Crimson Fire (5 page)

Ever since he could remember, his dreams had been vivid. Sometimes he would wake up, his mind a jumble of images he could not understand—a throne fashioned in the shape of an eagle; silver dragons and black ravens with opal eyes; pearl- white swans and blue nightingales; black wolves with eyes of emerald and hawks with wing bands of bright blue. But he did not understand these images, though they called to him in a way that puzzled and frightened him.

Sometimes he dreamed of the harp that he had seen on a dead man long, long ago and what it would be like to go to the land where the man had come from. Sometimes he dreamed that the sea called to him, and that he walked her path to come to his true home.

As he grew he watched the warriors of the Alder of Apuldre, the man who ruled the shire. He saw these strong, big men as they rode out to the hunt, to border skirmishes, to tournaments and fairs. He saw their glittering weapons, their armlets of gold, their arrogance and assurance. And his dreams began to change. He dreamt of a time when he, too, would be a warrior. He would receive rich gifts, booty from wars that he himself won singlehandedly against all odds. He would give his life to

save his warband, and the walcyries, the women who collected the souls of dead warriors, would
fi
ght amongst themselves for the honor of gathering his spirit to take to the One God.

When he was thirteen years old, his parents sent him to work for the Alder as a kitchen boy. It was then that he understood that this was the best he could hope for—that his life would be to serve meal after meal to these great warriors, to clean up af- ter them, and to survive the occasional casual beating when he was not quick enough with the mead. He would never become a warrior. Because he was only a
fi
sherman’s son.

Often while wrestling with platter after platter for the eve- ning meal, Havgan would catch sight of the Alder’s son, who sat at the high table with his father. The boy, Sigerric, was a few years younger than Havgan. And Havgan envied him bitterly his place in the world. Envied him the love that shone out of the Alder’s eyes. Envied him his beautiful mother and her tender- ness. Envied him his rich tunic and his easy smile. Envied him his bright future.

And though he was still bitter, he continued to hope that one day something might happen to him, some great thing that would lift him out of the
fi
lth in which he lived.

And then, one day, something did. That day the fair came to town. And he had a silver penny to spend. His mother had given it to him when he
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rst went to work in the kitchens. She had said no word, merely pressing the penny into his hand. Havgan had never spent it. He had been saving it for just this day. He had made up his mind that when the fair came to town he would go there and see the valla, the seeress, who traveled with the fair. For the price of a silver penny, she would read his fortune, and then he would know if any of his dreams would

ever come true.

Havgan hurried to the valla’s tent, easily identi
fi
able by the dark blue cloth marked with silver stars and crescent moons. He sidled up to the entrance where a thin, bearded man sat crosslegged on the ground, paring his nails with a sharp hunt- ing knife.

“I’ve come to have my future read,” Havgan said breath- lessly.

The man didn’t even bother to look up. “She don’t do it for free, boy.”

“I have money.” Slowly, Havgan handed out the silver penny. The man grabbed the coin and bit down on it. “One sil-

ver penny will buy you one seid with the runes,” the man said. “And that’s all, understand?” Havgan nodded. “Go in, then,” said the man as he drew back the tent
fl
ap.

Havgan entered the tent and stood still for a moment, wait- ing for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He smelled the sweet, cloying scent of burning incense. The tent was illuminated by the soft light of two white candles set on a low table that squat- ted in the middle of the
fl
oor. A woman sat crosslegged behind the table on a small, woven carpet. She wore a dark blue robe, embroidered with rune signs in silver thread. Her head was completely covered by a long, gray veil. He could not make out her features behind the veil, but he could see the
fl
ash of her eyes in the dimness. She gestured with a bony hand, and he sat down behind the table on the small carpet opposite her.

For a time she said nothing, merely studying him behind her veil. At last she spoke, “My name is Anawin. I am the valla. I am the keeper of secrets. I am the teller of truths. I speak for the Wyrd, the three goddesses of fate. I speak for past,

for present, for future. What is it that you wish to know?” Her voice was ageless, neither old nor young, a voice of power and, therefore, a voice to be feared.

But Havgan, undaunted, took another step down the path he was following. “I wish to know if . . . if I will ever be a warrior.”

