Foxmask (62 page)

“What you said,” Keeper's tone indicated he shared her confusion, “about it being customary to wash and change our clothes, I mean . . . I think perhaps there should be more to it. If I remember well.”

“More?”

“Words,” he said. “Words of a promise. Should there not be that? A ring, or other token?”

Creidhe smiled, seeing his pallor and the dark solemnity of his eyes. It was she who must take the initiative here and move things along, nerves or no nerves. “There are words,” she told him. “You must take my hands, like this, and then we should say what we vow to each other, what we promise.” All of a sudden, as Keeper folded her small hands within his long, thin ones, she became very still, aware that his seriousness was entirely appropriate. This moment was a turning point; it was the end of
I
, the beginning of
we
. To experience such a moment was to give a precious gift, and to receive one in return.

“You must speak first.” Keeper's voice was constrained. “I do not know what to say.”

The words came unsought; Creidhe spoke quietly, for Small One lay curled in his blankets not two paces from where they stood with hands clasped and eyes locked. “I promise that I will be yours, and love you, and stand by you as long as we live,” she said, her voice shaking.

Keeper cleared his throat nervously. “I swear that I will guard you and love you always,” he said. “That I will cherish and protect you. My walls will shelter you, my hearth fire warm you, my feet walk beside yours until our journey's ending. I give you my solemn vow.”

“I thought you said you didn't know what to say,” Creidhe whispered. “That was beautiful. Now you've made me cry.”

“Oh, no—oh, no, please don't—”

Alarmed, Keeper put up a hand to wipe away the tear that rolled down her cheek, and was immediately encircled by her arms, for she could not hold back any longer. Her lips against the hollow of his neck, her whole body on fire, she murmured, “We should not end it thus, with our vows half spoken. I would say, I swear this by stone and star . . .” Her mouth brushed his skin, drunken with delight. She felt his hands stroking her back, then pressing her hard against him. And she heard his words, still tender and shy, for all the power in his lean, strong frame.

“I swear it by wind and wing. This promise binds me until death, and beyond. You are my dear one, my goddess, my wife.”

“And you are my lover and my husband, the other part of me. And I think it is time, at last, to try this . . .”

When it came to it, inexpert as they were, they managed to work it out with no difficulty at all. Eager hands dealt swiftly with the impediments of tunic or belt or skirt; ardent lips imprinted their subtle message on the soft skin of shoulder, of breast, of the secret crevices of the body; breath turned to sigh, to gasp, to half-formed murmurings of love and need. It was true, neither had attempted this particular task before, but they were young and healthy, and they were made for each other. Through the narrow opening above the hearth, the waning moon gazed down on the fine patterns of it; his thin, rough hand tracing pathways on her pearly skin; her wheat-fair hair falling like a golden torrent across his wiry body; their lips clinging, teasing, tasting until, all too soon, there was no longer a possibility of delay, and they came together in dark, sweet urgency. Keeper moved as the sea moves, steadily, strongly, the fierce tide of his need held, somehow, in check by his reverence for her, his goddess, his wife all pink and gold and white as he had
first seen her revealed by firelight, yet now, astonishingly, here in his arms, her cheeks flushed with passion, her lips, her hands, the soft readiness of her body inflaming his desire. And Creidhe, who might have expected a little pain, and perhaps some disappointment as is quite usual for a young woman on her wedding night, discovered with a warm flood of delight that in this, she was her father's daughter, generous in the gifts she gave her partner and robust in her enjoyment of those he bestowed in return. So, at last, he thrust hard, and she rose to meet him, and the two of them trembled and cried out as Keeper released himself deep inside her, and Creidhe's own body responded in arching, aching fulfillment. After that, they were silent. Dazed, shocked, disbelieving, they lay in each other's arms as their hearts gradually slowed from the ferocious drumbeat of that moment, and the moon shone above them, remote and impartial, and the small snuffle of the child's breathing was the only sound in the stillness of the summer night.

Keeper moved after a little, rolling to his back, ensuring Creidhe could rest her head on his shoulder and curl against him in what comfort was possible on the earth's hard bed. He pulled the blanket up over her. And very soon she was sleeping like a child herself, her arm stretched across his chest, her hair a soft whisper against his skin, her lips curved in a secret smile. But Keeper was wakeful, staring up at the sky, and his thoughts were on tomorrow, and on next summer, and on all the years to come.

