by Kate Elliott
Seeing smoke, Ulfrega led the others out of the wood. “No one will settle here again,” observed Ulfrega before she hurried after Beor to examine the treasure.
“Do not touch it,” said Adica quickly. Smoke boiled up from the funeral pyre. “The Cursed One’s magic lives in those things.”
“But I use this halberd, and it was taken from the Cursed Ones.” Beor eyed the bronze sword with naked hunger.
The vision hit her so hard that she couldn’t breathe.
Beor runs with the sword in his hand, leading a crowd of wild-eyed young people, running east to fight their own kind, humankind, burning their homes and stealing their cattle and goats.
This was the madness that the Cursed Ones had brought into their hearts!
Gasping, she found herself braced on her hands and knees. Everyone had stepped away from her. She was sweating, although a cloud covered the sun.
Unbidden, she wept, torn by grief. What would the White Deer people become, after she was gone? Were none of them strong enough to resist the implacable spirit that lived in the sword? Was this what the vision promised her, that her people would be consumed by its anger and lust? Were they fated to be poisoned by this legacy of the Cursed Ones, called war?
The rank smell of burning flesh washed over her, and she floated on that smoke into a more complicated vision, one without beginning or end.
There would be peace and war, kindness and cruelty. There would be honor, and shame.
All this would come to humankind.
It was already here.
Perhaps it was even true that the grandmothers had lived in a peace and loving-kindness unknown to the White Deer tribe now. Or perhaps the ancestors had fought their own battles, as simple as anger between friends or as complex as old enmities between tribes.
What would come, would come. She could only do her duty, here and now. So had the Holy One spoken. So had she agreed, knowing that it was the only way she had to protect her people.
The vision faded. Trembling, she got to her feet to find that the others had retreated to hunker down by the intact roundhouse and chew on stalks of dried meat, waiting for her to come out of her trance. She never had to explain herself. She went down to the nearby stream and cut reeds with her stone knife, then braided them into rope strong enough to bind and carry the dead one’s treasure. With this bundle hoisted over her shoulders and her basket tapping at her hip, she walked back to Four Houses. The others followed at a safe distance, keeping their voices low.
They feared her, because she had magic and they had none, because she saw what they could not see. That was how the gods chose, giving sight to some and leaving the rest blind.
Sometimes, she knew, it was more merciful to be blind.
3
THEY sheltered that night at Four Houses. The people hustled out of her way when she approached. Fathers pulled their children in through the gates that barred off the family compounds, where her glance could not scar or cripple any of these most precious young ones. No one invited her inside, and Beor was wise enough or fearful enough of what she might do if she were angered that he and his party sat outside, too, taking the meal that the Four Houses adults shared with them.
They ate well: fresh venison and swan; a malty beer almost thick enough to scoop up with her fingers; cheese; and late season greens, rather toothy and fibrous. The Four Houses people kept their dogs tied up so that they could eat in peace without the constant begging menace.
That night she slept outside, alone, in the shadow of one of the hayricks. Yet she could not help stroking the smooth cloth once worn by the dead Cursed One. She could not help crushing its soft weave against her cheek. It didn’t comfort her.
In the morning, they walked back to their village. Everyone wanted to see the bronze sword, but she kept it hidden. Its spirit still wept for its former master; it was still angry. She carried the treasure up the hill and wove a warding out of herbs and charms into an old cowhide. In this hide she wrapped sword and armor. A shallow hole just outside the stone loom made a convenient temporary grave.
She knelt by that hole for a long time, but no visions came. Finally, she walked down to the river and washed the linen shirt until no taint of the Cursed One lingered in it. Returning up the hill, she found a platter of food left by her shelter, a pottage now cold and congealed, a mug of ale dusted with a scattering of vegetal matter blown in by the wind. After she hung the linen cloth over the shelter to dry, she ate. No one ever turned down food. No one else ever had to eat alone.
