The Jarl's Son, Chapter 2-2
Meeting the Jarl, Part 2
She held the weapon out to him, blade first. “Put your hand in the fire,” she said.
The old Jarl’s steel blue gaze snapped to meet her own once more, the amazement within them overtaken by incredulity. “You surely jest,” he said in a low tone.
“Jests are for skalds and trudurs,” she said.
The comment didn’t ease Jarl Ostock’s wariness. If anything, it had the opposite effect, with the old man knitting his brow and his already stern expression deepening into a scowl. Softening her stance, Gaiur brought the axe blade close to herself and placed her own hand upon it. The flames danced around her fingers and up along the back of her hand, but there was neither heat nor pain for her to feel. Pulling away a moment later, she held her unburnt hand up for him to see.
“A clever trick, but I’d expect one with a sorcerous touch not to be harmed by her own magics,” he scoffed.
“My own experiences tell me otherwise,” she said. Stepping forward, she held the blade out for him again. “Just a moment’s touch, that’s all I ask.”
Impressively, Jarl Ostock’s frown further deepened, and the already distinctive wrinkles on his forehead became even sharper. Yet at the same time, his scowl softened back into that original look of stern he’d been wearing through most of their conversation. In that moment, Gaiur recognized his frown not as one of distaste, but a look of deep consideration and internal debate. The old man sucked in a deep breath through his nose and, leaning back in his chair, he tentatively raised and held out his right hand, reaching for the flaming head of the axe. He paused briefly while some distance away from it, as if waiting to see if he’d start feeling the heat of the flame, then swiftly reached out and closed his fingers around the spike on the back of the axe’s head.
Amazement returned to Jarl Ostock’s eyes. Quickly rising from his throne of oak and leather, he grasped the head of the axe in both hands, then started to run his fingers across the surface. As with Gaiur, the fire danced between and around his fingers, palms, and the backs of his hands, yet not so much as a single hair was singed. The old ruler chuckled in astonishment, his steely eyes sparkling with a sense of wonder up until Gaiur extinguished the flame a moment later.
“What sorcery is it that lets you produce fire that doesn’t burn the flesh?” he asked. The hardness in his features was all but gone now that curiosity had fully taken him.
It wasn’t sorcery as Gaiur understood it. The magic came from within her, intrinsically tied to that element of her soul that had a tendency to draw arcane entities to her, or to lead her to them. The enchantment placed upon her axe served to give the magic form by anchoring it to the weapon’s blade and spike. While it manifested as flame, even shedding light as such, it wasn’t truly composed of such, so it couldn’t burn mortal flesh. It was just as well, Gaiur had no need of such magic against the likes of mortal men and beasts. This fire was meant for the immortal and immaterial, those things which could not be felled by axe blade or arrowhead alone.
She explained this to the Jarl as best she could, though the look on his face told her he didn’t fully comprehend. She smiled sympathetically at that, knowing full well how frustrating that feeling could be, then simply stated, “It allows me to hunt the dark things that would prey on us.”
“I see,” the Jarl said. He’d returned to his throne and leaned against its high back, elbows set upon the armrests and fingers loosely interlaced in front of his chest. “Do you think such a creature is the cause of what ails my Erik?”
Gaiur’s chest grew tight as images flooded her mind, unbidden. She pictured how her own son might look today, had he lived. Much of her husband had been in him, from his olive complexion to his hazel colored eyes and bushy little eyebrows. She imagined he’d develop Varro’s strong, angular jaw and aquiline nose, though the angle would be less pronounced. His skin was just a bit fairer, too, and he’d surely have a head of thick blue-black hair like hers. He had quite a lot when he was born, after all. But as that image built in her mind, it clashed with grim flashes of him lying in bed fevered, sweating, and huddled up beneath heavy fur blankets. Then those images further clashed with the violent reality of what happened seven winters prior, when a starving greatwolf emerged from the Wolfwood and-
“Hawr!”
Hunin’s coarse cry startled her out of her mind fog. Sucking in a sharp breath, she blinked and glanced around. Jarl Ostock cursed the albino raven as he scowled up at it.
“Damnable bird,” he hissed. “Little beast nearly scared me out of my skin!”
“Forgive me,” Gaiur muttered. “I’m not sure what came-” Her voice caught as a hard lump formed in her throat. She swallowed it down. “-what came over him.”
The Jarl hastily waved his hand in front of his face as he dismissed her apology. “It’s no matter. What’s important is my son. Do you believe one of these dark things is responsible for his illness?”
