Thank you all for reading and reviewing. Chap 11 review responses are in my forums as normal.


Chapter Twelve: They Marked with Fates

Word spread like wildfire through the castle. A wildling woods witch cured Lord Stark's son.

The Lady Stark bundled her son off almost as soon as he returned to them, healed and whole, but did not give a thought to the other villagers Taylor healed. That was the purview of Lord Stark himself, who directed his household guards to fetch clothing for the victims. All four, the two men and the woman and girl alike, wept at Taylor's feet in thanks.

Eventually Lord Stark's men bundled those survivors off as well. The old Maester went with them, instructing the soldiers to take the four non-highborn survivors to his solar to ensure their well being.

That left Lord Stark almost alone with Talyor. His man Amory stood a few paces off as people from the castle gathered, many of them wet from the warm springs that formed little pools without the godswood.

Nearby, Flurry rose from the nest he'd made for himself under a great oak tree while Taylor worked. Now that the crowd backed away, he loped lazily to Taylor's side so she could scratch behind his ear. She had to reach up to do so.

"I've heard of skin changers," Stark said as he stared at the great wolf in open admiration. "Old Callie spoke of them when I was a boy."

"I don't care for skin changers," Taylor said absently. "I saw one a few months ago. He controlled his animal utterly, the way you might control a quill while writing a missive. I do not control Flurry at all. He can understand me, just as you can. And I him. He is my friend."

The man seemed enthralled by Flurry. He lifted a hand cautiously, and to his delight Flurry leaned forward to sniff at the hand. "May I?"

"Flurry won't mind," Taylor said. "He can smell the North in you. Just like the trees recognize you."

With a wondrous smile, Lord Stark ran a hand through ruff of flurry's neck. "Two miracles in one day," he said. "First my son is healed from certain death, and then I find myself petting a creature long thought lost. It has been a good day."

He turned and regarded her intently. "You have most assuredly earned the reward we spoke of. Before you leave, however, it would be my honor if you joined me for a feast tomorrow night. To celebrate the restoration of my son. Will you join me? I'll ensure you have comfortable quarters and all you need in the meantime."

The sun was setting, Taylor could see and feel it doing so. "Flurry is partial to raw, plucked chickens."

The man's smile was the first she'd seen since his arrival. "Well, we certainly don't want our friend to go wanting, do we?"

~~Voluspa~~

~~Voluspa~~

The chambers that Amory led her to were in the same long, narrow building as where the younger Stark spent his convalescence. The room had its own fireplace, with a heavy, artistically carved four poster bed that held a narrow mattress stuffed with down feathers. Heavy curtains in burgundy and gold tassels hung from the poster frame.

The heavy, carved stone walls of the room were draped in tapestries that displayed scenes of battles and hunts from long ago.

The heavy oak door opened and a short, wide-bodied woman with graying blond hair and Thenn tribal tattoos on her face walked in with a tray. In his corner, Flurry's head popped up as he smelled food.

"Oh, that one has an eye on a chicken, I dare say," the woman said. She balanced the tray of food with one hand, and tossed the chicken across the floor.

Flurry caught it with a snap of his jaws.

She continued in without missing a step and placed the tray on a little table near the side of the bed. "Good for ya, Telos of the Trees. I have a bath on its way while you eat."

Indeed, an older man in woolen breaches and Lord Stark's tabard over his linen shirt carried in a large wooden tub. As he left, still more servants came and formed a conveyor belt of steaming hot water. Taylor ate the sliced pork in a semi-sweet cranberry sauce absently, more enthralled by the sheer manpower required for her to have a bath than anything else.

She ate her fill while the servants filled the bath, and when they were done and the bath was ready, Taylor took her plate for Flurry to eat the rest.

The wide-bodied woman closed the door. With it closed, she regarded Taylor with unabashed curiosity. "These kneelers don't even know what you are."

Taylor studied the woman's soul a moment before returning the smile. "Only the most wise do. It is good to meet you, Mother Obal."

"Mother. Ha! Like as a daughter to you. You've made a powerful friend, Mother Telos. That old book-hugger Adelbard is sending ravens through the kingdom. Come now, let's wash the miles from you. And ya needn't bother with the blindfold. I know what you are."

Taylor let her wool and tree-bark skirt and vest fall to the floor, and took off her under linens. She couldn't help but sigh contentedly as she sank into the tepid water. Mother Obal, whose soul sang eloquently of her life as a Free Folk woods witch, used her strong hands to rub in the root-made hair cleanser, and then rubbed in an infusion of oil and rosewood as conditioner.

She did not comment on Taylor's scars or her now-broken protective spells. She didn't even blink at Taylor's crystalline eyes. As Taylor bathed, another girl who looked a fraction of Obal's age but otherwise could have been a clone stepped in with a wooden tray in her arms filled with bundles of cloth and knotted rope.