It was a warm summer evening, golden and endless with promise, but she clutched only emptiness at her heart.
Binding on her hallowing clothes, she walked the familiar path to the stones as night fell. Stars bloomed above like the campfires of the dead. Was there a new star among their number, the spirit of the Cursed One she had banished from the Earth yesterday? She could not tell.
With certain gestures of ritual respect, she walked into the stone loom. The great stones seemed to watch her. Kneeling before the cauldron, she sipped at the water before flinging a handful into the air to seed the wind with its holiness. With arms folded across on her chest, she breathed herself into the trance necessary to the working, walked each step of the great weaving so that she would make no mistake when the time came and thus sever the threads. When she had walked it through in her mind’s eye without mistake, she walked it again.
But she could only remain deep in the working trance for so long. After a while, she eased herself free of it. She was tired, but not sleepy. Bowing her head, she waited.
Maybe she was only waiting for hope, or release. Maybe she was only waiting for the wind. Or for death.
It was a long night.
Mist crept up into the stones and wreathed her, cold and soft. The stars breathed in and out, souls sighing for their lost home. A nightingale sang.
An owl hooted.
She started up out of a doze. Her knees ached, her left foot was asleep, and as she shifted to banish the needles of evil spirits, come to plague her while she napped, she saw the owl glide in noiselessly on its great wings and settle on the cauldron. Swiftly, she covered her eyes with a hand.
Dawn lightened the eastern horizon. The mist retreated, like a creature withdrawing its claws, until its coils wrapped only the westernmost stones. A blue-white light flared before her eyes. The breath of the Holy One tickled her neck, smelling of grass. Hooves tapped the ground as the Holy One danced away.
The ground shuddered beneath her knees, throwing her back. Some force reached into her guts and yanked them one way while she was jerked in the other direction. The movement tore her in half and yet she was entire, whole and panting with exertion and fright. Her tongue had swollen, and her head spun with a myriad dizzy tumbles, as though she were rolling bodily down a steep hill even as she knelt unmoving beside the cauldron.
Something deep in the cosmos had come undone. The world murmured around her, unsettled and curious, and she heard birds coming awake in the forest and the distant howling of wolves. The breath of the stars grazed her neck, burning her with their fierce heat, as implacable as the souls of swords. She heard a gasp, and then all was silent except for the movements of the Holy One, murmuring quiet words.
Except for another voice, low and confused.
Except for the rank scent of blood, and an unknown smell that smothered her until she understood what it was: wet dog.
Startled, she looked up to see two huge black dogs, as large as half-grown calves, standing alert on the other side of the step stone. She rose cautiously, but the dogs made no move against her, nor did they growl or bark.
A naked man lay on the ground on the other side of the cauldron. He had the lean male body of one who is no longer a youth and yet has not been a man for many years.
The Holy One waited, unmoving, a spear’s length away from the prostrate body. A litter of bloody garments lay heaped on the ground before her.
Adica circled the cauldron cau
tiously, murmuring words of protection. Was this a conjuring man, walking abroad with his spirit guides?
The dogs nosed the body as though smelling for life before settling down contentedly on either side of the prone man. They did not try to bite her as she slid in between them to touch the man on the shoulder. His skin was as soft as a rose petal, marvelously smooth. He was much less hairy than the men of the Deer clans, but he hadn’t the bronze complexion that marked the Cursed Ones. Pale and straight, he was like no person she had seen before. She traced the line of his shoulder blade, his skin warm under her hand. He breathed softly and slowly.
“Here is the husband I have promised you, Adica,” said the Holy One. “He comes from the world beyond.”
His scent was as sweet as wild roses. His ear, the one she could see, had a whorl as delicate as that of a precious seashell, brought in trade from the north, and his lips had a delicate elder-violet tinge, as if he had recently been very cold.
She spoke softly, afraid to disturb him. “Did he come from the land of the dead?” Because of the way he was lying, it was hard to make out the shape of his face.
