Lord of the Runes (4 page)

His survival might depend on her. If she failed, at least the gods would know she'd tried her best. That had to count for something. Asa knelt and put more wood on the low fire.

The flames leapt between them as she studied him, forming a protective wall. If only she could stay here, he on one side, she on the other.

He still lay on his back, his hair spread out over the furs. He shifted, moaning, and threw back the covers. A moist sheen glowed on his face in the firelight. Her stomach lurched. Her fear no longer mattered and she dashed around the fire to him and put a hand on his forehead.

His skin burned. She sat back on her heels, her heart pounding. Ingeborg, the healer, was in her own house and the blizzard still raged outside, so she would have no help. Not until the storm passed, anyway.

Wrapping her shawl tight around her, she took a bucket outside. The cold wind hit her like a sword blow. No wonder he was ill. It could only have been the will of the Norns that he survived, and it made no sense for them to take him now.

She gathered snow and went back inside. She set down the bucket and made her way through the darkness into the cooking room. She searched through the jars and vials on the shelves until she found the one she sought. Yarrow.

She dipped a bowl into a pot of hot water hanging over the cooking fire and tossed in a handful of the dried yarrow. She might not be able to cook, but at least she could do this, for many people had fevers during the winters and an infusion of it was a well-known cure. The brew was bitter, so she found ajar of honey and poured a measure into a soapstone cup. Balancing everything on a wooden tray, she took it back into the common room and set it all down near the traveler.

She moved the bowl nearer to the fire so it would remain warm, and settled herself at his side. His eyes were glazed over with fever, staring at nothing. She dipped a cloth into the snow water and put it on his forehead. He jerked, tossing his head, trying to shake it off, but she persisted.

“Don't make me get one of my brothers to hold you down. They don't like to be awakened in the middle of the night. You'll have to contend with me.”

She ran the cold, damp cloth down his strong neck, to beneath his tunic. A lump lay under the material and she lifted his shirt. A solid gold hammer of Thor hung on a thick gold chain over his chest. She pulled back. Wealth, indeed. Whoever he was, he must have a family, people who would miss him. A wife.

It was no matter to her. She wet the cloth again and ran it over his face. He quieted, closing his eyes, though he hadn't seemed to see her. The sleeves of his shirt weren't gathered at the wrists, so she slid the cloth underneath and drew it down his right arm. It was like iron under her hand.

His scent came to her, very male, hinting of leather, horse, and the winds. She washed his left arm, leaning across him to do so. Except for brief hugs from her brothers, she hadn't been this close to a man since—

Fear rose in her throat. This was different. He was different. At least, right now it would be safe to be near him, when he was feverish and weak.

Finished with his arm, she tried to sit back, but a tug on her braid stopped her. She looked down. He held it with his right hand, watching her.

“Always your touch was gentle.” His voice was so soft, she almost didn't hear him. “Have I gone where you are, Sela? I've dreamed often of you. Are you truly here?”

What could she say to that? She had to make him let go of her. “I must wash you and make you well. I can't do that with you holding me.”

“So long since I have touched you.” He raised his free hand and cupped her cheek. She held her breath, her heart racing. She had to keep very still, fight down the panic that would surely come.

His touch was gentle, not like the only other she had known. She closed her eyes, exhaling, dreading the fear, the memories. Though they stirred, they didn't awaken. He ran his hand down her cheek to her neck, the touch like a feather on her skin. No violence, no anger.

She dared to look at him. His eyes were distant again, as though what he saw did not lie in this world. He touched her lips with the tip of his finger. “Can you ever forgive me for what I did?”

She had to answer that. No doubt his wife and he had had a fight at some point. Or he had strayed. He was a man, after all. “Of course I forgive you. Now, let me bathe you and cool you off. Then you must sleep more.”

He smiled. His face softened and she could only stare at him. The grim line of his mouth was gone. He was beautiful. Perhaps that wasn't the right word to use for a man, but it was the only word that fit him. Surely, in spite of being married, he had broken hearts from here to the Volga river.

His hand had loosened, allowing her to pull her braid through his grasp. But he tightened his fist around the end of it again. Though she was still tethered to him, at least she could sit back now. She wrung out the cloth and ran it over his forehead again, pushing his hair back. Someone would have to comb it out in the morning. It was so long and thick. What would it feel like?

She touched it and it was as soft as her own. Turning his face into her hand, he nuzzled it, sighing. Her breath came light and swift as she held still. His blue eyes opened again, filled with such longing, it captured her as no hold on her hair could. What would it be like to have a man such as he truly look at her that way, not just in a fever-dream? When he didn't think she was someone else. She'd never considered it, never wanted it.