“This question from a kitchen boy?” she asked quietly. “I’m not. Not just a kitchen boy. I am Havgan. My mother

says that I am her gift from the sea. A gift from the God, she says. And once, one time, something strange happened to me.” He seemed to be babbling. Why was he doing that?

“Yes, something very strange did happen to you. Do you know what you are?”

“No,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “What? What am I?” Her hands were clenched together tightly. “You ask two questions, boy. I will read the seid for you. But you may ask only one question at a time. Do you wish to know if you will be

a warrior? Or do you wish to know what you are?”

And it was then, in that dim tent of the valla, that he made a decision from which he would never turn back, a decision that would remain unchanged, even to the last moments of his life. He would not ask about this dark thing inside. Not ever.

He licked lips that were suddenly dry. “My question is, will I be a warrior?”

“Very well. We will answer that question. You will choose three runes—one for the past, one for the present, one for the future. Then we shall see.”

She picked up a golden bowl from the table,
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lled with

small,
fl
at sticks of wood. On each piece a rune was carved deep into the wood and
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lled with gold. “Close your eyes and choose one piece,” she said. “The
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rst piece is for the past.”

Havgan did as he was told, plunging his hand into the bowl and pulling out a piece of wood. “Open your eyes and lay the rune on the table,” she ordered. Havgan did so and she stared at the wood. “This rune is for your past. It is called
thorn
,” she said quietly. “Your past has been haunted by a dark force. But you have fought this force. And it has been the
fi
ght itself that has become the doorway for you. Now choose the next rune, the rune for the present.”

Once again, he plunged his hand into the bowl, pulled out a piece of wood, and laid it on the table. She leaned forward, studying the rune. “This is
needan
. It is the rune for constraint, for necessity, for what must be. There has been sorrow for you, but it has been needful to make you what you must be. Choose now, the rune for the future. This will tell us if
needan
has de- stroyed your dream. Or only delayed it.”

Taking a deep breath, Havgan did as he was told, and laid the last rune on the table. The valla was silent; the only sound was Havgan’s harsh, uneven breathing. Finally, she looked up. “This last rune is
eho
. It is the rune of change, of progress. Soon there will be a new home for you, a new life.” She hesitated, then went on. “You shall have your dream, kitchen boy. You shall be a warrior.”

As Havgan leapt to his feet, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him back down. “Listen, boy. Listen to me,” she hissed. “You will be a warrior, as you wish. Someday you will be more than that. But I give you a word of warning. Stay away from the sea. Never, never leave this land. If you cross the sea, you will
fi
nd such sorrow as you have never known. Such sorrow as no one should ever know.”

Havgan looked at her uncomprehendingly. What was she

talking about? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter now. He would be a warrior! His wish would come true. That was all that mattered.

She clung to his wrist for another moment, then slowly released him. From behind her veil he thought he saw a crooked smile. “No, you won’t heed me, will you? They never do.” She
fl
apped her arm in a shooing motion. “Go,” she said harshly. “Go.”

He turned and ran from the tent. In a daze of happiness he wandered around the fair. He soon found himself weav- ing through the laughing, singing, and dancing crowd. But he wasn’t really seeing anything. He was thinking only that he would become a warrior. His dream would come true. And he felt that he couldn’t contain his building joy—sure that it would burst out of him in a wild leap, a thing of light, not like the dark thing he always kept inside.

Then he heard it. Later he would say, both to himself and to others, that the man had been talking out loud. But that was a lie. The man had been thinking. And Havgan had heard his thoughts
. I’ll kill his boy. That will teach him. I’ll kill his only son
.

Havgan looked wildly around. A farmer, plainly dressed, leaned against the boards that fenced in the cattle for sale. The man had a thin, scraggly brown beard, and long greasy hair. His face was scarred with the harshness of scratching a liv- ing from reluctant soil. His back was bent as if still under the weight of the plow. And his eyes were focused on the
fi
gures of a man and a boy, stopped in front of the armourer’s stall.
Kill his boy. Like he killed mine
. The man’s thoughts swarmed out like angry bees, buzzing and stinging in Havgan’s head. And then Havgan recognized the two
fi
gures at the stall with their backs to the farmer. It was the Alder and his son, Sigerric.

