Witchy Winter

by D. J. Butler

  Perhaps it was because Schmidt had dismissed him.

  “Thank you, my Balaam,” she’d said, as she and her agents marched to arrest the Penn pretender. “I have my letter from you, and that will be enough.” She found him useful enough when he was needed for spying on reluctant Hansa agents or for defending the Joe Duncan, but his lack of real battle magic—“you know, lightning bolts and shields of fire?” was how she’d explained what she wanted—had been a disappointment, and she’d left him to his own devices at the start of the battle.

  So maybe he wanted to thwart the Empire, even if only in some tiny, harmless way.

  Or maybe he wanted to prove to her that he could do something worthwhile. Maybe he needed to redeem himself after his dramatic failure at summoning his own shadow.

  Then again, there was something about the Cahokian church, with its peculiar concoction of star imagery, its male-female dualism, its heterogeneous theology, and its obsession with Eve, that attracted Luman. The Cahokian basilica was a building built by people who believed they had important secrets, and wanted to keep those secrets from outsiders and at the same moment reveal them to initiates.

  Was that what Luman really wanted?

  More than safety, more than power, did Luman Walters simply want to be in the know?

  If so, that hardly made him the worst man in the world.

  Maybe he felt he needed to atone for his crimes.

  Perhaps in some recess of his heart he imagined himself heroically directing traffic away from the church to save it, and in response the clandestine coven of Firstborn mages-palatine bringing him into their innermost circle.

  In any case, he hadn’t counted on the beastkind.

  Luman had sat through a quiet afternoon on the steep south-facing slope of the Basilica Mound. From the noise of the frequent desultory shots and the several full-scale assaults, he knew where the director had run her quarry to ground, and that her progress had then become slow. On the western Treewall, he watched waves of beastkind slam fruitlessly against the wall, repulsed by long spears and clouds of arrows and musket balls.

  What magic traditions might he find among the beastkind? He’d heard tales of their wizardry, but never seen it. And to what lengths would he have to go to be invited into those fraternities?

  He shuddered to think.

  There was looting. Schmidt’s skirmishers were loose in Cahokia, and Luman saw them ransack storehouses and libraries and barns, continuing the pillaging that had already driven the Ohio to the brink of starvation and over into revolt. Some Cahokians defended their buildings, but others stood aside and let the rapine continue. Perhaps they saw the Imperials as their only defense against the animal-headed horde. Perhaps they saw the Imperial blue and accepted it as a sign of legitimate authority.

  Late in the afternoon, the gates of Cahokia on the north, south, and east all shut. The beastkind attackers hadn’t become any better coordinated—they still consisted of little better than a ravening wave—but they had become so numerous that they threatened to surround the Treewall.

  After dark, the director’s shooting had become even more infrequent. Luman dozed, woke, dozed again.

  And then woke to see fire.

  At first, he’d thought the Treewall had been torched, but a quick glance showed him the dark, lightless line where the palisade still stood. But beastkind came snarling over the top of that wall and spilling into Cahokia as if over a ramp.

  A ramp of what?

  Luman didn’t think beastkind had the discipline or the ingenuity to undertake earthworks.

  Within the wall, defenders had built a ring of fire to try to contain the beastkind invaders. It was a complete failure—the beastkind had snatched flaming brands from that fire with their mouths and hands and hurled them into every thatched roof they could find.

  Western Cahokia burned.

  Luman assumed that the Imperial fighters would make short work of the beastkind. The Imperials, even the skirmishing militia, had pistols and muskets. They even had light field guns, though in limited number. What would a beastman berserker do, no matter how long his horns or heavy his shoulders, when a five-inch ball was fired into his chest?

  An hour later, he saw the first beastkind at the bottom of the hill.

  He’d brought two pistols and a very small pouch of shot, but they were small-bore pistols and he was not a practiced marksman. He checked his firing pans and found them primed.

  When he looked up from the weapons, he faced a pack of beastkind charging up the hill.