Gaiur shook her head slowly. “It’s difficult to say. Sometimes their actions are open and brazen, and other times they keep quiet and hidden.” Pausing again, she crossed her arms and brought a half-closed fist in front of her mouth as if in thought. In truth, she was attempting to hide the quiver in her lips as she swallowed back yet another lump that formed as she struggled to make the request she knew she must.
Control, she told herself. The boy’s life mattered more than the ghosts lingering in her memories. Closing her eyes, she nodded and let out a low and quiet sigh as the lump within her throat loosened. Then she lowered her hand, looked to Jarl Ostock and said, “I need to see him.”
Jarl Ostock was all too willing to accommodate. He made to lead her left, through the door into the south wing of the house, but she took a moment to bring Varro back outside. Unclasping her cloak, she tied a corner of it around one of his front ankles, then bound the other end to one of the narrow wooden pillars that supported the awning above the steps at the front of the Jarl’s home. She left her gloves with him, too, another thing to comfort and keep him calm while he waited outside for her to return. With that done, Gaiur followed the Jarl down a short flight of steps into the south wing.
A spacious dining room opened before her. It was half as wide as the grand hall they’d just come from, but it reached back almost as far. A long, rectangular table with a pair of benches to match stretched out over the middle of the room. Beads and trails of pale wax from a trio of large candles set at the middle and near the ends of the table clung to both its dark wooden surface and the decorative brass prickets they were set in. Gaiur couldn’t see clearly what the images etched into the prickets depicted, too much of the wax had been melted over them for her to make them out, but she could tell they weren’t of Stenisian make. Prizes claimed from a past raid, perhaps?
She saw other items in the large dining room that gave credence to that possibility. Golden and silver goblets sat proudly displayed on numerous shelves, alongside yet more cases showcasing foreign jewelry, silks, and a gaudy dagger encrusted with more small gems than she’d ever seen in a single place. Part of her wondered why Jarl Ostock didn’t display the ostentatious weapon out in his main hall, but given the spartan furnishings present there she guessed it might see more use as a place for the public to meet with him. The finery in here was notably greater, and made all the more striking by how it sat against the simple wooden plates and bowls commonly used by the majority of Stenisian folk.
One thing that did stand out as odd to her, though, was the lack of an open cooking fire. Most Stenisian homes would’ve used the large fire pit in the house’s main chamber as both the means to cook and keep warm. Then again, Jarl Ostock’s dining room alone was near equal in space to many of the more moderately sized longhouses she’d seen over the last few years, to say nothing of the smaller home she used to live in. Thus lack of an obvious cooking fire struck her as very strange, almost as much as the bulbous cauldron-like device in the far corner. Standing upon four squat legs, the thing looked like a torso sized iron ball with a latched door on the front that reminded her of an enclosed forge. A large tube, also fashioned of black iron, stretched up to the roof from the back of the forge-like cauldron. Gaiur wanted to ask what it was, so taken was she by its bizarre appearance, but she put those questions aside for later.
Jarl Ostock approached the further of the two doors along the right hand wall. A dour mien had once more come over him, darkening his expression as his hand sat unmoving upon the handle. Gaiur understood the look he wore. Eyes downcast, lips pressed to a thin line partly hidden by his beard, forehead creasing as his brow knitted into a deep frown. He was steeling himself for a sight he’d never become used to, just the same as she couldn’t get used to the way those bitter memories of loss that always came back this time of year seemed to be coming on even stronger than before.
After a shallow breath, Jarl Ostock closed his fingers around the door handle and turned. The bolt inside made a dull, heavy click that sounded louder than it was in the large and mostly vacant dining room, and the creak of its hinges in the quiet was such that it pierced the ears. Then the groaning came, soft and subtle and difficult to hear, yet clearly present. A boy’s voice, weak and tired. Once more, Gaiur’s mind filled with the imagined visage of how her son might look if he still lived. As before, it came to her unbidden, and as she approached the Jarl and the open door her stomach began to knot.
The boy lay in his bed, his dark hair messed into a tousled shock from his tossing and turning. A sheen of sweat clung to his brow and cheeks and each time his chest rose and fell beneath his woolen blanket, Gaiur could hear him wheeze. Breathing had become a struggle for him and the sickness gave his fair complexion a ghostly pallor. However, it was the edge of his blanket that Gaiur’s eyes were drawn to. Pulled up to his chin, both of the young boy’s hands peeked out from beneath it to clutch and wring at that edge. They clutched as tight as they could, enough to turn the already pale knuckles even more white. When he shifted and moaned soon after, she could see how they trembled.
