“You will challenge me,” she said. “And you will be cast out again, Kern Wolf-Eye. I will not accept any voice against me here in Callaugh.”
“As it should be. But Grimnir challenges all of Cimmeria, and yet you do nothing. You and T’hule Chieftain.” He leaned back, closing his eyes. “The other clans look to you for leadership,” he whispered, “and you do nothing.”
She leaned forward, the top swell of her breasts just breaking the surface. “Is that what you think? Kern, do you understand what the western clans have suffered these last few years? You’ve known Grimnir’s hand for a single winter. We’ve lived under it for far longer. Raiders fly down at us from the north, and we have held. Picts attack from the west. Still, we survive. And now the valley takes notice and thinks to dictate terms? Do you wonder that T’hule Chieftain sent Clan Cruaidh off with strong words and a small war host at their backs to hurry their retreat?”
She was angry. She felt it in the strength of her heartbeat and the tightness in her shoulders. But angry at Kern? Or herself? Because she knew the words should sway her. Did! Did sway her. Crom’s curses on all men! She did not deny that Kern had a strong heart. And he knew how to lead, which was rare, rare. But he was of northern blood, and valley-raised. To come into her home and speak to her so . . . she’d not have taken that from any simple man.
“Except that you aren’t,” she said. Grinding out each word as if the admission hurt. It didn’t.
“Aren’t?” he asked. He did not open his eyes.
“A simple man.” No. It did not hurt to admit it. She licked her lips, tasting fresh sweat and the light sulfur taste of the waters.
“A simple man would have died after being cast out of his village. A simple man never would have gone hunting Vanir, chased Ymirish over the Pass of Blood, or challenged Grimnir. Grimnir! Of all things, by Crom.” She shook her head, uncertain if she was praising him or trying to wound him. “You are a dangerous man, Kern Wolf-Eye. But I still do not know if you are dangerous to me and mine. No one is sure who you are. What you are.”
And she reached through the water. Uncertain. Of her own desires as well as of him. And then she found him. Brushing across his chest with her fingertips. Pressing her hand against him—
—jerked it away as if stung.
“You are . . . cold.”
Kern’s eyes opened into narrow slits. Banking that golden fire. Studying her carefully, as if expecting . . . wondering . . . “All my life,” he said. And waited.
“Even here?” She stood up and back, chest rising out of the waters. Steam rose off her, just as it did from his face, his hair. “How can that be?”
“Because it is,” he said, harshly. Anger had returned to his eyes, and they stared her down across the waters. “The waters tease me with warmth, Ros-Crana. But that is all. They will never warm me down deep. Nothing ever has. And that is what I am. A creature of winter. Still.”
There was a swirl and a splash as Kern rose, naked, and climbed over the side. He dripped his way over to a wooden stool where he’d thrown his kilt and cloak. Rubbing himself down with his old tunic, he dried himself enough to dress.
She waited. Watching as he wrapped a rough, travel-stained brown kilt around his waist, covering up his manhood and an ivory thatch of hair. Buckling a wide leather belt around his middle, and dropping a simple, gray wolf cloak over his shoulders. Leaving his chest bared to the air.
She waited until he had grabbed the broken spear, just to let him know that she hadn’t forgotten it, or what he might try to do with it at lodge council. “Nothing warms you, Kern? Ever?”
It gave him a heartbeat’s pause. Standing near the bath’s entrance, where the path slipped between the two large ferns. He stared back at her, where she stood halfway out of the pool. Stared through her.
“Nothing,” he said. And ducked down the path.
And Ros-Crana could not say for certain why she thought Kern had actually lied.
4
CALLAUGH’S LODGE HALL dominated the center of the tightly packed village. Doors twice as tall as a man, and wide enough that Kern could not have touched both sides even if he’d added short sword and bloody spear to his reach. Thick, heavy slabs, banded with blue iron and hung on metal pivots. Ready to be backed by a large, metal-reinforced crossbar, he saw, in case the Callaughnan ever needed to barricade their children and cattle inside.
The wealth of any clan.
This night the kits and kine sheltered elsewhere. The fortress doors stood open. Hard-beaten floors had been swept out and freshened with a layer of dry rushes. Torches hung from wall sconces and burned unnaturally bright. The grand lodge was packed with a thick swarm of clansmen and guests—men and women arguing in corners or trading war stories around one of three, large fire pits. Some shouted conversations across the hall. Two men crouched at a low table to arm wrestle, with a line behind each shouting encouragement, swapping bets, and waiting for their turn. Everyone ate and drank.