Dolor and Shadow (5 page)

“Father.”

“Hm?”

“You’re evading.”

Eyolf furrowed his brow. “Am not.”

“You are. You’re using that tone you use when you’re hoping I won’t notice you’re evading if you use just the right flux in your voice.”

Eyolf pinched the end of his beard in thought. “I have no flux.”

“You flux.”

“I don’t think I flux,” he said.

“You flux,” Kallan said. “Out with it.”

Eyolf scratched his forehead. “You’re about the same age your mother was when she and I…”

Kallan continued to peer over the charcoal.

“I’m just saying you’re almost old enough to…”

She didn’t move.

“Try to look nice for the holiday,” Eyolf finished.

Kallan arched a single brow. “Do I not look nice?”

Eyolf frowned.

“Do I get to bring my sword?” Kallan asked, deciding to rescue him from having to answer that question.

“If you wish,” he said.

“Alright then.”

Kallan wasn’t convinced.

“Tryggve has two sons, you know,” Eyolf rattled off.

Kallan felt the blood leave her face. “That’s what you wanted to discuss?”

“I’m just saying they may not be…”

Kallan dropped the charcoal to the floor and tried quelling a groan on top of the rising pit in her chest.

“Kallan, you’re well past the age to be thinking about marriage,” Eyolf said. “And a marriage would do well to unite our kingdom with Gunir.”

“I don’t have time for boys,” she said. “I have lessons and…lessons.”

“You have time for Eilif,” Eyolf said.

“Well, Eilif is different.”

Kallan stared into the courtyard. A warm breeze blew through the barracks, tousling her hair with her skirts.

“In another year, you’ll have less of a choice,” Eyolf said. “In another two, you’ll have no choice. We have very little options available. The boys are about your age.”

“How much older?” she asked, turning her head from the door.

“Five…ten years older. I’m not sure.”

“They’re old,” she muttered, knowing her father wouldn’t believe her lie but trying anyway.

“I’m old,” Eyolf said.

“You’ve reached your elding,” she said and felt a bit grateful he had waited until Daggon had left to discuss this matter with her.

“And soon, so will you…as will Tryggve’s sons. The aging will stop, and it won’t matter your age from theirs.”

Kallan released a slow breath, knowing she had little room to argue. The political advantage was too clear. Kallan nodded. “So…you want me to look nice.”

CHAPTER 5

Gunir

The high morning sun bathed the castle gardens of Gunir with a touch of gold. King Tryggve breathed deep the warm spring air. The willow trees wept with streams of fresh buds. Their whip-like branches draped over the garden’s lake. He watched with a contented grin as a lone swan plunged its head into the water and up again, its silver eyes glistening in the sun. Beads of water rolled down its white back.

The swan caught sight of Tryggve and he watched her swim to the edge of the lake where the water was most shallow. Her feathers ruffled, her head bowed, and he watched, entranced, as the swan shifted its form into that of a woman with generous curves and perfect skin as white as the bird. Her hair, as pale as spring sunlight, fell down her shoulders, breasts, and back. She raised her head and smiled at him.

Her teeth, like pearls
, he thought and felt his breath leave his body.

He watched enraptured as she walked from the lake to a small stone bench beneath the willow where she had abandoned her robe an hour ago.

With graceful ease, he watched his wife wrap her body in the robe. His eyes followed the slender curve of her face, her eyes, and the locks she pulled free from the fabric.

“Your eyes still take my heart as completely as the day we met,” he said as she made her way toward him. “Caoilinn.” He took up her hands and placed his mouth upon her palm.

“Such words,” she said, smiling.

“True words,” he corrected and pulled her into him. “You take my breath from me.” He buried his face into her neck and she laid her head onto his. “The children are gone,” he whispered.

“So you shall have me. Is that it?” she asked.

“Always have. Always will, so long as you’ll let me.” He grazed her neck with gentle kisses.

“Is breá liom tú,”
she whispered back and Tryggve exhaled, pulling himself from her neck so that he could look into her eyes.

“You know I can’t understand a word of your sweet tongue.” He kissed her mouth. He released her and kissed her brow.

“I know that,” she said.

“Say it again.” He kissed the lids of her eyes.

“
Is breá liom tú
.”

He smiled and kissed her mouth again hard and deep until he had his fill.

“Tryggve?” she asked when he returned to her neck. “The children are gone, you say?”

“Hm.” He kissed her neck deeper and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Swann is off where Swann always is, in the valley.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Rune has vanished.”

Caoilinn shifted to better look into his eyes.

“Where is he?”

“Geirolf said he skipped out on his lessons.” He raised her palm and kissed her wrist.

“Will you reprimand him?” Caoilinn asked.

“I will…” Tryggve kissed her brow again. “…not care.”

She smiled and Tryggve kissed her mouth.

“What aren’t you telling me, husband?”

“Later,” he whispered.

“Tryggve.”

He sighed, ceased his kissing, and wrapped his other arm around her.

“Rumor has slipped from the docks.” He hated himself for saying it. “It would appear that our son is home.”

“Bergen?”

Tryggve nodded, knowing his plans for the morning were quickly slipping from him.

