Wolfskin (55 page)

“If you want to explain it to me, please go ahead, Eyvind. I'm here to listen.”

“On one count you are right.” Eyvind's fists clenched tight; the shaking was getting worse. “I did swear loyalty to you once, and I meant it. I have never forgotten that you saved my life. From the first, I recognized in you what others could not see: courage, determination, fierce strength of will. A cleverness I could never come close to. A desire to be your own master and set your own course. I admired that in you; I saw a future in which those qualities would flower, a time in which you would set them to some great and noble purpose.”

A light had awoken in Somerled's dark eyes. “Now is that time!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet and setting a hand on Eyvind's shoulder. “Can't you see that? We are here together, and I am king, and we have a whole new world to make as we will. These people look up to me, Eyvind, they like a leader who's prepared to make hard decisions and to abide by them. They want someone who will adhere to the old gods. They don't want some vacillating peacemonger with his head in the clouds, they want direction. I've given them that. They're grateful. They'll do anything for me. Look at your fellow Wolfskins, lurking out there in the hallway. They're more loyal to me than they ever were to Ulf. I've given them real work to do, the only kind they understand.”

“A kingdom founded on a brother's blood is not much of a kingdom,” Eyvind said quietly. “A battle fought on such uneven terms as yours against King Engus can bring no glory, only shame.”

Somerled's eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me you would break your blood oath? That now, in the light of day, after time for reflection, after weighing the consequences, you would still stand against me, Eyvind?”

“I don't think that's what I'm saying at all. It seems to me my blood oath ties me to guide your steps in right paths. It forces me to tell you when you are wrong; to make sure you don't do anymore damage to yourself or to others. What crime did Ulf ever commit, to bring down such doom on himself?”

Somerled's lips tightened. “You are more brother to me than he ever was,” he said. “And yet you turn against me. In your efforts to destroy me, you will only destroy yourself. You said I didn't understand what this meant. But you're the one who doesn't understand.”

“Maybe not. You always called me stupid, muddled. Perhaps it's true. All I can tell you is that if you continue to follow this path of slaughter, destruction, and fear, I will fight you to the end, blood oath or no. Good folk have perished here, folk who were slain for no reason, save that you wanted what was theirs. A treaty was broken, the rules of right engagement callously disregarded.”

There was a pause. Somerled's fingers toyed with an ale cup, rolling it against the tabletop. “And the girl died,” he said eventually. “That's what this is all about, isn't it?”

“What girl?” Even to himself, Eyvind's voice sounded strained.

“The princess. The little priestess, Engus's niece. That was a pity. I liked her. And I suspect you did, too; weren't you hiding in that place where the island witches brewed their potions? I suppose you fell for her, though I did think your tastes ran more to the buxom, fair type. But there can be no other explanation for your sudden insanity. She could never have been for you, old friend. She was far above you, a bride for royalty. Well, that's of no account now; she's gone. Never mind, there are several others to choose from, though the best we captured are already taken. I'll give you first pick of what's left.”

Fury quickened Eyvind's breathing; with difficulty he held his features calm. “I don't want a woman,” he said.

“What do you want, Eyvind? Why have you allowed yourself to be brought back here? Tell me.”

Eyvind swallowed. “A fair hearing, that's all. Let me put forward the truth as I know it, call witnesses, present evidence before a Thing, or whatever assembly you wish to convene. Give me the usual time to prepare my case. I will accept the judgment of worthy men.”

“You? Prepare a case? Oh, dear, Eyvind. This time on the run really has addled your wits.”

“It is possible,” Eyvind said, “that truth may outweigh the cleverest arguments. I may be muddled and stupid, but I understand that. Are you afraid of the truth?”

