Ghost's Dilemma Page 13

  The fur around Ghost's face was warm and soft, and he leaned his head to one side, resting against the ice-rimed rock. He let his eyes close, and the dark was soothing after looking at endless white. Ghost's head ached from the cold. If Gerry had been there, Ghost would have asked him for something hot and soothing, but not hemp. Sleep was bad, and he might not see Gerry if he slept. A voice agreed, but not Gerry, though. Gerry's voice was deeper and ran along Ghost's spine to settle in his belly, warming him from the inside out. The Witch had spoken, and he nodded, his eyes closing tight as his breathing evened out and slowed.

  Chapter 13

  Warm. Warm, strong arms surrounded him. Ghost smiled and moved closer, burying his face in the hard muscle of a shoulder. He knew he needed to get up to tend to his patients, but he was still so tired. He nuzzled deeper into the shoulder that was… clearly not Gerry's.

  "The little one wakes." A deep, rumbling voice pierced his fog of sleep.

  Ghost shoved hard against the arms holding him. He wriggled free and sat up. He heard a door close somewhere behind him. "Let go of me," he growled. He was wide awake now, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  The man belonging to the arms was bare-chested, as was Ghost, to his chagrin. He was quite relieved to see he still wore his breeches, though relief didn't stop him from glaring at the man in the bed with him.

  "You're fierce, little one. This is good to see. It means you are not too soft, like the rest of the outlanders from down below." The man sat up as well. His long white hair was bound back in many braids, each one tipped with a bead carved from the red wood of the South. An intricate black tattoo covered both his arms. The man's blue eyes watched Ghost with undisguised amusement. "You have jewels in your head, little one. Did the woman decorate you so?"

  "What woman?" Ghost retorted, watching the man for any untoward movement. "Are you talking about the Witch? Is she here?"

  "Outlanders do not ask. They listen. And answer." The man's voice dropped to a warning snarl. "Hair and eyes do not make you one of us, little one. Do not presume you have a place here."

  "I don't want a place here," Ghost snapped. "I want to talk to the Witch. She may have the solution I need. The people of my village await my return."

  A large, calloused hand clapped Ghost's shoulder as the man barked out a laugh. "There was not a single question in all your words. This is good to know. You are both fierce and can listen."

  Ghost snorted, moving out from under the hand and off the bed, the central feature of the room. The walls were timber, broad planks lacquered to a glossy shine. White hide curtains closed off a small window. Below the window was a carved wooden chest with a rounded lid, painted as elaborately as the man's tattooed arms. He looked around for the rest of his clothing. "Makes one of us," he muttered, not looking up. He tried to ignore the laughter from the bed as he found his thick linen shirt and heavy leather tunic tossed in a corner.

  Getting dressed made Ghost feel much better, and finding his tall boots more so. He looked around for a place to sit to put them on, but there was only the large bed with the muscular Norther in it, and Ghost had no intentions of getting close to the man again. He sat on the floor and tugged the first boot over his foot.

  "Will you talk about the stones?" the big man asked, crossing thick arms over his broad, muscled chest.

  "Only if you tell me why I was in bed with you." Ghost stood, peering around the room to see if he could spot his pouches and his beautiful cloak. If this oaf of a Norther had taken his cloak, Ghost was going to figure out a way to inflict a proper curse on the bastard.

  "Which earns you my name. Not many people would bargain with me. I am Njall, son of Falkor. Do you have a name, little one?" The man watched Ghost with open amusement.

  "I am Ghost, mate of Gerry, witch to my village." Ghost eyed Njall. "I'm still waiting for my answer."

  "You were found in the snow, half-frozen and asleep, little Ghost. You tried to make a shelter, which was wise, but you slept before you were done. Not so wise." Njall shrugged. "Your pretty cloak marked you as an outlander almost as much as the unfinished shelter. Now, my answer?"

  "I'm not sure what woman you mean," Ghost replied, not looking away from Njall. "But if you mean a woman with three joined spirals in red on her forehead, then yes. She gave me my witchmark." He crossed his own arms over his chest. "She is who I came to find."

