Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (6 page)

“Damian says the young man is Leo Porphyrogenito, the emperor's nephew. The woman is the Cretan princess. Women of that isle wear a palla that displays their charms. Sensible custom,” Erik said. “No disappointments later.”

Valdis stuck out her tongue at him.

“What about the older man?” he asked, totally unperturbed by her rude gesture.

“Darker skin. Even though his beard is shot with silver, he's still a hawk of a man. Well dressed in a flowing robe. The way it hangs it must be silk; very fine silk.” In the short time she'd been in Damian's household, Valdis learned to appreciate the feel of that lustrous fabric on her skin. “He wears a jewel on each finger of his hand.”

“The silk merchant,” Damian said under his breath, nodding as if the information Erik repeated only confirmed a suspicion, and then he murmured another order.

Erik took the seeing glass back from Valdis. “The eunuch says that's enough for now. He wants you to enjoy the show.”

Below them, a mock battle raged purporting to show the emperor, Basil the Bulgar-Slayer, pushing back the unwashed hordes from the borders of his realm. The “Huns” were defeated with no apparent casualties to the Byzantine legions.

“I'll wager it wasn't as easy as that,” Erik said as he watched the set piece with the eye of a warrior.

Valdis cast him a sideways glance. His mouth was drawn in a hard line, his jaw a block of granite. Controlled power rippled through his honed body. Even at rest, Erik was formidable. In the grip of the black
berserkr
rage, he'd be terrifying, Valdis decided.

“Oh!” Something brushed against her ankle and she felt a wet tongue on her skin. It was the little dog again. She bent and scooped it up before it could shy away. “What are you doing here?”

“Probably hoping you'll drop something again.” Erik didn't reach over to pet the animal, but his face lighted with a quick grin. “Looks like you've made at least one friend in this city.”

“Only one?” she asked pointedly. “We've spent weeks practically living in each other's pockets. You could have been killed protecting me from those huge cats today. Are you telling me I may not consider you a friend?”

He leaned toward her, resting one of his brawny forearms on the marble balustrade. What was it she read beneath the ice of his gray eyes? Pain, certainly, but there was something else. Wariness, the caution of a wild creature who dares not approach from fear of what she might do to him.

Or what he might do to her.

With obvious effort, he turned away to peer down at the oval track. “Trust me, Valdis. You do not want to be my friend.”

Her chest constricted at his rebuff. She should have known better. Even though he spoke her language, she couldn't trust this Northman. Hadn't he told her so in a dozen ways since he took up the job of teaching her Greek? She could rely on no one but herself.

The little dog wiggled, trying to free itself. After Valdis crooned small endearments and held it close, the animal ceased struggling and nuzzled the crook in her arm, obviously deciding she was trustworthy. She'd felt so alone since she was ripped from her homeland, it was comforting to have the warmth of another beating heart close to hers, even if it only belonged to a mangy stray.

A guttural chant started in the lower tiers, where the dust-choked air nearly blocked the patrons' view of what was happening in the grand oval. Even the upper ring of well-heeled watchers took up the echoing cry. The crowd was weary of the preliminaries. They demanded the main event.

From the far end of the arena, four chariots burst into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. The horses, four to a team, were caparisoned in garish-hued silk with plumes bobbing from headpieces. The drivers wore matching silk cloaks that billowed out like banners as they circuited the oval, drinking in the crowd's admiration. After one complete circle, the racers skidded to a stop before the emperor's box to make their obeisance to the Ruler of the World. Hostlers stripped the showy finery from the horses, leaving the animals dancing in their traces. The drivers divested themselves of their cloaks and shining breastplates. The men leaped up onto the chariots, oiled skin gleaming, clad in naught but a strip of silk about their loins in the colors of emerald, sapphire, ivory and jet.

“Every guild and faction in the city backs one team or another,” Erik explained. “Rivalry is as intense on the field as in the marketplace. Unlike the North, where a man puts his hand to whatever pleases him, the trades are closely regulated here. A linen merchant may not sell wool. A silversmith can lose a hand for working in gold. It's difficult for a man of trade to better himself unless he rises in his guild to a position of leadership. And even so, a cotton-monger will never rise above a silk trader.”

