Foxmask (7 page)

“I'll tell you when we get to Grim and Eira's. But only if you swear to keep it secret.”

“Why should I swear?”

“I'll tell you that when we get there too.” Told just enough and no more,
Creidhe thought, her sister might prove immensely useful both to cover for her own departure and to soften the bad news for Eyvind and Nessa. Judging by the look in Brona's eyes whenever the name Sam was mentioned, it wouldn't be very hard to dream up a return favor. “Now let's take these bags out to the horses and say our goodbyes. I hope it's not going to rain. Make sure you put your winter boots on.”

Eyvind had already left, riding away to Hafnarvagr at dawn with a group of his most trusted men. They would collect Ash on the way. Margaret's taciturn steward was a man valued for his ability to ease the awkwardness of negotiations on tricky subjects by summarizing, clarifying and suggesting useful compromises. Eyvind had once remarked that Ash had acquired this useful skill by living in the same household as Thorvald and Margaret, neither of whom was known for a pliant disposition. If Ash could survive that, the fearsome chieftains of the Caitt should present him with little difficulty.

Nessa bade her daughters farewell with a grave kiss on either cheek. She spoke quietly, first to Brona, then to Creidhe while Brona was hugging her small sister one last time.

“Be safe, daughter,” Nessa said softly, her gray eyes gazing with alarming clarity into Creidhe's own. “This is a branching of the path for you. I've seen it. There will be a choice of ways, and some of them trouble me.”

“You looked in the fire for me?” Creidhe whispered. Her mother had once been a powerful priestess. She'd given that up to wed Eyvind, but the skills she had learned were deep and enduring. She had helped to train Eanna in the arts, and Creidhe knew her mother still used them herself when the need arose. The images in flame, the voices in earth, the song of wind and waves each told a little of the ancestors' wisdom and the paths ahead. “What have you seen?”

“A journey. A finding and losing. Death. Love. Hurt. I cannot tell if this is a tale encompassed in a single waxing and waning of the moon, or over a far longer span. There's a strangeness and terror in it that makes me want to keep you here at home, safe where you belong. But I can't. The ancestors don't lie to us.”

Creidhe shivered. Her mother's eyes were shadowed now.

“Have you told Father about this? About what you saw?”

“No,” Nessa said.

“I'll stay home if you want.” Creidhe's words tumbled out in a rush. “You don't look well. I did wonder—”

Nessa smiled, and the sudden chill was gone as quickly as it had come. “I'm fine, daughter, and I'll do well enough here with Ingigerd to keep me
company until you girls come home. Enjoy yourselves; it will do you good to have some dancing and fun. Perhaps, for you, the path branches only as far as the Northern Isles and a certain fine young man. What happens will be your own choice. Now go on, the men are waiting. Is this your bundle? What have you got in here, a loom and a sack of wool?”

Then small Ingigerd began to cry, and Nessa gathered her up with soothing words, and all at once it was time to go. Creidhe looked back over her shoulder as her mother's slender figure grew smaller and smaller, standing in the doorway with Ingigerd in her arms and a brave smile on her face not quite concealing the unease in her eyes. A shiver ran through Creidhe. How long would it be before she saw them again? And what, oh what would her mother say when she learned Creidhe had sailed away in a little boat toward the edge of the world?