"Lyra is your daughter?"

The girl paused mid-step, jaws agape.

"Child, about your task," Obal said to her daughter. "This is Telos of the Trees. Let no words, thoughts or sights in this room leave your lips."

The girl nodded. "Yes, Mama."

Obal turned back to her own work of cleaning Taylor's long hair. "Aye, a blessing to me. I came over the Wall with a raid, but didn't have the heart to do no killing. One o' Starks men stole me, put the girl in my belly. Then the man did right by the laws of his kind n' took me to wife. Two more boys after, still here."

The girl Lyra came and put the tray down. "I'm to make your dress for the morrow, m'lady."

Right, free clothes.

Taylor stood from the bath. Mother Obal handed her a linen blouse to act as a robe, only to pause when the water wicked away from Taylor's skin and hair. She instead slipped her leather blindfold back on and let Lyra do her work.

The girl, despite her young age, proved to be skilled and quick. She measured, cut and sewed fresh linen underclothes together on the spot. When Taylor was covered, the girl then consulted her knotted measuring strings to begin sketching out the dress.

"I have what I need," the girl announced. "I'll return in the morn to fit you, m'lady."

With that, the girl dipped a curtsey and left.

With her meal consumed and her bath done, Mother Obal pulled a cork from the bottom of the wooden cask. The water ran out into a grill set in the floor. When it was empty, the elderly man from before took it away, and Obal herself took the empty tray after ensuring the fireplace was banked for the night.

"I'll be seeing you in the morn, Mother Telos."

With that, Taylor found herself alone in her room.

Perhaps two hours later, she sensed Flurry coming alert. She propped herself up in her admittedly comfortable bed and with her bifrost eyes saw through the wall and door where Lord Stark stood in the hall.

He'd done away with the trappings of his office, clad now in breeches and a linen shirt, over which he wore a fur-lined robe for warmth. He stood unmoving right outside her door, staring at it with a hollow expression. His soul seemed to be tearing itself apart, caught between honor to a cold marriage, and a desperate desire for anything else.

What confused Taylor most was herself. As she lay in her bed, she could not figure out what she would do if the man walked through the door. Would she reject him and send him back to the cold comfort of his lady wife?

Would she welcome her into her own bed?

The thought lingered in her mind; she was not so naive and sheltered as to not know the mechanics. Not after a few nights in White Tree, anyway. Back in Brockton Bay, sheltered within her intact blessing of Baldur, with an Olympian body that could lift mountains, the idea of physical intimacy never even occurred to her. It was something that happened to lower mortals.

And yet, she knew her mother had taken mortal lovers over the centuries. The Brisengamen contained all the knowledge of the Vanir, and memory of her mother's memories. Kratos of Sparta was her last, greatest love, but she had loved kings and poets, and simple men before.

Why did the idea seem so strange to her?

In the hallway beyond, honor won the war for Edwyle Stark's soul. He quietly turned and left the building.

Taylor remained in the bed and stared up through the curtains and the ceiling to the stars above, unable to say if she regretted his departure or not.

~~Voluspa~~

~~Voluspa~~

Mother Obal arrived with breakfast and her daughter arrived with a dress to be fitted. She managed to eat a few boiled eggs and bread and cheese while Lyra draped the extravagantly complex dress over her, and Mother Obal wrestled with Taylor's hair.

Taylor wasn't sure what to make of the long, voluminous sleeves, but the blouse itself was fitted relatively tight over her linen undergarments. An astonishing amount of material was then cinched into pleats low on her hips with a wide belt-like sash of a heavier silk adorned with mother of pearl.

She'd never owned anything like it. She'd had armor from the gods themselves, but never a pretty dress. She felt almost like a child sneaking into her mother's closet as Lyra fashioned shoes for her.

The pretend fairy-tale ended when the lady of the castle walked in unannounced.

Mother Obal flicked a hand and sent her daughter out. At a glance from Lady Marna, however, Obal herself quickly left as well. Taylor remained in the beautiful, newly fitted dress as she studied the lady of the castle.

The Lady of Winterfell barely came up past Taylor's chest. She held her hands together demurely in front of her, but her expression was anything but demure. She regarded Taylor with pursed lips, but her eyes on several occasions moved to where Flurry lazed in the corner of the room. "You are uncommonly tall, child."

"As were my parents, Lady Stark. Thank you for the lovely dress."

Lady Marna nodded brusquely. "My Lord Husband has insisted you join us in the main hall for a feast to celebrate Rickard's recovery. The dress is for the sake of mine own family—I shan't have a wildling in rags besmirch our hall. It is unfortunate that I cannot scrub that barbaric paint from your neck or hands, but I can at least cover it. What I will not abide is that beast of yours in my hall, nor that witch-staff of yours at our table."

