Ghost's Dilemma (13 page)

***

The savory fragrance of roasting meat and spices filled the foodhall and lured Ghost into the room. Njall led the way through the rows of long wooden tables, the tops scrubbed pale. The benches flanking each table were padded, to Ghost's surprise. Young men and women moved through the rows of tables offering food and pouring drinks from large copper pitchers.

Ghost's stomach grumbled in response to the rich aromas, and Njall looked over his shoulder in frank amusement. Njall came to a stop close to the front of the room, at a table placed perpendicular to a low platform. He gestured for Ghost to take a seat, and lowered himself next to Ghost.

"The table in front of us is where Falkor dines. I sit at his feet with his most trusted warriors and his other sons." Njall smiled at the young woman who approached with a laden tray. A second woman filled Njall's mug with a small amount of mead topped by hot water. Njall waved her to give Ghost the same drink.

"Do not drink too much mead this early in the day, little Ghost. Falkor will want to speak to you." Njall turned to the women. "Four plates and two more mugs. I expect two more guests this morning."

Njall turned back to Ghost. "This meat is bjarrn. It is a little strong to the taste, but good when cooked like this."

In front of Ghost, the woman set a plate laden with boiled eggs, warm bread, and meat in rich gravy. Ghost's stomach grumbled again, and he heard a familiar dry voice from behind him.

"You took your time, little one."

Ghost turned on the bench so fast that he nearly tumbled to the floor. Only Njall's large hand in the small of his back kept him on the bench. His mouth opened and closed again with a sharp snap as he stared in frank amazement.

If not for her voice, he would not have recognized the Witch at first glance. The greasy-haired hag in rusty black homespun was gone. The Witch's hair was clean and soft, pulled back into a single silver braid held with a twisted leather cord. She wore a long shift in soft wool the color of a summer sky, and a gold torc rested atop her collarbone. The red triskele stood out against her pale skin, and her dark eyes were as sharp as ever.

The boy with her was another matter. He was a Norther, his hair as white as Njall's, and pulled back to hold it off his face. He wore a simple linen tunic and woven breeches like Njall, and there the resemblance ended. The boy looked at the Witch for instruction and snuck a peek at Ghost from under thick lashes once she guided him to his seat beside her. Ghost returned the inquisitive glance openly. The boy looked to be no more than nine or ten years of age, far too thin and pale for Ghost's liking.

"I'd have been here faster if you'd bothered to tell me about the witchpaths," Ghost replied. "A little practical advice on the local climate wouldn't have hurt, either."

Njall waited for the Witch to get settled, but Ghost noticed Njall didn't wait for the boy before beginning to eat. The boy sat and stared at his plate until the Witch touched his arm. "Eat, child. A good wind would bowl you over."

The words were familiar enough to make Ghost give the Witch a sharp look. He took a sip of the watered mead while he gathered his scattered thoughts. The Witch had used the same tone with him when he was young. The flash of resentment he felt surprised him.

"This is Egill," the Witch said. "I'm told we're all supposed to meet with Falkor later this morning. He leads this clan, and he's very curious about my motives for being here. Patience, little one, is not one of Falkor's strongest traits. If you'd been much later, I'd have been getting a bit uncomfortable."

"Why?" Ghost looked up from his plate. The hint of temper in the Witch's tone made him feel uneasy. "I came here with questions of my own, although I'm told outlanders aren't supposed to ask anything. I'm pretty sure I won't have the answers to Falkor's questions." He looked at Njall, who shrugged one broad shoulder and returned to eating.

The Witch smiled, but Ghost was sure her dark eyes held no humor at all.

"I have answers Falkor wants, but I won't give him any satisfaction until I hear what's going on from you." The Witch sipped her watered mead and gestured for more water. "Falkor's shaman, Bruadar, has been kind enough to teach me about some of the healing techniques used here. Plants and herbs grown only in this locale. It's fascinating."

Ghost heard the unspoken warning in the Witch's words. She appeared to hint Bruadar was a danger, more so than Falkor. Njall had implied as much himself. These Norther shamans had teeth, unlike the godsmen of the Heartlands. Ghost took a bite of the meat and chewed, irritated by whatever game was being played here.

"Is there any way to get word from home? I'd like to see how the village is doing." Ghost gave Njall a stern look as he spoke. "I also want to talk to my mate and let him know I'm all right. I'd do it myself, but I don't seem to have my pouch."

