Walpurgis Night (5 page)

She strained to get a better look at
Henrik’s
face in the brief moments before she was raised up to the horse, searching for the warm, caring lover she’d known. His strong features were set in a stern expression that didn’t soften as he watched her. His blue gray eyes were cool, the arched brows drawn into a scowl. No hint of warmth or sympathy showed in that handsome face.

Fianna
shivered when she settled into place behind him. The blond hair that hung to his shoulders rippled with gold highlights in the sunshine, clean and tangle-free. The scent of leather was mixed with a hint of soap and something potently masculine coming from him. That smell set her senses ablaze with memory. Yet something had changed since last she had seen him, to set the sternness so firmly in place on his features. Or perhaps he just dared not show any sympathy or kindness to her, lest it be taken for weakness by the men he commanded.

The trip didn’t take long, thank goodness, since she was far from comfortable in that position. The Norsemen’s settlement was only a short distance from her town. She’d never been there before, however, and looked around curiously as the party rode into the center of a grouping of ten or so houses. Two of them were very long buildings built of wood, raised off the ground on enormous poles with straw-thatched roofs. The others were smaller versions of the longhouses, scattered in a rough half circle around an open area where children played and people gathered to talk.

A small crowd of men and boys emerged from one of the longhouses to meet them. Several boys took charge of the horses as the men dismounted. The same two who’d helped her onto the horse assisted her off, as well, and supported her when her legs wobbled a bit.

Henrik
ignored her and turned immediately toward one of the smaller buildings. Her companions moved to follow, still holding her arms, so she went with them.

Enough light flowed in the window openings of the house to let her see clearly the interior. In one corner an older man sat, whittling on a piece of wood. He wore an intimidating frown. She’d seen
Hjallmar
only once before, but despite the greater years, the resemblance
Henrik
bore him was clear. A woman stirred a pot hung over the fire on that wall, releasing an aroma that reminded
Fianna
she hadn’t eaten for a while. She doubted they would offer her food. At least not right away and not if the mission they’d summoned her for could be accomplished quickly.

Henrik
went over to the old man, bowed toward him then folded himself onto a low stool and began talking.
Fianna
knew only a few words of the Norse tongue and none of them helped her distinguish what they were saying. But more than once they turned to look at her. The old man argued and waved a hand in a way that showed he wasn’t happy. Finally, though, they seemed to come to an agreement.

Henrik
stood. As he turned toward her, he drew his sword from its scabbard and pointed it at her.

Fianna
couldn’t move. Shock held her firmly in place at first then the realization that she could do little about the situation. If he wanted to kill her, there was little she could do to prevent it. Better she face him with courage than with sniveling pleas or cowering fear, though she had no idea why this was happening.

Man and sword advanced on her until the point was no more than an inch from her breast. She looked up and met his light eyes. Fierce emotion blazed there, but it wasn’t anger or hatred.

She held his gaze as she asked, “Why?”

He ignored her question. “Turn around,” he said.

Fianna
debated refusing but couldn’t see anything to gain by it. She turned. He was suddenly beside her, the sword pointed down. With his left hand, he took her arm and led her to a panel that walled off about a third of the building into a separate room.
Henrik
pushed aside a length of cloth draped over the opening into it and waited for her to go in.

A rough mat covered in linen cloths covered nearly half the floor space. A man lay stretched out on it. Pain drew his face into harsh lines and printed dark shadows under his sunken eyes. His hair would have been the same bright golden blond as
Henrik’s
save that it was matted with sweat and mud. In fact, when healthy, she suspected the man would look quite a lot like
Henrik
. But he was far from healthy. His skin looked grayish and his breath gasped in and out too loudly.

“What’s wrong with him?”
Fianna
asked. She began to understand why they’d brought her here.

Suddenly the sword came up, and its point came to rest against her breast. “You will heal him,”
Henrik
said.

“I’ll try,”
Fianna
answered, “
but
even I can only—”

“You heal him or you die.”

Chapter Five

She met his steely, blue gray eyes and refused to look away from his demanding gaze. For several quiet, tense moments they stared at each other. She searched for the lover she’d known and found naught of that one. Instead she saw a pain so deep and cruel clawing at him, it could only find outlet in this way.

Finally
Fianna
said, “Your threats are useless. I’ll give him my best efforts as a healer. I do that for all I treat. But I cannot guarantee it will be enough to save him. I cannot heal all.” She stepped back and turned away to face the sick man. “What is wrong with him?” She went to her knees and put a hand on the man’s forehead. His flesh felt hot and was coated with sweat.

Henrik
sighed, set his sword down on a table and knelt beside her. “He was injured in a raid. The wound was stitched and appeared to be healing, but then it started to swell and he became ill. They brought him back here.” He lifted the man’s tunic and removed the dressing from a wound in his shoulder.

Fianna
drew in a sharp breath. A cut ran along the top of his shoulder then angled down across his chest. It had been stitched, but it wasn’t healing cleanly. The skin all around the wound was swollen and red streaks radiated from the area. She muttered a quick prayer under her breath since she feared it would take a miracle to save him.

“This will not be easy,” she said to
Henrik
. “I’ll need hot water and cloth, as much of both as you can find.”

He nodded and went to give the orders. She was checking over the sick man’s body to be sure there weren’t any other injuries she didn’t know about when he returned. “How long ago was he wounded?” she asked.

“Four days past.” For the first time his stoicism slipped and
Fianna
got a glimpse of how much he cared about the patient and how much it was costing him not to show it. His hands clenched into involuntary fists and his entire body tensed with evident frustration.

“Your brother?” she asked him.

He nodded.
“
Ranulf
.”