“What does that have to do with a chariot race?” Valdis asked as the teams lined up, tensed to start.

“This oval is the most level playing field in the Empire. A man may never best his more fortunate rival in the market, but his chariot team may upset even the emperor's chosen Greens,” Erik explained. “A street sweeper will walk with a swagger in his step for a week if his team runs well.”

“That's ridiculous,” Valdis said.

“Since when are people not ridiculous?” Erik asked. “I'm not trying to explain why to you. I'm just telling you what is, whether it makes any sense or not. Bear in mind, the Greeks think we are just as odd as we find them. I suspect we probably are.”

The horns suddenly brayed and the crowd roared. The horses leaped to a gallop, pounding around the oval, the great muscles in their haunches bunching and flattening. With reins lashed to their powerful forearms, the drivers strained to direct their teams in the correct path. The ivory team took the second turn too sharply and the chariot slid around the end of the
spina
on one whirring wheel.

Valdis watched with a thundering heart, totally caught up in the excitement. The golden spokes of the chariots blurred and sent flashes of light with each rotation. A tingle crept up her spine and the little dog in her arms grew restive, squirming to be released. She set the animal on the ground and turned her attention back to the arena, where the race was still hotly contested.

Horses plunged, sixteen abreast, around the broad oval, fighting for supremacy on the ever tightening turns. One team edged ahead of the others.

She tracked the Green leader, her gaze drawn to the rhythmic pulses of sunlight flashing from the gilded chariot wheels. Her whole being throbbed in concert with the repetitive glimmer. Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, a tunnel yawned before her and she found it difficult to draw breath.

The little dog was yipping, tugging at her hem, demanding her attention. His frantic barks held a warning tone.

“Gods, no,” she mouthed, but no sound came.

The glittering undulations intensified and she stood rigid as the Raven of Darkness blotted out her sky. Its talons sank deep into her brainpan with a raucous shriek, rending her from soul to spirit, and she fell into the blackness of her curse.

“
Dyrr
.” His voice pierced through the choking mist with a masculine rumble
. “Angan ... girnd.”

Someone was calling to her, beckoning her with honey-tongued words.
My precious, my delight, my desire ...
Who was naming her these things? Even if she didn't recognize the speaker, how could she ignore such a well-spoken summons? Valdis struggled toward full awareness as a submerged swimmer claws toward the surface.

A face swirled in her darkness, his features indistinct, his eyes dark with concern. Another voice spoke, barely concealed excitement in his crisp tone. She understood not a word and spiraled downward, convulsing into the void.

Light split the blackness in jagged pulses. She couldn't see him, but she felt someone with her, someone's arms about her, holding her safe from the Raven, keeping the glistening wings at bay.

The phantom carrion bird retreated and she sailed on an obsidian sea, not a flick of silver on the smooth surface. The ship dissolved in the dark water and she sank into the oblivion of forgetfulness.

No light, no desire, no time or space. She winked out of existence as completely as the flame of a snuffed lamp.

“Valdis.” His voice reached down to her and lifted her through layers of mist and darkness, kindling the guttering candle of her soul and coaxing it to full brightness. When she came to herself again, she vaguely realized that she was no longer in the Hippodrome, though she could still hear the crowd in the distance, thousands of hearts beating in unison, roaring like a single being.

“Valdis, come back.”

She took a shuddering breath and smelled a mixture of horseflesh and leather—a curiously comforting masculine scent. Strong arms banded around her, cradling her head against the solid expanse of a broad chest. The great muscle of her protector's heart galloped like a chariot team, pounding a rhythm of controlled panic in her ear.

“Valdis,
dyrr.”

Her eyelids fluttered open and she felt cool blades of grass tickling her ankles. The little dog whined and nosed the curve of her calf. She found herself snugged between someone's splayed legs, being rocked as if she were a child. Then someone pressed his lips to the crown of her head like a benediction.