“Truly it was to the land of the dead that he was walking. But now he is here.”
Her hand rested on the curve of his shoulder. He had a young man’s thighs and buttocks, but she could not quite bring herself to accept that he was truly a male. Yet her heart pounded loudly. Wind sighed through the stones, scattering the mist as the sun’s hard face rose higher in the sky.
It was hard to speak when hope battered so harshly against her fears. Her voice broke on the words she finally forced out. “Will he stay with me until my death, Holy One?”
“He will stay with you until your death.”
The calm words hit her like grief. She wept, sitting back on her heels to steady herself, and didn’t notice that he stirred until he heaved himself up onto his forearms to look at her. He looked no less startled than she did, yet he also seemed as dazed as if he had taken a blow to the head. His skin had the pallor of one who has been ill. A small red blemish in the shape of a rose marked his left cheek, like the brands the Horse people used to mark their livestock. Despite the blemish and his paleness, he had a pleasing face, expressive and bright.
Before she understood what he meant to do, he brushed a finger gently along the scar that fire had left on her cheek, lifting a tear off her skin. The moisture surprised him so much that he exclaimed out loud and, reflexively, touched tongue to finger, tasting for salt.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name, if you can share it?”
His eyes widened with surprise. He replied, but the words that came out of his mouth sounded like no language she had ever heard. Perhaps this was the language spoken in the land of the dead, incomprehensible to those who walked in the middle world known by the living.
He pushed unsteadily up to hands and knees, sat back on his thighs, and suddenly realized that he was naked. He grabbed for the tangled cloth lying an arm’s length away, but when his fingers closed on a patch still wet with blood, he recoiled with a cry and scrambled backward, looking around as if to seek the aid of the Holy One.
No trace of the Holy One remained within the stone loom. Her owl, too, had vanished.
“Come,” she said, extending her hands with palms up and open in the sign of peace. “Nothing will harm you here.”
The dogs had not moved, so he settled down cross-legged, hands cupped modestly over his lap. To show that she was a human woman, she took off the golden antlers and unbound the bronze waistband, setting them to one side. He watched her with a wary respect but without the fear that dogged every glance thrown her way by the villagers she had grown up with and lived beside for the whole of her life. Either he was still confused, or he was simply not afraid. Yet if he had walked the path that leads into the land of the dead, then perhaps he no longer feared any fate that might overtake him in the land of the living.
The smell of blood hung heavily in the air. The garments that lay in a jumble in the grass were stained with bright-red heart’s blood, just now beginning to dry and darken. The dogs showed no sign of injury, and although he bore a fresh pink scar under his ribs, quite a nasty wound, it was cleanly healed and wasn’t weeping.
Where had the blood come from?
“Do these belong to you?” she asked, cautiously reaching out to touch the closest garment. The wool shone with a brilliant madder gold, and when she shook it out, she recognized under the bloody stain the image of a spirit fixed to the gold garment: a lean and powerful lion woven of black threads set into the gold.
He jerked away from the sight. His face was so expressive, as if his soul permeated all of his physical being from the core to the surface rather than being lodged in some deep recess, as was true for most people. Perhaps he wasn’t a person at all but the actual soul, manifest on the physical plane, of the warrior who had once worn these garments and who had died in them. Perhaps he had killed the man who had worn them, and now recoiled from the memory of violence.
She examined a second garment of undyed wool, bloodier even than the lion cloth, that lay crumpled to one side. Beneath it lay a leather belt incised with smaller lions, fastened by a bronze buckle also fashioned in the image of a lion’s snarling face. Foot coverings cunningly molded out of soft leather lay in a heap with lengths of cloth and strips of leather that were, she realized, fine leggings.
Where had his people learned such craft? Why had they not joined the alliance of humankind against the Cursed Ones?