She looked at
Henrik
again. “This will be difficult. The wound must be opened again, to allow the ill humors to drain from it.”

He shut his eyes for a moment and drew a harsh breath. “It will heal him?”

“It may.
If the ill humors haven’t taken too strong a hold on him.
I’ll need someone to help me.”

“I’ll help. What need you?”

She looked at him, meeting his eyes again. For the first time since his unexpected rescue of her earlier, she felt she really saw the man rather than the image of invincible power he tried to convey. The shadowy depths of his light blue eyes betrayed the pain and fear he hadn’t allowed to show before.

“This won’t be pleasant,” she warned.

“Tell me what to do.”

Before she could answer, the woman who’d been tending the pot earlier pushed the hanging cloth aside and brought in a bucket of steaming water along with a pile of clean linen. She set both down hastily and left. Before she could go,
Fianna
called to her, “Wait. I need a brazier with lit charcoal and some cool water as well.”

The woman gave her a blank stare then turned to listen to
Henrik
as he translated. She nodded and left again.

While waiting for her return,
Fianna
removed the dressings and began to clean the area around the wound. The young man on the mat groaned once or twice but otherwise gave no indication he was aware of what she did.

The woman returned with the brazier and set it on the floor then left and came back with the cool water.

Fianna
pulled her mother’s dagger from its sheath.
Henrik’s
eyes flashed and he moved toward his sword.

“I won’t harm him,” she said. “I told you I must reopen the wound.”

He drew a long breath, nodded and returned to his position kneeling by his brother’s head.

Fianna
held the dagger, warming it between her hands, her right palm over the red stone in the hilt. She remembered her mother’s words about it when she’d given it to
Fianna
.

The dagger is a gift of the
fae
, her mother had told her. ’
Tis
bespelled
in ways I cannot explain to you. It can heal as well as harm, but you must set your will to its action.
That had been shortly before her mother had gone away three years earlier, disappearing into the mists beyond the mountains.
Fianna
moved the dagger so she held it by the tip of the hilt and the very end of the blade. She stared into the red stone, willing it to the healing of this very ill young man.

After a minute or two, her thoughts turned back to her mother. The woman had warned
Fianna
for some time that she would have to leave, but
Fianna
had never believed it would happen. Until the day she found her mother lying still and pale on her cot. When
Fianna
roused her, her mother had kissed her, and said, “I was waiting for you to return. I have no more time. You know my mother was of the
fae
and my father a mortal man. My time in this realm was no more than borrowed and is now at an end. I grieve to have to leave you, my love, but if I stay I’ll fade away to naught. As it is I’ve nearly
o’erstayed
my time. You have what I’ve taught you and my dagger for your protection. It should be enough.”

She went to the door and picked up the small pack laid there waiting.
“One more thing,
Fianna
.
One day you’ll look into the dagger and see your fate. Act wisely on what you see. She kissed her one last time before she walked out the door, heading for the mountains.”
Fianna
didn’t follow. Even if she caught up with her mother, she wouldn’t find her.

Fianna
willed herself to put those thoughts aside and concentrate on imparting her will for healing to the dagger. She folded one of the cloths and wrapped it around the hilt, shifted her grip and plunged the blade into the flames spurting up from the brazier. She held it there long enough to heat the metal thoroughly.

When she pulled it out of the fire,
Fianna
let the edges of the cloth fall back far enough to reveal the red jewel again. She stared into it. The memory of her mother brought tears that obscured her vision, turning the heart of the jewel into a sea of swirling red. Yet tears couldn’t account for what happened next.

In the depths of the stone, something more than just its red heart grew brighter and flared into sparks. Orange and yellow streaks ignited, flickered and roared up into a blazing fire. Flames leapt high, higher than
herself
as she watched it. She could see no fuel for it, yet it seemed it needed none.

She gasped and almost dropped the dagger onto her patient. Her mother had said she’d see her fate in the stone someday. Was this to be how she would meet her end, then?
Fire?
Dear heavens, she hoped not.

Hoping to deny it and will it away, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, the flames still blazed in the jewel’s red depths. But from the heart of that fire another image was forming. A face seemed to emerge from the flames with hair of fire… Nay, not fire, a fiery shade of gold. A man’s face, strong, handsome, with light eyes and…

Again she nearly lost her grip on the dagger. It had to be a trick of the light.
Or a reflection.
Perhaps he was standing behind her and his face reflected in the jewel…But nay, he still knelt beside his brother’s head, off to her left, staring at her with an expression of mingled alarm and confusion.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She shook herself. There was no time for fancy or speculation. A man’s life was slipping away while she mooned over a vision.
“Aye.
I’m well,” she answered. “I just had a moment of dizziness. It will pass.”

She looked into the stone again, hoping it had all disappeared. But no,
Henrik’s
face still stared out of the jewel at her, backed by fire. Was he then her fate, also? And what did that mean?

As one speculation chased after another in her brain, the images began to fade from the jewel until she stared at nothing but the red center of the stone. She sighed and shook herself. There was work to do and she needed all her wits about her.

“You must hold him still while I do this,”
Fianna
told
Henrik
.

His throat worked, his mouth pulled into a tight line, but he nodded and leaned over
Ranulf
. He put one hand across his brother’s head and the other on the man’s uninjured shoulder.

As she’d promised
Henrik
, the next few hours were far from pleasant.
Ranulf
screamed and tried to rise when she reopened the wound, but
Henrik
held him firmly. She let the wound drain then set a cloth soaked in hot water over it to pull out as much of the ill humors as possible. In the meantime she sponged him down with cooler water to try to reduce his fever.