  "The woman with the triskele, yes. She is an outlander, but she is fierce as well. She came to speak with Falkor, and when I mistook her for a thrall, a serving woman, she slapped me." Njall laughed his rumbling laugh. "I like her, although she is too old to give me sons. She had a boy with her, though."

  This reminded Ghost of his own missing items. "I'd like my cloak back. And my pouches. The cloak was a gift from my mate. He made it with his own hands. The pouches hold my healers' supplies, and I need those for my people."

  "You will get your items back, little Ghost. We are not savages, to steal from guests in the halls of our clanhold." Njall threw back the thick quilts, naked as the day he had been birthed. He grinned at Ghost with abundant cheer, and Ghost growled and turned away.

  "So, tell me, why did you come to find your woman with the triskele? I am told she calls herself Witch. A name as well as a title?" Njall rustled about, and Ghost risked turning back, to see Njall fastening woven breeches.

  "The Witch contacted me to tell me she might have information about an illness ravaging my village. I was her apprentice and took her place when she moved on." Ghost watched Njall, the Norther curiously graceful as he pulled a linen tunic over his head. "This malady is not a typical illness, and witches commonly ask each other for aid and information when a crisis occurs, such as an epidemic."

  "Do your people still hide from books, little Ghost? Do the shamans speak against the old knowledge?" Njall pulled on boots and gestured for Ghost to follow him into a well-lit hallway walled in whitewashed timber.

  Ghost tried to puzzle out the word Njall had used. "We don't have shamans," he said. "I don't know what they do."

  "Speak to the gods, or so they say," Njall said with a shrug. "More often, they meddle in matters not of their concern."

  "Godsmen," Ghost said, nodding in understanding. "Yes, the godsmen still say the old learning is what brought down the world once. They only tolerate the witchsisters because we can use some of the old relics to heal."

  "Witchsisters, is it? When I held you close to warm you, I was quite sure it was not a girl's desire which pressed against my leg, little Ghost." Njall rumbled a laugh as Ghost glared at him. "I jest with you. Well, not so much, since you did press against me, but the reaction was only what a man's body will do and not the heat of desire. I am not such a savage as to mistake the two."

  "I never said you were a savage," Ghost countered. "And I'm the first male admitted to the ranks of the witchsisters in many generations. I'm not exactly popular with all of the sisterhood, but I passed their tests and took the vows. I suppose if you don't have witches, your shamans heal you, then."

  "Yes and no." Njall opened a carved door painted in shades of blue and gestured for Ghost to enter. "We have healers of our own, both men and women who are called to such service under the guidance of the shamans. They deal with issues of the body, and the shamans deal with the concerns of the soul. But our gods are not your soft outlander gods, little Ghost. Our gods will eat your liver raw, and this is only if they like you."

  Ghost's retort died on his lips as he took in the sight before him. Books. Walls lined with them. Tables and benches littered with careless stacks. Njall's chuckle propelled Ghost farther into the room.

  "When the cities fell, little Ghost, our people decided someone would have to preserve the knowledge. Your frightened godsmen called the collapse the wrath of the gods. They urged your people to turn their backs on the learning which had made life too easy. They were half-right." Njall walked past Ghost to pick up a book, turning the tome in his large hands. "Life had gotten too soft, bu
t such lassitude was not the fault of the learning. The leaders wanted sheep. Fat, comfortable sheep, who would not bleat too loud as long as they had good grazing. But these are matters best left to others. Falkor leads our clan. I am only a simple warrior, and I prefer to read the words of warriors past."

  "You read?" Ghost looked at the books, his fingers itching with the desire to touch them.

  "Then the tales are true? The outlanders do not teach their people to read?" Njall sounded almost disgusted. Ghost pulled his attention from the books to look at Njall.

  "Witches read. So do the rangers who travel between lands and scavenge the ruins." Ghost dared to pick up a book, running his fingers over the cover with reverence before opening it. "The rest of the people use pictographs and tally marks. But even among the witchsisters and the rangers, most only read what they have to. I like to read. I had a little hiding place in a ruin near the Witch's house. I had my books there and a candle to read by."

  "So, this outlander woman was your mother?" Njall asked.

  "No. She raised me, but she wasn't my dam." Ghost looked up from his book. "She told me she found me, and she didn't know where my dam was, or my sire. She never said where she found me, though. I never really asked. I was happy enough with her."

