiled and nodded, you know, with your head to the side? I've been a fool.”

“Oh, no. It's just that no one ever speaks of it. It will remain a miracle wrought by the powerful magician Hormuze. That Varrick believes him great makes me want to giggle. Your father amuses me, but he is dangerous, never forget that.” She touched her hand to his sleeve, saying again, “Never forget he is dangerous.”

“No, I shan't, but you mean more than just danger, don't you?”

“Aye, but I can't really explain it.”

“Think of that
burra,
Chessa. When I held it I felt only that it was heavier than it should be. I could barely pick it up it was so heavy. When you held it, it was as light as a mote of dust. And the heat and cold. Surely that's magic of a sort. My father was pleased that you reacted to it the way you did. It was light for him as well. There is something there, as much as I hate to admit it.”

She was frowning, looking out over the loch, at the smooth water, darker now beneath the blanketing soft mist, so very gray and fine that there were patches of blue sky that shone through it. But it would keep coming until there was naught but the soft blurry gray and it would become colder, this summer mist that lived in this land. There were
several small boats with men aboard fishing. They were very close to shore as if the men feared going out beyond the shallows. She shivered, pulling her woolen cloak more closely. “How did it work? Was I just thinking of my mother and my brain brought her forth? Since my father isn't a wizard, then why would the
burra
be light to me? Why would I see my mother?”

“Like Ragnor of York, I have great respect for your brain, Chessa, but to bring forth your mother? I don't think so. I think it was something Varrick did—cast some sort of spell. Perhaps he has the ability to look just a bit into your mind and he saw your mother there.”

She shivered and it had nothing to do with the mist that was now swirling lightly around them. It was as if the mist caressed them. It wasn't wet now or chill, it was there, as light as a lover's fingers touching them. They were nearing the far south end of Loch Ness. Low hills spread out around them, sheep grazing on them. Buzzards and falcons flew overhead. Gulls dove into the loch. There were barley fields being tended by slaves. There were thick stands of trees. Huge boulders lay in piles as if tossed there by a mighty hand. “Varrick's lands go on forever,” Cleve said. “He told me that this is called Falcon Ridge, a name he gave it when he called the birds to him and three falcons landed on his outstretched hand to welcome him.”