Kerek listened to the men, knew it was lost, and stood. He held out his hand and pulled Turella, sodden, her hair plastered to her head, to her feet.
“You are all right, my lady?”
She nodded. Then she froze still as a rune stone. Kerek stared at her. He didn’t think she was breathing, just staring beyond him. Slowly, he turned to see a tall man dressed all in black striding toward them. The moon seemed suddenly brighter overhead, indeed, it seemed to shine more brightly over the man who was coming ever closer to them. He carried no huge sword, his white hands were empty. The wind came again, but it wasn’t a raging wind, just enough so that the man’s black cloak billowed out behind him.
He didn’t look of this earth.
Turella’s warriors, one by one, became aware of the man coming toward them. They stared. They prayed and huddled together. One man drew his sword. As if he’d seen that sword drawn, the tall man paused a moment, then turned to look directly at the warrior. The warrior fell back a step, lowering his sword until its tip was buried into the wooden dock at his feet.
Turella said very softly, “Varrick? Is it really you? After all these years?”
“Aye, Turella, it is I. You dared to take what belongs to me. Should I kill you, I wonder, or acknowledge your ignorance this one time, and let you live?”
“Who is this man?” Kerek said, aware that his voice wasn’t steady, and hating himself for it. Surely this was just a man, nothing more than a single man, and he wasn’t even armed. He could walk to him and strangle him. He could kill him, but he didn’t move. “You know this man, my lady?” Kerek said, seeing the pallor of her face. She looked suddenly like an old woman, bent and frail, not the proud queen he’d loved for so many years.
Turella said, “He is Varrick. He is my brother.” It was then she seemed to remember she was a queen, not some sort of frightened old woman. She drew herself up. “You still wear black, I see, Varrick. Do you still streak blue and red paint on your face and dance around fires, chanting an ignorant babble of ancient rituals? Do you still seek out those things mortals shouldn’t know about? Do you still terrify people with your tricks?”
“Did you like the storm, Turella? Did you feel terror? Your men did.”
“Nay, Chessa brought the storm.”
“Do you really believe so, sister?”
She didn’t believe it, and Kerek saw she didn’t. She swallowed, afraid, and Kerek knew she was afraid, and so did this Varrick, this sorcerer all garbed in black, standing so tall and stark white beneath the half-moon that shone so brightly down upon him.
She was staring at him again, studying his face. She said suddenly, “By all the gods, I should have known. His eyes, they’re your eyes—one gold, one blue. I saw Cleve once in York and I remarked his strange eyes. And again tonight, just for a moment. He is your son, Varrick?”
“Aye, he is my son.”
“Chessa is his wife,” she said, her voice absent. “Their child will be formidable.”
“It is possible,” he said. “That is none of your concern, Turella. Listen to me. Your warship isn’t destroyed. Gather your men, awaken your sodden son, or give him to me and I’ll kill him. Leave my land. Never return here, Turella, else I’ll make you regret it even into eternity.”
“Aye,” she said slowly, “we will leave. I know there is nothing here for me now. The Danelaw is lost. Chessa wasn’t for me, Varrick, I wanted her for the Danelaw, to lead when the time came, to control Ragnor.”
Varrick stood quiet, staring out over the dark sea. There was no wind, yet his black cloak billowed out behind him. He said finally, “I have a stepdaughter. Her name is Cayman. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. There is no man for her here and she will grow old alone, without children, without purpose. If you request it, Turella, I will ask her if she wishes to join you. She is very smart. After all, she’s lived with me since she was a child. She would listen to you, Turella, she would deal well with this wretched son of yours. She would replace Chessa.”
“She is truly beautiful?”
He nodded. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I don’t lie.”
“Can she make mead?” Kerek said.
Varrick’s brow went upward. “Mead? Aye, her mead is excellent. If she decides to go with you, she will have to tell her sister how to prepare it, else all of us will be greatly saddened.”
Kerek rubbed his hands together. “If this is true,” he said to Turella, “then Utta of Hawkfell Island is safe, Ragnor will remain sodden, and you and this Cayman will rule.”
Turella stared at her brother, with his billowing cloak in the still air. “I will take her.”
Varrick merely nodded. “Remain here for two days. If she decides to come to you, I will bring her. I wish you farewell, sister. Treat my stepdaughter well. If you do not, you will answer to me.” He nodded to her once again, turned on his heel, and began to walk quickly down the wooden dock. Kerek saw him take a stick from his belt and raise it over his head. He saw a wind begin to rise, but it was only around Varrick. It spun around him, making the cloak flap up and down, making the loose sleeves of Varrick’s black tunic billow out. A mist came up suddenly, but it seemed to be only directly in front of Varrick, and he walked toward that mist, into it, and then, suddenly, the mist began to fade, holes appearing in it, the holes spreading, like a fire spreading over cloth. In moments the mist was gone and the night clear again.
Varrick was gone as well.
To Kerek’s astonishment, Turella laughed. “He did that when he was naught but a small boy,” she said. “The wizards in Bulgar taught him that.” And she laughed and laughed.
“But he vanished, my lady,” Kerek said, so frightened he thought he’d choke with it.
“Aye,” she said. “He vanished. When I came here to wed the king of the Danelaw, he came with me. He’d learned all the wizards could teach him in the Bulgar. He’d heard of the West, of the Druids and their ancient magic. He wanted to visit the land called Scotland and learn the Picts’ ways. I see he stayed. I still can’t believe it, Kerek. Cleve is his son. Those eyes—I am a fool. I should have realized the moment I saw him in York that he was Varrick’s son.”