The scent of yarrow took her gaze from his. The infusion was ready. She'd have to touch him again. Run her hands over him. Her stomach knotted, but it was a different sensation from what she had known in the past. Not a blade of fear cutting through her, but a warm tightening, as though she craved a food she had never tasted.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the bowl and the cup. She poured some of the infusion into the cup and set it aside to mix with the honey. Dipping the cloth into the hot yarrow-laced water, she allowed it to steep and warm for a few moments. She wouldn't look at him again. Just do what she had to in order to make him well.

She washed his face, wrists and neck, even his ankles, any place his blood ran close to his skin so it could carry the herb inside his body. He kept his eyes closed, but still held on to her braid. Its length was so great, it didn't impede her, so she worked until the water was gone.

She stirred the mixture in the cup with her finger and tasted it. Even with the honey, it was still bitter, but he would have to drink it regardless.

“Lift your head for me now so you can take this.” She slid her hand beneath him. He tried, but he was still too weak. He was a large man. She would never be able to make him sit up, so she shifted him until his head rested on her lap.

Tipping the cup to his mouth, she said, “Drink.” He sipped until the cup was empty.

“Yarrow.” He fell back with a smile. “It will help.”

Did he know herbs? If he was a rune master, it was possible. Perhaps he was better already. His skin wasn't as flushed and hot, and he had quieted. She had done all she could for now, so she eased his head off her thighs and pulled the furs back up over him.

The fire burned lower and she set more wood on it. When she tried to rise, he still held her braid.

“I—I need to leave. You must let me go.”

He opened his eyes, but didn't focus on her. “No. I let you go once and I never thought to be with you again. I don't know how you're with me now, but you cannot leave me.”

He tried to sit up, then collapsed, breathing hard, and clutched her braid to his chest. She brushed back his hair. He needed to rest.

“I'll stay. I'll stay this night with you. Please sleep now.” Lying down beside him, she made certain there was space between them. And furs. He kissed her braid, and a fluttering stirred deep within her at the tender gesture. She tried to settle and rest, if not sleep, so she would know if he worsened in the night.

“Will you not lie close to me? Rest your head on my chest, as you always did?” He tugged at her braid.

What would it be like? His arms around her, a gentle embrace . . . What was she thinking? She quieted her quick breath, steadying herself to answer him. “You have a fever and are overly warm. You need to cool. Rest now. I'm not far away.”

“You're still angry with me, Sela. Please just stay with me and forgive me.” His whisper in the darkness hit her like a sword stroke.

“Forgive me for killing you.”

* * *

“He said what?”

Magnus glanced back at the sleeping stranger, his blood chilling as he pulled Asa into his chamber to continue their conversation in private. Leif followed.

“He thought I was his wife, Sela. I let him think it, for he needed to rest and it seemed important to him. I gave him yarrow. It calmed him enough for him to go back to sleep. But before he did, he apologized for killing her.”

Leif's eyes narrowed. “Could that be why he was making a journey this time of year? To run from his crime? The outcasts in these mountains seek to escape from those who would hunt and kill them. They've given us enough trouble in the past with their stealing. Perhaps he was looking to join them. Their chances of survival aren't good, but they're better if they band together.”

“Many people travel in the winter because it can be easier than in the summer. Just not here.” Magnus rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You didn't find out his name?”

“How could I ask him, if I meant to be his wife?”

Magnus nodded. Asa was wise to think of that. “We'll have to wait until he regains his mind. But we can't question him about his wife. It might have been an accident or some other issue. I want to watch him, get the measure of him. That will tell us more than his words. No one must know about this, lest it come back to him that we're aware of it. If he's an outcast, then by spring, the word will have spread.”

“Is it safe for him to be here?” Asa bit her lip. “Have we let a wolf into the fold?”

“We are scarcely sheep, Asa,” Magnus said. “Including you. We'll be vigilant. It may be only the ravings of a fevered man. We can't count what he said in the night as certain.”

“There's still a risk.” Leif glanced at Asa and placed his hand on his dagger. “He's just a man alone. No one knows he's here.”

“You forget what he might be.” Magnus touched the leather bag on his table, set there for safekeeping. “A rune master. The gods follow his kind and know where he is and what we do. We must be very careful. In all ways.”

Asa and Leif went back into the common room to start their days, though the sun had not yet risen. It would not do so until late in the morning so far north. But Magnus had to consider his actions before the traveler awoke.

