The Elven (18 page)

“Thank you, my queen.”

“Now go.”

“Without the soldiers?”

“Yes, Noroelle. Take Obilee and spend this final day as you like.”

Obilee came to Noroelle and threw her arms around her. Then they walked side by side through the gathered elves. Noroelle knew that she would never again return to this hall. With every step, she said good-bye. Her gaze drifted through the sea of faces, the familiar and the unfamiliar. Even those who had scorned her when she entered now looked at her with compassion.

Farewell to Albenmark

N
oroelle chose three of the magical stones that had been lying on the bed of the lake all these years and returned to Obilee. The young elf sat at the shore and paddled her naked feet in the water. Noroelle laid the three stones on the flat rock beside Obilee. Then she dried herself and put on her green dress. It was the same dress she had worn when Farodin and Nuramon rode away.

It made Obilee smile to see her wearing the dress. She looked down at the three magical sparkling stones. “They’re lovely.”

Noroelle had chosen a diamond, an almandine, and an emerald. “The diamond is for you.”

“For me? But you said I should keep them for—”

“Yes. But there are three, and this one is yours. Take it.”

Noroelle had not had much time to teach Obilee the secrets of magic. The stone would serve her apprentice well. It was as if it were made for her.

Obilee held the crystal against the weak light of the fading day. “I will make a pendant of it and wear it on a chain. Or will that make it lose its magic?”

“No, it won’t.”

“Oh, Noroelle. I don’t know if I can manage without you.”

“You will. The faun oak will help. It will teach you what it once taught me. Ollowain will instruct you in how to wield a sword, for you are a descendant of the Danee.” Noroelle had made all the necessary preparations. Her friend would be in good hands and would do well.

For herself, Noroelle had stowed a few things in a bag, all she would need and no more. For her family in Alvemer, she had found words that Obilee would pass on. “Remember everything I told you?” Noroelle asked.

“Yes. I will never forget your words. Nor your gestures or the tone of your voice. It will be as if you yourself are speaking.”

“Wonderful, my Obilee,” Noroelle said as she gazed out at the sun, low on the horizon. “The queen will come soon, and she will have her Albenstone with her.”

“The stone? Really?”

“Yes. She needs her power to create a barrier. Or it would be easy for me to escape from wherever she sends me.”

Obilee lowered her eyes. “I want to go with you, wherever you go.”

“Use your head, Obilee. I have been exiled, and that means forever. Why should you throw your life away?”

“But then at least you would not be alone.”

“True, but then I would cry for your sake, and not because of my loneliness.” Noroelle took a step back. The despair on Obilee’s face upset her. “The queen would never allow someone to go with me into exile.”

“I could ask her.”

“Obilee, please understand . . . knowing you are here will be my solace. I’m sure that when you think of me, there will be moments when you . . . lose hope. But all you have to do is imagine me with you, sharing in whatever it is.”

“But if I stay here, the sadness will be like a black cloud smothering my life.”

“Then you have to come here, to my lake. The best hours of my life were spent in this place. I awakened the magic of the spring and set the magical stones in the lake. I was happy here with Farodin and Nuramon. It was here that I got to know you, too.”

“And this is where you had your child,” said Obilee, looking out gloomily over the water.

“Also true. But I don’t remember that with sadness, nor anger. I love my son, even if he is what the queen sees in him. I have to pay for that. But you . . . you can learn from my mistakes.”

Noroelle suddenly heard steps in the grass. She turned around, and when she recognized the slight figure approaching them, she rose to her feet.

Emerelle was wearing a flowing blue dress decorated with gold and silver threads. Noroelle did not know the dress, and she had seen a lot of the queen’s clothes. Old runic signs were woven into the silk. In her left hand, Emerelle carried an hourglass, but her right was closed in a fist.

Noroelle now realized which spell the queen was going to cast to make it impossible for anyone to find a way into her prison. Once Emerelle had taken her to that place, she would smash the hourglass on an Albenpath, scattering the grains of sand to the four winds. No one would ever be able to gather them all again and replace the glass. The barrier would stand forever.

Emerelle showed her what she had in her right hand. It was a rough stone with five grooves. A red gleam pulsed inside it. So this was the queen’s Albenstone. Noroelle had often wished for a chance to see it, but she had never thought it might come under these circumstances.

