The Tempering of Men by Elizabeth & Monette Bear & Elizabeth & Monette Bear

Author:Elizabeth & Monette Bear & Elizabeth & Monette Bear [Bear, Elizabeth & Monette, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765324702
Publisher: Tor Books

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The sceadhugenga was much younger than Brokkolfr had expected, even granted that he had no idea how to judge the svartalfar’s age. But Baryta was obviously younger than Antimony, possibly even younger than Orpiment, and Brokkolfr might have worried, except she had the most commanding presence of anyone he’d met, including Grimolfr Skaldsbrother, the wolfjarl of Nithogsfjoll. Every time she looked at him, he felt her glittering glance cut through him. He would not have dared to argue with her even if it had not become speedily apparent that she knew her work and knew it well.

She set Kari’s ankle and gave him something that he said was like drinking flowers. It certainly returned the color to his face and stopped his shivering. Brokkolfr suspected it made him more than a little drunk, for he became remarkably tractable. Brokkolfr was glad of it, as he and Baryta manhandled Kari into a cupboard-bed, and Baryta said firmly, “Sleep, surface creature.”

At that point, Kari would have been hard-pressed to do anything else.

Baryta led Brokkolfr away from Kari’s bed—a real bed, not merely a pallet. Brokkolfr could not fault svartalfar hospitality, though he feared again there would be a price. They passed more fluted stone, carved with such delicacy that Brokkolfr imagined the tools must be as fine as wires. How did the svartalfar smiths make them so fine and yet strong enough to carve stone?

He tried to remember if Kari had mentioned any such carvings in the svartalfar cities of the North and could not. The only work Brokkolfr had ever seen of such intricacy was in the trellwarrens that undermined all Othinnsaesc.

He swallowed against the chill in his gut. This was not a trellwarren, and where that stone had flowed as this did, the designs had no comparison. A trellwarren was disturbing, nauseating, full of headsplitting asymmetries. This was as restful as any herb garden.

Baryta led him to an antechamber whose floor, sloped like a shallow bowl, was padded with elaborate carpets and tassled cushions. They were rich and soft enough for a jarl, but years and use had dulled the colors and worn the embroidery smooth. Not a new settlement, Brokkolfr noted, and wondered.

The svartalf settled among the cushions. At her gesture Brokkolfr, too, sank down gratefully. He had not realized it until now, but his limbs ached with weariness and the aftermath of struggle and fear. He sighed and let his back curve into the cushions.

“Your friend will do well,” Baryta said, “though he will be lame for some months. The break was a clean one and did not involve any of the difficult bones.”

Of course, what the sceadhugenga considered relatively simple might have been beyond the skills of the wolfheall’s best bonesetters. Brokkolfr had seen men—fishermen and wolfcarls both—permanently lamed by broken ankles, even if the flesh rot did not set in and kill them. Kari was blessedly lucky that the svartalfar had decided to help him, and Brokkolfr, as his friend, felt that blessing deep in his own chest.

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