“He’s been like this for nearly three months,” Jarl Ostock murmured. As he spoke, young Erik groaned and tossed his head to the right, wincing as if the sound pained him. The Jarl lowered his town even further. “The noise seems to agitate him. Is there anything you can do?”
Any semblance of the Jarl’s previously noble demeanor had wilted away. The strong and stoic leader of Halvfjord no longer stood before her. Instead, she saw a man worn down by his age and, more importantly, a father fearful that he might lose his child. Gaiur wouldn’t deny feeling sympathetic. Erik didn’t look much like she imagined her own son would, but there were similarities enough that whatever dark thoughts lingered in her own mind, she’d already resolved that she couldn’t leave without at least trying to help the boy. Whether or not she could, though, still waited to be seen.
Leaning close to Jarl Ostock, she cupped a hand along the side of her mouth to help block the sound of her speech from reaching the child. “Let’s step out so our words don’t bother him,” she whispered, and the Jarl nodded in agreement. Once in the dining room, the older man closed the door as softly as he could. It still made a low thump against the frame, and the click of the handle could still be heard clearly, though it was quieted by the slowness with which Jarl Ostock released it. Then they made their way back into the main hall.
“When did the boy first show signs of illness?” Gaiur asked as the Jarl closed the south wing door behind him.
“Nearly three months ago, as I said,” he replied. “It was a few days before the start of summer when he collapsed.”
Collapsed? Neither the Jarl nor Marten made any mention of that before. Or perhaps Marten had back when they were walking here from the gate? If so, then Gaiur missed it when she got wrapped in her own thoughts.
“Did you see when he collapsed?” she asked.
The Jarl shook his head. “No. I was down on the water, meeting with our fishermen about the scarceness of our season’s gains. We were discussing plans to sail seaward for whaling when Marten sent one of the guards to fetch me.”
“So he was with the boy when it happened?” she asked, and the Jarl nodded. Arms crossed, Gaiur’s face scrunched up as she considered what she’d heard so far. She’d need to speak with Marten about this. With him present when his brother collapsed, he might’ve seen something the others missed. But first, there was one more question she needed to ask.
“What enemies do you have who might wish to harm your son?” she asked pointedly.
The Jarl frowned, his expression darkening. “I’ve my fair share of enemies and rivals, as any ruler does, but if you mean to ask if they’re capable of laying a curse upon my son, the answer is no. Not that I’m aware of, at the least.”
Gaiur expected as much. Like most people, Jarl Ostock seemed unawares of how curses, hexes, and the darksome creatures that stalk shadow and night tended to function. In truth, Gaiur still didn’t understand much of it herself, but she’d learned enough in the time since her destiny was foisted on her to have a clearer idea than most. To her mind, this was no earthly sickness, though she’d have to check the boy herself to be certain. It might simply be that ill fortune brought a wicked spirit upon him, or it might be that witchery was at play here. In either case, she’d need more information before she could determine the best course of action.
“I’ll need to speak with Marten,” she insisted.
“Of course,” Jarl Ostock agreed. “I’ll have someone fetch him, then we can continue.”
Gaiur gave a single sharp shake of her head. “I need to speak with him alone,” she said. “He may have noticed something from that night without realizing it. The best way to determine that is to question him with no distractions present.”
The Jarl narrowed his eyes and his gaze hardened into a cold glare. “You insinuate that I would be a distraction for wanting to protect my youngest child?” he hissed.
To his surprise, which showed on his face as his cold look softened, Gaiur met his glare with a look of deep sympathy. “I do,” she said, her gentle tone unexpected from a woman who appeared as hardened as she. Then she reached out, cupping Jarl Ostock’s hand in both of her own as if she were his own mother despite being nearly half his age.
“I know the pain and fear you feel,” she said, squeezing her hands tight around his. “It burns hot and consumes from within. If Marten did notice something and forget, you’d likely lash out at him, and that would make it harder for me to learn what he might’ve seen.”
Jarl Ostock sucked in a shaky breath. For a moment Gaiur believed he might insist on being present after all, but fortunately he relented with a nod. “I will,” he began with a hitch. He paused for a long moment as he took another deep breath. When he continued, his voice was stable again. “I’ll fetch Marten for you and leave you to your work.”
With that, Gaiur released her hold on him and the Jarl crossed to the opposite end of the main hall. However, when he was at the far side of the fire pit, he stopped and looked back. “Please save my son,” he said, his voice cracking with tears that threatened to burst forth.
Gaiur nodded. “If it’s in my power, I will, whatever it may cost me.”
Straightening his back, Jarl Ostock nodded. Then he crossed to the door that led to the north wing and stepped through.
Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.