“Of course not!” Somerled snapped. “I'm afraid of having to pass judgment on you, my oldest of friends. You're such a fool you haven't worked that out even now. Eyvind, I know you as well as anyone does. You just don't have the capacity to win this. I have my own rules here, new ones. I don't convene assemblies, I hear all cases myself. Judgments are summary and swift. That's essential to maintain discipline. I've called you in here because it's the only way I can save you. You disobeyed a direct order, you made wild accusations, you fought against your fellow warriors. If those charges are brought against you formally, and proven, I can only pronounce a sentence of death. It would be carried out within a day.”

“Death?” This was new indeed. In the formal hearings of Rogaland, a lifetime's banishment was the harshest penalty a man might receive. Of course, unofficial executions by fire or ambush were possible, but these attracted their own penalty; such feuds could last for generations.

“It's indeed so; I have decreed it. Necessary in these times of instability. I can't afford any insubordination, any half-baked rebellions. Now, Eyvind, what's it to be?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.” Eyvind rose to his feet, and instantly regretted it; after the day's forced march, the old weakness had returned to his legs, and he had to set a hand on the table for support.

“I'm offering you a chance to redeem yourself. More than offering—I'm begging you to take it.” Somerled was pale; his eyes were deadly serious. “Let there be no more talk of Ulf and of murders. Let there be no more talk of Engus, of the battles we have won here, of treaties and the like. You cannot make the dead live again, Eyvind. Come back to my side; let us go forward as we planned once, long ago, a great king and his peerless Wolfskin. Your behavior can be easily explained, readily forgiven once the full tale is told, of how these islanders took you prisoner after Ramsbeck and played tricks with your head so that you could no longer tell friend from foe, right from wrong. You're clearly still very weak in body as well as mind. Why else would the foremost of my warriors give himself up so easily? You can have rest, good care, as many little islander girls as you want to warm your bed. No need for any sort of hearing; I'll announce that I've pardoned your indiscretion, and we'll move on from there. What do you say?”

Eyvind was silent. In his mind he saw Nessa, a slight, graceful figure walking on the shore, turning her head to look at him, her long brown hair tossed like a banner in the west wind. He saw a young warrior's severed head, fierce-eyed. He saw Ulf's tortured body hanging in air. He wondered how Somerled would kill him, when the time came.

“Eyvind? Don't make me do this, I beg you.” Somerled's voice was shaking. It was the voice of a child who had once said nobody cared.

“I want a fair hearing,” said Eyvind quietly. “If you will not call an assembly, then let me tell the truth as I know it before all the folk of this settlement. Then, since you have appointed yourself sole arbiter, I suppose you will pronounce sentence on me. But I will be heard. I would like my brother to be present, if he can be called back from Hafnarvagr. I would like Lady Margaret to hear what I have to say.”

“It's not up to you to determine who should be there,” Somerled snapped. “Odin's bones, Eyvind, you're such a fool! Why sacrifice yourself for nothing? Curse it, man, I can't do without you!”

Eyvind managed a smile. “I think, for both of us, there is now no way forward but this,” he said. “You cannot undo what you have wrought here. Even if you stepped on your ship tomorrow, and set sail home to Freyrsfjord, the legacy of your deeds would shadow this place for long years to come, for you have robbed these folk of a whole generation of men. As for me, I can see no other way than to set things out as I understand them, and call on the gods and on the wisdom of ordinary folk to make wrongs right again. That is all I can say, Somerled, except that I am sorry: sorry that it has come to this between us.”

“Please,” said Somerled in a whisper. “Please don't do this. You don't know what you're throwing away.”

The little image of Nessa came again, tiny and perfect, her grave features, her graceful hands putting a pattern of white stones in place, her dark hair shining in lamplight.

“I do know,” Eyvind said quietly. “I know how high the stakes are. And I know I must play to the end.”