Noroelle sensed power in the stone, though it was keeping its true power hidden. Anyone not knowing its secret would have taken it for no more than one of the magic stones in her lake, but in truth, the stone possessed power that Noroelle did not even dare to dream about. It was said that all of Albenmark drew its strength from this one stone. The queen could use it to open or close gates, to create Albenpaths or destroy them. She could use it to create an impenetrable barrier at the entrance to Noroelle’s island of exile. The Albenstone would be the walls of her prison, and the sand from the hourglass the lock.

Noroelle turned to Obilee and embraced her. “You are the sister I never had.” She heard her friend begin to cry, and she fought tears herself. The time for good-byes had come, and she kissed Obilee’s forehead. “Farewell.”

“Farewell, and think of me often.”

“I will,” said Noroelle, unable to hold back her tears. With trembling hands, she took her bag and stepped before the queen.

Emerelle looked at her for a long time. It was as if she were trying to read in Noroelle’s eyes whether she had cast the right verdict. She looked so dignified that any doubt Noroelle had ever had about her queen evaporated. Then Emerelle turned and led the way for Noroelle to follow.

Noroelle turned back once more to Obilee. The young elf would certainly not have it easy, but she would find her destiny, Noroelle was sure of that. She thought of Farodin and Nuramon. She had told Obilee everything she needed to know in case her lovers returned, but the premonition that had struck her when the elfhunt rode out had not been wrong: she would never see the men she loved again.

She walked behind the queen but harbored no grudge against her. Emerelle was her queen, and nothing would change that. Over the course of the day, she had asked herself several times what she would have done if the queen’s decision had not involved
her
son. She had to admit that she would have supported her. But because Noroelle was the boy’s mother, she chose to accept eternal exile rather than allow her flesh and blood to come to harm. That was why she had to leave this world. An elf could not alter her fate, even though it would never lead her into the moonlight. Noroelle looked back. As long as her lake existed, the Albenkin would remember Noroelle, the sorceress.

The Saga of Mandred Torgridson:

Of Svanlaib and What He Found in the Valley of Luth

S
vanlaib was his name. He was the son of Hrafin from Tarbor, just twenty winters old, and as strong as a bear. He built the best ships on the fjord and hewed images of the weaver of fate for his neighbors. One day, old Hvaldred, the son of Heldred, came and told him of the ironbeards of Luth that stood high in the mountains beyond Firnstayn and pointed the way to the cave of the weaver of fate. And Hvaldred told him also that the ironbeards of Luth had been defiled, the cave desecrated, and that no one could make sacrifice to the fate weaver in that place.

On hearing this, Svanlaib grew angry and said, “I will travel to Firnstayn. I will go into the mountains and demand atonement for this act.” He hewed a new image of the fate weaver from an oak trunk. And all who lived in Tarbor made sacrifice to Luth, and the weaver made of wood grew a beard of iron.

Svanlaib gathered his things and set off for Firnstayn. He carried the image of Luth on his back and climbed high into the snow and ice, where he saw the ironbeards and made sacrifice to them, as custom demanded. He followed the path the ironbeards showed him until he came to the Cave of Luth, but he found it sealed by Firn’s breath. Seeing this, a great anger overcame him, and he took the ironbeard he had carved and hoisted it above his head. And Luth broke down the wintry wall where a hero’s strength could leave no mark.

Svanlaib waited, for he dared not set foot inside the cave. Then he heard voices and footsteps drawing near. From inside stepped the son of Torgrid. Youthful was he, and his hair was red. At his side were two of the Albenfolk, elves from Albenmark.

Svanlaib asked who it might be coming from the cave. He did not know the son of Torgrid.

The man with the red hair spoke and said, “I am Mandred Aikhjarto, son of Torgrid and Ragnild.”

On hearing this, Svanlaib opened his eyes wide with wonder. Many were the stories told of Mandred Torgridson and the manboar he had gone to hunt and of how both hunter and hunted had vanished. It was said that Mandred had thrown himself on the boar, that they had plunged together into a chasm in a glacier, and that he did it to save his village.

Svanlaib asked the mighty Mandred what had happened. Mandred brought his liberator news of the death of the man who was a boar. And Mandred thanked Svanlaib, for with the power of Luth, he had broken down the boar’s ice wall. He said of the elves that they had helped him. Their names were Faredred and Nuredred. They were brothers and princes of the elves, at Mandred’s service.

