Ghost's Dilemma (12 page)

Despite the warmth of his cloak, Ghost could still feel a chill as he made his careful way around the perimeter of the room. He almost missed the corridor to the exit, so absorbed was he in watching the faint light playing on the icicles above. Only a puff of colder air alerted him, and he turned to peer into the corridor.

The bitter cold must have broken the lights, because the corridor was not lit at all. Ghost reached out to touch the wall, his fingers not quite skimming the frigid surface, and he shivered at even such a slight contact. He stopped to grope in his pouch for the leather mitts Gerry had made, lined with the thinner belly fur of the sind.

The time needed to transit the station seemed greater here, but at long last, his foot bumped the first step. Climbing upward in total darkness was disconcerting, and Ghost found himself straining to hear any sounds. He could smell nothing beyond the sharp bite of the frigid air. The air grew colder as Ghost climbed, and the chill penetrated his boots. The stairs took longer to navigate than in the first station, although it could have been the darkness altering his perceptions.

Ghost found the door by walking into it. His mitt brushed over a raised area, and a groaning sound accompanied a dazzling line of light as the door opened. Icy crystals sparkled in the gust of air that blew inward.

His first impression was whiteness. Unrelieved, stark whiteness. Ghost's eyes teared as the light flooded them after so long in darkness. He ducked his head, tugging his hood farther forward to shield his eyes, one mitted hand shading them as the tears froze to his lashes.

"Oh, Seeker," Ghost murmured. He took a few faltering steps, not wanting to remain in the door in case it closed again. He had never felt such biting cold, and he pulled his cloak tightly around himself, grateful for the thick leathers he wore under the heavy fur. He let his eyes adjust to the brightness, blinking a few times to clear away the bits of ice from his lashes.

At least the wind was slight. He had enough to do just trying to breathe without his lungs aching. He remembered a rare, bitter-cold winter in his youth when the Witch had told him to breathe through his nose to warm the air. He tried her advice now, and the air was not so biting when it reached his lungs.

Ghost's heart sank when he took in the landscape, if it could be called such. The snow was pristine, the surface unmarred by so much as a footprint, and the ice shone like glass. Even the sky was white, with sullen streaks of pale gray hinting at heavier weather on the horizon.

Ghost pushed past his worries and concerns. He sought the trace of the Witch in his witchmark and focused all his will, but her presence remained elusive.

"Seeker, Witch, stop blocking me," Ghost muttered. Standing still was an effort in this cold, and he shivered. "I need to find shelter."

Ghost didn't suppose this station would be anywhere closer to a village than the station where he’d begun his journey. The ancient places were shunned by most sane people, witches and rangers being less sane than most. He supposed Northers were by definition at least as crazy as witches. Living in such a stark and unforgiving place was surely crazy. He began to walk in the direction most likely to lead away from the station, finding a vague sort of path in the unbroken white of the landscape.

As he walked, Ghost noticed he was getting a stronger sense of the Witch's presence. A subtle increase, but enough to register. He let the faint link guide him as he searched for the stones with the witchmarks he remembered from his vision. But if they were there, the snow and ice had covered them.

The snow got heavier as Ghost walked along, but he didn't pay any attention at first. In another moon or so, there would be snow in the Heartlands as well, and the snowfall didn't trigger an alarm in Ghost right away. When he realized he couldn't see more than an arm's length in front of himself, he grew concerned. The wind was rising, and the icy flakes blew under his hood to sting his face. He stumbled over something uneven beneath his feet. Wandering in a storm was far too dangerous. Shelter was now a necessity.

From somewhere long forgotten, Ghost remembered reading about digging a hole in the snow and using the hollow as a way to hold in the heat. He had also heard from Gerry about sind doing the same thing. Gerry had said you would see the small hole in a mound of snow, and if you listened, you could hear the sind breathing and see little puffs of fog rising from the hole. When you stopped seeing the puffs, you had to worry, because the sind was awake and had heard you.

The idea of being some predator's dinner was unappealing, but so was freezing to death. Ghost could barely feel his feet, and the snow was getting heavier by the moment. He stumbled again, putting out his hand to lean on the rock face he had been walking beside. His hand slid off and went past the face almost the length of his arm before making contact with more rock.

"A recess," Ghost muttered to himself. "This can work."

Ghost stepped into the indentation in the rock face, nodding in satisfaction when the angle deflected the wind. He crouched down, trying to build up a wall of snow to block off the recess as much as possible. His mitts made him clumsy, and the wind pushed at his construction, but he persevered until he had built up the snow as high as his chest.

Ghost could still feel the Witch's presence, and he did his best to reach out along the thread to provoke contact. She remained silent, but the sense of her was stronger than ever. He recalled the cloak of white fur she wore in his vision. She felt the same now, both welcoming and unfamiliar at the same time. He drew his own cloak around him a little tighter, the hood falling over his eyes for a moment as he settled in to wait out the snow.

Crouched down in his impromptu shelter, Ghost felt fatigue creeping over him. All he wanted was to rest for a bit, even though he knew it was far too dangerous to sleep. He would reach out to the Witch and use the effort to keep himself alert. And after he had rested for a little while, he would see if the snow had eased and he could continue onward.

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, but 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."