come of it to the living.”
“No good indeed,” she said, and her voice wakened shadows. Out of the shade of one of the great pillars a boy and girl came forth, talking to each other and playing in some language I did not understand, playing as though they did not see us. They were alike as twin lambs, with long dark hair and dark eyes, seven years old, clad together in tunics of white cloth. My heart leaped, and I felt tears start in my eyes, though I did not know why.
“By sun and moon,” she said. “Your promise binds you.”
The boy looked up and he saw me, smiled as though I were some beloved nurse he recognized, started toward me with his arms outstretched.
“Murdered,” she said, and her voice rang like lightning in the clouds. “While you slept beside the river in the land of the dead. You were vowed to protect him, and you have not been released. Now he calls to you.”
The room spun around me, and it seemed instead that we were outdoors on some great moor. I could smell the frost in the air, see the stars of winter wheeling above me. Horsemen galloped toward us, and I saw the bundle across one of their saddles. He had fair hair and light eyes, but he was the same boy, his hands bound together and his face streaked with dirt, younger than before, perhaps five instead of seven. His frightened eyes met mine. “Help me,” he whispered. “Please.”
I tried to grab for the reins, but my hands were insubstantial as mist.
The horsemen swept past, riding hard, their horses’ breaths steam in the still night.
I closed my eyes. “Who is he?” I whispered.
“Mael, the only son of Donnchad. He lives still, carried away by Mac Bethad’s men to a life of thralldom in some foreign city.”
I opened my eyes. In her dark cloak, she looked less like the Lady of Storms and more like some woman I might know, with her heart shaped face and raven hair, scars upon her white arms. “What must I do?” I asked.
“Find him,” she whispered, and I awoke.
It was dawn on the day of Samhuinn , and I lay in my bed. Beside me, my daughter Moirin slept peacefully. I could hear the sound of her breath, and her gold hair spread across the pillow, escaped from braids in sleep. She was ten years old. Her brother had already left to sleep with the fosterlings, since he was made a page to Crinain last spring. Carefully, so as not to wake her, I got up.
It only took a moment to pull on thick stockings, and to get my heavy wool dress on over my tunic. I found my boots beneath the bed and tugged them on, and took my cloak from beside the door.
Above, the watch was changing. Men were stomping toward the kitchens, rubbing their hands together, eager for porridge and whiskey. The night had been long, but we dare not cease watching, even on a holy night, not since the days of Somerled. I knew I should find my brother above.
Erik Thorfinnson stood on the battlements, looking out at the mist rising over Scapa Flow. He stood half a head taller than I, and I was by no means a small woman, with our father’s bulk and broad shoulders. Erik and I did not favor him in other ways. We looked like our mother, Einiad, who had been a chief’s daughter in Iceland, blond and fair, with eyes like ice or the pale sky after a storm at sea. I came and stood beside him, my hands next to his on the stone.
“I have dreamed, brother,” I said.
He looked at me sideways, his mouth quirking a little. “Should that surprise me, sister? Many times you have dreamed, and dreamed true. Did you not tell me of the sinking of the Swan of Norway before it happened? Or that our father should return safe from battle when you were no more than a child yourself? What did you dream, Ilona?”
“Things I did not entirely understand,” I said, and it seemed to me in the pure clear daylight with the sea breeze pulling at my hair that some of it was already indistinct. There had been a strange room, and warm sunshine coming in from above, a snake and boy
“No good indeed,” she said, and her voice wakened shadows. Out of the shade of one of the great pillars a boy and girl came forth, talking to each other and playing in some language I did not understand, playing as though they did not see us. They were alike as twin lambs, with long dark hair and dark eyes, seven years old, clad together in tunics of white cloth. My heart leaped, and I felt tears start in my eyes, though I did not know why.
“By sun and moon,” she said. “Your promise binds you.”
The boy looked up and he saw me, smiled as though I were some beloved nurse he recognized, started toward me with his arms outstretched.
“Murdered,” she said, and her voice rang like lightning in the clouds. “While you slept beside the river in the land of the dead. You were vowed to protect him, and you have not been released. Now he calls to you.”
The room spun around me, and it seemed instead that we were outdoors on some great moor. I could smell the frost in the air, see the stars of winter wheeling above me. Horsemen galloped toward us, and I saw the bundle across one of their saddles. He had fair hair and light eyes, but he was the same boy, his hands bound together and his face streaked with dirt, younger than before, perhaps five instead of seven. His frightened eyes met mine. “Help me,” he whispered. “Please.”
I tried to grab for the reins, but my hands were insubstantial as mist.
The horsemen swept past, riding hard, their horses’ breaths steam in the still night.
I closed my eyes. “Who is he?” I whispered.
“Mael, the only son of Donnchad. He lives still, carried away by Mac Bethad’s men to a life of thralldom in some foreign city.”
I opened my eyes. In her dark cloak, she looked less like the Lady of Storms and more like some woman I might know, with her heart shaped face and raven hair, scars upon her white arms. “What must I do?” I asked.
“Find him,” she whispered, and I awoke.
It was dawn on the day of Samhuinn , and I lay in my bed. Beside me, my daughter Moirin slept peacefully. I could hear the sound of her breath, and her gold hair spread across the pillow, escaped from braids in sleep. She was ten years old. Her brother had already left to sleep with the fosterlings, since he was made a page to Crinain last spring. Carefully, so as not to wake her, I got up.
It only took a moment to pull on thick stockings, and to get my heavy wool dress on over my tunic. I found my boots beneath the bed and tugged them on, and took my cloak from beside the door.
Above, the watch was changing. Men were stomping toward the kitchens, rubbing their hands together, eager for porridge and whiskey. The night had been long, but we dare not cease watching, even on a holy night, not since the days of Somerled. I knew I should find my brother above.
Erik Thorfinnson stood on the battlements, looking out at the mist rising over Scapa Flow. He stood half a head taller than I, and I was by no means a small woman, with our father’s bulk and broad shoulders. Erik and I did not favor him in other ways. We looked like our mother, Einiad, who had been a chief’s daughter in Iceland, blond and fair, with eyes like ice or the pale sky after a storm at sea. I came and stood beside him, my hands next to his on the stone.
“I have dreamed, brother,” I said.
He looked at me sideways, his mouth quirking a little. “Should that surprise me, sister? Many times you have dreamed, and dreamed true. Did you not tell me of the sinking of the Swan of Norway before it happened? Or that our father should return safe from battle when you were no more than a child yourself? What did you dream, Ilona?”
“Things I did not entirely understand,” I said, and it seemed to me in the pure clear daylight with the sea breeze pulling at my hair that some of it was already indistinct. There had been a strange room, and warm sunshine coming in from above, a snake and boy
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