Now the son of Torgrid took the ironbeard that Svanlaib had carried and thrown, and he set it where the burned remains of the defiled ironbeard had stood. To honor Luth, Mandred laid the head of the boar at the foot of the graven figure.

But what occurred in the cave was not told to Svanlaib and only later revealed. In the cave, Mandred had spoken with Luth, and the elves stood as his witnesses. The weaver of fate had disclosed the son of Torgrid’s destiny to him. And from that day on, time held no dominion over Mandred. But Luth had not told him the price he would have to pay. So did Mandred return to Firnstayn, with Svanlaib and the elven brothers.

F
ROM THE
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ROLAUG

V
OLUME
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UTH IN
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IRNSTAYN, PAGES 16 TO 18

The Price of the Promise

W
hen Mandred looked up to the spring sky, it was such a clear blue that it brought tears to his eyes. Free again. At last. With no sense of day or night, it was hard to say how long they had been in the cave. It could not have been more than a few days. Still, there must have been some kind of magic at work, for how else could they have entered the cave in winter and emerged again in spring?

Mandred watched an eagle high over the glacier, soaring majestically in huge, slow circles.

Up here in the mountains, the winter never completely disappeared, but the sun still warmed their faces as they made their way through the crusty snow down to the fjord.

His companions were silent. In the morning, they had laid Vanna and the dead wolf to rest in a small cave not far from Luth’s valley. They seemed lost in unvoiced thoughts. And Svanlaib . . . there was something odd about the boat builder. No doubt part of how he was behaving could be explained by the awe he must have felt for the elves. What mortal, after all, had been granted the chance to meet in the flesh the characters from the sagas of the skalds? But there was something else in the way Svanlaib was acting. Something furtive. Mandred could practically feel the young man’s eyes boring into his back. Svanlaib had asked him a number of strange questions. Somehow, the boat builder seemed to know him.

Mandred grinned with satisfaction. And no wonder. After all, he had personally killed seven men in the king’s name, and he had lured the invincible manboar high into the mountains and skewered it with his boar spear. He looked at the splintered shaft of the weapon he held in his right hand. A heavy, bloody bag hung from it just below the blade. The bag had been fashioned from a piece of the beast’s skin. Inside it was the Devanthar’s liver.
I will keep my promise
, Mandred thought grimly.

The descent from the mountains to the fjord took three days, and they were days in which every step took them deeper into spring. New light-green growth adorned the branches of the oak trees. The smell of the forest was intoxicating, though the nights were still bitterly cold. Svanlaib had pestered Farodin and Nuramon with countless questions about Albenmark. Mandred was glad to not be bothered by the boat builder’s chatter, but he knew the young man’s eyes were still on him. Whenever he thought Mandred wasn’t paying any attention, Svanlaib stared at him. If he hadn’t rescued them from the cave, Mandred thought several times, Svanlaib would have gotten to know Mandred’s fists very personally by now.

When they finally left the forests behind and all that separated them from their first glimpse of Firnstayn was a high meadow, Mandred began to run. His heart was beating like a drum. When he reached the top of the ridge, he could look down at the fjord and his village. High above him lay the cliff with the stone circle. He would make a sacrifice to the gods up there. But first, he would take Freya in his arms.

And his son. He had dreamed about him in Luth’s cave. He had grown into a young man and was dressed in a long shirt of chain mail. A swordsman; his name was known far and wide in the Fjordlands. Mandred smiled. The part with the sword must have been a slip. A real warrior fought with an axe. That was one thing he would have to teach him.

Mandred was amazed at how industrious the villagers had been. Three new longhouses had been added, the dock extended farther out into the fjord, and there were more than a dozen smaller huts. The palisade had been taken down and replaced by a much wider earthen wall.

It seemed a lot of new families had come to the village during winter. Maybe they’d been driven out of their homes by hunger. Mandred’s hand gripped the boar spear more tightly. There would probably be some fighting. One was not born a jarl. It was a title that had to be earned, and there were bound to be plenty of hotheaded young men in the village who would be happy enough to challenge his rank. Mandred looked back to his companions, who had also crossed the high meadow now. If he went home with two elves at his side, some would perhaps reconsider picking a fight with him. Nuramon and Farodin would have to spend at least one night in his house. He wanted as many in the village as possible to see the two elves. Then, by the end of summer, the story of the hunt for the manboar would have spread even to the most distant valleys of the Fjordlands.