As Sigerric and his father turned from the stall, the farmer drew his hunting knife in a swift motion, and cocked his hand back to throw. But as fast as the farmer was, Havgan was faster. He leapt at the farmer, crashing into him and spoiling his aim just as the knife was leaving his hand. A woman screamed as the knife arced through the air and plunged into the ground, coming to rest just between Sigerric’s feet.

Havgan wrestled with the farmer, pinning him until the Alder’s warriors came rushing up and hauled them both to their feet. And then the Alder was there in a towering rage. Havgan glanced at Sigerric, who had been standing pale and silent by his father’s side. He saw that Sigerric was looking back at him with his
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ne, dark eyes. But he was unable to tell what the boy was thinking.

The Alder had turned to the farmer. “You, why did you try to kill my son?” His voice was quiet as death.

The farmer replied, his voice shaking with hate, “You killed mine. You killed my boy. He stole a pig from you. Just a pig. You had his hands cut off. After that, he didn’t live long. You killed my boy.”

“I killed your boy,” the Alder repeated, his face devoid of all expression, and his tone, for all the world, sounded as if he had just heard some marginally interesting news. For a moment, Havgan thought that the Alder would let the man go. But the warriors knew better. They gripped the farmer’s arms even tighter. The Alder went on, his quiet voice slicing the still af- ternoon air into jagged pieces. “Killed your boy,” he mused. He held out his hand and a warrior handed him the knife the farmer had thrown. “And so you were going to kill my son. With this?” he asked, holding the knife up in front of the farmer’s

face. “This is what you were going to use? I have a better use for it, you
fi
lth.” And with that, the Alder plunged the knife into the man’s guts, and twisted.

The warriors dropped the body of the dying farmer as if the man were nothing more than a sack of grain. The Alder turned away, ignoring the man’s death moan. “Who are you?” he asked Havgan, his dark eyes intent.

“My name is Havgan, great lord.” “You look familiar.”

“I work in your kitchens, lord.” “Ah. And your father?”

“He is called Hengist. He and my uncle, Horsa, make the salt here. Before that, he was a
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sherman in Dorfas.”

“Yes, of course.” The Alder studied Havgan for a moment. “You don’t have the look of a
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sherman, boy. Or of a salt maker. Or even, I think, of a kitchen boy.”

Havgan knew he had to be careful, or he would end the day with a knife in his own guts. “As my lord says,” he replied, careful to keep his head down to show respect.

“I have a task for you, boy.” “Yes, great lord?”

The Alder gestured to Sigerric. “This is my son. From now on, you are to go with him everywhere. You will be his personal servant. And you will answer with your life for any harm that comes to him.”

Both boys stared at the Alder in astonishment, but he gave them no time to reply. “Off with you both. See the fair. I have business to attend to.” The Alder turned on his heel and left, trailed by his warriors. The two boys stared at each other. Havgan couldn’t believe what had happened to him. He was a

hero. He had thought the Alder was going to make him a war- rior. But, instead, he was to spend the rest of his life fetching and carrying for this boy whom he envied with all his soul. His dream of a warrior was crushed, and he hated this boy with all his heart.

Sigerric studied Havgan, and his dark eyes seemed to be reading Havgan’s thoughts. And then, in a turning that no one but a valla could have foreseen, Sigerric said, “You saved my life. What do you want most of all?”

So Havgan told him. And Sigerric, with serenity far be- yond his years, said simply, “It will be done.”

E
LEVEN YEARS AGO
now, Havgan mused, since Sigerric had said that. As usual, Sigerric had been right. It had been done. Sigerric had begged his father to allow Havgan to train at arms with him. And the Alder had
fi
nally agreed. So well had Hav- gan learned that when the day came, seven years later, to send Sigerric to the Eorl of Cantware’s warband, Havgan had gone, too. He had gone to the Eorl knowing he would have to prove himself, over and over, because he was not the son of a lord. He was the son of a
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sherman, and there were many who would have to be convinced of Havgan’s worth.