In the corner of the room, Flurry lifted his head as if knowing he was being spoken of. Her piece said, the Lady Marna turned to leave.

"Please send my regrets to Lord Stark, then, Lady Marna. If Flurry is not welcome, then neither am I. I will not join you."

The woman spun about, a mixture of both outrage and, oddly, exultation on her face. "Lord Stark has commanded it! You will do as you're told, you filthy, murderous freak!"

Murderous? "You are mistaken, Lady Marna. I do not answer to you, nor your husband. If I am a guest, then so is Flurry. If not, then I will take my payment as agreed for saving your son, and I will be on my way."

"You…you dare!" The woman's hands were no longer clasped demurely before her–they were clenched at her sides. "You, who murder good brothers of the Night's Watch, dare defy the lord who should by all rights have your head?"

Taylor stared into the woman's soul and saw it boiling with righteous anger. Buried within the outrage that a mere wildling would kill a man of noble blood was also a memory–of a young Dalard visiting his dearest Auntie Marna Locke.

Ser Dalard was Lady Marna's nephew.

Something else in the woman's soul drew Taylor's eyes south. Just a day away, but only hours as a raven would fly, she saw a column of men riding north toward Winterfell. "Not all of Adelbard's ravens were of his own choosing, I suppose," she said. "Does Lord Stark know you've betrayed him and sent for men to arrest me?"

The woman blanched. "I've done no such thing! And how dare you make such an accusation!"

"So you're not just small in stature, but in soul as well," Taylor said. "Come, Flurry. It is time to collect our payment and go."

Suddenly Lady Marna pulled a knife from her bodice. Rather than attack Taylor, though, she actually slashed her own forearm before screaming.

"Guards! The wildling attacked me! Kill her!"

Two men rushed into the room, swords in hand as if just waiting for the call. It was so obviously orchestrated it would be funny, if not for the fact that all three wanted her dead. Taylor slammed her staff down and commanded the air itself. All three froze as the air turned impossibly dense around their bodies.

"I shall take my leave now, Lady Marna," Taylor said. "Pray your son never requires healing again. Come, Flurry. Let's leave the primitives to wallow in their own mess."

Taylor stepped into the hall. Mama Obal stood a few doors down, grinning to herself when she saw Taylor. With a wink, Taylor shut the door and then burned Vanir runes into the jam with her black-tipped fingers, magically locking the door for one full day.

She barely made it past two doors when Edwyle Stark strode into the guest house. He paused when he saw her in her new dress. "I…my goodness. You look lovely."

The compliment threw Taylor completely out of step. No threats, no power plays. Just a compliment? "Thank you, Lord Stark. I…your wife just tried to kill me."

Her counter apparently threw him off just as his compliment did her. "She did what? Did you hurt her?"

Taylor shook her head. "Lady Marna slashed her arm with her own knife, then called guards to kill me. I froze them in place and locked the door. The door will open in one day. But she also sent a raven to a small castle south of here–there are soldiers coming. It appears that Ser Dalard was her nephew."

Stark's countenance darkened. "Dalard. The Lord Commander wrote of him. My lady, did you kill him?"

"After he ordered me to be murdered? After he condemned an entire village to death for the crime of housing me? Yes, Lord Stark. I called down lightning, and he died. And when the Lord Commander came to murder me for defending myself, I cursed him to forever be rained upon any time he entered my forest. I will only be an enemy if you make me one. Those who do never enjoy my wrath."

She found it strange how easily he accepted the magic she spoke of. He simply regarded her—they were nearly of a height, though he had the advantage. "By the king's and common law, it is my duty to take your head. But you also have my word of safe passage. My Lady wife and I are not of a mind on this."

No shit. "Then perhaps it would be best for me to receive my payment and leave. I don't wish to be a point of contention between you and your duty."

The man did not hesitate in his decisions. "No, that would be unwise. Come, then. Let us gather your books."

With Flurry at her side and staff in hand, clad in a fairy tail dress, Taylor followed the Lord of Winterfell through the guest house. The sky still shone with the late morning sun as they crossed the mostly empty courtyard to the great keep where the man and his family lived.

"Most of the staff and those vassals nearby are preparing for the feast."

It was a nice way of saying they needed to hurry. For her part, though, Taylor wanted enough time in the library to choose wisely.

That was until she actually saw the library, which consisted of a single wooden shelf in the man's solar. She wanted to ask, "Is that it?" Stark seemed actually proud of his vast collection of 120 books, so she forced herself to stay silent.

Every book or scroll was written by hand, some more legibly than others. Like Aemon's book, the writing was in a blocky, cursive script without punctuation or organized grammar. The words were written to be read aloud, and it was the reading of it that meaning and grammar was derived.