Njall sat back, pushing his empty plate away. "How did you know to find your Witch here, little Ghost?"

"We're back to this." Ghost glared at the warrior without flinching. "I'm a witch, and our ways are our own. And this is about all you're getting until someone tells me what's going on here. I have profoundly sick people whose lives depend on me, and all I want is some help curing them. The rest doesn't matter to me."

"Not quite housebroken," the Witch muttered.

Egill went very still, his spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyes remained fixed on his plate, and he flinched when the Witch touched his shoulder.

"Be easy, child. Ghost has learned to growl, it seems. No one will punish you for his words. This is not the West Reaches." The Witch looked over at Njall, and Ghost noted the defiant lift of her chin.

"Do not look at me so, woman." Njall's voice was heavy. "I will not waste good breath asking questions you will not answer. I have no means to compel you, although I am not sure Falkor or Bruadar will have an easier time of it. Finish your meal, and we will see."

Chapter 14

Ghost and the Witch followed Njall as he strode through the maze of timber-walled hallways of the clanhold. Ghost clutched the books Njall had given him to his chest as he gazed up at the heads of strange beasts mounted on the walls of a large room. A white-furred specimen with a long muzzle looked as though it could have taken a man's arm off with a casual snap.

"He is a bjarrn. He was a canny old one, this one, and put up quite the fight. Falkor had the honor of the kill." Njall grinned at Ghost, and Ghost gave the head a last baleful look before turning away.

They passed through another hallway and stopped in front of a large door made from the red wood of the South. Elaborate reliefs covered the door, and Ghost was surprised to see many of the markings he recognized as witchmarks among the carvings. He dared to glance over at the Witch, and he met her eyes with a blast of pure apprehension. His blood ran cold as the stones from his vision rose up in his mind's eye.

Njall looked over at Ghost, his expression amused. "We do trade with outlanders, you know. They covet our jewels and the white furs of our little viksin, or the thick hides of the elkkur. Your pretty jewels might have come from our mountains, little Ghost. Some outlanders request the teeth of the bjarrn, but those are not given without much thought. The shamans say the teeth hold power. And for all I know, they might even be right."

Njall opened the door to reveal a large man sitting atop a dais in a high-backed chair carved with the same intricacy as the door. A slightly smaller man in dark robes stood at the right hand of the seated man.

The face of the man on the dais resembled Njall, but bore the weathering of age. He wore a tunic embroidered in vivid colors and a cloak of white fur, similar to the one the Witch had worn in Ghost's vision. A thick gold torc with ends of polished ruby circled his neck. Based on the resemblance, the man could only be Falkor, Njall's father and the leader of the clan. The man behind the chair was therefore Bruadar, the shaman.

Ghost studied Bruadar with careful interest. Unlike Njall or Falkor, Bruadar had eyes as dark as the Witch's. He had not mastered the Witch's ability to hide behind an expressionless face, though. He frowned as he watched Njall escort the small group into the room. Bruadar's eyes never left the Witch and Egill. He spared less than a glance for Ghost.

"As you desired, Falkor, I have brought the outlander woman and the two of our blood here to speak with you. This one is called Ghost.” Njall motioned for Ghost to stand alongside the Witch and Egill. "The small one is called Egill." Njall didn't bow or show any signs of subservience, and he ignored Bruadar entirely as he took up a position behind Ghost.

"Have they shared what they know, Njall, son of Falkor, or have you failed in this task?" Bruadar's voice was harsh and raspy, and his dark eyes shifted to Njall.

Njall chuckled. "I am no skald to be telling stories. If there is something you want to know, ask them, shaman. I serve my father, not the gods." He dropped one large hand onto Ghost's shoulder. Whether the gesture was a warning or support, Ghost couldn't say.

"Be still, the both of you." Falkor's voice was as deep a rumble as Njall's voice. "This is my hall. I will ask what needs to be asked." He turned his faded blue eyes to Ghost. "How did you come to be here? Your manner of dress and the mark on your head show you to be an outlander. Yet the passes by which your kind travel are closed by the autumn snows."

Ghost met Falkor's eyes without flinching. He heard a small whisper in the back of his mind, almost like speaking to the witchsisters. It was not the Witch, though, nor was it a voice he recognized. The tone was shy, but the words were sharp.
Bruadar doesn't know about the carriages, and you shouldn't tell him.