He ran his finger over the gemstones on the rune bag. Why would Asa go near the stranger, even stay alone with him through the night? Granted, she'd said he'd held her braid until his hand had loosened enough so she could slip it free. And she'd needed only to shout and many warriors, including Leif and him, would have been there before she could draw another breath. And, granted, the man had been fevered and delirious. Helpless. But still . . .

In the past six years, she had never allowed a man near her, aside from those she knew in Thorsfjell. And even then, she remained distant from them all. Their cousin, Estrid, called her an ice queen, but then, that was Estrid.

Whoever the man was, he journeyed well. His horse was of excellent stock, and had likely saved his life. His sword was magnificent, of folded iron, engraved with protection runes, the hilt wrapped with gold wire. His clothing was well made of costly fabrics and leathers. Just his hammer of Thor pendant alone would have paid for many male thralls. It could be that he had stolen all this, but it was unlikely. A thief would have sold it all for gold, more easily spent.

Yet, it paid to be wary. He hadn't told Asa, but on their last trip to get winter supplies, Leif and he had heard of a band of outcasts who were infesting Rogaland. They had been seen heading north into Hordaland. Their leader's name was Hakon.

It was a common enough name. And six years had passed without a word about their aunt's former husband. But he could have been gathering other criminals during that time. If he was going to make a move, he might have sent a man in advance to see what the situation was here. No one would dare question someone who claimed to be a rune master. It would be a good cover.

Hakon might be lying low somewhere, waiting to attack them in revenge for having him declared an outcast. He had lost everything, and any man was allowed to kill him. No one could help him, just like the men who infested the
fjells
. Unlike lesser criminals who were outcast for a set length of time and could return to society if they survived, he never could. It was, in essence, a death sentence.

Magnus allowed himself a grim smile. Let him come. He rubbed his stomach as he stared into the darkness. Hakon might think to take revenge for what he, himself, had wrought. But he had no idea what revenge truly was.

Yes, let him come. Then he would learn well enough.

W
armth. It seemed forever since he'd been warm.

The smell of wood smoke and food, the sound of people's voices, and the feel of footsteps vibrating on the ground beneath him, brought Eirik awake. He was warm and dry, but when he moved, weakness weighed him down.

He opened his eyes. He was in a large common room, nestled in a bed of furs on the floor before the central longhearth. No light came through the few small windows, nor through the smoke hole in the roof. Was it morning or night?

People sat at tables, eating, though which of the two meals of the day it was, he couldn't tell. Where was he? He remembered nothing after the storm hit. Apparently they had helped him. He would, however, reserve any trust until he was certain of the situation.

He tried to sit, but his head swam. He leaned back on his elbows.

“Don't rise or you may be ill.”

A beautiful woman knelt down beside him. Her long hair was like snow, white-blond like his sister's. Her large blue eyes held concern, though they darkened when she glanced at his chest.

“I'm Estrid, cousin to the jarl. Stay here. I'll get him.” She cast him a glance over her shoulder and her hips swayed as she left.

He watched her with interest. If that was the type of women they had here, maybe he had died and gone to live with the Valkyries. No, he wasn't dead yet, if his reaction to her was any indication.

He glanced around. Fine large weavings hung on the wooden walls of the room. Even the floor was made with planks instead of bare earth. Interlaced patterns coiled around the wooden pillars, carved by a talented hand. Two chairs stood on a dais at one end of the room. This, indeed, was the longhouse of a jarl. A very rich jarl.

A man walked in front of him and he looked up. Dark-haired, he was as tall as Eirik, and every bit as powerful. He would sooner go to Hel itself than meet him while remaining on the floor like a child.

The room spun as he rose, and his legs threatened to give out. But he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand. The blond woman stepped forward to take his arm, but he held up his hand, stopping her. He needed no woman to help him. The room slowed as he focused on the man.

“I'm Jarl Magnus Sigrundson. You came here yesterday, nearly dead of the cold, then you fell ill. My sister nursed you through the night and brought down your fever.”

“My thanks, then, to her and to you. I'm Eirik of Hordaland.”

Magnus's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. “Come and sit. Have some buttermilk. We're at the morning meal. I'm not certain you should try sausages, though the bread might help you regain your strength.”

“Anything would be welcome.” Steeling himself, he followed Magnus to a table and sat down with a sigh. At least he had made it this far without falling on his face.

Estrid handed him a glass cup and he took it, impressed. Such a thing also spoke of great wealth. But Estrid kept her hand where he would have to touch it with his own, and he took the cup as gently as he could. He didn't need any games, especially with her cousin watching him.