Beneath the clothing lay a garment woven of tiny metal rings, pale in color, yet not silver, or tin, or bronze, or copper. It was heavy. The rings sang in a thousand voices as she lifted them. They had a hard and unforgiving smell. Like the lion coat, the garment had holes that would accommodate a head and arms, and it was long enough to fall to the knees. Perhaps it was not metal at all, but a magical spell of protection made physical, curled and dense, to protect the body. Her shoulders ached from the strain of holding it as she set it down and picked up the knife that lay hidden underneath.
Not stone, not copper, not bronze: the metallic substance of this knife had none of the implacable fire of the bronze sword she had taken from the corpse of the Cursed One. It was blind, with a heartless soul as cold as the winter snows, as ruthless as the great serpents who writhed in the depths of the sea and swallowed whole the curraghs in which the fisherfolk plied their trade: having hunger, it feasted, and then settled back in quiet satiation to wait until it hungered again.
Magic was the blood of these garments. Was it any surprise that blood stained them all?
She looked back at him, hoping, even fearing, to find an answer in his expression. But in the way of any young woman who has gone too long without pleasure, she only noticed his body.
He was quite obviously not a child, to run naked in the summer.
“Wait here,” she said, making gestures to show him that she meant to go and return.
As she rose, her string skirt slid revealingly around her thighs, and he blushed, everywhere, easy to see on his fair skin. She looked away quickly, to hide her hope. Did he find her attractive? Had the Holy One truly brought her a mate? She gathered up her regalia and hurried away to her shelter, storing antlers and waistband in the chest and returning to him with the linen shirt draped over her arms.
He still sat cross-legged but with his head bowed and resting on his cupped hands. Hearing her, he lifted his head. Tears ran down his face. Truly, then, he wasn’t actually dead, because the dead could not weep.
She set the garment on the ground in front of him and took a few steps away, turning her back so that if he had any secret rituals he had to perform, crossing the threshold of nakedness into civilization, she would not disturb him. There was silence, except for the wind and the rustle and scrape of his movements. Then he coughed, clearing his throat, and she turned around.
The tunic draped loosely over his chest, falling to just above his knees. Amazingly, he stoo
d as tall as Beor. The southern tribes, and the Cursed Ones, commonly stood shorter than the people of the Deer clans. Only the Horse people, with their bodies made half of human form and half of horse, stood taller.
Through a complicated and awkward ritual of gesturing, he indicated himself and spoke a word. She tried it one way on her tongue and then another, and he laughed suddenly, very sweetly, and she looked into his eyes and smiled at him, but she was first to look away. Fire flared in her cheeks; her heart burned in her. He was not precisely handsome. He looked very different than the men she knew. His features were rather narrowed, his forehead a little flatter, his cheek was marked with the blemish, and his hair was almost as dark as that of the Cursed Ones, but as fine as spun flax.
He spoke his name again, more slowly, and one of the big dogs barked as if to answer him.
“Halahn,” she said.
“Alain,” he agreed good-naturedly.
“I am named Adica,” she said. “Ah-dee-cah.”
Her name was easier for him to say than his had been for her. When she smiled at him, this time he was the one who blushed and looked away.
“What must we do with the treasure you brought with you?” She gestured toward the heap of garments. A small leather pouch lay off to one side, its thong broken. Underneath it rested a peg no longer than a finger that resembled one of the wooden pins used to fasten together joints at the corners of houses. The peg had been fashioned by magic out of the same heartless metal that made up the coat of rings.
The rusty red of old blood stained the tiny nail. Like the knife, it, too, had a soul, crabbed and devious and even a little whiny in the way of a spoiled child.
He choked out a sound as he staggered backward and dropped to his knees. Did he fear the nail’s soul, or had it felled him with an invisible malignance? She quickly concealed it in the pouch. With an effort he got up, but only to retreat to the edge of the loom, bracing himself on one of the guardian stones, shoulders bowed as under the weight of a powerful emotion.
