Page 14

W e prepared the beehives for summer as the snow melted.

I followed Eilith through a stretch of forest beyond the fenced fields to a small meadow where three rows of shapes covered in waxed canvas stood, still capped with a layer of ice the consistency of corn kernels.

We brushed away the snow and pulled off the covers one by one to reveal conical woven baskets with domed tops standing upside down on small, raised wooden platforms. A little hole near the bottom served as the bee’s doorway, although the inhabitants were all quiet now.

More signs of spring followed the revival of the bees.

Rose, Eilith’s big wolfdog, had been growing larger in the belly for weeks.

She waddled about when she followed us, and never strayed too far from the steading.

Her pups were born on a rainy night, tucked away in the safe corner of the stable; I heard their light whimpers and yips when I came to milk the goats in the morning.

Rose panted up at me with a proud smile as I surveyed them.

Three heather-gray like Rose, two stark white, and one deep black. Healthy, rotund, and adorable.

The snow cleared. The road was a muddy mess, but passable, so Eilith and I loaded up her small cart, harnessed it to her Fjord horse, and headed into town to the market in the darkness of an early morning.

Skeioholm was much larger than the village I grew up near. The central market square was not really central to the city at all, but near the harbor. Seagulls wheeled overhead, screeching in harsh staccato into the morning air above us as we walked through muddy streets toward the ocean.

The harbor was bigger than I’d expected.

Several long docks stretched away into a deep, sheltered port, tucked behind a point which formed a natural breakwater.

Vessels of various sizes were moored at the docks, some busy loading or unloading.

Most of the ships were long and sleek, built in the narrow northern style, with figureheads depicting snarling wyrms or naked maidens with ample breasts.

Some of the boats were wider, with deeper hulls designed to transport heavy cargo over long distances.

Flags of all colors and symbols flew from masts tall and short.

I recognized the deep blue with a white spiral that represented Seonaid, and some with a red rose, the symbol of the country of Elvik, which absorbed Seonaid long before I was born.

It smelled of fresh salt, not-so-fresh fish, wet wood, and low tide.

The streets were busy, and the city itself showed all the marks of a community sustained by successful trade.

The market was no exception. Rows of vendors had already set up for the day, all organized around a central wooden platform and an old stone well carved with ornate runes.

We found our place in the square, and Eilith showed me how to unfold the cart into its market stall form.

The sides folded down into tables, revealing the shelves inside stocked with tinctures, dried herbs, powders, and potions.

On the fold out tables she arranged an assortment of the same, and we unrolled an awning from the top that stretched out over the goods, supported with two poles that I twisted into the freshly thawed ground.

I tied the little Fjord horse behind the cart and we surveyed our work.

“Ah, very nice. That will do!” Eilith said, then regarded the rest of the market with her hands on her hips. Other vendors were setting up, and shoppers were already wandering about, browsing stalls and haggling over prices.

“You go on.” She shooed me away with her hands. “Go look around, get yourself something.”

I wandered aimlessly between stalls and carts, adjusting to the busyness of the market after so many days half feral in the woods.

I caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered, familiar figure.

Byrgir, in his same heavy wool coat, was talking to a middle-aged dark haired woman who stood behind a table displaying an array of jewelry.

He saw me and smiled, waving me over with a tattooed hand.

He had trimmed his beard shorter, although it was still full and thick and reached nearly to where his collarbones met beneath his throat.

His dark, silky hair looked like it had just been cut as well, sheared to his skin along the sides and halfway up the back while the top remained longer, sweeping back over his head loosely; it looked long enough to be tied back or braided in the traditional Seonaid warrior style.

With no hat covering his head now, I could see a tattoo twisting up the left side of his neck and the side of his skull, wrapping forward over one ear.

A raven, beak agape and wings flared, one clawed foot reaching past his ear, lost in the upper reach of his beard.

I approached the table, and the dark haired woman’s face lifted into a smile along shallow wrinkles.

“Halja!” Byrgir said cheerfully. “Good to see you out of the old hermit’s hut. Halja, this is my mother, Rubarae.”

“Ruby, for short.” She extended her hand to me, and I shook it. She showed no surprise nor disdain for my fae-touched eyes as I met her gaze.

