Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Forty-Six

Waldemar Selig may have grasped the uses of ceremony, but when it came to showmanship, Gunter wasn’t entirely lacking in a sense of style. With his usual cunning, he allowed the members of other steadings jostling for position to precede us into the great hall. As a result, my initial impression was simply that of a great many Skaldi in one place at one time, most of them male. From my vantage point, I could see little more than a sea of brawny forms, clad in furs and woolens.

Apart from its size, which was impressive, the hall had nothing to distinguish it. In design, it was much like Gunter’s hall; there, I found myself thinking, was the kitchen, there the storerooms, and there a handful of private chambers. Still, the hearth was higher than a man, and I was hard-put to imagine the girth of the trees whose timber formed the rafters high overhead.

Representatives from four steadings awaited audience with Waldemar Selig that evening: two of the tribe Marsi, including us, one of the Manni, and one of the Gambrivü. Many of the other tribes, including the powerful Suevi and Vandalü, had arrived earlier.

All, it seemed, had brought tribute; Gunter had not been alone in his thinking, or perhaps it was custom. The Gambrivü steading, a wealthy one, brought gold and much envy. Though I could not see it, I heard from the talk around me. The other Marsi steading, which had a wood-carver of great skill among its number, brought futhark rods reckoned no mean gift.

We followed the Manni of Leidolf’s steading, who brought a gift of wolf-pelts, a full dozen of them, snow-white and flawless. This drew a low murmur of acclaim, for the white wolves of the north are notoriously hard to hunt, and Selig’s totem-animal beside. His hand-picked thanes who wore the wolf-pelt were called the White Brethren; I learned it there, waiting in the great hall, behind the Manni.

If my vision was blocked, my ears were not, and the first I learned of Waldemar Selig was his voice as he greeted those who paid him tribute. I heard it best with the Manni, being closest. He had a deep voice, and even; well-tempered, I would say, which meant he knew how to use it, and he had that good leader’s trick of making every man feel singled out for welcome. Then the folk of Leidolf’s steading made way, and it was our turn to come before the man who would unify the Skaldi.

Gunter stepped forward, and his thanes ranged about him in a loose formation, alertly attentive. Hedwig and the women would stay behind, as would Joscelin and I; this was a matter for Skaldi warriors first and foremost. Thus it was that my first glimpse of Waldemar Selig came between the shoulders of Gunter’s thanes. I could not see his face, only that he was a large man, broad-shouldered, seated in a sizeable wooden chair, like enough to a throne that it might as well have been one.

A D’Angeline would have knelt; the Skaldi did not. Gunter stood straight before his warleader.

"Gunter Arnlaugson of the Marsi, well met, brother," Selig’s rich voice said, warm and welcoming. "It raises my heart to see you here, whose steading wins us glory on our western borders."

"We come in good faith to the Allthing," Gunter said expansively, "and to pledge our loyalty to the great Waldemar Selig. I bring you these thanes, whose spears are keen for your enemies, and Hedwig Arildsdottir, who keeps the hearth of the steading alight."

Behind him, Hedwig bobbed nervously; so, the Skaldi were not immune to the trappings of ceremony. I moved, to better catch sight of Waldemar Selig. I saw his eyes, a greenish hazel, and thoughtful. "Be welcome among us, folk of Gunter Arnlaugson’s steading."

"We, too, bring tribute, oh Blessed," Gunter said cunningly, stepping back. Hands propelled me forward, and Joscelin beside me. "These two D’Angeline slaves, purchased with gold won by Skaldi blood, I give unto you, warleader."

That Waldemar Selig had heard rumors of our arrival, I do not doubt. There was no startlement in his face at Gunter’s words; but at the sight of Joscelin and me, his eyebrows rose. This I saw clearly, for we stood full before him now, no Skaldi to bar our way. I met his curious eyes and curtsied; not the reflexive obeisance of the Night Court, but a different gesture, one that Delaunay had taught me, the salute one makes to a foreign prince.

He knew it, somehow. I saw it, saw it in his measuring gaze. He was handsome enough, for a Skaldi, was Waldemar Selig. Tall and hale, in his middle thirties, with eyes that thought in a strong-featured face. His hair was a tawny brown, bound with a gold fillet, his beard combed to two points, both twined with gold wire. He had a sensual mouth, for a warrior. For a Skaldi. But his eyes, they kept their own counsel.

Joscelin swept his Cassiline bow, which served all purposes for him; it mattered naught. For the moment, it was me upon whom Waldemar Selig’s thoughtful gaze rested. I saw his eyes shift to study my own, the left one. He saw the scarlet mote, and noted it.