  "And no one remarked on how you look? Are there many who look like you in your soft little village?" Njall leaned on a stout table strewn with books.

  Ghost returned the book he was holding to the shelf. "I'd like to know why you're asking all this. Call me suspicious, but I'm not very comfortable with answering any more questions." He folded his arms over his chest and frowned up at the warrior, his heart beating a little faster. Njall could no doubt snap him in two, but Ghost was growing irritated at the questioning, since he had been told he couldn't ask questions of his own.

  "Better me asking than Bruadar," Njall replied, the cryptic reference unsettling. "Falkor wishes to know, and I serve my father in this. You look like one of us, but it is rare one of our people would lose a child and not seek to find what is lost. The rangers who serve the slavers raid the borders, and we have lost a few to them, but the woman is no slaver. So, who left you to be found by her, and why? These are the questions Falkor asks. I must assume you have no answers, which is a pity, because she is not inclined to answer herself. Perhaps you can persuade her."

  "If you hurt her, I'll kill you." Ghost glared at Njall. "I'm not persuading the Witch to tell you anything. And if you think threatening me will get you anywhere, think again."

  "Hush, little Ghost," Njall said, his irritating look of amusement back. "No one has hurt the outlander woman. She is also a guest in our halls. But she did not come alone, as I have said, and the boy she brought with her is one of our people, as are you. So, you can see why Falkor would have questions. Who is this Witch who seeks out and rescues our lost children?"

  Ghost growled under his breath, but he found himself wondering the same thing. "She's not an enemy," he said at last. "So, take me to her."

  "There is no need. I have already sent for her." Njall gave Ghost a broad smile. "We will meet in the foodhall. We will break bread together and enlighten each other. But first, little Ghost, choose a book or two for yourself, as compensation for my jesting with you. What interests you most?"

  "Books about healing," Ghost said. "If you have books about medicines or herbal remedies, I would be grateful."

  Njall snorted, clapping one large hand onto Ghost's shoulder, and Ghost did his best not to stagger. He felt as though he had been patted with a runner haunch.

  "I did not mean that sort of book, little Ghost. I do not think Falkor will object to sharing one or two educational books, but what would amuse you and occupy you on those long, cool nights you think are winter?" Njall reached for a book with a red leather cover. "This is a book of small stories about fantastical creatures and strange worlds. Who knows? Perhaps they were even real once."

  Njall placed the red leather book in Ghost's hands. "And this one is an adventure on the oceans of the world. Very stirring." Njall dropped the second book into Ghost's hands and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Or do you like stories about magic and mystery? Evil deeds and swift justice? Love lost and found again?"

  Ghost knew he must look like a wide-eyed child at a festival for the first time. This many books, and he had no idea what he wanted to read, just for himself. Njall was a whirlwind, pulling out book after book with casual familiarity, and Ghost couldn't help blurting out, "Have you read all these books?"

  Njall stopped. "Most of them. I do not care for books about love. I am a warrior and not a skald." He smiled when Ghost raised his eyebrows at the unfamiliar term. "A singer of epic songs. But I must read a book describing a great battle if I find one. I cannot resist. You look so surprised, little Ghost. Have I not told you? We are not savages."

  "No, you're not," Ghost replied. "Then if I can name what I want, I want the book of small stories and one with magic." He felt his heart beat a little harder as he waited to be rebuffed.

  "Wise choices," Njall said, taking back the books Ghost had not wanted, leaving him holding the red leather book and another bound in dark brown cloth. He paused and grabbed a third book. "Herbs and plants, and their uses. For the sake of your village. These are the gift of Njall. What Falkor gives will come from his own hand."

  "I wonder about the custom for guests, if a return gift is polite or even expected?" Ghost glanced up at Njall. He didn't have a great deal he could offer as a gift, but he had a few attractive arm rings in worked copper. The jewelry would never fit Njall, but Njall could give them to someone. Maybe a woman or a child. Ghost would have nothing for Falkor, though.

  Njall opened the door to the hallway again. "Honesty is a gift I prize, and I think you have been honest with me, little Ghost. Falkor will expect answers, and he may not enjoy your fierce words as much as I do."

  ***

  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 wi
th 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.