Ghost hoped he was as expressionless as the Witch as he answered Falkor. "The witches have their own ways."

"And what are those ways?" Falkor asked.

Ghost shook his head. "You haven't taken the vows. I won't speak of witchsister business with an outsider."

"My business is to ensure the safety of my clan," Falkor retorted. "And yet I am confronted with unexpected guests in a season when none travel this way. Two of those guests look to be Norther born. A puzzling thing because we do not let our children wander, to be taken up by outlanders and raised as strangers. Should I fear for my children and the children of my people? This woman tells me no, but I find no solace in her assurances."

"The Witch raised me and cared for me as if I were her own." Ghost shrugged the shoulder not buried under Njall's large hand. "I don't know where she found me, or why I was there, but she's done me no harm, ever. All I know is I would have died if she hadn't rescued me."

Njall nodded. "Ghost was most fierce in his defense of the Witch when we spoke."

"And of course, you believed him." Bruadar's words were accompanied by a sneer. Ghost felt his temper rising.

"He gave me no reason to disbelieve him. He spoke as I would have spoken, if someone had insulted Falkor to my face." Njall's fingers tightened a little on Ghost's shoulder. This time, Ghost knew he was being cautioned.

The soft voice confirmed Ghost's suspicions.
There's something wrong about Bruadar. If you look hard, you can See it. You're like me. You can See inside.

Ghost resisted the urge to turn and look at Egill. The Witch was not a seer, and certainly Njall was not talking inside his head in such a small voice. Nothing about Njall was small. Ghost understood why the Witch had Egill with her, and why Bruadar had raised Ghost's hackles from the moment Ghost had laid eyes on him. Egill, like Ghost, was a seer. So was Bruadar, but the shaman was masking the Sight. Egill felt it as wrongness, but Ghost's gift was more developed, and he Saw it clearly. He wondered if the Witch knew what Bruadar was.

"Send the shaman away and I will speak," the Witch said. "I've told you, Falkor. I won't speak while he's here. If he's foolish enough to think I can do you any harm, then you should consider finding a wiser shaman."

Bruadar growled deep in his throat. "You should not be alone with this outlander woman, Falkor. It's not proper."

"I will be here," Njall said. "Unless you wish to cast doubt on my loyalty, shaman?"

Ghost held his breath, the tension in the room thick. Whatever game the Witch was playing, Njall was playing along. Ghost couldn't be sure if Njall knew the stakes or simply despised the shaman.

"Leave us, Bruadar." Falkor's voice was low, but it held enough authority to make Bruadar hold his tongue. "My son will see to my safety if it turns out I have need to fear a woman and two boys."

The heavy hand on Ghost's shoulder closed a little more, and Ghost refrained from turning around to glare at Njall. He didn't need Njall's cautioning. Ghost was familiar enough with this game. He had seen the Witch bait the godsmen a double hand of times or more.

The moment the door closed behind Bruadar, the Witch turned her gaze to Falkor. "Now you shall have your answers, if you ask the right questions."

"You are fearless to bargain with me in my own hall." Falkor sat back. "I was told you slapped my son when he mistook you for a thrall. Is this so?"

"I am a hag. I no longer have the patience I once had for impetuous youth and even more impulsive appetites. But I'm inclined to be forgiving without your shaman glowering at me." The Witch gave Falkor a faint smile. "I found Ghost nearly nineteen autumns past. He couldn't have been more than a few months old, but his blanket was warm and well-made, and I could see he'd been loved and cared for. What reason, I wondered, could there be for a Norther dam to abandon a loved child? I looked to see if I could find the dam, thinking she might've been wounded, but I found no one else in the ruins. If there was a ranger about, he'd been prudent enough to avoid me."

Ghost listened, keeping silent. The Witch had never told him the exact circumstances under which he had been found, yet he could tell by her manner she was speaking the absolute truth.

Falkor's head lifted, the man still vital despite his age. "Only a shaman can call for a child to be cast out. If a child is marked by the gods as cursed, the child is left in the old places."

"And so we have a piece of the puzzle," the Witch said. "I was led to those particular ruins for a reason. I was meant to find this child and take him back with me to the village where I dwelled. The Seeker's hand was on me as I traveled." She gave Ghost a small smile before she turned back to Falkor. "I found a wet nurse for him, and he grew. But he cried each night as though the Sea brought him the darkest of dreams. I asked among my sisters, and one knew what to do for my little Ghost. She told me to mark him with peridot because the stones could soothe his dreams and awaken his inner eye. He was a seer, this small and fierce babe, and it seems the shamans fear the gift, or at least one shaman does. We witches do not."