Stark pointed out books he needed–lists of family heraldry and allegiances. An informal census of the North he was obliged to make for the king every ten years. There was also a book on sword fighting techniques he said was a gift from his grandfather when he was young.

She looked through the titles as quickly as she could, letting the truth of the books seep into her eyes. She chose two histories, one of the Seven kingdoms and one of the world as they knew it. She added a well-used primer book for early reading, a book on mining and metal smithing, and finally a book on dragons and other ancient beasts that looked interesting. Of them all, the largest was actually the metalsmithing book, though the two histories were respectable in size.

"Metal smithing?"

Taylor shrugged. "There's iron, copper and tin ore north of the Wall. Someday, my people may wish to harvest it."

The thought alarmed Stark, but he was trapped by his own word. Whatever thought he had, he stifled it for another. "What are you?"

The question made her stop as she gathered the books in her left arm. She opened her mouth to answer, but for some reason the intensity of his question caused her to give it more thought. "I think…I'm a shard of a god who died long before humans ever walked on this world. A part of a whole that was lost saving your distant ancestors from extinction. I'm just a fraction of what I was."

"If you're just a fraction, I wonder to think of what the whole was."

She couldn't help but smile. "I had wings, Lord Stark. Wings that could carry me through the air faster than any bird. I missed them terribly during my travels here, and I'll miss them going back."

The man actually laughed. "Come. I also owe you a stallion. I have a good, young beast ready for you."

It did not surprise her to find Amory Branch waiting in the stables, clothed and equipped for a long journey. His wife must have warned him. The pony was only three years old, but strong and healthy with a thick coat of fur that made him ideal for northern lands. He was already saddled, with sufficient bags to hold her books.

Stark was, however, surprised. "That wildling wife of yours?"

Amory shrugged. "Obal knows things."

Taylor claimed the young stallion with a touch and a whisper of his name, and then stored her books. "I hope you find some peace with your wife, Lord Stark."

"Peace only makes men weak." He said it lightly, but Taylor could sense regret in the words. To her surprise, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "Thank you for my son's life, m'lady. No matter what, I shall never forget that. Nor, I promise, will he."

He stepped back to let her mount, when Taylor realized something.

It was very, very difficult to ride a horse in a medieval dress. "Hmm."

She leaned over, and with touch and magic shifted the truth of her dress, splitting the silk and then reforming it, until she turned the long dress into a pair of culottes. Stark made a choking sound as she then mounted her new horse.

Amory mounted beside her, and with a nod to Stark, led the way toward the north gate. The two soldiers opened the closed passage as they passed, and in moments they were trotting north.

"Lady Stark sent ravens to the Umbers and the Cerwyns, as well as her brother in Old Castle. That raven takes two days or more, but I've no doubt we'll run into Umbers on the way north. She's named you murderer and demanded the king's justice."

"What of you?"

The man shrugged. "Obal said it didn't matter what Lady Stark wants. And I'm Lord Stark's man."

Taylor looked back at the castle. "If your wife and daughter are at risk from Lady Stark, they can have shelter at my hall. You as well, if you need."

~~Voluspa~~

~~Voluspa~~

Amory seemed much more relaxed around her as they rode north. He didn't speak often, but it wasn't a nervous or tense silence. Rather, the man rode with unconscious ease as he looked around the long, rolling hills and the distant line of forest. They rode beside a wide, muddy road that headed almost directly north–the same Kings Road they used when they came south.

During the second day of their return trip, Taylor with her Bifrost eyes saw a force of fifty men riding toward them far to the north. They were still days away, but like the Cerwyns to the south Taylor had no doubt what their mission was.

Taylor whispered to the sky, singing praises to the spirits and asking them for help. Yes, she could have commanded them, but she had to admit to a certain enjoyment when the spirits heard her request and joyfully cooperated, rather than bending to her will. She fed her magic into them, empowering them beyond their normal reach.

Amory looked up as, far on the horizon, dark clouds began to form. "Strange," he muttered.

"Men were riding toward us," Taylor said. "The storm will slow them and lead them away from us."

His head jerked in her direction. "Like the Lord Commander?"

Taylor grinned. "Like the Lord Commander."

They continued on, day after day, back toward Castle Black. Meanwhile, a heavy, localized downpour of rain drove the men from Last Hearth off the main road into the forests opposite the valley that held the road. Taylor watched it all unfold with her magical vision, content that she would not have to kill any of Stark's vassals.

Given the trouble Dalard's death caused, she just didn't see any need to add to it with Stark if she didn't have to.

True to the Lord Commander's word, the Brothers of the Night's Watch gave her safe passage through the castle, where she and Amory parted ways. When she emerged through the Wall, she immediately turned her bifrost eyes north until she spotted her house, and the smaller home nearby.

Morag and her man were safe; all was well.

"Let's go home, Flurry," Taylor said. "It'll be time to deliver a baby soon."