“Sorry,” she whispered. “Thought I was all right . . .”
“Shh.” He settled himself beside her, cross-legged, and reached to put a blanket over her, up to the chin. “Tired. My fault. I asked too much.”
“No,” she said softly. “My fault. I did not see, at first, how much you love him. How much you loved her. Sula. These are her shoes, aren’t they?”
“Yours now,” said Keeper. “Tomorrow I walk with you, show you my place. Sleep now.”
She waited for him to move away, to settle on the other side, across the fire, or down by the entry. But he stayed where he was, quiet beside her, sitting straight-backed in the half-dark. Creidhe closed her eyes. She was indeed weary, and yet sleep seemed far off, for her mind was full of questions, and her heart, for some reason, was thumping as if she had run a race. She tried to think of calm things: a gull gliding on currents of air, the tiny bright jewels of heart’s-eye blooming in the fields at home, her mother’s voice telling her all would be well . . . No, that would not do; there were tears in her eyes again, brimming over to roll down and lose themselves in the tangle of her hair. And now a hand reached to brush the tears away, so lightly she might have thought it was no more than a whisper of breeze, save that it was his hand, and she felt it in every corner of her body. She held her breath. His fingers moved to touch her hair, stroking it back from her brow, gentle, careful. Slow, sweet. She breathed again, and sighed, and, against the odds, was immediately claimed by sleep.
How are you supposed to feel when the prize you deserve falls into your lap, and you discover the cost of it is beyond what you are able to pay? How can you go on, knowing your opportunity to shine has been bought with your best friend’s life? The day after Asgrim gave them the news of Creidhe’s death, Thorvald went back to the Ruler and told him he was not prepared to lead the men, that it seemed to him there were others apter for that role; Einar, for instance, or Orm. He did not in fact believe this, but forced himself to say it, if only to deny that part of him that still cried out, Yes! This is your time! For it seemed to Thorvald that was a part of him which would better have been strangled at birth.
“After reflection,” he said, keeping his gaze steady on Asgrim’s impenetrable dark eyes, “I think it inappropriate that Sam and I should play any part in this. Creidhe would not have wished us to exact revenge at the cost of your men’s lives, nor our own. Besides, it was not the tribe on the Isle of Clouds that killed her, but the Unspoken. Why should we do battle to retrieve their seer for them when they have acted with such savagery against us? It makes no sense. We will go home.”
In the back of his mind, perhaps he expected Asgrim to put up some argument, to beg.
“Very well,” the Ruler said. “If you’re sure. I’m disappointed, I have to say. I thought better of you, Thorvald. Still, we have managed without you before, and will do again, I suppose. I fear the losses will be great. This news will dishearten the men. And you may have trouble persuading Sam.”
“That’s not your problem,” said Thorvald. “Sam will come around. Not so long ago he couldn’t wait to be off home.”
That day he avoided the others as much as he could, speaking little, staying behind in order to go through his meager belongings in half-hearted preparation for departure. Hogni was hanging around, not working with the men, not on duty either, leaning morosely in a corner of the shelter, then sitting outside on the rocks with his arms around his knees, his big-jawed face like a sad dog’s. Finally Thorvald felt compelled to go out and ask him what was wrong.
“Nothing,” Hogni grunted, brows knitting in a scowl.
The bodyguard was a man of intimidating size and manner, but Thorvald saw the lost look in his small eyes. He sat down by Hogni’s side. “All the same,” he said, and waited.
Hogni’s hands were restless, fingers drumming on knees, then twisting together. Thorvald watched the men down by the shore, practicing with knives; he felt curiously detached from it, now that he had decided not to go on after all. Nonetheless, he noticed how much Wieland’s skills had developed; his throw was vastly improved and he was beginning to demonstrate real style. And Orm wasn’t looking half bad, either. He’d just given Hjort quite a fright with the accuracy of his aim.
“M’brother,” Hogni blurted out suddenly. “Skapti. He’s gone all funny. Quiet. Not like himself. Something’s eating him and he won’t talk about it.”
Thorvald had suspected something of the sort; it had been visible in Skapti’s demeanor last night.
