Blood of the Wanderer - Chapter 2
The young skald already twice became the Master of Spring. His lips met the lips of the most beautiful of the woman. But his heart was cold. As if waiting for something.
It was the third spring. A stranger appeared on the holiday of the Sun Threshold. No one knew her name. No one saw her face - it was hidden behind a blue scarf. Only her eyes sparkled, piercing, like starry placer above the night taiga. She figure was unknown in those lands. When she walked, there was no trace of snow on the land. But when she jumped over the fire, the wind, lifted by the floors of her fur coat, caught fire to the coals. Blackened by the envy of the ruddy faces of the girls, but it was clear to everyone: a new Mistress has appeared.
The skald came to life and squared his shoulders. He stepped into a tight, intoxicating circle. He struck the ground with an embroidered boot. He sang for the guests, spoke as fast as he could. She was extolled by the gait, her thin stench, the glitter of her eyes. Prayed to go out to him and dance with him. His speech flowed like honey, a stranger could not resist. She entered the circle, stood opposite the narrator.
Then they wrote stories about their dance. They were compared with the moon and the sun, with a ravenous golden eagle and its rapid shadow, with a thunderstorm and a shower. The skald danced, breaking a sable cap, knocking out a fraction of the frozen earth with heels. The guest was around him, shaking his wide sleeves, not taking his wonderful eyes from the reddened face of the narrator. The skald was stretching his arms to her, but the newcomer slipped out of his embrace, didn’t let him touch herself. It was as if they couldn’t really meet, like the moon and the sun.
At the moment they stopped. The guest narrator bowed to the waist and asked permission to touch her hand. Then she spoke for the first time:
"Know, storyteller," she said. "If you take my palm, then follow me wherever I say, without will and reasoning. Are you ready for such a fate?"
The skald smiled, the storyteller laughed and said he was ready. She took off her glove and held out her thin fingers. The silence was such that one could hear the grass growing under the thawed snow.
Once he touched her an ice needle pierced his heart. He lost his voice and breathing, everything swam before his eyes. The guest laughed and waved her sleeve. A snowstorm rose, extinguished all fires, scattered colored ribbons. A gray cloud obscured the sun.
"Today is over," the guest said. "You, storyteller, come with me. Nine days and nights we will spend on the road. In the daytime you will sleep, and at night tell me your stories. And if you surprise me three times - I will let you go and return to your land. If not, the cold forever will scatter these lands. And you will always sleep in my house, of the Mistress of Winter."
So she said and disappeared in a snowy whirlwind with the skald. And everything became as she said, the sun disappeared, and the frost drove people home, to the hearths. One hope they now have left, that doesn’t let the storyteller amuse the mistress with stories.
At this point, Bara coughed and stopped his tale. The skinhead nodded to the barmen and he put a bowl of warm wine at the old man's elbow.
In his corner the wanderer warmed his palms on a cup of herbal infusion. Either he listened to the narrator or dozed.