GodChosen

…and that screaming tiny creature was now this handsome, albeit slightly sullen-looking young giant, already as tall and muscular as his father, with the same russet hair and blue eyes. Trygare was pouting and Albin didn’t have to guess at the cause.

“I’ve taught him the skills of my trade and also those of the warrior, though my wife protested that.” Bêrit glanced sideways at Agatha.

Her lips tightened but she didn’t refute what he said. The villagers of Glynkillen had always been a peaceful lot.

“He’s man-grown now, so tell us which he should follow.”

“Please, Fæder,” Agatha echoed, dread and hope in her voice. “Tell us.”

Albin glanced at the woman standing behind her husband. He’d known Agatha all her life, pronouncing the blessing when she was born. He met Bêrit much later, on the day the weary young man rode into town on an equally exhausted horse, and asked permission to stay in Glynkillen. He’d watched him learn smithing from Agatha’s father, turned an approving eye on their courting, spoke the wedding vows making them husbandman and goodwife, and had seen Bêrit take over the forge when his father-under-the-law died.

The gods told him of Bêrit’s past. The clan-signs tattooed on his cheek told more, though the lad himself never spoke of any of it.

I want to leave that behind, Fæder. I want to begin anew, he’d said, so Albin didn’t pry. Instead, he encouraged the villagers to accept the newcomer and make him one of them, in spite of his odd accent and foreign appearance.

The gods told Albin other things, also. Now, he was going to have to repeat what he’d learned and break Agatha’s heart. Bêrit’s, too, perhaps, though he doubted the smith would show it. Warriors, even those abandoning the sword, never let their softer emotions be seen in public.

Agatha was as small as her husband was tall, and though still young, definitely care-worn. To look at her, one would think she was exhausted birthing tending a dozen children, though he knew the boy was her only child. Allfather hadn’t seen fit to bless the smith and his wife with any other offspring. He was also aware young Trygare, like his father, was left-handed and therefore a mischief-maker and prone to trouble, so raising him may had been equal to rearing eleven others.

Perhaps sometimes the gods do know best.

“Kneel before Fæder Albin,” Bêrit ordered, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.

The boy hesitated a moment too long, his eyes meeting the priest’s without the usual humility and reverence. It was all too obvious he resented being there. His kylte was dusty and his hair a braided tangle. He looked as if he’d come in from a scuffle on the riverbank, not even bothering to wash his face as was proper when visiting a Drune priest.

Without a word, he dropped to his knees but it was done with a slow, insolent movement as if he were giving begrudging homage instead of reverence. He didn’t clasp his hands together piously as another might but balled them into fists and pressed them against the homespun fabric covering his chest.

Oh, you are an insolent puppy. Albin regretted what he was about to say to the parents. Nevertheless, he had to speak the truth and deliver the message Allfather had given him, the one he received the day the child was born. He’d held it in his heart for sixteen years and now, truthfully, was relieved at last to set it free.

“Watch your manners,” his father cautioned, striking one shoulder with the back of his hand. Not a sharp blow but definitely a reprimanding one.

“No, Bêrit. Don’t berate the boy.” The priest’s voice contrasted with the smith’s as he spoke.

Albin lay a gentle hand upon the russet curls escaping the braid. Placing the other under Trygare’s chin, he tipped the boy’s head backward so they were once again eye-to-eye.

“Rather, it’s I who should be kneeling to you, my son.”

“Fæder, what are you saying?” Bêrit gasped.

Both he and Agatha looked startled.

“Get up, Trygare.” Albin pulled the boy to his feet. “I’m saying your son will be the father of kings, Bêrit. He’s to marry a princess, and his line will rule over us all for thousands of years. He’s the godchosen.”

There was a faint snicker.

Bêrit glared at his son.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Fæder, but have you looked at this village lately?” Trygare’s words had a coarse and rusty sound, that of someone barely tipped into manhood. It slid into a lower register as he spoke the next sentence and the boy grimaced in irritation at not being able to control his voice. “Nae many princesses ’round here.”

“True,” Albin agreed. “That’s why you must leave your village to find her.” He looked at Bêrit. “It’s good you taught the boy to handle a sword, for he’ll have need of it from now on.”

Making the concentric-circled sign of Ithurl Allfather upon Trygare’s forehead, he nodded, then walked away, re-entering the temple. Mentally, he began to count, one…two…

“Fæder, wait!”

Albin stopped, listening to that surefooted lope. Trygare got in front of him, blocking his way inside.

“Thank you.” The boy bowed his head, hands pressing against each other in the gesture he should’ve employed before.

“You’re no longer angry with me?” Albin smiled ironically. “Truly, Trygare. Did you believe your father and I conspired to say you’d be a smith as he is?”

“How did you…”

The surprise on the young face made his smile widen.

“I’m a Drune priest,” he reminded the boy. “I know a good many things, thanks to Allfather, but I didn’t have to read the sacred waters to know that no matter how much he loves them, a young man always wishes to leave his parents’ confining embrace and seek his own way in the world…and hope that way includes plenty of wine, beautiful women, and adventure.”

“Please, do nae say that so loud, especially about th’ women.” Trygare looked over the priest’s shoulder at Agatha who was standing beside Bêrit, watching him.

His father had put his arm around her as if comforting her. Indeed, she looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

“I imagine your mother’s well aware you’ve already been introduced to the fair sex.” Albin managed to have no reprimand in his voice. “Even if she chooses to ignore it.”

“If I’m t’ be a father o’ kings, that’ll be necessary, will it nae?” Trygare gave him a cheeky grin in answer.

“The mother of kings is waiting for you. In fact, you’ll meet her on the way to your destiny.”

“You mean, ’tis true?” Uncertainly touched the handsome adolescent face. “That was nae just…”

“Do you think I’d dare lie about a message from the gods simply to make a stripling boy happy?” Albin flavored his reply with affront. He placed a hand on Trygare’s shoulder. “It’s as I said, Trygare, son of Bêrit. Your children will be kings.”

He didn’t add…but there will always be mystery concerning your origin…though he knew that to be true, also.

“Now go. Spend today pleasing your father…and making your mother happy. You won’t see her again once you leave.”

“I will nae?” Indecision hovered.

“Your father but briefly.” Albin allowed the boy that solace. “You must depart in the morning.”

“But, Fæder, so soon?”

“One can’t have everything,” the priest reminded him. The wind swirled around them, fluttering Albin’s white robes, ruffling Trygare’s kylte revealing sturdy thighs. “Of course, you can always choose to go against the gods’ decree and remain here, be a smith, and make your mother’s days happy…while condemning your sons to the forge as well, wielding hammers instead of swords and wearing headbands to keep the sweat out of their eyes, instead of golden crowns on their brows.”

Briefly, it appeared the boy was considering it. Then he said thoughtfully, “I do nae think it’d be wise t’ tempt th’ gods in such a way.”

“May Ithurl go with you, Trygare.” Again, Albin raised his hand, re-tracing Ithurl’s sign on the boy’s forehead.

“You’ve already blessed me, Fæder,” Trygare reminded him.

“Now you’re doubly blessed,” the priest said.

Trygare bobbed a hasty bow, then straightened and ran to where his parents waited.

Albin’s next words were unheard by the three as he muttered, “You’re going to need it.”