Far Traveler by Rebecca Tingle Page A

away. “I can try,” was all I could think to say.
    Ã†thelstan leaned back in his chair and recited:
    A warrior there is in the world, wonderfully born, brought forth brightly from two dumb things. Full strong he is, but a woman may bind him. He serves whomever serves and feeds him fairly, but grimly he rewards those who let him grow up proud.
    I tried not to show my shock. Had Æthelstan heard us? Had he waited at the gate, watching and listening? No, that would have been too far away, I was sure of it. But the scrap of parchment bearing the message and the riddle! Where had I left it?
    â€œFire,” I answered warily. “Fire is ‘a warrior ... brought forth brightly from two dumb things’—from stone and iron-backed steel. A woman may bind fire,” I added, still trying to appear calm, “just like Gytha, tending the hearth over there.”
    â€œOf course,” he said softly. “Fire is the answer. Well done, Ælfwyn.” He stood up, stretching. “But don’t I remember,” he mused as he walked to the great doorway of the hall, “that the riddles in your mother’s lessons sometimes had more than one solution? Tell me, Wyn, if you think of another.” He walked out.
    â€œCurse you, girl, what did you do with that note?” Dunstan exploded.
    â€œI’m not sure. I never thought—”
    â€œWell, now we know why Æthelstan came looking for us this evening. At least he doesn’t seem to understand the note, or know who sent it. If the king travels back to Eoforwic unrecognized and keeps quiet, we might still avoid trouble.”
    â€œThe king?” I echoed him numbly. “What do you mean?”
    â€œThe archbishop’s companion was Wilfrid, the Northumbrian king.”

9
    A HYMN OF CÆDMON
    â€œâ€˜ASH CUT,’ ”—KENELM OF LINCYLENE SCOWLED WITH EFFORT, trying to repeat his message precisely—“ ‘fish caught.’ Yes, that’s what my father told me to say.” The young thane grinned, relieved that he’d remembered the exact words.
    Dunstan glanced at me and snorted. “We asked Cuthwine if he had ash-wood spears and salt cod to spare,” he told Kenelm. “There’s no need to make a secret of numbering the stores at your father’s landhold. You can go, boy.”
    â€œWait! There’s something else,” Kenelm said earnestly. “Father says, ‘My thirty stand ready.’ ”
    â€œWhat ... what does that mean?” I said nervously.
    â€œIt means,” said Kenelm, coming even closer and lowering his voice, “that thirty men from our holding will ride to Eoforwic when you are ready to fight. I am one of them.”
    I jerked back in alarm. Dunstan seized Kenelm’s arm angrily.
    â€œEnough of that! We asked for an account of Cuthwine of Lincylene’s stores. Nothing more.”
    â€œBut we heard—” A fierce look from Dunstan made Kenelm drop his voice to a whisper. “We heard that Mercia would join Eoforwic against Rægnald in the spring.”
    Dunstan was fuming. “You should know better than to say so. Tomorrow I will ride back with you to your father’s holding and speak with you both”—he gave Kenelm’s arm another shake—“about loose talk. Go rest now.”
    When Kenelm had gone, Dunstan shook his head. “No good can come of such dangerous talk.”
    â€œWe only asked the landholders to number their stores, like you said.” I slumped back in my mother’s council chair.
    â€œAnd the thanes have drawn their own conclusions,” Dunstan said worriedly. “If King Edward hears that Mercians are gathering for battle ...”
    â€œBut we’re not! We don’t even know how we’ll answer King Wilfrid of Eoforwic yet. A season has passed since Æthelstan came to Lunden, and we’ve heard nothing from Wessex. Must we still worry that King Edward