“Mmm,” he said. “Awkward for you.”
“Not right.” Hogni scratched his boot sole on the earth, scattering small pebbles. “Something’s not right. Never known him like this before. Almost never.”
“Did you ask him straight out what the trouble was?”
“Tried to. Nothing, he said. It’s bothering me, Thorvald. I don’t like the look in his eye. Hunt coming up, all of us need to be our best. You’d agree with that.”
A chill passed over Thorvald, like a breath of cold wind that trembled through the bones and was gone. Perhaps it was a premonition, but of what, he did not know. He drew a deep breath. This was not his place; these were not his men. He had been foolish to think he belonged here. The hunt was Asgrim’s business.
“Thing is,” said Hogni gruffly, “I thought Skapti might talk to you. He thinks a lot of you. Looks up to you. He might tell you what he won’t tell me.”
Thorvald opened his mouth to say no, there wouldn’t be time, for he was going home tomorrow. He met the anxious, close-set eyes of the guard, saw the mournful expression on the big, bony face. Somehow the words just could not be spoken, for they seemed yet another betrayal.
“Skapti looks up to me?” he croaked. “I shouldn’t think so. He could squash me with his little finger.”
“Been good working with you. All of them agree. Not the jumped-up incomer we thought at first. Skapti too. Said you’ve got brains and guts. Will you talk to him?”
“I’ll try.” There was simply no way to refuse.
“Knew I could count on you,” Hogni said, a grin stretching his mouth to reveal two rows of crooked, broken teeth. He had fought more than his share of battles.
Anything that was to be done must be done today: not only talking to Skapti, which Thorvald thought privately would not be much help at all, but also convincing Sam that they must follow the original plan and head for home while the weather was set fair. Sam could now be seen among the warriors, trying his hand with the spear. The fisherman’s amiable features were set in a hard, fierce expression quite alien to him. His eyes were red and swollen. There would be a few sore heads today; they had drunk late into the night while Thorvald sat on the clifftop alone. In the morning Einar had roused them at the usual time, no concessions, and they’d been out working soon after without complaint. These men were learning discipline. Some among them were learning leadership. All the same, Thorvald reminded himself, it was Asgrim who was their chieftain, not him. Asgrim had said they could manage. Thorvald was dispensable. He would go, then, and if he never did see the force he had trained win its battle, so what? He had been foolish to get involved, foolish to start caring so much, to think there might be a place for him here. Stupid and arrogant. The gods had demanded a terrible price for that arrogance, a price he would spend the rest of his life paying for in guilt and sorrow. He must return and tell Eyvind and Nessa their daughter was lost because of him. He must tell Margaret what his pride and ambition had wrought. No amount of brains and guts was going to help with that.
Sam seemed to be making sure he was never alone today. If he was not throwing knives with Orm, he was rehearsing a cliff-scaling exercise with Wieland, injured foot or no. Knut and several of the other fishermen were involved in that as well; of the entire complement of men, the only ones not engaged in some practice for the hunt were those who had taken a boat out to catch something for the communal supper. And Skapti. The Ruler had come down to watch, shadowed by Hogni now; he stoo
d close by the knife throwers, expression grim, making a comment now and then. The men seemed nervous in his presence and were doing less well than before. Thorvald itched to go down and join them, to reassure and encourage them, but he did not. If Hogni was on duty that meant Skapti was on his own somewhere. He set off to find him.
Instinct carried him to the selfsame clifftop where he had kept vigil last night, alone with his grief. It wasn’t hard to spot Skapti, a veritable giant of a man. The guard stood perilously close to the edge, staring out to the west. Thorvald’s heart skipped a beat; a vision of Creidhe was before his eyes, Creidhe with her gaze locked on the Isle of Clouds and her feet slipping on the cliff path. He approached with caution.
“Skapti,” he said quietly, coming up to seat himself on the rocks not far from the warrior. “Sit down, man, you’re scaring me. Come on, sit by me awhile.”
Skapti growled something exceedingly coarse that equated to, go away. Thorvald stayed where he was, saying nothing.
