Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 Page 5

  “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.

  “An unguarded word will disclose more of what a man thinks than the planned speech of a thousand." —from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  “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.

  “She might learn more quickly if she had an inducement,” Erik said.

  “She sleeps in silk, eats dainties from the emperor's own table. I've clothed her in a manner befitting a woman of noble birth.” Damian ticked off the benefits he provided for Valdis on his slim patrician fingers. “What more could she want?”

  “Something that calls to her with more strength than anything,” Erik said. “Freedom. Promise to free her and I guarantee she will put her whole heart into the effort.”

  “Freedom? Bah!” Damian waved a dismissive hand. “My slaves live lives of safety and plenty and, while I demand certain standards, they are not burdened by a crushing load of toil. Isn't that right, Lentulus?” he demanded of his ubiquitous body-servant.

  “Yes, master,” came the meek response.

  “There, you see. Slave and master alike, we all serve the emperor's pleasure. As a Varangian, you must understand that.” Damian turned back to Erik. “You are familiar with the city, are you not?”

  Erik nodded.

  “Then you know that not all our citizens are as blessed as Lentulus here. In the pestilential district called the Studion, freemen die of starvation every day. Their women dare not walk the streets without an escort for fear of being molested. Ask the poor if their liberty means more to them than a full belly and peaceful security.”

  “Valdis is a freeborn Norsewoman,” Erik said with inborn stubbornness. “She'll not willingly submit to a thrall's iron collar.”

  “I've put nothing less precious than silver on her neck.”

  “Silver, gold, gems or pearls—it matters not. As long as you count yourself her master, Valdis will feel the weight of iron.” Erik glanced toward her still form. “Give her reason to hope. Assure her she can earn her freedom and she'll serve you well.”

  Damian narrowed his eyes at Erik, weighing his words. Finally, he nodded. “When we have accomplished the plan I have set in motion, I will free her. You may tell her so when she wakes.”

  Erik's chest expanded. He imagined her delight at this news and her gratitude to him for bringing it to her. Then he realized he didn't know what the Greek expected of Valdis beyond learning his language. “Just what’s involved in this plan of yours?”

  “In good time, my large, anxious friend,” Damian said as he poured wine for each of them. He offered Erik a precious Frankish glass of amber liquid. “Sit and I will tell you as much as you may safely relay to Valdis. She will learn the rest when she understands enough of my tongue for me to tell her myself. But we can't chance another episode of the sickness in public before Valdis is fully prepared to move forward with the plan. I commend you for the speed and efficiency with which you removed her from the Hippodrome. It's obvious we need more privacy for her to complete her training than the palace and city streets provide.”

  Damian signaled for his body-servant to draw near. “Make preparations to move to the summer villa, Lentulus. We leave the city at dawn tomorrow.”

  Then the eunuch turned back to Erik and in a softer voice revealed some of what he intended to accomplish. Erik decided listening to Damian was like skirting a sea of ship-killing icebergs. So much rested beneath the surface of their conversation, and what lay below the Greek's words was surely more dangerous than a floating mountain of ice.

  “The hour grows late and Valdis shows no sign of waking till morning.” The eunuch stood, his manner stating that Erik was being summarily dismissed. “You Varangians are famous for your wenching. If you have good-byes to say to anyone in Constantinople, say them tonight, Northman.”

  The eastern sky was tinged with rose when Valdis and her escort rode through the massive gate in the last of the concentric landwalls that guarded the great city. Not that they had to worry about the barbaric hordes now, Damian assured her.

  The Bulgar-Slayer had seen to that. When Basil II crushed the Bulgars, he gave no quarter. All the defeated soldiers were blinded, except one of every hundred who was left with one good eye so he could lead his ruined companions home. Now Basil II was past leading his troops in battle—the war with passing years is one no man wins, not even God's own emperor—but the collective memory of their stinging defeat was sufficient to keep the heathen tribes from attempting another attack.

  Even a Bulgar threat could not dampen Valdis's mood as she won free of the city. She was mounted on a well-mannered gelding heading into the gentle slopes of the foothills and from thence to cool, pine-covered mountains. It might not be freedom, but escaping the suffocating heat of Miklagard in high summer was too delicious not to savor.

  “Let me understand this aright,” she said to Erik, who rode a truly magnificent black stallion beside her on the broad road. “After I learn Greek, I'm somehow to convince the world that I'm able to foretell events. Does Damian think me an adept at seid craft?”

  “No, I doubt he knows of the trolldom practiced by some Nordic women,” Erik said.

  “If he did, he'd not ask me to feign it. Magic is powerful and not to be attempted lightly. Does he not realize the danger of dabbling in seid? Without a teacher to guide me, I could be lost between worlds. Sometimes, when the spell comes upon me, I half believe that is what happens.”

  “He doesn't want you to actually practice the craft.” Erik made the sign against evil. “Just allow the superstitious to believe that you do. Damian will provide you with the secret knowledge you are to impart. Convince others that your revelation comes from a higher power. And in truth it does, for it comes from your master.”

  Valdis snorted. “Damian may call himself that if he wishes. He may control where I go and what I do, but my soul knows no master.”

  Erik looked away from her in an effort to hide his smile. A graceful willow, Valdis might bend in a gale, but she would not break. She was truly a remarkable woman.

  “If you complete the task the Greek sets for you, what you say will be true.” For a moment, he imagined her head on his pillow, hair tousled, her full lips parted in the relaxation of sleep. What would it be like to wake beside this light-gilded creature? He tore his gaze away and leaned down to pat his mount's thick neck. “Once his plan is accomplished, Damian Aristarchus has promised to free you.”

  Her breath hissed in sharply. “You mean it?”

  Erik nodded. “He gave me his word. Now I'll have no more trouble with your lessons, will I?”

  “Of course not,”
she answered in crisp Greek with the barest hint of an accent. Her lips curved upward in a feline smile.

  As he suspected, she'd been shamming. In no time at all, she'd know all he could teach her and he'd be able to rejoin his century at the head of his hundred pledge-men. The thought gave him much less pleasure than he expected.

  “The problem isn't the language.” Her smile inverted into a frown. “The problem is seid. I don't think I can do it.”

  “No one expects you to truly have the gift, Valdis.”

  “You don't understand.” She bit her lower lip. “I already tried my hand at spelling in the Northlands. I think that's why the Raven haunts me, why the powers show their anger by tossing me to the ground and robbing me of reason. A seid-woman should use her craft to weave spells of protection, to divine propitious events, to help her people.” Her gaze darted away. “I used the little I knew for my own purposes.”

  Erik didn't know what to say. Magic was the province of women. Men who sought power in such ways were deemed effeminate, so he kept himself in willful ignorance of those matters. He rode on in silence.

  “I spelled the man I was to marry,” Valdis finally said.

  When she turned her unique gaze on him, he felt himself tumbling into her mismatched eyes. Erik could well believe she'd witched a man.

  “It was a small thing, really. He was the jarl's son. I was just the daughter of a karl and not a very prosperous one at that. When Ragnvald visited our farmstead, he tore his cloak on a nail in the cattle byre and I mended it for him. I used several strands of my own hair in the threads to make him notice me.”

  “If this Ragnvald was a true man, he couldn't help but notice a woman like you, seid-spelling or no.”