He looks around the hall. “They don’t seem as upset to have us here.”
“I’m sure our offerings went a long way to soothe their fears that we’re portents of sudden doom,” I mumble.
“Tribute does seem to have that affect,” he muses. “They need it though. Something’s wrong here, but I doubt they’ll tell us what.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “But we can be good guests for the night and do what we can to distract them from their troubles.” I nudge his shoulder. “That’s your cue, poet.”
He grimaces but rises anyway and makes his way back to the small group of elders eating together at one of the central tables. After a moment, the oldest man stands, his hands raised to quiet the hall. Once the murmurs disappear, he announces, “Tonight, we shall be entertained by the seidhr’s poet!”
Some of the older people begin calling out requests. The defeat of the cockatrice. My battle against the nuckelavee. The attempted seduction by the nøkk.
I sputter on a mouthful of water when that one’s mentioned, even as the hall erupts into unexpected, ribald laughter. The old man who called it out grins shamelessly at Keiran, who’s flushed a deep red even his beard can’t hide. “Tell us that one, poet,” he says. “And give us detailed descriptions.”
Keiran looks my way and I shake my head, desperate for him to refuse. I know the version of the story he’ll tell. He’ll say he had wandered away from our Hunt one day, following an otter who had told him to follow it to a stream to find the best fishing spot. On the bank, he discovered a handsome man, dressed in nothing but water droplets, who played a song on a delicate violin to coax him closer. He’ll say he was taken in by the notes, that he drew closer without thought. He’ll say the spell wasn’t broken until the nøkk’s cold hand clamped around his arm and tried to drag him into the water. He’ll say he fought, but would have died if not for the arrival of the seidhr. He’ll say all of that, recite it with the beautiful turns of phrase and gentle self-effacement he always does. He’ll never let slip that he switched our roles in the story. He’ll never tell them that he’s the one who found and rescued me, that he slew the nøkk and kept me safe.
“Surely you don’t want that old tale,” Keiran tries. “Not when I have better stories to spin for you.”
“Like what?” a woman calls from the back, where she bounces a baby on her knee.
“Perhaps you heard of the children missing from Gleann Fo Sgàil?”
The silence lies heavy over the hall, a living, pained thing. Keiran turns, gazing over the crowd. The firelight moves behind him, catching the highlights of his hair, dancing over the metal buckles and the glint of his knives and axes. He’s larger than life in these moments, when the world hangs on his every word. I can’t look away, can only breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest, can only hide in the shadows of my hood, and long for the intensity of his gaze to fall on me.
He bends down to the children nearest him and begins, “Gleann Fo Sgàil was built in the shadow of mountains, tucked into the trees where those stone monuments crashed together. Their village was prosperous and its men industrious. They wandered into the forest and hauled back wood and their craftsmanship was known throughout the lands. One night, the seidhr woke from a strange dream. The trees reached for me, he said to us. They folded me in their arms and buried me in their trunks and I couldn’t breathe. I reached out from the wood and felt a hand clutch mine and pull me free. And when I opened my eyes, I saw my face there. He led us to that shadowed glen. Not a child ran to greet the seidhr. Instead, we were met with birdsong and weeping.”
“Why were they weeping?” a wide-eyed little boy asks him.
“Ah,” Keiran says softly, “you ask the right question.” He kneels down before the boy so they’re equals and asks in his most serious tone, “Have you considered being a poet?”
The boy bites his lip and shakes his head, but even from this distance I can see the wonder and joy shining over his face. Keiran draws him close and whispers something in his ear, something that makes him nod before he sits back down. He never looks away from Keiran, who continues the story.
“The weeping was for their deep loss. The children had been stolen in the night and their parents cried and beat their chests and begged for our help. Hearing this, our seidhr knew his arrival was blessed by the gods. He took up his spear and took to the woods, and we followed in his wake. His steps made no sound, for he was as fleet of foot as a fox and he darted in and out of darkness with the creature’s grace.”
Keiran’s dark gaze lands on me and his lips curve. “Never has a more beautiful man trod this earth. Never has a braver warrior answered his people’s call.”
What? I sit up, shocked back into full attention. That’s not part of the story. It’s never been part of the story before. Keiran’s already looked away, but his words remain, lodging in my mind and clawing their way deeper, toward my heart. Dimly, I listen to the rest of his recitation. He tells of our battle against the kerling, the old hag who had taken the children and hidden them to be her meals in the lean months. He tells how we battled until dawn, when the sun’s beams turned her stone. As he speaks, embellishing the truth, I remember the aches of the battle, how it only lasted minutes, but seemed to last all those long hours. And he tells how we found the children inside the tree trunks and rescued them from their prisons.
When he finishes, there’s no applause. Someone cries quietly and several couples lean together, clutching each other for comfort. Now Keiran seeks me out. Worry wrinkles his brow.
I give a faint shrug. I don’t know what’s going on either, I try to tell him.
He answers back with a tilt of his head. Now what?
Our silent conversation is interrupted by one of the villagers, who stands to face Keiran. “Can he do it again?” the older man asks. His voice is somber, tight with an unwelcome emotion.
“Can the seidhr find our children?” the woman beside him asks.
Keiran steps aside so I can answer them directly. I lean forward and know the illusion of my helm will catch the light, will cast my horned shadow tall against the wall behind me. “Your children are missing as well?”
“Aye. They were asked to help with the harvest in the neighboring village. They left a fortnight ago
and haven’t returned.” The woman glances at the man and her lower lip begins to quiver. “Yesterday, my husband rode out to check on them and their progress. They had never reached the other village.”
“There was no sign of them,” he adds hoarsely. “No one had seen them. No prints on the road. They vanished into the air.”
Murmured grief and sympathy echo through the hall. Before it fades out, another man says, “We sent word to huscarl Chayka. She promised to ask Thegn Aage for help, but nobody’s come.”
“Must be too busy enjoying the comfort of Eyjar to aid us!” someone else complains, and my gut pitches from the accusation. Surely Aage wouldn’t ignore their suffering. If he knew what was happening here, surely he’d send his righthand Breoca, or other attendants, to help. Before I can bend the truth and claim he sent us, another woman, a grandmother holding her granddaughter in her lap, lifts her chin and stares at me.