Guard was slow, so slow. A brave dog and loyal, he did his best to keep up with her, staggering along behind, his long legs shaky at best. Nessa stopped three times on her journey so that he could rest, once by a stream where the hound lapped thirstily, once by the burned-out ruin of a cottage—she shrank to think what had become of the fisherman and his family who had lived there as long as she could remember—and later, in the shade of bushes as they neared the cliffs above the place she sought. She gritted her teeth in frustration each time. Poor Guard. Somerled's henchmen had struck him insensible; it was not fair to expect so much of him. He struggled to maintain even a walking pace, and there was no time at all to spare. The women of the Folk had been taken, and now Eyvind was captive, at Somerled's mercy. She had seen what this new king could do.

The sun passed across the sky. It seemed to Nessa the day moved on with cruel and unreasonable speed. Her burdens were heavy: the bag with its strange cargo gleaned from a chieftain's barrow, and under her other arm the wolfskin, rolled tightly and bound with a strip of linen torn from her shift. She would not leave this great shimmering pelt behind, impractical though carrying it had proved. She had already allowed Eyvind to sacrifice himself for her, not once but twice. It was clear to Nessa that the skin was part of him, as integral to his self as steadfast heart or loyal spirit. The wolfskin must be kept safe. Thus, she reasoned, she might in some way protect him until the truth was at last laid out for all to see and understand. All the same, she chafed at every small delay, and as she passed through hidden vales and over gentle hills toward the sea, her mind was beset by images of what might be: Eyvind imprisoned, Eyvind beaten, Eyvind des
perately playing for time so that she might be safe. He was in terrible danger. A man who would slaughter and burn as Somerled had would not hesitate to wipe another from the face of the earth if he believed him a threat. Friendship meant nothing to such a man. Nessa shivered as she stood on the edge of the cliffs above the hidden cove.
Let him live.
She sent a prayer to whatever god might be listening: Thor, perhaps, for surely this warfather would not abandon so patently heroic a warrior, whatever Eyvind himself believed. If the god had fallen silent it was for a reason, perhaps so that his son might listen to his own heart awhile, and make his choices in another way.
Keep him safe until I have made what must be made, and journeyed back to find him.

She expected no answer, and there was none. She must simply get on with this. The way down to the cove was steep and narrow; she bore her burdens carefully, picking cautious steps on the slippery cliff path. Far below her the ocean rolled dark and chill to the shore, and all the way down birds screamed, gliding and diving in endless dance about the ledges and crevices of the rock face. Nessa had no free hand to protect her eyes, nor could she shut them as beak or claws flashed past a handspan from her face. It would be thus all through the nesting season. Guard faltered after her, edging his way down the precarious track. At last they reached the foot of the cliff, where a small stretch of sand lay before shallow caves, and shelves of flagstone spread out on either side, offering a safe haul-up for seals and a fine spot for line fishing when wind and tide allowed. There were no fishermen here today. Perhaps there were none left at all; she had passed several cottages whose roofs were burned, and whose stock wandered untended. Once, she had thought she saw the body of a man sprawled in a yard; once, she had heard a dog howling. She had not ventured closer. How many of Engus's people survived here on the home island? Did Somerled seek to crush every last one of them, to wipe out all trace of the Folk, so that even in the tales of future generations the knowledge of them would be lost?

She was here at last. Now she must work quickly to finish the making. Afterward there was another hurdle to cross, but she would not consider that yet. Nessa glanced at the sun. It was already sinking toward the west. If she made this tonight and traveled tomorrow, would she be there in time? How long could Eyvind hold out? He had been a prisoner since dawn: nearly a whole day. He might already be dead. Her fingers reached to untie the wolfskin and spread it out on the floor of the small cave. It was indeed
a wondrous and powerful thing, whose magic could be sensed in every strand of its glossy surface.
Wait for me,
Nessa whispered.
Don't go on without me.