Nuramon looked up at the stone circle, and Mandred could see the yearning in his eyes. But Mandred said, “Be my guests for one night, my comrades. We will sit at my fire and drink to the memory of our dead friends.” He hesitated briefly, then added, “You would be doing me a great service. I want every man and woman in the village to see you.”

The two elves exchanged a look. It was Farodin who nodded. Together they began the descent to the village.

Ever since seeing Firnstayn again, an uneasiness had been growing in Mandred that simply would not settle. Had Emerelle already come? No, that was impossible. A year, she had said. He still had time. He would find a way to save his firstborn.

It was the village . . . something about it was not right. It had grown too quickly. They had stored a great deal to last them through the winter, but it would never have been enough to feed so many. And the rooftops of the new houses . . . the wood had darkened, and white trails of seagull droppings caked the ridges of the roofs. The wooden shingles looked as if they’d seen more than one winter come and go.

Mandred recalled the other dreams he’d had in Luth’s cave. They had been grim, filled with the clashing of weapons. There had been trolls and powerful soldiers, and he had finally seen himself riding under a magnificent white banner flaunting a green oak tree as its crest. The men who followed him were strangely armed. They wore armor made entirely of iron plates, and their faces were hidden beneath heavy helmets. They looked to Mandred like a wall of steel. Even their horses were clad in steel. Mandred had worn the same armor as the men he led. He smiled and tried to suppress his somber mood. The armor was a good omen. If he could afford so much steel, it meant he would one day be very rich. The future held good things in store. And soon he would be holding Freya in his arms again.

When he reached the shore of the fjord, Mandred waved his arms and called out wildly at the top of his voice to draw the attention of those on the other side. “Hey-o, come over! There are three warriors and a pilgrim waiting here, and our throats are parched!”

At that point, the fjord was still more than a hundred paces across. Someone on the dock saw them and waved back. Then one of the round leather boats the fishermen used was made ready. Two men paddled it across the fjord but stopped at a safe distance from the shore. Mandred had seen neither of the men before.

“Who are you? And what business do you have in Firnstayn?” shouted the younger of the two suspiciously.

Mandred had already considered that the two elves might be frightening to his fellow villagers. Tall and well armed, they did not look like regular travelers. The fact that they were not human would not be noticed by anyone at first glance.

“I am Mandred Torgridson, and these are my companions, Nuramon, Farodin, and Svanlaib Hrafinson.”

The reply from the boat rang across the water. “You bear a dead man’s name, Mandred. I hope you are not here to poke fun. Firnstayn is not the place for such humor.”

Mandred let out a guffaw. “The manboar did not kill Mandred. I slayed the beast.” He thrust the boar spear high in the air so that the men in the boat could see the bag tied to it. “And this is my trophy! You two must be newcomers. Fetch Hrolf Blacktooth or old Olav. They know me well. Or bring Freya, my wife. She’ll knock your heads in with a ladle if you keep me waiting any longer.”

The men in the boat conferred quietly for a moment, then they paddled the leather boat to the shore. They stared at him, and their expressions were strange. “You really are Mandred Torgridson,” said the elder of the pair, and there was reverence in his voice. “I recognize you, though you don’t seem a day older than the last time I saw you.”

Mandred looked the man up and down. He had never seen him before. “Who are you?”

“Erek Ragnarson.”

Mandred frowned. He knew a child by that name. A cheeky scamp with red hair. He was the son of his friend Ragnar, who was killed by the manboar.

“Take us across,” said Svanlaib. “Let’s discuss these things over a jug of good mead. My throat’s as dry as a dead dog’s bone, and this is no place to receive tired travelers. You remember me at least, don’t you? I was in the village not a few days ago.”

The older fisherman nodded. Then he made a sign that they should come aboard. When Nuramon and Farodin climbed over the gunwale, Mandred saw that Erek secretly made the sign of the protecting eye. Had he noticed what they were?

The short trip across the fjord took place in silence. Erek continually glanced over his shoulder. Once, he seemed ready to say something, but then he shook his head and turned away again.

Dusk was coming on by the time they moored the boat. Smoke billowed from the roofs of the longhouses. Mandred smelled meat cooking and fresh bread, and his mouth watered. Good food again. Roast meat and mead instead of mulberries and spring water.

He walked along the dock, his step firm and long, but he felt as if a large seagull were flapping wildly in his belly. He hoped he could stop himself from shedding tears when Freya came.

