stranger.”
Leifr replied uncomfortably, “How right you are, Thurid. Let’s
not get maudlin about it, though.”
Thurid’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “That sword,” he breathed,
“It’s sharp. Where did you get it?”
Leifr sheathed it quickly. “It’s one I acquired in my
travels— under circumstances I don’t care to divulge.”
“That sounds typical. It can’t be from the Alfar realm or the alog
would have blunted it. I hope you can keep it a secret from Sorkvir.”
Shuddering suddenly, he damped his brilliant light to a soft red glow
and his expression became brooding. “Fridmarr, Fridmarr,” he sighed
wearily. “Your past is no less troubled than your future will be.
Sometimes I fear you. Sometimes I fear for you.”
Leifr shivered also, feeling that Thurid had spoken prophecy.
Chapter 5
Raudbjorn watched Dallir patiently, seeming oblivious to rain,
cold, fog, the odd snow flurry, and the malicious peltings of rocks by
the trolls at night. His aspect brightened whenever Leifr appeared on
some mundane occasion; but on the whole, his job was a boring one. He
prowled about, enlivening his existence only once a day when a closely
masked Dokkalfar brought him his food and drink from Gliru-hals.
On the surface, Dallir was the dullest of all the
downtrodden Ljosalfar settlements. A keener mind, however, might
have wondered at the increased need for tallow at Dallir and the
sudden spate of housecleaning, which entailed taking something nearly
every day to the scavenger’s hut in the barrows. Snagi and Thurid, or
one of the servants, did the traveling back and forth, while Leifr
remained where Raudbjorn could keep his eyes on him. Gotiskolker
received an almost-daily account of Fridmundr’s declining condition.
Stubbornly, the old Alfar’s fetch labored to release its hold
upon life and upon the life of Fridmundr. Leifr was not able to see it
every night, somewhat to his relief, since he still felt uneasy in the
presence of the mysteries of Ljosalfar magic. Thurid reported to him
what he saw, whether the ailing ram managed to rise to one knee or
whether he was down on both again. Fridmundr kept to his bed now, his
luminous eyes fixed upon the rafters in rapture. His entire body glowed
with alf-light, as if the threadbare curtain were thinner with each
passing day.
Leifr saw Ljosa twice, herding her sheep past Dallir to water
at the beck. With Raudbjorn watching, Leifr had no intention of
speaking to Ljosa, thereby casting suspicion upon her. Ljosa glanced
toward Dallir and let her sheep take their time drinking their fill, then
she went on her way. Later, Leifr heard that she had taken her sheep
north to Stormurbjarg, where Hroald’s farthest shieling was.
Remembering her lingering near Dallir, Leifr wondered if she had
wanted to speak to him. At least she was out of Sorkvir’s way now, he
told himself gloomily.
As a creature of habit, Thurid continued his evening practice of
telling Fridmundr all the happenings on the farm for the day, although
now he had to sit by the bedside for his recitation. Leifr sat beside
Fridmundr also, out of respect for a noble Alfar. In his youth,
Fridmundr had been a redoubtable warrior, unbroken in spirit until the
death of Bodmarr and the treachery of Fridmarr. After his fondest hopes
had been shattered and Sorkvir seemed entrenched in Gliru-hals,
Fridmundr turned the running of the farm over to Thurid and retreated
into himself in search of the voices of his ancestors. He had found them,
and slowly his body wasted away, until at last the nearness of the end
was signaled by the alf-light and the burning revelations of the
meanings of all things.
“All Ljosalfar don’t die this way,” Leifr observed, hoping to
pump Thurid for more information.
“No,” Thurid replied rather proudly. “Only philosophers, sages,
wizards, and others who are clever enough to die safely in bed, rather
than in a fight.”
Leifr
Leifr replied uncomfortably, “How right you are, Thurid. Let’s
not get maudlin about it, though.”
Thurid’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “That sword,” he breathed,
“It’s sharp. Where did you get it?”
Leifr sheathed it quickly. “It’s one I acquired in my
travels— under circumstances I don’t care to divulge.”
“That sounds typical. It can’t be from the Alfar realm or the alog
would have blunted it. I hope you can keep it a secret from Sorkvir.”
Shuddering suddenly, he damped his brilliant light to a soft red glow
and his expression became brooding. “Fridmarr, Fridmarr,” he sighed
wearily. “Your past is no less troubled than your future will be.
Sometimes I fear you. Sometimes I fear for you.”
Leifr shivered also, feeling that Thurid had spoken prophecy.
Chapter 5
Raudbjorn watched Dallir patiently, seeming oblivious to rain,
cold, fog, the odd snow flurry, and the malicious peltings of rocks by
the trolls at night. His aspect brightened whenever Leifr appeared on
some mundane occasion; but on the whole, his job was a boring one. He
prowled about, enlivening his existence only once a day when a closely
masked Dokkalfar brought him his food and drink from Gliru-hals.
On the surface, Dallir was the dullest of all the
downtrodden Ljosalfar settlements. A keener mind, however, might
have wondered at the increased need for tallow at Dallir and the
sudden spate of housecleaning, which entailed taking something nearly
every day to the scavenger’s hut in the barrows. Snagi and Thurid, or
one of the servants, did the traveling back and forth, while Leifr
remained where Raudbjorn could keep his eyes on him. Gotiskolker
received an almost-daily account of Fridmundr’s declining condition.
Stubbornly, the old Alfar’s fetch labored to release its hold
upon life and upon the life of Fridmundr. Leifr was not able to see it
every night, somewhat to his relief, since he still felt uneasy in the
presence of the mysteries of Ljosalfar magic. Thurid reported to him
what he saw, whether the ailing ram managed to rise to one knee or
whether he was down on both again. Fridmundr kept to his bed now, his
luminous eyes fixed upon the rafters in rapture. His entire body glowed
with alf-light, as if the threadbare curtain were thinner with each
passing day.
Leifr saw Ljosa twice, herding her sheep past Dallir to water
at the beck. With Raudbjorn watching, Leifr had no intention of
speaking to Ljosa, thereby casting suspicion upon her. Ljosa glanced
toward Dallir and let her sheep take their time drinking their fill, then
she went on her way. Later, Leifr heard that she had taken her sheep
north to Stormurbjarg, where Hroald’s farthest shieling was.
Remembering her lingering near Dallir, Leifr wondered if she had
wanted to speak to him. At least she was out of Sorkvir’s way now, he
told himself gloomily.
As a creature of habit, Thurid continued his evening practice of
telling Fridmundr all the happenings on the farm for the day, although
now he had to sit by the bedside for his recitation. Leifr sat beside
Fridmundr also, out of respect for a noble Alfar. In his youth,
Fridmundr had been a redoubtable warrior, unbroken in spirit until the
death of Bodmarr and the treachery of Fridmarr. After his fondest hopes
had been shattered and Sorkvir seemed entrenched in Gliru-hals,
Fridmundr turned the running of the farm over to Thurid and retreated
into himself in search of the voices of his ancestors. He had found them,
and slowly his body wasted away, until at last the nearness of the end
was signaled by the alf-light and the burning revelations of the
meanings of all things.
“All Ljosalfar don’t die this way,” Leifr observed, hoping to
pump Thurid for more information.
“No,” Thurid replied rather proudly. “Only philosophers, sages,
wizards, and others who are clever enough to die safely in bed, rather
than in a fight.”
Leifr
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