The task could not be completed without help. She knew that; it was the purpose of her journey here. Nessa unfastened the bag and emptied its burden out. With a faint, clinking music, the bones tumbled moon-white onto the silver-gray wolf pelt. A tangle of dark hair wrapped itself around them. She stared down at the jumble of shapes, biting her lip. It was only an old tale, after all:
voice of truth in harp of bone.
She believed it, of course she did; the only thing was, the stories never gave step-by-step advice as to how one might go about constructing the mysterious objects of which they told. Practically speaking, it was impossible. The frame could not be locked together; what might one use in place of pegs of wood or whalebone? How might one shape the curves with only a small knife and so little time? And what about the strings? A man's hair could not provide the tension required to sound notes in a melody. It would snap the moment the pegs were tightened. Still, she had no choice. Such doubts must be set aside. Truth was the most powerful voice of all; truth would make itself heard against impossible odds. And for such a work of magic, Nessa must seek help from those who understood the deepest secrets of the heart and of the blood: those whose existence was part of the ebb and flow of the tide itself.

She settled herself on the flat stones above the dark water. She cast her mind back a long time, to a day when small Nessa had been watching the seals on the shore and thinking about the lonely fisherman who had built the tower in the earth.

“Rona,” she'd asked, “how could you call the Seal Tribe? If you wanted to talk to them, how could you make them hear you?”

“That depends,” Rona had replied guardedly. “Such folk don't just come when you want them. They're not at the beck and call of the human kind, and they never will be.”

“So you've never—?”

“Ah,” Rona had answered, “I didn't say that. For you and me, it's a bit different. You'll find out, as you study the mysteries. They start to hear you, and recognize what you are, and then you begin to hear them. These old ones, the sea people, the earth folk, they understand our part is to preserve the heart of the islands, Nessa. We all want that. One day you'll be casting your circle, and you'll look westward to invoke the powers of the ocean,
and the people of the Seal Tribe will be there watching you. And there is a way to call them, if you've a desperate need.”

“What way?” At nine years old, Nessa had not been sure of what a desperate need might be, but she was always eager to learn whatever the wise woman had to tell.

“You must sit by the water in a place you know they love, and you must shed seven tears into the sea. Then ask them to help you.”

“Does it work?”

“I don't know,” Rona had said dryly. “Let's hope we never have to put it to the test.”

The time had come now. Seven tears, no more, no less. It was not hard to weep. Think not of the deaths of her uncle and Kinart and all the fine men of the Folk, not of the Kin Stone laid low, nor of her mother's slow fading and the fever that had snatched her sisters away before she could say good-bye. Think not of the women of the Whaleback, captive and frightened. Think not of Rona wandering off into the wilderness alone so that Eyvind might go on to confront the friend who was his enemy. Think not of Eyvind giving himself up so Nessa would be safe, nor of what he might be enduring now. Oh, no: think only of last night, think of the look on his face, his smile like a flash of sunshine, the touch of his hands on her body, so gentle, so careful for all the passion that made his breathing falter and his blue eyes darken. Think of the way their bodies moved together, as if they were two halves of one wondrous whole; remember the secret darkness of their longing and the shattering brightness of their fulfillment. Even now her body ached with it. Think only of the unthinkable sweetness of that, and of how much she had to lose if she failed. Think of that and weep. One, two, three…seven…now cover the eyes with sudden hands, lest a whole flood of tears drop to the cold sea, and this charm be undone before ever it was made.

She sat silent thus, palms over her face, head bowed, with no room in her thoughts for anything but him. Yet all around her the magic flowed, ancient and true, for this was not just for woman and man, for the bond between them; it was for the Folk, for the islands, for life itself. Seated there, blind and weeping, Nessa felt the power of it deep in the bone, flooding the heart, filling the spirit with brightness, and knew she had never been more priestess than she was in this moment.

She opened her eyes to Guard's barking. There were five of them seated on the rocks around her, women and yet not-women, fragile, wild sea crea
tures with eyes all liquid darkness and hair draping their white shoulders like fronded leaves, gray, blue, green as the deep below the swell. Their bodies were naked and wet, pale skin pearled with droplets as if they had but a moment ago emerged from the ocean's chill embrace. Perhaps what lay on the sandy beach beyond them was merely a drift of dark weed; perhaps it was sealskins set neatly down until their owners should need them again. Guard was hysterical, running up and down the shore, squandering the last of his flagging strength in a frantic warning.