She sighed. Her whole being roused to life again, her senses stirring one by one. Wherever she'd been, whichever of the nine worlds her wandering spirit had seen, she had no clear memory of it. All she was left was a slight headache and a strangely restful heaviness, as if she'd slept deeply for the space of about a week.

Then she heard the crowd in the Hippodrome again and realized the race was still in progress. Not much time had passed while she traveled along
Yggdrasil’s
outstretched limbs. At least the World Tree's vast trunk and roots had allowed her to find her way back to
Midgard
, the world she knew. She could have easily wakened in
Niflheim
, the iciest corner of
Hel.

Perhaps the god of this city, the Christian's three-headed deity, had spared her. She could only feel gratitude for whoever was responsible for pulling her back from the depths.

She looked up at the man who still held her tightly. Erik's eyes were closed and she suspected he was praying to whichever god he judged most likely to listen.

“I'm here.” Her throat was raw and her voice strangely hoarse. She must have cried out in the throes of the fit. Her sister had told her all the horrible things she'd done when the Raven came for her in Birka— ranting and tearing at her hair, spittle flying as she convulsed on the ground. She couldn't really blame her family for looking on in horror along with the
jarl
and his son. A witching was no light matter. The spell could easily travel to another if anyone dared venture too close.

Yet this man Erik held her as she struggled with her curse. Her raving hadn't repulsed him. He stayed by her and protected her, even from herself.

Of course, she wouldn't put any stock in the honeyed words he'd used to call her back. But perhaps she did have another friend in Miklagard besides the little black stray.

“This is even better than I hoped,” Damian said as he paced the length of his apartments. “I've heard of the falling sickness, of course, but to see it in full-blown power... well, nothing could match it for dramatic impact. Now we just need to teach her to make use of the spells.”

Erik watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Valdis's chest, satisfied she was out of danger. She'd been lucid enough when he and Damian bundled her into a sedan chair and hustled her back to the palace before the crowd poured out of the Hippodrome. She even insisted the stinking little dog be allowed to come with her. According to Valdis, the dog had tried to warn her of the onset of the spectacular fit. The animal had been bathed and trimmed by one of the eunuch's perfumed servants and was now resting in a sodden heap on the foot of Valdis's couch.

“Wait a moment,” Erik said as he tucked the coverlet over Valdis's sleeping form. “You're thinking this ... this whatever it is, is somehow a good thing?”

“Absolutely.” Damian's face was flushed with excitement. “In the old Rome, some of our most powerful leaders were touched by the same malady and the ancients believed them kissed by the gods.”

“Odin spare me from such a kiss,” Erik said. The evil god's kiss had tossed Valdis into a maelstrom, her body convulsing rigidly. He'd never seen the like.

“And in the new Rome,” Damian went on, “such an occurrence will cause those who wish to believe in such things to proclaim Valdis a seeress of uncommon ability.”

“But she says she sees nothing when the spell comes upon her,” Erik protested.

“None but we know that,” Damian said. “When the time is right, she will see what I tell her to see and we will make her prophecy come to pass.”

“You want her to pretend to foretell the future.” Northmen were no strangers to guile, but Byzantine thought held more crooks and twists than the most serpentine river. Every conversation held a secret meaning and each promise a stinging surprise. “To what possible end?”

“To the greater glory of the new Rome, of course.” Damian bared his teeth at Erik in what passed for a smile, but his eyes were guarded. “You needn't concern yourself with specifics. Your only task is to school her to fluency in our tongue as soon as possible.”

Erik looked back at the couch, where Valdis lay at peace in a deep natural sleep. He wondered if his harsh tutelage had in any way contributed to the convulsing fit Valdis suffered. If so, he was determined to train her with a lighter hand in the future.

But he still needed to keep her at arm's length, especially now. He was shocked at the endearments pouring from his own lips as he tried to lure her back to the land of light. Just because she roused a measure of tenderness in him didn't mean he'd be any less a danger to her.