At the end of the dock, a large dog blocked his path. It growled menacingly. Other dogs came running from the village, followed by men with spears.

Mandred unfastened the hide bag from his boar spear and tossed the dogs bloody chunks of flesh. “Here, mutts. I brought you something to eat.” Then he looked up. He knew none of the men.

“Mandred Torgridson has returned,” announced the older fisherman in a solemn voice. “It was a long hunt.” With a gesture that showed his authority, he shooed a path between the armed villagers. “Make way for Jarl Mandred.”

Good man
, thought Mandred. He did not know him, but Erek seemed like a man he could trust to get things done.

More and more villagers gathered to gawk at the strangers. Mandred threw the rest of the liver to the dogs that ran around the villagers’ legs and finally tossed them the piece of hide that had served as a bag.

He was a little surprised that Freya had not come. No doubt she had some urgent task to finish first. When she baked bread and cooked, nothing could drag her away from her stove.

His longhouse had survived the winter well, but someone had replaced the two carved horse heads on the gable with two boar heads.

Mandred opened the solid oak door, threw the heavy woolen curtain aside, and waved his companions inside. Smoky twilight filled the interior of the windowless hall. Coals glowed red in the long fire pit in the middle. A young woman was turning a spit with a goose impaled on it. She looked up in surprise.

“Mandred Torgridson has returned,” Erek announced, pushing past Nuramon and Farodin at the entrance.

“For shame, Erek. Drunk before sundown,” the woman chided him. “Take your drinking mates and get out. There’s no place in my house for them.”

Mandred looked around in astonishment. He could not see Freya anywhere. “Where is my wife?”

The fisherman lowered his head. “Bring us mead, Gunhild,” he hissed in a tone that left no room for protest. “Then call the elders together. Send for lame Beorn and Gudrun and Snorri. And bring mead for everyone, damn it! Today is a day our grandchildren will talk about.”

Mandred hurried past the wall with the sleeping compartments and threw back the last curtain. Freya was not there, either. Beside her bed, the cot he himself had carved at the start of winter hung from the ceiling. It was empty.

“Sit down, Jarl.” The fisherman gently took him by the arm and led him to the fireplace. Mandred sat, straddling one of the benches. What was going on here? He felt his head spinning.

“Remember how you once gave little Erek Ragnarson an old knife and spent the afternoon with him, showing him how to dress a rabbit?” The fisherman’s words came haltingly. His eyes were moist and shimmered in the firelight.

Gunhild set down a jug of mead on the bench between them and set a loaf of bread beside it. It smelled delicious. Mandred tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. It was still warm. Then he took a long draft of mead.

“Do you remember?” Erek persisted.

Mandred nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“The boy . . . that . . . that was me, Jarl.”

Mandred set down the jug.

“We all thought you were dead,” said Erek, and the words came flooding out of him. “We found them . . . my father and the others. But not you . . . and not the monster. There are many stories about what happened that winter. Some believed you lured the manboar out onto the ice and sank into the depths of the fjord with it. Others thought you went into the mountains. They say that Luth was saddened and hung a curtain of ice over the mouth of his cave for you. Nothing could convince Freya that you were dead. She drove the men out of the village to search for you all through the following spring. She went with them herself until the child was born. A strong boy. He brought her peace. His name is Oleif.”

Mandred breathed slowly and deeply. Time had passed, that much he knew. It was spring, although it should still have been winter. It had always been light in the cave. Only the light beyond the ice flared brightly before falling dark again, over and over. He forced himself to stay calm.

“Where is my wife? And my son . . .” Mandred looked up. The men with the spears had come into the hall and were staring at him. More and more strangers entered through the low oak doorway. Nuramon and Farodin avoided meeting his eye, and Svanlaib, too. What did they know that he did not?

Erek laid one hand on his shoulder. “Mandred, I am the boy you gave that knife to. You’ve been gone nearly thirty winters. Do you remember . . . when I was still very little, before I could even walk properly, one of Torklaif’s dogs set upon me.” Erek pushed up the left sleeve of his coarse shirt. His lower arm was furrowed with deep scars. “I’m that boy. And now tell me why you are not an old man, Mandred. You were more than twice as old as me, but I see no silver in your beard and no weariness in your eyes.” He pointed to the longhouse door. “You are the same man who left this house nearly thirty years ago to fight the manboar. Was this the gift you paid for with your son?”