Nonetheless, the sons of Tharasmund received the Wanderer with deference when he returned in the autumn. They did not venture to ask what had been the trouble earlier. For his part, he was more outgoing than erstwhile, and instead of a day or two, he stayed a pair of weeks. Folk marked how much heed he paid to the younger siblings, Swanhild and Alawin.
Of course, it was with Hathawulf and Solbern that he talked in earnest. He urged that either or both fare west next year, as their father had done in his youth. “It will pay you well to get to know the Roman countries, and to cultivate friendship with your kin among the Visigoths,” he said. “I myself can be along to guide, counsel, and interpret.”
“I fear we cannot,” Hathawulf answered heavily. “Not as yet. The Huns wax ever stronger and bolder. They’ve begun reaving our marches again. Little though we like him, we must agree that King Ermanaric is right when he calls for war, come summer; and Solbern and I would not be laggards therein.”
“No,” said his brother, “and not only for honor’s sake. Thus far the king has stayed his hand, but it’s no secret that he loves us not. If we get the name of cowards or sluggards, and then a threat arises, who will dare or care to stand beside us?”
The Wanderer seemed more grieved by this than might have been awaited. Finally he said, “Well, Alawin will be twelve – too young to go with you, but old enough to go with me. Let him.”
They allowed that, and Alawin went wild for joy. Watching him cartwheel over the ground, the Wanderer shook his head and murmured, “How like Jorith he still looks. But then, his descent on both sides is close to her.” Sharply, to Hathawulf: “How well do you and Solbern and he get along?”
“Why, very well indeed,” said the chieftain, taken aback. “He’s a good lad.”
“There is never a quarrel between you and him?”
“Oh, no more than his brashness brings on every once in a while.” Hathawulf stroked his youthfully silky beard. “Yes, our mother has ill will toward him. She was ever one for nursing grudges. But regardless of what some fools babble, she keeps no bridle on her sons. If her rede seems wise to us, we follow it. If not, then not.”
“Cleave fast to the kindness you have for each other.” The Wanderer seemed to plead, rather than advise or command. “Such is all too rare in this world.”
– True to his word, he came back in spring. Hathawulf had furnished Alawin a proper outfit, horses, followers, gold as well as furs to trade. The Wanderer showed forth the precious gifts he carried, which should help win good understanding abroad. Taking his leave, he hugged both brothers and their sister to him.
They stood long watching the caravan trek off. Alawin seemed so small, and his fluttering hair so bright, against the gray and blue that rode at his side. They did not utter the thought that was in them: how yonder sight recalled that Wodan was the god who led away the souls of the dead.
– Yet after a whole year everyone returned safely. Alawin’s limbs were lengthened, his voice deepened, he himself ablaze with what he had seen and heard and done.
Hathawulf and Solbern bore news less heartening. The war against the Huns had not gone well last summer. Always made terrible mounted fighters by their skill and stirrups, the plainsmen had now learned to move under the taut control of canny leadership. They had not overrun the Goths in any of the pitched battles that took place, but they had inflicted heavy losses, and one could not say they had suffered defeat. Gnawed down by sneak attacks, hungry, bootyless, Ermanaric’s host must at length trudge home over the endless grasslands. He would not try afresh this year; he could not.
It was thus a relief to listen to Alawin, evening after evening when folk were gathered over drink. The fabled realms of Rome awakened dreams. Nonetheless, some of what he told brought a frown to the brows of Hathawulf and Solbern, puzzlement to Randwar and Swanhild, an angry sneer to Ulrica. Why had the Wanderer fared as he did?