In the end it was almost too easy. The first night of the wedding celebrations, Sam came up from the settlement in his best tunic with the red embroidery and joined in the dancing. It was quite a party; Grim's wife Eira had not stinted on the ale, and Grim himself had slaughtered a couple of pigs to complement the usual spread of fish and baked goods. A woman called Zaira, who was famous for her cakes, had made a splendid confection with bere flour and honey, and nuts and spices brought over on a knarr from Norway. The goods had their origin in markets far east, places so far away they were like something in a dream. Zaira herself had come from just such a distant land. She was a fine dancer and, as her husband Thord was away at the same council as Eyvind, she partnered one man after another with her dark hair flying and her red lips smiling. She was a little flirtatious, Creidhe judged, but there was no harm in it. Scarred, gap-toothed Thord, a man built like a monolith, had kept this lively woman's heart since he'd been awarded her as some sort of prize, long ago in another land. Pairings did not follow any strict pattern of culture or kinship in the Light Isles. Look at the bride herself: her father had once been a Wolfskin warrior, and her mother, much younger, bore island blood at its purest. Look at Eyvind and Nessa. Creidhe herself was part of two races. A suitor who could show he was strong and good, and able to provide for a family, might gain approval regardless of his origins. It was a little different for Creidhe and her sisters. If one's sons were to be some kind of kings, one could not wed just any man, though it might seem to some people that Nessa herself had done just that. Eyvind was a Norseman, and had once been a warrior servant of Thor. His people had
been the enemy, the invaders who had brought devastation to the islands before valor and magic had put an end to that brutal season of conflict. But Eyvind had been as carefully chosen as any princeling or Jarl. Both Nessa and her old teacher, Rona, had subjected him to trials of their own, trials in which he had proved his mettle not just as warrior but as stalwart protector, strong in courage and goodness, wise and loving. If ever a man were fit to be a father of kings, it was he.

Creidhe sighed. Today she had extracted Brona's promise of silence, and in return made a promise of her own. Yes, she had told her sister, if Sam asked you-know-what, Creidhe would say no. In addition, she'd do everything she could to ensure Sam turned his attentions to Brona herself, who was nearly fifteen after all, and would be quite ready for marriage in a year or two. Everyone knew Sam wanted to settle down as soon as he was satisfied the house was cozy enough; he was saving his profits and making it all perfect for just that purpose. Seeing the look on Brona's face, Creidhe knew her sister's determination. It was going to be Brona lying under those fine woolen blankets, cooking a hearty meal for her man's return and providing a bouncing baby boy for the new cradle, and not any other girl on the islands.

So Creidhe promised, and did not say perhaps a fisherman was not the right father for a king, however pleasant a fellow he might happen to be. And in return Brona gave her word to keep quiet for a certain length of time, long enough so it would be too late for someone to take a boat and set off in pursuit with any likelihood of finding the
Sea Dove
in open water. After that, Brona would tell Nessa and Eyvind what Creidhe had instructed her to tell, a task that would demand no little courage. Creidhe knew the bargain was unfair. Though Brona wouldn't believe it, she'd never wanted Sam for herself. She liked him, everyone did, but Creidhe could never put another man before Thorvald. It was as simple as that. A pity Sam himself didn't see it the same way; he was coming across the room toward her with a purposeful tread now, and there was a certain look in his steady blue eyes that worried her. Brona was down the other end with a group of girls. Brona was watching.

“Will you dance, Creidhe?” Sam asked politely, sketching a little bow that, from another man, would have looked ridiculous. Sam had a natural dignity and could get away with it. Creidhe took his hand and they moved into the circle. Brona was frowning. This was not part of any bargain.

The music struck up again, and the circle began to move this way and that, hands clasped, feet light or not-so-light in the steps of a chain dance. There was a lot of noise, folk chattering, whistles and drum in lively discourse, boots stamping on the earthen floor.

“You're looking well, Creidhe,” Sam yelled above the general din.

“You, too,” Creidhe shouted back. “I didn't think you'd be here.”

“I like a good party.” Sam grinned as the circle broke into couples and began a weaving in-and-out motion.

“A late night,” Creidhe observed, “if you have to take the boat out at dawn, or before.”

“Ah, well,” said Sam, whirling her around in a circle rather faster than the other men were doing with their partners, “I might take a day off, work on the cottage.”

Creidhe nodded. She needed to ask just the right questions, not to sound too inquisitive. “Will you be coming again tomorrow night? Grim says there will be games; I don't know what kind.”

Sam drew her adroitly back into the circle. Now Brona was on his other side, partnered by young Hakon, Grim's son. Sam winked, and a delicate blush rose to Brona's cheeks. Sam turned back to Creidhe.

“Games, is it? Well, I suppose I'll miss those. Going on a bit of a trip; I may be away a few days, perhaps longer. Up north. No late night for me tomorrow; heading off at sunup next day.”