“I mean it,” Skapti snarled after a little. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m sorry the girl died, and I’m not going to say any more about it. Now leave me alone. If I decide to take a quick jump into the waves down there, it’s surely none of your concern.” He took a step; his boot was overhanging the edge. Thorvald swallowed.
“It is, though,” he said in a reasonable attempt at an everyday tone. “Haven’t we been training the men for the hunt all season, you and me and Hogni? You’re telling me you don’t care if you live long enough to see that good work come to fruition? Come on, Skapti, I’m counting on you. Who else has a chance of taking in a raiding party unscathed? We need your team on one flank and Hogni’s on the other. There’s nobody else the men trust for the job. You can’t just throw that away.”
Skapti teetered on the cliff edge, putting out an arm for balance. His face went suddenly white. Several options flashed through Thorvald’s mind, none of them promising. It had been all very well to grab Creidhe and drag her to safety. Creidhe was a girl and narrow-waisted. This giant would pull him over bodily, merely by leaning a little too far.
“Tell you what,” Thorvald said. “I’ll make a deal with you. Talk first, just a bit, then I’ll go off and leave you. What you do after that’s your own choice.”
Skapti made an unintelligible sound.
“Thing is,” said Thorvald in casual tones, “you’ll have to sit down first. Watching you wobbling on the edge there is making me seasick. Come on, man, sit down here by me. That’s it. That’s the way.” He heard his own breath expelled in a sigh as the warrior stepped away from the brink and moved to slump down on the rocks. Skapti, too, was breathing heavily, and his complexion had a greenish tinge.
“Bet Hogni sent you up,” the bodyguard ventured, scowling.
“I did speak to him, yes, but it was my own idea to talk to you. The hunt’s getting close; if you’re angry, or sick, or not satisfied with something, I need to know about it, so I can help.”
“Not what I heard.”
“Oh?”
Skapti shook his head. “Asgrim says you’re going home. Says you don’t want to lead us anymore.” He turned suddenly to fix his small eyes fiercely on Thorvald’s. “Is it true?”
“How can I stay?” The words burst out angrily, against Thorvald’s better judgment. “Creidhe’s dead. She’s dead because I was over here doing this and not looking out for her. I have to go home. I have to go back and tell her father. In its way, that will be worse than any battle. He’s a formidable man. You’d admire him, I should think.”
“Oh? What is he, a chieftain, some kind of king?”
“Not exactly. A leader of men, certainly. He was once a Wolfskin, back in Rogaland. That carries a certain reputation. I don’t know if you—?” He broke off. It was clear Skapti knew exactly what a Wolfskin was, and found it more than impressive.
“That explains it.” The big warrior nodded, eyes full of sorrow and something new, which Thorvald could not quite read. “A Wolfskin’s daughter. No wonder.”
“No wonder what?” asked Thorvald, ice trickling down his spine.
“Nothing,” Skapti mumbled, looking at the ground.
“It’s not nothing. You were there. Tell me!”
“Don’t know if you’d want to hear, being a friend and all. It wasn’t pleasant. Gave me bad dreams. Shook me all up.”
Thorvald made himself breathe. “Tell me, Skapti,” he said quietly.
“Well, you see, it wasn’t exactly as Asgrim said. The way he told it, sounded as if the girl did something silly, standing up in the boat, causing a nasty accident, all hands lost and so on. But I could see. I could see what she did, and I wondered. Now I know. Wolfskin’s daughter; all makes sense.” Skapti shivered. “Just makes it worse. Makes it harder to go on.”
“What?” Thorvald struggled for calm. “What did Creidhe do?”
“Deliberate. Not being stupid at all. Trying to escape. Stands up, dives in. Looks like she’s gone under for good at first, then she bobs up a bit farther away. When they see her they row after, across the line, into the Fool’s Tide. She did that on purpose. So they flail around with the oars, trying to reach her, trying to keep control. The girl grabs an oar and pulls, gives the fellow a good whack with it, he loses his balance and the boat goes over. Then they all disappear. Brave little thing. She gave it her best try. Fighting spirit. Good looker, too. Shapely.” There were tears trickling down Skapti’s cheeks; he made no attempt to conceal them. “Don’t think I can go on, Thorvald. Don’t think I can go on doing this.”