Falkor turned to Ghost, his faded blue eyes sharp. "Is this true?"

"I can't tell you how I was found, but I'm a seer. The Seeker sends me visions, and I have to unravel what they mean. I can also diagnose the sick, but I control Seeing disease and injuries, unlike the visions." Ghost stopped and shook his head. "I can push for a vision, but it won't always be granted, and it takes a lot out of me. It hurts to See that way, but I serve the Seeker."

Njall's fingers loosened on Ghost's shoulder but didn't release him. Ghost glared at Njall and turned back to Falkor.

"I don't have any powers to harm you. The shamans lied if they told you otherwise. Well, unless Seeing the truth is dangerous." Ghost shrugged free of Njall's grip, irritated by his proximity.

"The truth can be a danger," Falkor said. His voice more tired than angry. "The truth is often inconvenient when you are trying to protect your people."

Ghost was not even close to mollified. "How do you protect your people? By leaving an inconvenient babe in the ruins? Not that the Heartlands is idyllic. We have orphans, and they're not always cared for as well as they could be. But we don't leave them for the sind to eat."

"Or to be found by a ranger who trades in slaves." The Witch's voice was harsh with anger. Ghost blinked at the rare show of emotion from her. "Ghost was lucky the Seeker guided me to him. She wasn't so kind to Egill."

Egill stood between the Witch and Ghost. He looked startled at the mention of his name and shrank back, only to bump into Njall. He opened his mouth in a mute plea and scurried around Ghost to put Ghost between himself and Njall.

"Be still, child. No one here will hurt you. I've given you my word." The Witch's voice grew gentle, and Ghost put an arm around Egill.

"What happened to him?" Falkor seemed resigned to hearing an answer he would not like. His faded blue eyes held grief, although his face remained impassive.

The Witch replied in a strong voice. "As far as we've been able to tell, Egill was nearly eight years old when the slave traders found him. He'd been left to fend for himself for who knows how long. Egill isn't sure. The slave traders took him to the West Reaches and traded him into the household of a certain witch who doesn't allow her slaves to talk. Egill was trapped in that hellish household for two years, after his voice was stolen from him. Two years until he was rescued by a very brave witch." The Witch's dark eyes shone with tears, and Ghost stared at her in consternation. Ghost had never seen her cry before this moment. "He's under my protection now. I promise you, Falkor, I won't let him be harmed any more than he has been already." She met Egill's eyes and her expression softened. "I gave him my oath."

"Why do the shamans fear us?" Ghost spoke without thinking, angered by the fear radiating from Egill. The boy was tense, and Ghost held him tighter. "What have we ever done to hurt them? I was a fucking babe. What was I going to do, piss on them? Egill was only a small child. We were defenseless."

Njall's laughter rolled out like spring thunder, and he offered a sheepish shrug when Ghost rounded on him. "I am sorry, little Ghost. You are as fierce as any warrior when roused, truly, and I cannot picture you as defenseless, even as a babe." Njall grew serious. "But the question you ask is valid, and I too would like to hear the reasons." He turned to his father.

"I cannot answer the why of it. Only the shamans can tell you why the children who have such a curse are left in the deserted places. Most of them are already well past infancy when the curse is discovered. The babes are the lucky ones, I think. But they do not last long, those babes." Falkor shuddered. "Bruadar told me one of my own sons bore the curse. I took him from his mother's breast and laid him in the deserted place with my own hands. I listened to his cries grow weaker through the night, until I heard only silence in the dark. His mother cursed me and stabbed me when I took him from her. But how could I defy the gods and bring their wrath down on all my clan? She fled into the snows with my blood on her knife, and I never saw her again, nor have I known joy since that night."

"Bruadar's held that night against you, hasn't he?" Ghost felt the heat in his spiral. "He said you were weak when you sat there all night, but he promised not to tell anyone if you made him your chosen shaman. He thinks he has power over you, but there's nothing weak about loving a child. Love's the kind of strength he'll never know, Falkor."

Egill moved closer to Ghost, his slight frame fitting under Ghost's arm easily.
Ask Falkor how Bruadar can tell.
The soft voice was insistent, and Ghost took a breath.