"You give me two more mouths to feed, Gunter Arnlaugson?" he asked lightly; laughter answered, and Gunter flushed. I understood it. He did not know what we betokened, but he had not mismeasured our value. He had simply not determined whether or not he wished to acknowledge it.

But Gunter was no fool, nor a man to be taken lightly. "She is trained to please kings," he said, and paused. "My lord."

Sovereign words, and ones I uttered so thoughtlessly. Gunter did not. He had said what the Skaldi had not yet voiced. He knew. He had said as much to Joscelin. It was something else, to say it before Skaldi, who had never had a sole ruler. I understood, then, the full import of his gift. He was acknowledging Waldemar Selig a King.

Waldemar Selig shifted in his thronelike chair, still temporizing. He didn’t need exotic furs to set him off; his movement shifted the flames in the great hearth behind him, casting light like shadow. "And the lad?"

"A lord’s son," Gunter said softly, "and an oath-sworn warrior-priest of the D’Angelines, bound to the girl. He will guard your life as his own, do you but keep her safe. Ask your thanes, if you do not believe."

"Is it so?" Waldemar Selig asked the White Brethren, his thanes with the snowy wolf-pelts draped over their shoulders, wolf-masks over their own heads. They stirred and muttered. His gaze fell back to me, curious and wondering. "Is it so?"

I do not think he expected an answer; Gunter had not told him I spoke their tongue. I curtsied to him again. "It is so, my lord," I said in clear Skaldi, once again ignoring the sound of surprise about me. "Joscelin Verreuil is a member of the Cassiline Brotherhood. Ganelon de la Courcel, who is King of Terre d’Ange, does not stir but two Cassilines attend him."

It was a gamble, truly. But in his demeanor, in his very self-control, I saw a hunger for a more civilized society, to impose upon his people the structures that allowed for a glory not wholly won by iron and blood. Joscelin, following my lead, merely bowed again.

"You speak our tongue," Waldemar Selig said softly, "and trained to serve kings. What does it mean?" Another man might have said it for effect; he meant it. His gaze probed my face. "I would send one such as you, if I wished to tempt my enemy to foolishness. How do you say, then, that you came to be a slave?"

It was not a question I had anticipated, though I should have, knowing as much as I did of him. There is a time to dissemble, and a time to tell the truth. Looking at his eyes, I gauged it was the latter. "My lord," I said, "I knew too much."

My whole history lay naked in those words, for one who knew to read it. If Waldemar Selig did not, still he recognized the language in which it was written. He nodded once, as much to himself as to me. "That may happen," he remarked, "if one is trained to serve kings." The great hall stirred at that; he had acknowledged Gunter’s words, and my own, for truth. But no one disagreed. "And what of you?" he asked, then, switching his focus suddenly to Joscelin. "How do you come before me?"

If I had had reason to doubt the Cassiline’s quickness of wit-as opposed to his propensity for swift belligerence-I could only praise him now. Joscelin turned to me and spoke in D’Angeline. "Tell him that I am oath-sworn to guard your life," he said. "Tell him that it is a matter of honor."

I turned back to Waldemar Selig, who held up one hand. "I…speak a little…of your tongue," he said haltingly in D’Angeline. "You must speak…a little of mine, to hear this." He switched then to near-fluent Caerdicci. "Do you speak the scholar’s tongue, D’Angeline? I understand what you say."

Joscelin bowed, unable to keep his eyes from widening. "Yes, my lord," he replied in Caerdicci. "It is as Gunter Arnlaugson has said."

"So." Waldemar Selig considered Joscelin. "And do you swear as Gunter Arnlaugson has said, to guard my life as your own, Joss-lin Ver-ai?"

He had marked Joscelin’s name when I spoke it, and remembered; he spoke somewhat of our tongue-albeit with a barbaric accent-and Caerdicci in the bargain. The more I saw of this man, the more I feared him. Gonzago de Escabares had been right; Waldemar Selig was dangerous.

Joscelin had recovered his composure and his face was cool and unreadable, a mask of Cassiline discipline. Of those in the hall, only Gunter and his thanes, who stood behind us now, knew his skill. He stood scant yards from the Skaldi leader, fully armed and on his feet. In three moves, I thought, he could kill Waldemar Selig; and of a surety, the tense unity that held the Skaldi at the Allthing would not survive Selig’s death. Fractured and leaderless, the Skaldi would be what they had always been, a threat to our borders, but one that could be pushed back by a concerted effort.