  They were led by a large man with a bison’s head. Behind Bison Head came a fish with man’s legs, a man with a gigantic rabbit’s face and ears, and more. They snorted and howled, and their feet, claws, and hooves churned snow in all directions.

  Luman raised one of the pistols, trying to show it clearly. A break in the clouded-over sky let through a gleam from a waxing gibbous moon, so the pistol—or even both pistols—ought to be visible.

  If he weren’t alone, he’d have fired a warning shot. But he had two loaded pistols, and no time to reload. Luman leveled the first pistol and fired into the charging mass.

  Bang!

  The fish-creature stumbled and fell. It continued to squeal and bubble, sliding down the hill as its fellows charged ahead. Luman slid the pistol into his deep coat pocket. The Homer lamella was supposed to provide protection against wild animals. Wild animals and demons. Would the himmelsbrief in his coat give any added defense? He’d seen it stop enemies, but…of a particular nature. Necromancers, walking dead, black magicians. He didn’t think a heavenly letter would do anything against a charging bear, but maybe a bison-headed giant was closer to a devil than it was to a cow.

  He took the second pistol into his right hand, aimed, and fired.

  Bang!

  None of the beastkind fell. Cursing, Luman pocketed his second pistol. His feet slipped in snow as he scooted away from the edge of the hill and groped under his own shirt for the lamella with Greek writing on it. His fingers were cold on his skin.

  He found the amulet, gripped it, feeling it tremble to the touch, and said a quick braucher prayer. “Hund, halt deinem Mund auf die Erden. Mich hat Gott erschaffen, dich hat er lassen warden.”

  At the same time, he squeezed the Homer amulet tightly in his right fist and he made three crosses with his left hand in the air between himself and the beasts. It wasn’t a spell for beastkind, but a spell for mad dogs, and as he finished his third cross, Luman was certain the spell would fail.

  Stepping back, his heel slipped in the snow and he fell.

  His tailbone felt the impact hard and he cried out; snow fell under his long wizard’s coat at the collar, but he retained his grip on the iron lamella—

  and the beastkind rushed past him, without looking twice.

  With snuffling, yips, hisses, and roars, the beastmen rampaged to the front door, left unlocked, and entered the church. Screaming promptly erupted from the basilica, and refugees burst from the building’s exits.

  Luman stood slowly, his mind racing. The spells had worked, but he needed something bigger. He needed something that would flush the beastkind out…or put them all to sleep…or kill them.

  Stopping to fumble powder and shot back into the pistols, and priming both firing pans, Luman considered and discarded one possibility after another. Then, with a gun in each hand, he went into the basilica.

  * * *

  Sarah arrived at the Sunrise Mound and released her invisibility spell. In the west, she heard shooting and animal screams. On the nearby south-facing wall of her father’s city, she saw soldiers, Imperial and Cahokian alike, racing back and forth. Was the city under siege from beastkind, and the Imperials and Cahokians together defending? Was the city under siege from both Imperials and beastkind, and the Cahokians passively cooperating with the Imperials? Its leadership distracted with the Presentation, perhaps the Cahokians simply had no idea what they should be doing, and whom to fight.

  The Sunr
ise Mound wasn’t hidden, but it was low and inconspicuous, and the soldiers were looking for threats beyond the walls. The blanket of snow covering the mound was surprisingly thin. Now some of the pieces were coming together in Sarah’s mind. The Sunrise Mound might or might not be the burial site of some primeval queen, but more importantly, it was the odd one out, of all the tall mounds, because of its placement with respect to the sky. The other mounds were oriented to the square, north-south and also east-west.

  The Sunrise Mound was oriented at an angle.

  What angle? Sarah was no astronomer, but she watched sunrises and sunsets like anyone else. As the winter progressed, the sun rose and set farther and farther south, until the day of the solstice—the day that was now about to dawn—when sunrise was at its most southerly. From then until the high peak of summer, sunrises and sunrises were progressively farther north each day.

  At what position on the horizon would the sun rise when it came up in only an hour or so?

  Sarah’s guess was that the southeast side of the Sunrise Mound would point directly at the rising sun.

