The Gathering Storm

Page 279

“Have you?”
“We have much to learn from each other.”
“As do I, it seems.”
She glanced at him sharply and pushed her scarf back from her head self-consciously. Although her face and hands were clean, her nails had dirt under them and the hem of her robe was stained, as though she had recently come from the gardens. “Does this displease you, my lord?” Her tone was not at all submissive. Quite the contrary.
He bared his teeth, the merest flash, and had the pleasure of seeing her eyes widen in alarm and, an instant later, an ironic smile lift her lips.
“Had OldMother not wished to speak with you, she would never have allowed you to set foot in her hall,” he answered. “So be it.” Yet as he strode up to Oldmother’s hall, he puzzled over her words. It should not have surprised him that Old Mother would speak with the one who stood as OldMother for the Soft Ones, weak as they were, but nevertheless the comment disquieted him. No son of the tribe entered Oldmother’s hall without her invitation, and her invitation came only to those sons who would lead, breed, or die. He had never heard of any time in all the long years since the RockChildren walked the Earth that one among the OldMothers had spoken to humans. Why now?
The SwiftDaughters had seen him coming by means of watch fires that burned along the fjord to alert the inhabitants of approaching ships, and they gathered outside the hall to welcome him. He had forgotten the unexpected beauty of their forms, or perhaps he had simply never appreciated it. Their hair shone with the gleam of ore, and this glamour wove veins of light into their skin as well, so that the midday sun made them shimmer. They moved with a grace no clumsy human limbs could imitate, and their cold lips and bright eyes held a wealth of expression as they danced in greeting. Yet like his cousins they were, as far as he knew, nameless; unlike most human females, they would never breed and produce hatchlings of their own.
Wasn’t that the weakness of the RockChildren, who were stronger in so many other ways? Humankind would always outnumber them.
He crossed the threshold into the vast dimness of OldMother’s hall, with its impossible sweep of stars glittering above despite the hall having a roof. As he walked forward, the ground transformed from beaten dirt to hard rock beneath his feet. An abyss opened before him, and he dared walk no closer to OldMother’s high seat. A winter wind chilled his face and torso, blowing up from unimaginable depths. Ice formed on his braid and coated his lips.
Her voice scraped. “You are bold, Stronghand. You set your ships onto the seas and fight to possess other lands than the one you were born to. You force the many chieftains to bow down before one leader, who is yourself. You seek both the living and the dead. You invite sorcerers into our homeland who care nothing for us although it is their kind who gave us life. What will come of these plans?”
“That remains to be seen. I use the tools I find.”
“In aiding the strangers, do you not put your own plans in jeopardy?”
“Perhaps. I will take the risk. They speak of a great cataclysm set into motion by their ancient enemies, whom they call the Aoi—the Lost Ones.”
Her silence encouraged him to go on, yet it seemed to him that she was not alone, that many more presences listened as he spoke. “They seek a stone crown in these northern lands through which they desire to weave a spell that will reach across the lands from north to south, from east to west.”
“They will find what they seek,” she replied, “yet it is not what they think it is.”
“They claim to seek only knowledge and wisdom, but I can see that they seek power as well.”
“In this you follow the path of humankind, Stronghand. Use caution.”
“I do.”
“You have a question.”
The statement caught him off guard, but he knew how to recover quickly, and he knew better than to attempt to deceive OldMother. “Why did you not give your sons names?”
“Because they never asked for them.”
“Now they do.”
The blistering wind abruptly calmed, and ceased. He saw nothing, only darkness, but OldMother’s presence enveloped him.
“An inescapable storm is coming, Stronghand. This my sisters and I know. Prepare yourself and those who shelter under your hand. In this storm long ago the RockChildren were born. The Mothers of our tribes do not wish our children to perish, but to survive, when it returns.”
“What must I do?”
“Step forward.”
He knew better than to disobey. One step plunged him into the chasm, falling and falling through blackness.