Men and women ate their breakfasts, casting glances his way and talking low. They must not have many visitors here. Wherever here was.

Estrid brought a hunk of oat bread, spread with honey, and placed it before him. He nodded his thanks and took a bite. It was soft and fresh, of very high quality. “I don't remember even getting here, much less how.”

“Your horse brought you in.” Magnus chewed half a sausage and swallowed. “You were unconscious on his back, but he must have sensed this place and come here.”

“Did he survive?”

“He's munching hay in a nice warm stall right now. He didn't suffer any ill effects. As to where we are, we're in the
fjells
, at the end of the Sognefjorden. Where were you headed? It must have been important to risk travel now.”

He shook his head at himself. How could he have gone so far off course? “I was trying to reach my cousin in Trøndelag. Because the Sognefjorden doesn't ice over in the winter, I couldn't find a way across. I wanted to go along the shoreline as far as I needed to until I found it frozen, then head back to the northwest, to stay closer to the coast, where it's warmer. But the storm came up.” He had to smile. “I must be a better navigator on the seas than I am on the land. I didn't even think to bring my sun crystal with me.” Silvi, never having been on a ship, wouldn't have thought to pack it for him.

“Even with it, you wouldn't have been able to see the sun through this blizzard,” Magnus said. “The winters start earlier here.”

He nodded. “All I could see was snow. I tried to find any kind of shelter, but there was nothing but white surrounding me. Is there a way to get to the lower lands? I need to continue as soon as I can.”

Magnus refilled his own mug from a pitcher of ale on the table. “You wouldn't want to risk your horse in these mountains. The sides are steep, the gorges narrow. And there are the glaciers. It would be all too easy for you to slip and fall down the cliffs. Thor must have watched over you on the way in. You could ski out, but it's still treacherous and there's every chance you wouldn't survive. You're welcome to remain here until it's safe to travel.”

Should he risk leaving? Even if he did reach Rorik, the ships would be on land now and the storms would keep them from sailing to his village until the early spring.

Perhaps it would be better to overwinter here and leave at the first opportunity. If he got to Rorik in the spring before he left to go raiding, the ships would be ready and provisioned. They could sail immediately to attack the outcasts and win back his home. If he left now and died in the attempt to travel farther north, no one would know about it or about the attack. His people would be left without help, and no one would avenge the death of his father.

“My thanks. I'll take your offer to overwinter with you. I wouldn't be able to leave without my horse, for I'd need him to carry my supplies. That's too much for me to take on skis. Did you find my bags?”

“We did and your things are safe. I have your gold, your sword, and clothes.” He set down his eating knife. “And your runes.”

His runes? He didn't let his surprise show. His mother must have included them, for people would welcome a rune caster before they would a strange warrior. She was not called wise for no reason. The set could not be replaced and had been consecrated to him. He'd cast them aside years ago when Sela died, but he had been wrong in doing so. They were a connection to his mother and Silvi, perhaps in more ways than one.

“We found no rune staff. Did you lose it in the storm?”

“No, that would be only for a master to carry, and I'm not one. I can answer the four questions of the runes, though. How to carve them, how they should be read, how they should be colored, and how they should be tried. My mother is a rune mistress, and insisted I learn from the time I was young. She said Odin had given an eye to learn their wisdom. The least I could do was to give some time each night to study them with her and my sister.”

“That sounds like mothers everywhere.”

Eirik looked up at the voice—and had to look again at the man walking to the table. If he didn't know better, he would have thought his fever had returned and was making him see double.

“I'm Leif, Magnus's brother. Welcome to our home.”

They were twins and appeared alike at first glance. But Leif's blue eyes held humorous lightness in them and his dark hair was a bit shorter. Magnus's eyes, though the same color, were sharper and more intense. Both were well made and obviously warriors.

“I would like to repay your generosity.”

“And insult us,” Magnus said. “There's no need. It's the way of our people to aid travelers. We're too isolated to do otherwise.”

“Then I would read your runes for you through the winter.” He paused. “Unless you have a rune master here already.”

“We did once.” Leif speared a sausage off his brother's plate with his knife and took a large bite. Magnus shot him a quick glare. “But he died this past summer. Have you traveled much? Do you know any good stories so we don't have to listen to Magnus tell us of his fascinating trading forays to Kaupang again?”

