The Last Light of the Sun (46 page)

“What shall I say?”

Somehow it had been turned around. He had walked over to give comfort. Perhaps he had; perhaps for some men this was the only access they had to being eased.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Then we’ll pray.” Aeldred hesitated, a thinking pause, not an uncertain one. “Ceinion, we will do what we can. A ship to Owyn in Cadyr. They’ll sail to him under a truce flag with a letter from me and one from you. Tell him what his son is doing. He might cut off an Erling party on its way back to their ships, if they do go to your shores. And I’ll send word north to the Rheden Wall. They can get a message across, if someone is there to receive it … ”

“I have no idea,” Ceinion said.

He didn’t. What happened in those lands around the Wall was murky and fog-shrouded, beyond the power and grasp of princes. The valleys and the black hills kept their secrets. He was thinking about something else.
On their way back to the ships.

If they were doing that, the Erlings, it would be over at Brynnfell. And here he was, knowing it,
seeing
it, unable to do more than … unable to do anything. He knew why Alun had gone into the forest. Standing still was very nearly intolerable, it could shatter the heart.

He would pray for Athelbert, and for Owyn’s son in the wood, but not for those he most dearly loved. He’d done that once, prayed for her with all the gathered force of his being, holding her in his arms, and she had died.

He was aware of Aeldred’s gaze. Told himself to be worthy of his office. The king had lost a lifelong friend and his son was gone.

“They may get through … in the forest,” he said, again.

Aeldred shook his head, but calmly now. “By the mercy and grace of Jad, I have another son. I was a younger son as well, and my brothers died.”

Ceinion looked at the other man, then beyond him at the sea. On that windblown strand he made the sun disk gesture that began the rites. The king knelt before him. Down along the beach where the fires were, the men of the
fyrd
saw this and, one by one, sank to their knees to share the evening invocation, spoken in that hour when Jad of the Sun began his frozen journey under the world to battle dark powers and malign spirits, keeping as many of them as possible away from his mortal children until the light could come to them again, at dawn.

Keeping most of them away. Not all.

It was not the way of things in the world that men and women could ever be entirely shielded from what might seek and find them in the dark.

G
iven what followed, it might have been a mistake to stop for what remained of the night, but at the time there hadn’t seemed to be much choice.

All three men were hardened and fit and two of them were young, but they’d been awake for two days and nights and in the saddle. In this forest, Thorkell had judged it more dangerous to keep moving in exhaustion, tired horses stumbling, than to stop. They could be attacked as easily while moving, in any case.

He made it easier for the others, asking a respite for himself, though he undermined that somewhat by offering to take the first watch by the pool they found. They filled their flasks. Water was important. Food would become a problem when his small supply ran out. They hadn’t decided if they would hunt here; probably they’d have to, though Thorkell knew what his grandmother would have said about killing in a spirit wood.

All three of them drank deeply; the horses did the same. The water was cool and sweet. There was no thought of making a fire. Athelbert hadn’t eaten at all; Thorkell gave him bread in the darkness, some of the cold meat. They tethered the horses. Then both princes, Anglcyn and Cyngael, fell asleep almost immediately. Thorkell approved. You needed to be able to do that; it was a skill, a task, your turn on watch would come soon enough.

He stretched out his legs, leaned back against a tree, his hammer across his lap. He was weary but not sleepy.
It was very black, sight was next to useless. He would have to listen, mostly. The dog came over, sank down beside him, head on paws. He could see the faint gleam of its eyes. He didn’t actually like this dog, but he had a sense that there would be no hope of achieving this journey without Alun ab Owyn’s hound.

He made his muscles relax. Shifted his neck from side to side, to ease the pain there. So many years, so many times he’d done this: night watch in a dangerous place. He’d thought he was through with it. No need to be on guard behind an oak door on Rabady Isle. Life twisted on you—or you twisted it for yourself. No man knew his ending, or even the next branching of his path.

Branching paths. In the quiet of the wood, his mind went back. That often happened when you were awake alone at night.