“Halja has been apprenticing under Eilith,” Byrgir explained.

“Have you, now?” Ruby raised her eyebrows and looked at me with increased curiosity.

“Thanks to Byrgir here, yes. He picked me up when I was injured on the road and brought me to her.”

Byrgir added, “She was passed out in the snow with a head injury and near dead from the cold.”

“Gods above, how did that happen?” Ruby asked.

“I was taking a shortcut through the woods when I had the bad fortune of meeting a nuckelavee. I ran, and managed to escape across the river, but I took a tumble from my horse and hit my head. I didn’t make it far after that. If Byrgir hadn’t come along when he did, I would’ve died from exposure.”

“That’s Byrgir.” Ruby reached across the table and squeezed his arm affectionately.

“Always there to help when someone’s in need.

And always shows up at just the right time.

How lucky you were so close to Eilith’s, the best healer for miles around.

She keeps this whole town alive and healthy.

Has for many years. About time she had some company out there. ”

“It’s nice out there, but I do miss being around others sometimes,” I said. “Eilith is good company, just not a lot of it.”

“Well, you’re welcome at my home any time for dinner or a cup of tea. Any friend of Byrgir’s is a friend of our family.” Her smile was warm and genuine. Just like Byrgir’s.

“Thank you, I’d love that.” I looked down at the spread of glinting jewelry on the table. “Did you make all this?”

“I did,” she said.

“These are lovely.” I picked up a tall hair bead carved with knotwork patterns wrapped around a flower, then another decorated with bindrunes. They looked similar to the ones Sigurd had given me.

“Thank you,” she said. “Feel free to try things on, if you like.”

“I didn’t call you over here to try to make you buy something from my mother, you know,” Byrgir said jokingly as I eyed a pair of earrings set with shimmering tourmaline.

“I know, but you can’t stop me from doing it,” I said, picking up a stack of braid rings. I had thrown my old set into the mud at Sigurd. It would suit me to have a new set to match my new life.

I bought an assortment of bronze rings and beads to contrast my light hair and braided them into it. Two more potential customers stepped up to browse Ruby’s wares, so Byrgir and I cleared off to wander the now busy market square.

“So, how has it been out there?” Byrgir asked.

“Good! Strange, but good,” I said, and he chuckled knowingly.

“Eilith is an eccentric of sorts. How is your head doing?”

“Recovering well, thanks to you. I would be dead without your help, you know.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I know, I know. But I’m no hero. If I didn’t save you, I’d be the ass who left a girl in the snow to die.”

“So your first concern was maintaining your upstanding reputation?”

“Like my mother said, always ready to help those in need. If folks found out I left you to die, this whole hero persona I’ve worked so hard to build would be gone like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“Reluctant hero persona,” I corrected.

“Dying girls in the snow can’t be choosers.”

“Let me buy you some sweets in thanks?” The smell of baked goods was getting stronger, and I followed my nose.

“That is a gift of gratitude I would accept,” Byrgir said. “There’s a bakery stall over there that sells spiced buns. I get one at every market.”

I bought us two large spiraled buns baked with cinnamon and nutmeg and filled with melted sugar and butter. They were divine. I made a mental note to buy a few more to bring back with us when we left.

We walked slowly through stalls together.

As I stopped to peruse the stand of a woman selling dyed yarns in muted, earthy tones, a voice carried over the general murmur of market shoppers.

It grew louder as we neared the center of the square, and I could no longer stifle my curiosity.

I made my way toward it. Byrgir followed.

On the wooden platform in the open center of the square stood a short man with a balding pate, wearing a tabard of deep maroon emblazoned with a radiant gold sun. He was preaching with fervor, his arms waving, his voice rising and falling in pitch.

“… of progress, of civilization! He will guide us to the future, advance civilization to our glowing destiny. All are welcomed in His golden Light!! By committing yourself to the way of the Light, you are already in it. It has already begun. His divine aura will bless you through the darkest of times, and ho, the darkest of times do come!”

“What’s he on about?” I mumbled to Byrgir as we approached.

“He’s one of the Paragons of the Light. Worshipers of the new god, Enos.”

“I’ve heard of them,” I said. “Some passed through Skalmarnes a few years back.”