In the last few days, Cair—or Jarl Cair, the Grendelslayer, Lord of Numedal and Amdal, as he was now respectfully known—had come to realize that his princess, free of her past and confirmed in her power, was able and clever as well as beautiful and kindly. He loved her more than ever. And now he had this message . . .
"She wishes for you to come, alone, to the stables, Jarl," said the respectful warrior. "She said to tell you it was to discuss her impending marriage."
Well. She was a queen. Not free to marry or even love of her own choosing.
It was a long walk to the stables.
She was, naturally, waiting with the old horses.
There were, as usual, four or five dogs at her heels. Well. He had a bird that ate live coals on his shoulder. She'd returned it to him, and bade him keep the dagger. Her steel, given to him as her champion. By now, she didn't need him as that. She was the darling of the nation, both adored and respected.
Instead of the fine dresses that she wore nowadays, she'd dug out an old riding habit from somewhere.
It tore at him. In his heart he knew that he was still her thrall, and would always be that.
"My princess," he said, and knelt.
"Cair," she said tenderly, raising him up. "I wanted to talk to you. To talk to you away from the court and the people. To go back to the time and place when you were my only friend. When you, I realize now, planned to run away with me. To kidnap me, if need be, to save me. If I'd known then what I know now, I would have gone with you, corsair."
"I only wanted you to be happy, my princess," he said humbly. He would always be humble with her. A thrall was.
Her eyes were luminous as she looked at him. "But I am not a princess anymore, Cair. I am the queen of Telemark. And I am known as an Alfarblot witch. Queens must marry for power." She took a deep breath. "Witches . . . witches are different. We do not fear them here in the north. But people believe the only fit husband for a witch is another witch. I know, now, that I can work magics on things that grow and live. You weave magics into whatever you do with inanimate things. Yet you claim to not believe in magic. I could not marry a man who claims not to believe in what I do, or in what he does."
Cair took the bird from his shoulder. It looked at him with glowing amber eyes that had once been a broken bead. He'd come to terms with the fact that he'd made some misjudgments about both the Norse and about magical matters. "A good scientist is always prepared to reevaluate matters on the basis of new evidence . . . If you rub his nose in it," he said with a wry smile. He flicked the bird up to fly, and folded her into his arms. Flying in a circle above them, the bird began to sing.
"For you, my Alfar queen, I will be all of mankind's witches," said Jarl Cair quietly, to his beloved.