A laugh welled up in him, but he didn't dare relax too much. One brother might be trying to make him lower his guard while the other one studied him. But he could play that game as well. He grinned. “I've been from the isles in the west to the vast southern inland sea that has no tides, and walked the lands of the Moors. I could tell you of monasteries that lie open and waiting to be plundered like unlocked chests of treasure. I've been to places in the East where the sands and the women glitter like gold beneath a burning sun.”

“You can stop at the stories of the women,” Leif said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Do they truly glitter? All over?”

“I heard that, Leif.”

He grimaced and stepped back. A woman walked toward them and it seemed all the blood drained out of Eirik's head. She was tall and elegant, her blue dress beautiful. The richness of her brooches and her necklace of rare glass and amber beads would bring envy to a queen.

But her hair . . . It fell in a braid over her shoulder to her knees and was the same deep red as Sela's. Very rare and beautiful. Her eyes were dark, a rich brown, not pale blue like his wife's had been. There was a quiet strength about her, a still intensity that Sela had lacked. She bore a fluidity to her movements he couldn't quite pinpoint. It tickled the back of his mind. She smiled, but her lips trembled, as though she was uncertain of him, and her eyes didn't quite meet his.

“Our sister, Asa.” Magnus held out his hand to her and she took it. “She cared for you through the night. This is Eirik. He was traveling from Hordaland to Trøndelag and became lost in the storm.”

He swallowed, searching for his voice. “It would seem I owe you my life, mistress. I hope I wasn't any trouble. I have no memory of the night.”

She looked down and her cheeks colored. “No trouble at all. I just happened to know the right herb to use. Eir, the goddess of healing, brought you through, no doubt.” Her voice held just the right amount of depth, yet it was feminine and soft.

“No doubt.” He glanced down. Her fingers were white where she gripped her brother's hand. As though she sought strength from it.

She regarded Leif. “You promised to finish our game of
tafl
this morning. Remember?”

“What would be the point? You don't have any of your work to do?” His expression was one of hope.

“Of course. But I need better light than this to work in, and the sun won't be up for some time yet.”

He sighed and grinned at Magnus and Eirik. “Never play against a woman who's intent on capturing a king. She'll get him every time.”

They laughed as she led Leif to another table. The board game was set up there and they sat across from each other.

“She'll kill him.” Magnus sighed. “As always. I don't know why he bothers, except that she loves it so and he's the only one who will open himself up for the slaughter.”

He glanced at Magnus as he spoke. The jarl's eyes were filled with such love as he watched Asa laugh at something Leif said. Why wasn't she married? She looked to be about twenty, well past the age of fourteen when it was common for women to wed. Perhaps she was a widow. Not that it mattered.

He had no time for a woman until he had his revenge. The heat of his hatred and anger must have been what kept him alive through the storm. He needed to keep that edge to see him through. He'd leave here in the late winter and slay Hakon, or die trying. If he was victorious, he would continue his own life at Haardvik.

“As a guest, you may have one of the small sleeping chambers. If you want to be warmer, you may sleep in here with the others by the fire. Or, if you like, I'll ask one of the serving girls to go to you this night.”

He shook his head. “I won't take a woman who has been ordered to come to me. If one wishes to be with me of her own accord, then I'll welcome it later on. But I'll never take one unwilling.”

Magnus lifted an eyebrow. “And I would never order one, only ask for volunteers. Even at that, I don't think you'll be alone for long.” He nodded to a place behind Eirik. He looked. A group of serving girls stood in a doorway, staring at him and giggling.

The jarl rose. “I must speak with my brother and sister of household matters. Eat and drink as you please, and avail yourself of the sauna. I'll have your things brought to a sleeping room.”

He walked over to the table where his brother and sister played
tafl
, and sat down beside Leif. Leaning back against the wall, Eirik watched them.

Asa made a move and Leif followed a moment later. She moved again, grabbed a playing piece, the king, and held it up, smiling at her victory.

Her brother slammed his fist down on the table, scattering the remaining pieces. His voice carried throughout the room. “You planned that five moves ago, and lured me in.”

Eirik's muscles tensed. Leif was certainly a warrior and if he lost his temper . . . No matter that he was a stranger here, he would never stand for a woman to be cowed.

Asa only burst out laughing. She leaned forward and spoke softly to Leif. He shook his head. She gave him a pleading look. He folded his arms across his chest and rested back against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling with a long-suffering glare. Then he nodded.

She beamed like a child who had been given a honey-sweet, and Eirik's breath caught. Her beauty swept over him, carrying him away like the Aifur cataracts in the Dnieper river. And it was just as dangerous. He could only watch her, his body tightening. He did not need this.