“Oh?” Creidhe said lightly, though her heart was thudding with excitement; it had been easy, after all—he'd come right out with the information she needed. Only another day to wait, and then she would creep out while the games were on, and . . .

The pattern of the dance changed again, and she found herself with a tongue-tied farmhand while, behind her, Sam danced with Brona. A glance over her shoulder showed her the two of them were not talking at all; indeed, her normally voluble sister appeared quite lost for words, though Brona cut a graceful figure as she moved to the music, her large gray eyes fixed on her partner's with a sweetly solemn expression. Brona's pale complexion was still touched with pink in the cheeks. At least Sam was looking at her. It was a start. The unfortunate part of it was that Brona did not quite comprehend Sam's role in the expedition to come; how could Creidhe tell her that she was, indeed, running off with the object of her sister's affections, though not at all in the way Brona would have understood it? There would be some explaining to do when she got back.

Well, fate had delivered exactly what she wanted. Games tended to be noisy, and accompanied by a generous flow of ale. Nobody would notice her slipping away. She must trust Brona to hold her tongue until long after it was discovered she was missing. Brona knew she would be with Thorvald and why, and the general sort of direction they were going in. As long as Eyvind
did not leap into a boat and head straight after them—always possible—then the voyage would unfold as it must. So she just had to creep out of Grim's house, find the
Sea Dove
, get on board and hide, put up with a certain amount of discomfort until the right time came, and then . . . She would deal with that part of it when it happened, Creidhe told herself. She must put her fears to the back of her mind; that the weather would be bad, that the boat would sink, that they would sail on and on and never find their destination. She must set aside the guilt; she could not afford to picture her father furious, her mother frantic, Margaret grieving, Brona in trouble because of her. If she thought about these things, she might be tempted to change her mind. And that inner voice, the powerful, deep voice that was both part of her and at the same time outside her, was making it very clear that she must go on with this. She had made the decision. Thorvald needed her, and she would be there for him, as so often in the past her friend had been for her. She would be strong. As for the aftermath, she would deal with that when it came.

Frightening, it was, he had to admit it, frightening and exhilarating, as the
Sea Dove
fought a precarious way northwestward, now sliding down to the dark trough of a wave, as if she would carry them relentlessly on into the very depths of this watery kingdom; now riding high, steeply rising over the peak of a monstrous surge that surely, surely she could not breast, surely they'd be smashed in splinters. Sam barked out terse instructions and Thorvald, tight-jawed in a strange blend of excitement and terror, obeyed them as best he could, fighting to keep the quivering boat on some sort of stable course, and realizing it had not been very wise to talk Sam out of taking a third man with them from Stensakir. The plan had been to sail as far as the Northern Isles and pick up a crewman or two who didn't know either of them. That way they'd have sufficient numbers for the difficult bit. The trouble was, things were already more difficult than anything Thorvald had experienced. The sky was wild with shredded clouds; the sea was a fractious monster with a mind and a will there was no gainsaying. If it wanted to gobble them up, men, craft, provisions, it would do so as casually as a dog snatches a morsel dropped from the table.

In truth, Thorvald loved it. The gale whipped all confusion from his mind; the ache in his back, the blisters on his palms, the constant struggle to keep firm footing emptied him of all but the will to stay alive just a little longer and not lose Sam's fine boat for him. He was on a mission. It was good; today he was a man.

Their course was somewhat farther westward than Thorvald had expected. Once out of the sheltered waters of the Light Isles they'd made good speed, for the wind had been favorable for a straight course to their destination. After a quick debate with himself, Sam had made the decision: they would head northwest, abandoning the plan to go by the Northern Isles and pick up one or two extra men, since that would add at least two days to the trip either way. Things were going well; they were managing. And the sooner they got there, Sam said, the sooner they'd be home again. He didn't want his deckhand defecting in the absence of paid work; it would take him too long to train another. When they found these islands, Thorvald could talk to his mysterious father, Sam would do a spot of fishing, and then they'd come home. From half moon to full should see the trip accomplished and the two of them back where they should be.