“Bergen is,” Tryggve nodded.

Caoilinn beamed and heat flooded his insides.

“Where is he?”

Tryggve sighed. “I have a suspicion that Rune has taken it upon himself to find him.”

“Well then, why are we here?” she said and was off, free from his arms as she ran across the gardens toward the keep.

“Yes, love.” Struggling to think of little else but the curve of his wife’s backside, Tryggve ran his hands over his face and turned to join his wife. “Whatever you ask, my love, I shall give it.”

Tryggve took a step and stopped. She stood stiffly, her head bowed, frozen as if in pain.

“Caoilinn?”

She turned, her eyes brimming with fear.

“Something is wrong,” she gasped.

Only once before had he seen her like this. Once, years ago, and she hadn’t been wrong then either. Tension pulled his back taut with worry.

“What is wrong?” he asked. “Caoilinn?”

“The children,” she muttered. Before Tryggve could run toward the keep, Caoilinn shifted back into a swan and took flight.

From the gardens, she flew over the parapet to the courtyard while Tryggve fled up the steps to the kitchens. Panting, he threw open the door, slamming into the cook while he made his way up the steps to the Main Hall.

Paying no mind to the décor or the feast, Tryggve charged the great oak doors. Geirolf called, but Tryggve ignored him and punched open the doors to the courtyard.

“Please.” He heard Caoilinn’s plea, and the color drained from his face.

Upon the steps, wrapped in the remnants of a gown, lay Swann, naked and drained of blood that now covered her young body. From her navel to her chest, her body had been cut, gutted like one of the animals brought to slaughter. A handprint of dried blood marred her face where her lifeless silver eyes stared into nothing.

Beside her, Bergen and Rune waited while Caoilinn splayed her hands onto Swann and sent streams of gold into the lifeless child.

“Caoilinn! No!” Tryggve cried and fell to his knees alongside his wife and daughter. “You can’t give too much. You’ll die.”

Caoilinn increased the flow of her Seidr.

“Caoilinn.” Tryggve clutched her arms and tried to pull her away.

“
Le do thoil,”
she said.
“Ní le do thoil bás
. Please.” But she drew too much. And when she linked her Seidr to Tryggve, she was unaware of the life she took from him.

Tryggve felt his arms weaken, his head spun with darkness, but Caoilinn didn’t break the link.

“I can save her,” she muttered, but Swann lay unmoving, not breathing while the Seidr drained from Caoilinn.

Tryggve released his wife. His Seidr came back, his eyes focused, and he watched Caoilinn pour her life into Swann. The child lay on the courtyard steps.

“I can…
shábháil
…” Caoilinn muttered. “
Ní le do thoil bás
.”

She was pale now. “I can sa—” The Seidr line broke and Caoilinn fell back into Tryggve’s arms.

The red of her lips was almost white. The gleam in her eyes was fading.

“S—She’s given too much,” Tryggve said. He brushed her waxen face with a shaking hand. “Geirolf,” he muttered. “Where’s Geirolf?”

The king searched the many faces that had gathered to see. Too helpless to change the fates, too stunned to cry or weep, they only looked on in silence and dismay.

“Caoi—”

Her skin was gray. Her breath was broken. The light in her eyes was fading.

“
Ní le do thoi—”
And she gave her last breath.

Tryggve’s head spun.

My wife.

He touched her white lips.

My daughter.

He turned to Swann, seeing, but not understanding.

“Rune?” Tryggve said. “Bergen?”

Neither moved.

“What happened?” Tryggve asked. “How…”

Geirolf was there, leaning closer to inspect the queen.

“We found her,” Rune said. “The valley.”

Tryggve gazed upon Swann, so like her mother, blood covering her pale skin.

He shook his muddled head and shifted his gaze to Caoilinn, waxen and gray in his arms. His hands had grown cold.

He felt Geirolf shift to touch her neck, and the king raised his bewildered eyes to the old man. “Geirolf?”

Geirolf’s eyes glazed over with a wall of tears and he looked to his king. With a quivering lip, Geirolf shook his head and Tryggve felt his sanity leave him.

With trembling hands, he raked his scalp and pulled at strands of hair, one hand still clamped to his wife.

“W—who…?” He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t speak. “W—why…?” Tryggve turned his attention to his daughter, his wife, his sons.

Bergen stood shaking, breathing as if chilled by a mountain storm. Rune stood beside him, his fingers clutching something until his knuckles were white beneath the blood. Blood covered their faces, their clothes, their hands. Blood now covered Caoilinn. Swann’s blood.

“W—ha…” Tryggve could say no more.

Shaking, Rune extended the white-knuckled hand that clasped a silver band of metal. It struck the courtyard stone, punctuating the silence like a deadened weight.

Tryggve shifted his crazed eyes to the object. An elding armband engraved with the tri-corner knot and a hammer.

“Dokkalfar,” Geirolf sputtered.

“Eyolf,” Tryggve muttered.

Rage consumed him and pushed the confusion and grief aside until only fire burned, and it severed his senses. Wild rage, cold hate took Tryggve and ripped his mind from him. With a single thought, he raised his eyes to the south.

Lorlenalin.

“Get my sword.”