And he would be foresworn, and both of us slain or worse. Cassiel had chosen damnation to remain at Elua’s side; Joscelin would do no less.

"I swear it," he said in Caerdicci, "on the safety of my lady Phèdre nó Delaunay."

"Fay-dra," mused Waldemar Selig, glancing at me. I curtsied, conscious of the weight of his gaze. "That is how you are called?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Fay-dra, you will teach me D’Angeline. I wish to learn more." His glance moved back to Joscelin. "Joss-lin, we will see what kind of warrior you are." Selig nodded to one of the White Brethren, making an oblique gesture with two fingers.

With a battle-cry, the thane sprang at his leader, short spear extended for a killing thrust. Waldemar Selig sat unmoving. It may have been staged; I don’t know. But I believed then and I believe now that the thane’s attack was in earnest. From his own men, he commanded that much obedience. Even in this, they would obey.

I could see Gunter’s smug grin as Joscelin went into action. Smooth as oiled silk, he slid himself between Selig and the thane, twin daggers rising to catch the shaft of the spear with its pointed head an inch shy of his heart. With a subtle twist of shoulders and wrists, he turned its course harmlessly, and in the same motion landed a level, well-planted kick to the abdomen that sent the White Brethren staggering backward, his breath leaving him with a huff.

With a brief bow, Joscelin presented the spear to Waldemar Selig. To the accompaniment of snickers, the defeated thane scowled and adjusted his pelt, taking his place with his brethren once more.

"So." The Skaldi leader’s eyes glinted with amusement. He rose, holding the spear, and placed a comradely arm about Gunter’s shoulders. "You have given me a mighty gift, Gunter Arnlaugson!" he announced loudly.

Waldemar Selig had given his approval, and the Skaldi cheered. Looking about the great hall, however, I made no mistake. They were cheering Selig and Selig alone; there was no welcome in their voice for two D’Angeline slaves. Except for the members of Gunter’s steading, gazing at their faces I saw naught to thaw my heart. Among the women, there was only envy and hatred. Among the men, hatred and hunger for me, hatred alone for Joscelin.

If I had ever doubted it, I knew it now. We were among the enemy.

That night, Selig feasted the assembled leaders of the steadings, and you may be sure, Gunter sat in close proximity to the warleader. It was a Skaldi gathering, and the mead flowed freely; there was song and boasting and politicking alike. I was there, for Waldemar Selig ordered me to attend that night, pouring mead for Skaldi chieftains from a heavy earthenware jug. I cannot tell how many times I had to refill my jug.

I could count, though, the number of times I refilled Selig’s tankard, for they were few. The rest of them got roaring-drunk, no question, and he allowed it, but Waldemar Selig remained sober. I watched his calculating eyes, and saw how he gauged the manner of his chieftains. They had presented themselves to him on their best behavior, and he had gauged them then; now they let their true natures show, and he watched them all the closer for it.

It gave me the shivers.

I noted too, how his gaze followed me, and sensed rather than saw his appreciation for the niceties of D’Angeline service: the linen cloth I held beneath the jug, the line of the arm as one pours, the proper angle of approach, the thousand and one details one is taught in the Night Court with which to serve with unobtrusive grace. It mattered naught to the other Skaldi, who held out their tankards at will and didn’t care if the contents slopped over the sides, but it mattered to Waldemar Selig.

He had Joscelin attend, too, in the Cassiline manner; three paces behind his left shoulder, hands crossed at ease on his hilts. He must have asked what was proper. Clever, but not foolish; I could see that Waldemar Selig was aware of his every move, and that two of the White Brethren kept a careful watch on Joscelin. He hungers for our customs, I thought. He would set himself up as a King, but this nation of brawling drunkards is not fit for the sort of kingdom he wishes to rule. I thought of my homeland, and my blood ran cold.

There was no talk, that night, of why they were assembled; only boasting, and tales of what they had done already. Two of the leaders, a Suevi and a Gambrivü, fell to quarreling over an ancient blood-feud, and it wasn’t long before their swords were out. Drunken and excited, the Skaldi cleared way for the fight. I saw Gunter among them, bawling out a wager which was quickly accepted.

It was the sound of Waldemar Selig’s tankard being slammed onto the table that caught their attention and commanded silence. "Are you men." asked the Skaldi warleader into the abashed stillness, his hazel eyes glinting, "or dogs, to quarrel over a dry bone? I have a rule, in my household. Any man who bears a grudge, let him bring it to me. And any man who would settle it by might of arms, let him take up his cause against me. Is that your wish? You, Lars Hognison? You, Erling the Quick?" They fell to shuffling and muttering, for all the world like two boys caught quarreling. "No? Good, then. Make peace among you, and behave yourselves as brethren ought."