Once, in fog, on a raid in Ferrieres, he and Siggur and a small band of others had found themselves separated from the main party on a retreat to the coast. They’d gone too far inland for safety, but Siggur had been drinking steadily on that raid (so had Thorkell, truth be told) and they’d been reckless with it. They’d also been young.

They literally stumbled upon a sanctuary they hadn’t even known about: a chapel and outbuildings hidden in a knife of a valley east of Champieres. They saw the chapel lights through mist. A sanctuary of the Sleepless Ones, at their endless vigil. There’d have been no lights to see them by, otherwise.

They attacked, screaming Ingavin’s name, in the dense, blurred dark. Foolish beyond any words it was, for they were being pursued by the young Prince Carloman, who’d already proven himself a warrior, and it was not a time to be staying to raid, let alone with a dozen men.

But that branching path that had separated them from the body of their company made Thorkell Einarson’s
fortune. They killed twenty clerics and their cudgel-bearing servants in that isolated valley, seeing terror flare whitely in men’s eyes before they fled from the northmen.

Laughing, blood-soaked and blood-drunk, they set fire to the outbuildings and took away all the sanctuary treasure they could carry. Those treasures were astonishing. That hidden complex turned out to be a burial place of royalty, and what they discovered in the recesses of side chapels and surrounding tombs was dazzling.

Siggur had found his sword there.

Being Siggur, he decreed, when they made their way back to the ships and found the others, that this portion of the raid’s plunder belonged only to those who had been there. And being Siggur, he had no trouble enforcing his will. Every young man in Vinmark wanted to be one of the Volgan’s shipmates in those days. They’d already begun using that name for him.

Thorkell supposed, sitting in darkness, entirely sober, that it could be fairly said that that friendship had shaped his life. Siggur had been very young when they’d started raiding, and Thorkell had been even younger, in awe that such a man seemed to consider him a companion, want him at his side, on a battlefield or tavern bench.

Siggur had never been a thoughtful, considering sort. He’d led by leading, by being at the front of every assault: faster, stronger, a little bit wilder than anyone else—except perhaps for the occasional
berserkir
who’d join them at times. He’d drunk more than any of them, awake and upright after the rest were snoring at benches or sprawled among the rushes of an ale-room floor.

Thorkell remembered—it was a well-known tale—the morning Siggur had come out of an inn with another raider, a man named Leif, after a full night of drinking, and challenged the other to a race—along the oars of their ships, moored side by each in the harbour.

Nothing like it had ever been done before. No one had ever
thought
of such a thing. Amid laughter and wagers flying, they roused and assembled their bleary-eyed men, had them take their places on board and level their oars straight out. Then, as the sun came up, the two leaders began a race, up one side of their ships, leaping from oar to oar, and back down the other side, swinging across by using the dragon-prows.

Leif Fenrikson didn’t even make it to the prow.

Siggur went around his ship twice, at speed. That was Siggur at his best: blazoning his own prowess, and also showing that of his chosen companions, for a wobbling or uneven oar would have made him fall, no doubting it. Twice around he ran that course, with Thorkell and every other man on board holding steady for him as he raced alone, bare-chested, around and around them, laughing for the joy of being young and what he was, in morning’s first light.

It changed over the years, for so much of youth cannot linger, and ale can bring rage and bitterness as easily as laughter and fellowship. Thorkell realized at some point that Siggur Volganson was never going to stop drinking and raiding, that he couldn’t. That there was nothing in Ingavin’s offered middle-world for him but cresting white foam waves in sunlight or storm, appearing out of the sea to beach the ships and ride or run inland to burn and kill. It was the
doing
that mattered. Gold, silver, gems, women, the slaves they took—these were only the world’s reasons. Access to glory.

Salt spray and lit fires and testing himself again and again, endlessly, those were the things that drove him all his too-short life.

Never saying a word about these thoughts, Thorkell rowed and fought beside him until the end, which came
in Llywerth, as everyone knew. Siggur had heard that the Cyngael were gathering a force to meet his ships, and had led them ashore regardless, for the joy of battling what might be there.