  Tomb or not, if she was right, the Sunrise Mound was a temple. Older than the one on the Great Mound, no doubt. More sacred? Perhaps. Attached to the royal cult?

  Sarah’s bet was yes, all these things.

  She hesitated at the edge of the mound, examining it through her witchy eye. She saw the seven stones—Eve-stones, Alzbieta Torias had called them, rather than Adam-stones. If Adam-stones marked the boundaries of land ownership and political control, what did Eve-stones denote? Four of the stones seemed to mark out four cardinal directions, not with respect to actual north and south, but with respect to the rectangular sides of the mound.

  With a trembling foot, she stepped within the boundary of Eve-stones. She felt immediately a presence so close and so strong that she was surprised not to hear an actual voice.

  But something was wrong.

  She looked again with her witchy eye, and saw a veil of blue light. She hadn’t seen it before, when looking at the mound. Was the veil visible because the solstice sun was about to rise? The veil surrounded the Sunrise Mound, and beyond it, Sarah saw…

  Trees? A tree?

  A woman?

  A mighty serpent?

  These were the accouterments of Wisdom. But they were trapped beyond the veil, or hidden behind it. How to supplicate the Goddess?

  The trees and the serpent were also part of the iconography of Eden.

  Something deep in Sarah’s heart seemed about to come forth.

  She stretched herself at full length on her belly, pointing her body along the cardinal lines: head toward where she expected the sun to rise, feet the opposite direction, arms extended to the square on either side. “Tell me, Mother,” she whispered. “Tell me what you need me to know.”

  What had Alzbieta said about Eden? Something niggled at the back of Sarah’s mind.

  “I’m here, Mother. I’m yours.”

  Sarah heard running feet. She looked and saw faces she knew, with Calvin and Maltres Korinn in the lead. Calvin’s face and hands were stained a vivid pink, as if he’d been bloodied, and then tried to wipe the blood off with snow. He wobbled on his feet, and on his shoulder he wore her satchel.

  She rose, and remembered Alzbieta’s comment. Eden can only lie where the land is plowed. She hadn’t offered that as her opinion, but as one of many opinions about the location and meaning of Eden.

  Eden can only lie where the land is plowed.

  And what had Nathaniel said? That the hill was broken.

  And again, Simon Sword, speaking of the Heronplow: Your foundations will be solid, your boundaries known, your fields fruitful, and your people at peace with each other.

  Calvin grinned wide and stepped forward, crossing the line of Eve-stones—

  howling, he staggered back—

  something struck Sarah’s consciousness as a hammer might hit her in the face. White light blinded her, a sharp pain filled her mind, and she heard a shrill scream.

  The scream came from her.

  “Cal!”

  Blinded, Sarah stumbled forward until she reached what felt like a wall in front of her and stopped. She waited, panting, and her vision gradually cleared. She found herself standing at the edge of the Sunrise Mound, beside one of the Eve-stones.

  She could go no further.

  Behind Calvin and the regent came Sherem, running under his own power, and Yedera, the warrior Daughter of Podebradas, spattered with blood from head to foot, and finally Alzbieta Torias, carried by her bearers on a palanquin.

  “What happened?” Sarah asked.

  “The goddess has rejected Calvin,” Alzbieta Torias said.

  “Let us pray She accepts Sarah,” Maltres Korinn murmured. Deep wrinkles around his mouth and dark circles under his eyes made him look as if he had aged ten years during the night.

  “I don’t understand,” Sarah said.

  Cal sighed. “I did what I had to do, Sarah. And I did it for you. And I got back the regalia. Only to git it, I had to kill a feller, and as it happens, I killed him in a pretty unlucky place.”

  “On the Serpent Throne.” Alzbieta looked distraught.

  “Where, as it also happens, certain old stories seem to suggest that we once sacrificed our kings and queens at the end of their reigns.” Maltres cracked a wry smile. “So perhaps Eërthes got his way, after all. Maybe the goddess accepted him as king, and as king She slew him for a sacrifice.”