Skaldi are easily moved to emotion. The two men, who moments before were like to tear out one another’s throats, fell on each other’s shoulders and embraced like brothers.

"Well done," Waldemar Selig said softly, levering himself to his feet, using his height and the breadth of his shoulders to dominate the hall. "You are here," he told them, "because you have learned to lead, among your own folk. If you would truly be leaders of men, you must learn to unite, and not to divide. Divided, we are but so many dog packs, squabbling in the kennel-yard. United, we are a mighty people!"

They cheered him, then, but Waldemar Selig was too canny to rest on his laurels. "You," he said, pointing at Gunter. "Gunter Arnlaugson of the Marsi. Did I hear you cry out a wager?"

Gunter had the sense to look embarrassed. "It was the heat of the moment, Blessed," he protested. "Surely you have done as much, to warm a long winter’s cold."

"If a man does wager on a dogfight," Waldemar Selig said calmly, "how does his hunting pack fare come spring?" He sat down and thrust up the right sleeve of his jerkin, baring one mighty arm. "A wager is a challenge, Gunter Arnlaugson, and you are a guest in my hall. What will you wager, then? That stone which sparkles so prettily about your neck? A D’Angeline trifle, if I make no mistake."

Caught out unwitting, Gunter glanced at me. I could not help but pity him; Melisande’s diamond was ill luck for anyone. "Do you admire it?" he asked brashly, lifting it from about his neck and holding it out to Selig. "Then it is yours!"

"Ah, no." Waldemar Selig smiled. "I would win it as honestly as your respect, Gunter Arnlaugson. Come, if you would wager, try your luck against my arm." He beckoned, and the muscles in his arm shifted like boulders beneath the skin. Deprived of a fight, the Skaldi applauded the prospect of a test of strength. Clever Selig, I thought, to catch them out with shame, then shame them with strength. They didn’t know what he was about, but I did.

Making the best of a bad situation, Gunter clasped his hands above his head and shook them, flashing the diamond as he stepped up to the table. Skaldi admire courage, and they rewarded his with shouts of approval. Waldemar Selig merely gave a wolfish grin. They sat down then across from each other, and Gunter laid the diamond on the table before they gripped hands and leaned into it, pitting sheer force against one another.

It was not a pretty sight, that much I will say. As I had cause to know, Gunter Arnlaugson was a powerful man, and no easy match, even for one of Selig’s stature. Their faces reddened and the tendons stood out on their necks, while their arms bulged and corded with effort. Eventually, though, it had to happen. Gunter’s wrist bent back slowly, while Waldemar Selig’s curved over the top of it; inch by inch, Gunter’s arm was forced to the table, until at last it struck wood.

Selig’s White Brethren cheered the loudest, but they were not alone in it. Even Gunter had the grace to grin, wringing his hand. You are well shed of that thing, I thought, as he picked up Melisande’s diamond and presented it to Waldemar Selig.

I thought too soon.

Waldemar Selig dangled the diamond on its cord from one finger. "Never let it be said," he remarked to the Skaldi, "that we are cruel masters, who fear to give the D’Angelines their due, their baubles and trinkets. Let them keep what they will! Who fears a race trained to serve?" He raised his voice to a shout. "Fay-dra!"

Trembling, I set down my pitcher and approached, sinking without thought to kneel before him. I could feel the heat coming off him without looking. "My lord," I murmured.

The cord settled over my head, Melisande’s diamond returning to rest between my breasts. "See," Waldemar Selig said, "how the D’Angeline kneels, to receive with gratitude what is hers by right from my own hand. See it and mark it, for it is an omen!" He grasped the hair atop my head then, raising it for all to look on my face, and they cheered. "Look well at our future!"

Gunter had given me to him as a symbol, and he was clever enough to use me as such. The Skaldi shouted and pounded their mugs, while Waldemar Selig smiled at their approval. I understood, then, the measure of his ruthlessness. What he hungered for, he would grasp, though he destroyed it in the process. Beneath his hand, I trembled like a leaf.

And inevitably, damnably, in the wake of this casual humiliation, came desire. If Waldemar Selig had chosen to take me in front of four dozen assembled Skaldic chieftains, I would have cried out encouragement. I knew it, and knowing it, wept, despising what I was.

Behind it all, Joscelin’s face swam in my vision, a clear and impassive D’Angeline noble’s profile, staring straight ahead. I fixed my eyes upon it and prayed.