Creidhe woke early. For a little she lay still, considering the sensations in her body, the satisfied aching that was an entirely new feeling, Keeper's warmth against her, his breath against her brow, stirring her hair. He was sound asleep, curled around her as if in protection. It was cold in the hut; the fire had died down to a mound of powdery ash. And Small One was nowhere to be seen, his blanket scrunched in a heap, his boots set neatly by the wall in his own corner. Shivering, Creidhe crept from under the covers, careful not to wake Keeper, and struggled into her skirt and tunic, slinging a warm cloak over the top. She thrust her feet into the small boots that had once been Sula's. There were embers still glowing beneath the blanket of ash; she blew them to life, setting sprigs of dry heather on top to catch the first small flames. There was a supply of driftwood at hand, and turf as well; Keeper was a good provider.

She shuddered, thinking how it would have been if her visions had proved true and he had fallen to Asgrim's forces in the hunt. How could she have managed, alone here with the frail child through the winter? The
thought of that was terrifying. Keeper was a man, strong and capable, skilful and clever. Above all, he possessed a powerful will for his self-appointed mission. But he had been twelve years old when he came here, a child himself. How could one ever comprehend such fierce commitment, such single-minded dedication to this life of struggle and sacrifice? He had lived it alone, but for his small, silent kinsman: alone all these long years with the wind and storm, the stark cliffs and the pounding seas. Perhaps it was the blood he bore, his mother's blood, that made such endurance possible. She had been of the Seal Tribe, that race held in both awe and fear by the folk of Creidhe's homeland. The folk of the Seal Tribe were alien, with their ability to exist on land or in the ocean, their deep fear of iron, their bodies that were similar to those of men and women, yet subtly different. But for his strange, long fingers, his pallor and his deep, changeable eyes, Keeper seemed every bit a man; the joyful completion Creidhe had experienced last night as she savored every corner of his lean, muscular body, the way the two of them had fitted so perfectly together, moving as one, seemed to prove it without doubt. Perhaps he was more Asgrim's son than his mother's child, though he would never recognize that himself. It was not Keeper who was Other here, but Small One, the seer whose mother had borne the blood of both Seal Tribe and Long Knife people, and whose many fathers were the men of the Unspoken, those who would claim him as Foxmask and make him theirs forever by the act of ritual maiming.

A chill passed through Creidhe as she knelt there. The fire had caught the kindling and was burning with a reassuring brightness, setting a warm, rosy light on Keeper's pale features as he slept on. The hunt was over. They were safe for now, this small family so newly yet so unmistakably hers. But there would be other summers and other hunts. Right now, she would feel happier if Small One were back indoors where she could keep an eye on him. It must be freezing cold outside, and he hadn't put his boots on. What was he doing?

She went out into the morning. The mist clung low across the land; she could see for a certain distance, perhaps twenty paces, before the white curtains of damp veiled the hillside completely. Small One, in his doglike form, stood a little way down the slope, ears pricked up as if in anticipation. Creidhe opened her mouth to call him, then bit back her words as shock froze her in place. Emerging through the shreds of mist was a man, a tall, fair-haired man whom she recognized, though the broad cheeks and sunny smile that had marked Sam's countenance in Stensakir were now replaced by a leaner, harder look, the look of a warrior. He had a spear in his hand, and it was plain from the way he gripped the shaft that he had learned how to use it.
Small One turned tail and came pattering back toward her. And now, behind Creidhe and to the left, there was a tiny sound: a single footstep on the small stones of the hillside. She turned and met Thorvald's gaze where he stood not four paces away, bow drawn, mouth set grim, dark eyes wide in chalk-white face, their shocked expression no doubt a perfect reflection of her own. For what was this feeling that surged through her, delight or anguish? Sweet reunion or sheer, mindless terror?

They spoke as one, unsteadily, uttering each a single word: the other's name. Behind her Creidhe could hear Sam striding toward them, less careful now to be quiet; she could hear Small One's little, quick feet. An instant later Keeper was in the doorway of the hut, a look on his face that silenced all of them, for he had the appearance of some ancient, terrible force of nature, dark and implacable. He was completely naked, without weapon or defense, and yet Creidhe saw Thorvald take a step backward. At that moment the image seized her once more, chill and inevitable: it was not yesterday, in the hunt, it was now, this morning, it was true after all, the terrible vision the ancestors had shown her. One night, she had been given, and now the dark thing would unfold, and Small One would be taken. . . . Thorvald's grip on the bow had not wavered for an instant, not even at that moment of heart-stopping recognition. Now she saw his fingers move slightly, preparing to release the arrow straight into Keeper's chest. Now she saw the subtle movement of Keeper's right hand, where he held a little loop of leather, a single round stone, all there had been time to grab as he had awoken suddenly to danger. Behind her, Sam's steps drew closer. Small One now scampered around Creidhe's feet, apparently heedless of peril.