They were outnumbered there by the sea, a host assembled from each of the Cyngael’s warring provinces. He offered single combat to them, a challenge hurled at all three princes of the Cyngael but taken up by a young man who was no prince at all. And Brynn ap Hywll, big and hard and sober as a Jad-mad cleric on a fasting retreat, had altered the northlands entirely by killing Siggur Volganson on that strand—and taking the sword he’d carried since the raid by Champieres.

It was the death Siggur had always sought. Thorkell knew it, even then, that same day. The only ending Siggur could have imagined. The infirmities of age, sober governing, kingship … could not even be conceived. But by then Thorkell already knew it was not his own idea of a life and its iron-swift ending. He’d yielded to the Cyngael, in a sudden stunned emptiness. In time he made his escape, for servitude wasn’t his vision of existence either. He crossed the Wall and the Anglcyn lands and then autumn seas home. And then he
made
a home. It was his share of the gems and gold carried away from that chanced-upon valley in Ferrieres that bought him land and a farm on Rabady, in the year he decided it was time.

Rabady Isle was as good a place as any, and better than most, to shape a second life. He found a wife (and no man, living or dead, ever heard him say a word against her), had the two daughters, then his boy. Married the girls off when they were of age, and well enough, across on the mainland. Watched the boy—clever and with some spirit—as he grew. He did some more raiding in those years, chose ships and companions and landings. Salt got in the blood, the Erlings said. The sea was hard
to leave behind you. But no wintering over for him, no grand designs of conquest. Sober captains, neatly planned journeys.

Siggur was dead; Thorkell wasn’t going back to that time. He crossed the seas for what there was in it, for what he could bring home. No man would have said he was other than prosperous, Thorkell Einarson of Rabady Isle, once a companion of the Volgan himself. A good-enough life, with a hearth and a bed at the end, it seemed, not a blade-death on a distant shore.

No man living knew his end.

Here he was, overseas again, in a wood where no man should be. And how had that come to pass? The oath sworn to ap Hywll’s wife, yes, but he’d broken oaths over the years. He’d done so when he first escaped the Cyngael, hadn’t he, after surrendering?

He could have found a way to do the same thing here. Could do it right now. Kill these two sleeping princes—in a place where they’d be
expected
to die, where no one would ever find them—make his way back out of the wood, wait for the
fyrd
to go north, as they surely would, start across country to Erlond, where his own people had settled. In a still-forming colony like that one there would be many men with stories they didn’t want told. That was how a people’s boundaries expanded, how they moved on from starting points. Questions didn’t get asked. You could make a new life. Again.

He shook his head, to clear it, order his mind. He was tired, not thinking well. He didn’t
have
to kill the other two. Could just rise up now, while they slept, start back east. He snorted softly, amused at himself. That still wasn’t right. He didn’t even need to sneak away. Could wake them, bid farewell, invoke Jad’s blessing on the two of them (and Ingavin’s, inwardly). Alun ab Owyn had
told
him to leave. He didn’t have to be here at all. Except
for the one thing. The awareness that lay under the folly of this night like a seed in hard spring ground.

His son was on those dragon-ships, and he was there because Thorkell had killed a man in a tavern a little more than a year ago.

If you were a particular kind of man (Thorkell wasn’t) you could probably throw away a good deal of time thinking about fathers and sons; time better spent with an ale flask and honest dice. He couldn’t truthfully say he’d put his mind very often to the boy over the years on Rabady. He’d taught him something of fighting, a father owed that duty. If pressed he’d have pointed to a house, land, a position on the isle. Bern was to have had all those when his father died, and wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t it more than Thorkell had ever had?

He didn’t carry many memories of the two of them together as the boy grew up. Some men liked to talk, spin tales at their own hearth or a tavern’s—spin them so far from truth you could laugh. His first tavern killing had come about because he
had
laughed at someone doing that. Thorkell wasn’t a tale-spinner, never had been. A man’s tongue could bring him trouble more quickly than anything else. He kept his counsel, guarded memories. If others in Rabady told the boy tales about his father—truth or lies—well, Bern would learn to sort those for himself, or he wouldn’t. No one had taken Thorkell in hand as a boy and taught him how you handled yourself when you came ashore in a thunderstorm on rocks and found armed men waiting for you.