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"But who decides what work is undertaken?" one asked. "The elders that you spoke of?"
Karn shook his head and tried again. "You do. When most agree, that is the way."
"We could not do it," another they called Frith announced fearfully.
"You do it now," Karn said. "Each speaks. The elders speak, too, and if you choose your elders well,
their words are powerful. In the end, one asks each in turn what they would do."
"Does everyone agree?" Walther asked, incredulous.
Karn chuckled. "No. But everyone agrees that what most want, all will do."
"And if they do not?"
"They leave the village," Karn said simply.
"I begin to see this thing." Walther robbed his beard.
"You are an elder born." Karn smiled only with his eyes, as Britta had seen him do so many times. No,
she thought, suddenly. Walther is not an elder born. But you are.
Then it was Karn's turn to ask a question. "Do you not farm here? The land is rich."
"What is land today is water tomorrow," Frith explained. "Farming is not our way."
"Peat is a farmer's friend. You have much peat," Karn said. "Can you build a& dike?"
"There is an old dike, not far from here," Walther said. "It was built by the men from the south who ruled
and left so long ago that none remember. But it was breached. The water has its way with us. That is the
'law' of the fens."
Karn nodded. But he looked thoughtful.
Britta watched Hild move around the room until she came to Karn and filled his drinking horn. She saw
with an ache the soft smile the blonde reserved for him.
With the new round of mead, the singing began. They took turns completing sections of the story, since
they had no scald. They sang of Eider and the Rhinemaidens from the time before the people came to the
great island. When the song came round to Karn he held up his hands and shook his head, and it passed
by him. But when it was done, Walther gestured to Karn.
"Sing one in your own language," Walther offered. Karn seemed to consider. Don't, thought Britta. If
they know you are Viking, they will slay you. But to her dismay, he took another long gulp of mead and
began to sing in a rumbling bass. Britta could pick out names of gods and some of the Danish words she
had heard Karn use, "thing" and "skirt" and "skill," "knife" and "folk," others. She looked anxiously around
to see if any of the villagers recognized the language. Apparently not. Who this far inland had heard the
language of the Vikings? So it was not the sense of the words, but the power and expression of the song
that held them. The thrill of a battle and the wonder at the gifts given by the gods to the victors came
through. It was not a long saga. He knew it could not hold them long, but when it was done the men
raised their horns and shouted. Britta felt her eyes fill. She must stay to see no more of this. Stumbling to
her feet, she groped her way to the door. She had best leave the warmth of the hall and get to her bed
box, cold as that was like to be.
The frosty mist and darkness seeped into her as she stumbled blindly toward the hut allotted to her no
magic to transform her, no island to protect her, no comforting isolation from caring anymore. Why had
she ever opened herself to such pain? She cursed the day she had seen the Viking ships in her cove.
From that moment all her hard-won peace was shattered.
"Britta," came a deep rumble from behind her. She should have stopped and turned. Instead, she ran to
the hut looming ahead of her in the fog and threw herself onto the bed box.
"Britta." The voice was soft. She turned to see his form filling the doorway. The last embers from the
firebox gave his features a warmth mat warred with the bleak ice in her heart. "What hurts you, Britta?"
"Go back to your new friends," she snapped. That would keep him away.
He hesitated, then limped inside. Don't come nearer, she thought, but she didn't trust herself to say it. He
threw more peat on the fire until it blazed up. Then, to her horror, he sat next to her. She pushed herself
into a corner, hugging her knees to her breasts.
"Your magic does not give you happiness, Britta?" he asked.
How dare he be so gentle? Her eyes filled. And he, he moved in and gathered her into his arms, even
though she shook her head at him.
"Tell me," he said and held her against his body. She tried to pull away, but she ended in putting her arms
about his neck and wetting his jerkin with tears. Sobs took her. He stroked her hair and rocked her as
though she were a babe.
She could not help but take comfort in the smell of him, the hardness of his arm under rough flax, and the
muscles of his chest under leather.
"Tell me?" he asked when she had begun to breathe again.
"It is evil," she said brokenly. "The witch was evil. The magic sucks you dry when you use it. And the
feeling when it comes is so wonderful that you want it desperately. You are tempted always to use it and
so it sucks the life from you. That's what it did to Wydda. She tried to steal my body because hers was
old before its time, and I pushed her out and left her to die. And I know I'll be tempted to use it. I had a
vision where I healed a king. So I must use it. But I don't want that, not anymore." She looked up at him. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]