Looking back to the map and slowly tracing Witheric’s straight, clear runes with the reed pen, Restag responded with a measured voice, “You are respected by your people.”
“By some. Others, like the Council, wanted a warlord, like my father. Like my brother,” said Witheric.
“Your brother could not have inherited the throne. He did not possess the Gift of High Thanes,” said Restag.
Witheric shook his head. “He could have if the Elders had chosen a bride who did from among the Eisensaet. They could have placed her on the throne as a proxy while Ultheow ruled in truth. It has been done before.”
“Not to the pleasure of any, whether warrior or thrall,” countered Restag. “And not when a true son with the Gift lived. To place one of indirect lineage, a thanesbride even, upon the throne for even a short span has only been done when necessity outweighed shame, to preserve the true bloodline of the High Thane.”
“Then it is to my fortune that my brother joined Valaka’s hunt before someone could create such a state, is it not?” said Witheric with a grimace. “Or else another arm would be raising the sword over our shield-men and another voice leading the war cry. A stronger one.”
“You are a good commander,” said Restag.
“Yes, but a poor fighter, and you know which the Council values more,” returned Witheric. “Every victory is a chance to count the dead, and every loss a chance to say how my father would have turned the tide.”
Restag paused. “Not all of the Council.”
“No… not all,” said Witheric. “But enough, and even among them, few are willing to counter the High Elder besides yourself.”
That was true enough. It didn’t help that the head of the Council was a kinsman of Restag and one also gifted with powerful Farsight. He could not see into the hearts and minds of men as could Restag, but he could certainly speak his way in through the secrets his Sight could uncover from beneath the blankets of a man’s bed, behind the sacred walls of his home, or in the meeting of two when no third should be present. He had a serpent’s hold on the Council. They both knew it. Restag said, “It does not help when you speak of forming bone-bonds with the other tribes on the promise not to claim what the Elders see as our birthright.”
“Birthright?” Witheric said with a hint of scorn. “What right has a man to claim another who is not his own? They are their own people, with their own laws and thanes and ways. Why should I be their thane when they are not of my people and I am not of theirs? Why should I slay my own people so as to take and rule another?”
“And this, too, Witheric,” said Restag, finishing a label. “This odd speech and refusal to begin the battle, the insistence on defending your own lands and people without expanding them, all these thoughts and more which you have gained from the humans’ writings, these are not our people’s words or thoughts, and the Council rightly distrusts them. Some even say you steal from them the glory of the Final Battle of the Asgrada at the End of All Things with this refusal to seek war.”
“Let war come to us, if Valaka so wishes to test the blood of our men,” said Witheric, the process of debate exciting his spirit. “Yes, let it come rather than be sought, that we may add the weight of home to our shields and the fire of the hearth to our war cries and so build a bulwark for men’s valor so that none shall run but shall show his spirit worthy of Final Glory and so gain Valaka’s favor. As for all other times, between those tests of courage, the King of War and his half-god daughters are not the only weighers of the scale, or else why keep men beyond their strength of arm or teach our women beauty of craft or our bards grace of speech or anything beyond the use of shield and blade?”
“You have been lying awake till your candle dies again, haven’t you?”
Witheric laughed self-effacingly. “If only just till then, my friend. I know the Elders dislike my reading of the human elders and song-speakers, but they are right, Restag. The histories give strength to them.”
“Their histories. Ones which only you can read, for only you among us have been sneaking out to follow the trade parties, to meet the red-bloods at their sword-ships, to learn the humans’ boneless speech and their bending runes and to use the wealth of your forefathers to obtain leaves covered in the stuff and maps that show our land’s smallness in a way the Council would refuse to believe. Then, you have our craftsmen make for you a ring after the humans’ design so you can send sealed papers after the humans’ fashion and in the dark-haired humans’ runes in hopes to form a bond with their king. You wonder that the Council should question your judgment?”
“No,” said Witheric after a long pause. “No. I don’t.”
He fell back into silence and once again began turning the Band slowly in his hands. At last, he said in a much quieter voice, “Do you, also, doubt my judgment? Or perhaps my sanity?”