“Hush now, Guard, good boy.” Nessa rose and walked back to the little cave, and they followed on their narrow white feet. They settled in a circle around the wolfskin, and long-fingered hands reached out immediately to touch the bones, to stroke and examine. They seemed to speak one to another, but their voices made notes, not words: a deep, antiphonal humming that told their understanding of what Nessa had prepared here. With pointed finger, with nod or shrug, with little notes of song, they proceeded to show her how the task must be done. Shreds of dark matter adhered to the bones, near the joints; these must be cleaned away, and the long, pale shafts polished. A handful of sand, shreds of dry seaweed, she must rub harder, harder, this was to be a thing of beauty, pure and bright as the moon itself. This took time. As each bone was judged ready, it was laid out in place, flat on the wolf pelt, so the shape of what must be made could be seen. Shin bones, thigh bones for the frame: these must be trimmed, pared, shaped with Nessa's little knife. Once or twice, the sea women were not satisfied with her efforts. They would not use the knife, but took up the bones and set their teeth to them with precision, gnawing a hollow, grinding a curve more precisely. The joints must be a perfect fit, matching as sweetly as the timbers of that great vessel that had borne Ulf, the far-seeker, safe across the ocean to the islands of his destiny. They watched her intently, shining eyes fixed on every fumbling attempt to hold the sliding pieces in place, attention sharp on every cautious shaving away of a tiny shard so that the instrument would be perfect in form and function. Later, they chewed weed into long strips for bindings, passing her the dark, wet strands, showing her cunning knots, clever twists. These wrappings would tighten as they dried, giving strength to the frame.

The day passed swiftly; the sun bathed this small patch of western shore in deep gold, lighting the faces of Nessa's companions to a translucent glow. A note of urgency had crept into their voices now, the pattern of their speech-song conveying a clear message:
Hurry! The sun moves lower. Make haste, or it will be too late!

Pegs, little pegs of finger bone. Notches almost too small to see. So small, her hands were shaking, she must concentrate, she must slow down. She must keep her mind only on the task of making, and put those other images out of her mind: Eyvind hurt, Eyvind fighting and falling again.

“There must be time,” she murmured to herself. “I'll light a fire, I'll work all night. In the morning, I'll find a horse at one of the farms, I'll ride there as swiftly as I can. He's only been captive one day. They must have some sort of hearing, these things take time…Tomorrow, tomorrow must be soon enough.”

Even as she spoke she saw the look in the sea women's wide eyes, and heard the tone of their wordless voices, and recognized what they were trying to tell her. One raised a delicate hand, gesturing toward the sun, and ululated a warning. Another pointed to the cliff path, to Nessa herself, and to Guard, who now slept with eyes half-open at the rear of the shallow cave, twitching and trembling. The sea woman used her hands to show running, running. She pointed eastward, her hum rising to a kind of scream, which rang from her mouth and nose, a braying danger call like the voice of a war trumpet. There was no mistaking the message.
Finish it and go now. Now. Tomorrow is too late.

They began to work alongside her; it seemed they had decided she could not finish in time, not on her own. Their thin, pale fingers plucked the hair from the tumble of discarded bone and began to twist and weave it together with a speed and dexterity that made Nessa stare in wonderment, until one hissed at her, motioning to the harp frame where the small holes still lacked their pegs. These finger bones were so little, and it was getting dark. She had made the holes as neatly as she could, not easy with a knife better suited to the casting of ritual circles than such a delicate and precise task. She fitted one peg, working hard to keep her hands steady as the sky darkened and the sun turned red, sinking until it was a finger breadth above the slate gray of the western sea. She eased another into place.

“I must make fire,” she said, hoping they might understand. “I can't see to do such fine work. It's almost dark, and there are four more of these to fit, and then the strings. Must I go there by night? Is that what you mean?”