  “This whole bein’ queen thing is soundin’ less attractive every moment,” Sarah said.

  Alzbieta shook her head. “Only if She accepted Eërthes as a sacrifice, that would make Calvin a priest and sacrificer. And instead, She rejects him.”

  “There you go,” Cal said glumly to Sarah. “That make you feel better?”

  Sarah bowed her shoulders. “Cal,” she said softly. “I love you. Now give me the satchel.”

  He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. With his jaw slack and an expression of shock on his face, he finally unshouldered the bag and tossed it to her.

  She opened the satchel and considered the objects. Would it be presumption to wear the crown? Would it be neglectful not to? Hadn’t Thalanes once told her that without the crown, there could be no monarch in Cahokia? Or had Sarah herself said that?

  She sighed. It was all a guess.

  But the goddess felt so close.

  She settled the Sevenfold Crown on her head. It felt comfortable, despite the fact that her hair was still growing back in. Cradling the Heronplow against her side and clutching the Orb of Etyles in her hand, she tossed the bag back to Calvin.

  “Thank you, Calvin Calhoun,” she said. And then, just in case whatever was about to happen killed her, she added, “thank you for everything.”

  He looked into her eyes and nodded. “Anythin’ for you, Sarah.”

  She took a deep breath, restraining tears. How was this supposed to work? The goddess was so close, She was beside Sarah, only there was a boundary between them. A boundary that ran around the base of the Sunrise Mound.

  She knelt and nestled the Heronplow into the tall grass and the snow. The moon was past full, but still large, and the plow glinted a dull gold color in her natural eye. With her Second Sight, she saw it as green, like the Mississippi ley and the souls of the beastkind.

  She rested one hand on the plow and breathed deeply.

  A prayer? An incantation? Both?

  With her other hand, she raised the Orb of Etyles and looked into it. In her Second Sight, deep within the orb, she saw the green glow of the Mississippi. Using the force of her will, she reached into the orb and drew that power into herself, then pushing back out the other arm and into the plow.

  She stood slowly, focusing on the flow of power and maintaining it.

  She wished she spoke the Ophidian languages, but she didn’t, not yet, not beyond a few phrases. She’d have to make do with what she had.

  “Magna mater,” she incan
ted, “maxima mater. Rogo ut hoc aratrum pelleas.”

  She took another deep breath. She felt the plow beneath her fingers as if she were physically touching it, though she stood, and the plow bit into the cold soil.

  From the other side of the veil, another hand took the plowshare and, together with Sarah, held it. The other hand was a woman’s, long-fingered, and pale blue.

  “Sarah, what’s goin’ on?” Cal called.

  The Firstborn hushed him.

  Sarah took a step forward, and the plow moved.

  It wasn’t effortless; moving the plow required great force. Sarah’s heart beat wildly, and her breath was tight in her chest. Sweat broke out under the crown and poured down her face despite the chill of the night air. She walked slowly, and steadily, and the plow moved with her, chewing a single deep, even furrow around the base of the mound. It wove slightly out in order to encompass all the Eve-stones, and after several minutes of slow, consistent effort, Sarah had walked entirely around the Sunrise Mound and the plow found the beginning of its furrow again.

  Sarah collapsed onto all fours, breathing hard.

  When she looked up, she found herself in Eden.

  “I think She also suggested I ain’t gonna live very long.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jacob Hop shuddered constantly.

  It was exhaustion. Sleeplessness and strain. His legs felt like wood.

  It might also be the coffee. He’d almost drunk the last of Sarah’s brew.

  Though it was an hour or more before day, lights shone from the earl’s windows. Jacob turned onto the earl’s lane from the highway and two mounted men in dark purple accosted him. One stepped into Jacob’s path, and the other hailed him.

  “Shine forth, O drinker of blood! Arise and kill, dreaded son!”

  Jake shook his head.

  “What’s your business, stranger?”

  “An urgent message for the Earl of Johnsland!” Jacob snapped, more fiercely than he really meant to. “From the Queen of Cahokia!”