Even the ancestors must be wrong sometimes, surely, surely they could not be so cruel? It must be possible to change things. Why else had she felt such compulsion to come on this voyage? Thorvald's fingers tightened on the bowstring; Keeper's hand came back, ready to release the missile. Creidhe's voice was suddenly released.

“No!” she screamed, and flung herself forward, oblivious to all but the need to stop them, to save them, to save all of them, whatever the cost. She felt herself moving as if on wings, as if on the breath of the west wind, her hands outstretched, her feet hardly touching the earth, such was her fierce urgency. Then there was a searing pain in her left arm, and a numbing blow to her head, and she sank into darkness.

Thorvald was a leader. Even in such a moment, he would not allow himself to forget that. Creidhe lay crumpled on the stony ground. Blood flowed from
her arm, where his own arrow had ripped her flesh, but it was that cleverly hurled stone that had felled her; she had taken the missile meant for him. Sam's face was contorted with anguish, he was about to cry out. With a sharp, economical gesture, Thorvald silenced him. They had a moment to act, no more. For the enemy was off guard. As Creidhe fell, the fellow had uttered a terrible cry like a wild creature's howl of pain, and leaped to her side, heedless of Thorvald and Sam closing in on him. Now he crouched over her limp form, cradling her head, his long fingers touching the place where the stone he had flung with his cunning sling of leather had struck her hard on the temple, raising a swollen, angry lump on the pale skin. His eyes seemed blinded by shock. His hands were visibly trembling, as if what he had done was the worst act of evil imaginable: as if he had brought down a goddess. Beside him the little dog stood watching, round-eyed and still.

Thorvald glanced at Sam and gave a nod. Sam took two steps forward, and as the wild-looking fellow started, awareness returning suddenly to his strange eyes, and began to rise to his feet, the butt of Sam's spear struck him on the back of the head and he sprawled senseless on the ground. The wind stirred his matted hair, its chill touch merciless in the cold, sharp light before dawn. The doglike creature moved closer, whining, and licked the fallen man's white face.

“Creidhe!” gasped Sam, casting the spear down, rolling the warrior's body away with his foot and kneeling to lift her in his arms. “Odin's bones, she was alive all this time, and a prisoner here!” He put his fingers to her neck, and bent his ear to her mouth. “Sweet Freya be praised, she's still breathing! Quick, we must stop this bleeding. What on earth did she think she was doing?”

Thorvald blinked back sudden tears. She was alive. His heart was seized by such a confusion of feelings he could not begin to make sense of them. Easier, then, simply to do those things he knew must be done. Even now, even after this, there was still a mission, and he could not move on until it was completed. “The seer,” he croaked. “We have to find the seer . . .”

“What?” Sam's voice was a snarl. He was tearing a strip from his shirt, big hands deft, binding the slicing wound on Creidhe's arm, taking off his cloak to wrap it around her shoulders. Her hair, unbound, flowed across his knees like a stream of gold.

“We have to find him. He must be close. I'm not leaving here without him.” Turning his back, Thorvald stooped to enter the little hut, where a neat fire burned between stones. The interior was crude but bore signs of domesticity: there was fish ready for cooking, cloaks hanging from the walls, pots
and pans. There was space for sleeping. He saw the way that was laid out, the tumbled blankets where it was clear two had lain but recently, and room for another on the far side, one that wore child-sized boots. He thought of Creidhe lying here at the mercy of that feral creature. All the evidence told him she had not only been captive in this hovel, but had been used: there was no doubt this primitive pallet had been the place where the fellow had had his satisfaction of her. Fury arose in him, nearly overwhelming the discipline he had learned to impose upon himself. He slung the bow on his back and drew the dagger from his belt. The enemy was only one. Deep inside him, he had sensed it all along. This man had condemned that honest soldier, Hogni, to a slow, cruel end by poison. This wretch had stolen Thorvald's dearest of friends, Creidhe, his loyal shadow, whom he had disregarded so many years, had snubbed and snarled at, not recognizing how he loved her until he believed her dead. And all this time she had been here, alive, and captive to this spawn of evil. This wicked creature had taken her, he had despoiled her, he had treated an innocent girl like any common whore. And now he would die. How could it be otherwise?