“Doing what?” Gods, he would almost rather not have known this; it was so like Creidhe to keep on struggling, to keep on clinging to hope right to the very end. She would simply refuse to give up. He could see her in the water, fair skin turning slowly blue with cold, fingers cramping on an oar, whispering to herself, I won’t die, I won’t, as the waves rose greedily to drag her down, to snatch away her last breath.
“Everything,” muttered Skapti, staring at his boots. “His business. Asgrim’s business. What’s the point? We carry out orders, we obey, we fight his battles and die in the hunt because we’ve got no choice. But where does it end, that’s what I want to know? How long? How many times? Look at Wieland. His wife’s lost three infants now, three springtimes the Unspoken have sung her babes away, and Asgrim won’t even let him go home to comfort her. The hunt’s too important.” Skapti clenched his fists. “But how long? Five years, it’s been, and more before that, when we were beating off their raids. And the other things . . . he thinks he can ask me to do anything he wants, anything at all. I’ve always obeyed. He’s the Ruler. He knows best. But I don’t think I can anymore. Think it might be better if I wasn’t here. Then he couldn’t make me do it.” The big man was a picture of misery.
“This summer could be different,” Thorvald said. “I’ve told you before. It’s just a matter of changing the way you think about the hunt, and being properly prepared. When I first came here the men were all over the place, no discipline, no technique. I’m not a fighter by trade the way you are, but I’ve been well taught. I could see plenty of potential. I could see Asgrim wasn’t making proper use of what he had. It happens when a leader starts to give up hope. Now look at them. They’re strong, well trained and focused on the task. They work as a team. The weapons are better, the way they use them is better, their whole attitude is changed. This can be the hunt that’s different, Skapti, I know it: the one they win.”
Skapti mumbled something.
“What did you say?”
“Not without you,” Skapti said.
Thorvald’s heart clenched. “Asgrim can lead you—oh yes, I know what you said—but he can lead you to victory this time. The groundwork’s been laid. Besides, he doesn’t want me. Not really.”
“Say he does do it,” said Skapti, now looking straight into Thorvald’s eyes; the warrior’s own were reddened with tears. “Say he leads us in, and we get Foxmask out and return him. Say not all of
us die in the attempt. That’s good, anyone would agree. But what then? I’m sick of it, I’m sick of him and his rules, fed up with following orders I don’t like, because I’m too scared to say no. And if I’m scared, how do you think the rest of them feel?”
Thorvald felt a chill again, a touch of something both heady and extremely dangerous. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” he said. His voice had dropped to a whisper, though there was nobody around.
“Thing is,” said Skapti, glancing nervously to right and to left, “we never had a leader like you before. Nobody ever stood up to him before. If you go off home, there’s no chance of changing things after.”
The words hung in the air between them, those that had been spoken and those that were too perilous to utter aloud.
“Yes, well,” Thorvald managed, “I—I don’t think we should be discussing this. Not even up here. It’s not that I don’t want to stay. It’s that I can’t. It’s my fault that Creidhe died. I’m going to bear the burden of that on my conscience forever. I need to face up to it and go home; recognize that I was never more here than a meddling incomer.”
“Have more on your conscience if you leave,” Skapti said. “That’s my opinion.”
The two of them walked back together in the end, Skapti drawn and silent, Thorvald working hard at keeping his mind fixed on one thing: he had made a decision, the only right decision, and he would stick to it. They could win their fight without him; he would make himself believe that. As for the tantalizing prospect Skapti had alluded to, of afterward, he must on no account allow himself to consider that. It was fraught with danger.
They’d been gone longer than he’d thought. Supper was cooking, the men sitting around the fire, looking as they used to in the first days after he came: weary and dispirited. They were probably worn out. It seemed to have been a busy day, though Thorvald had played no part in it. He’d missed his opportunity to catch Sam alone, and they were running out of time. The weather had a habit of turning bad here, and there often wasn’t much warning. He’d have to try later tonight, call his friend outside on some pretext. They must go tomorrow; there was a limit to his own capacity to remain firm on this.