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His hand touched his beard, and his voice fell.?And what?s this young Roderic tells me about the Hunt??
Heidhveig sighed again, letting her head fall back and her eyes close.?He heard everything I saw,? she said.?But it always means something when-?
Then Roderic was there again; he hadn?t bothered to take off his parka, and snow melted on in thick patches on the wolverine fur. His hazel eyes were wide. ?Godhi, lady-travelers!? ?Well, show them in!? Bjarni said, irritated.?You are on watch, boy!? ?No, strangers. Maybe thirty of them! Travelers from the far west, they say, and their leader not like any man I?ve ever seen before!?
He was a young man; his voice shook with excitement. Heidhveig set down the cup, staring towards the door.
Old Man, she thought. Have you set me to work seidh for a hero this holy eve?
The vestibule door opened, and the lights fluttered in the draught. Strangers crowded it, in the sort of warm wool tunics and pants the sensible wore beneath their outer gear for winter travel, but different from local style in a dozen subtle ways.
Her eyes went to their leader, drawn like iron to a magnet.
I can smell Orlog on him; a fate like tears and flowers and blood. What does Wyrd weave now?
He was a tall man, two fingers or so above six feet, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped and long-limbed; young, too, well into manhood but younger than her host?s thirty. He moved with the supple economy of a tiger, as if even his stillness was always complicit of motion, a thing of dynamic balance that held the promise of sudden blinding speed. When he shook his head slightly damp red-gold hair fell to his shoulders, framing a straight-nosed, high-cheeked, cleft-chi
It was also full of a pleasant lilting accent she hadn?t heard since the old world fell, the soft west – Irish brogue of the Gaeltacht; and she recognized a trained singer?s control and pitch as he went on, filling the hall without strain or shout: ?Merry met to the Mistress of this Hearth and to the Lord of this Hall, and to all beneath their roof. We ask guesting if we are welcome, and only leave to pass on if we are not.?
The Bjorning chieftain stood, handed little Swanhild to his wife despite a sleepy protest and faced the tall stranger; silence was thick through the hall, and beneath it a humming curiosity. The newcomers were a worn, tough-looking crew, including the women among them-one even had an eye patch-but they had politely racked whatever long arms they carried in the cloakroom. None of the Eriksgarth dwellers were very alarmed, though a few men drifted to stand with arms crossed on their chests behind their leader… just in case, which also put them within grabbing range of the arms hung on the walls.
One of the Norrheimer proverbs was to trust no ice until you?d walked on it. ?I hight Bjarni Eriksson, godhi -Chieftain-here. Who comes to Eriksgarth on the holy eve?? he said, his voice rumbling deep.
The stranger inclined his head politely to the master of the hall, and then again a little more deeply to Harberga… or perhaps to her and Heidhveig both, and touched the back of his right fist to his forehead for a moment. She noticed a small white scar between his brows then. ?Rudi Mackenzie am I, of the Clan Mackenzie; the totem of my sept is Raven. In my own land, I am son to our Chief, and our folk have hailed me as Tanist-as heir. These are my sworn men and followers and kin. We have traveled for near two years from the sunset ocean, over mountain and plain, forest and river and lake, and our goal is to find a ship to bear us on the eastern sea.?
A buzz of wonder rose from the crowd, then died away. Bjarni stepped forward and held out his hand; the two men gripped wrists, each taking the measure of the other, and each gave a very slight nod, as if liking what they saw. ? Come heil to you, Rudi Mackenzie,? the Bjorning chieftain said formally; the phrase meant?come in good health and be welcome.?? Come heil to your followers also.?
Then he added without looking away:?Bring drink to all our guests!?
His sister Gudrun came with a great polished ox horn carved with runes and bound and rimmed and tipped with braided silver, rather than the more usual mugs her assistants bore to the others. ?Welc-? she stammered a little, flushing as Rudi looked at her, then took a breath and began again as he smiled encouragingly: ?Welcome I give
The wanderer here
With bright and blessed draught
Greeted art thou
With grith and frith
Hail in holy hall!?
The man who?d called himself Rudi Mackenzie took the horn with a grip that showed he?d held one before, the point kept down and a little to one side. He drew a sign over the hot mead, touched a finger to it and flicked a drop aside, then raised it: ?Slainte chugat!? he said.?To your health! I drink thanks to the high Gods of this land, thanks to the spirits of place which ward hearth and home and field, and thanks to my hosts, the Lord and Lady of this hall. And to all beneath their roof, goodwill and welcome. May there always be peace and guest friendship and never a feud between us.?
He took another draught, and gave a long appreciative: ? Ahhhhh! And many thanks, Bjarni Eriksson. We?ve come a long cold way from a cold camp this day, and weeks over the ice before that. If ever you journey to our land of Montival in the High West, my house is your house as long as you please to visit. So witness sun-bright Lugh of the Long Spear and Brigid Sheaf-mistress, and the Dagda and the threefold Morrigu and all the Gods of my people.? ?That?s well said, Rudi Mackenzie of the Clan Mackenzie,? Bjarni answered.?So a chieftain speaks. You?re welcome to share our feast, and there?s room for all, and warm beds. Or straw, at least! My carles will see to your beasts and gear.?
Harberga made a determined sound and levered herself upright, setting her daughter Swanhild down in her chair; for the honor of the house it was her duty to see that her husband?s words about food and beds were true, even when the number of guests suddenly went up by a quarter. The girl-child blinked open eyes cornflower blue and looked around; Rudi Mackenzie smiled at her in an unguarded instant of tender delight, and an answering smile lit the toddler?s chubby face as she waved.
Then he turned to one of his followers-a thick-armed younger man with a mop of curly hair the brown of old oakwood and a stubborn-looking square face-and took a long bundle handed to him. ?Forgive a stranger?s ignorance of your ways,? he said, facing back to Bjarni.?In our land, the custom is that a visitor at Yuletide brings his host a guesting gift.?
He unwrapped the coarse cloth from the bundle and presented it across the palms of his hands. ?We Mackenzies are a people of the bow, and Aylward the Archer here is not the least of our master bowyers.?
Heidhveig?s brows rose, and a man behind Bjarni whistled softly in knowledgeable appreciation. The weapon was six inches over six feet, with a long subtle in-and-out curve to the hickory stave; a central riser of burnished curly maple was worked and slanted to give a sure handgrip, and a cutout through the centerline for the shaft was lined with a tuft of wolf fur. The nocks at either end were polished antler, glittering amber-color in the firelight, and the back was covered in a strip of deer sinew, pale beneath the smooth varnish.
The whole had an indefinable rightness, a beauty of pure function like the light on the edge of a knife. With it was a baldric and quiver of brown leather tooled with vines; wrought buttons of carved bone sealed little pouches for an arrow hone and spare bowstrings and beeswax. Within the quiver itself were two score of gray-fletched shafts, bodkins and broadheads.