Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

by The Fire Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  Eleanor had an overwhelming desire for a cigarette and a cup of coffee, a hot shower and a real bed. She shifted her shoulders a little, trying to find a better position against the rock, aware of an enormous fatigue. Where am I going to find the strength to continue? she wondered. The warmth of the panther seemed to ease the tiredness a little, and she slid her body down to the earth, turning onto one side and pillowing her head on one arm. Sable sort of flowed to stretch alongside her, feline spine pressing on leg and belly.

  Despite exhaustion, sleep eluded her. Eleanor tried to discover why, and found that she was angry. It was not the bright, clear rage of her father but instead the colder Northern fury of her mother’s people, with their mixture of Viking and Celtic blood. First it seemed to be anger at Bridget, for yanking her from her time and place and setting her a task too great for her feeble strengths. Then she realized she was furious with herself for getting involved with the task. No one told me that no was an answer, too. Why did I take the sword and cloak? Who the hell did I think I was, anyhow? If I had left well enough alone, Doyle would be alive now.

  Guilt flooded through her. Everything was all her fault. She had felt that way after her father died, that somehow she was to blame for the cancer that turned him from a lusty man into an empty husk. It was an icy, tearless guilt, dark as the void. I had the free will not to choose this job, and saying I didn’t know doesn’t change anything. I am being punished for my vanity. I can’t do it.

  Eleanor untucked her arm from under her head because it was going to sleep, and rested against the bare ground. The murmurs of earth touched her. She heard the constant creak of Orphiana’s serpentine body shifting, the distant singing of the stones at Avebury, and the answering chorus of other circles, and the ripple of the waters at Sal’s pool. They seemed to laugh at her. Silly goose, she heard the Willow Lady’s acerbic voice whisper, you cannot blame yourself for other people’s choices. Only your own, and you have done well. Do not corrupt your love with fear and doubt.

  It slowly dawned on the woman that she had not forced Doyle into their too-brief marriage. He had wanted the sword and the freedom that went with it. Later, she knew, he had come to love her, and he had cared enough to force her into continued independence. The unborn child stirred within her, reminding her of their passion. I should have castrated Baird, she thought as a dreamless sleep overtook her.

  XXIV

  Arthur eyed the panther with great suspicion as it sat beside the fire. Eleanor had managed to conjure up another mess of tasteless, gluey porridge, which now lay in her belly like lead. She was tranquil, despite an aching jaw and the beginnings of a black eye where Baird had struck her.

  "Are you sure that animal is friendly?” he asked.

  "Believe me, if he wasn’t, neither of us would be here to worry about it. I think a herd of antelope could have overrun the camp without waking you. You snore.”

  "Do I?”

  "Very softly.” She gave him a grin and winced. Eleanor rubbed her jaw tenderly. For a moment, she wondered why Baird’s rape had not disturbed her more, then realized she had simply inundated her feelings with her own rage, so she could not partake of the depression and guilt that dwelled there also. When I’m finished with all this, I am going to have a rip-roaring nervous breakdown. I’ve earned it, she thought.

  They gathered their gear, and Eleanor strapped the sword across her shoulders, wishing she was tall enough to wear it from her waist. It chafed against unhealed scratches and into her back and rubbed one bruised hip. She felt filthy, and she would cheerfully have cast her shabby garments onto the dying fire if she had had replacements. The wool of her tunic seemed itchy, and she realized it was still salty, for she had not washed it.

  The panther stood up and walked off purposefully in a vaguely southerly direction. They followed and soon came to a moor so thick with heather it seemed a sea of lavender. There was a constant murmur of bees and the occasional squawk of grouse startled in their avian pursuits. The sun beat down with almost tropical fierceness, and Eleanor found her throat parched for water.

  It was slow going, for the vegetation clutched at the hem of her gown and scratched arms and face. There was no path Eleanor could discern, though Sable seemed quite confident of the way. The bushes got larger and larger, until they came to a hut made of wattle and daub, which looked like a bird’s nest turned upside down. A pale whisp of smoke eddied out of the top, but it appeared empty.

  Sable sat down on his haunches and regarded the hut with feline disinterest. Eleanor studied it, and after a moment, she saw that there was an old woman sitting outside the hut. Her wrinkled face blended perfectly with the building, and her clothing was covered with twigs and bits of heather. Eleanor thought she could have played all three witches in Macbeth with no problem at all, for she had never seen a face more ruined by age. Arthur, beside her, gave a sharp intake of breath, then made a courtly bow.

  Eleanor followed with a clumsy curtsy and wondered at the bemused expression on her companion’s face. "Good day to thee, fair lady,” he said. She gave him a hard look and discovered him preening the rusty stubble of beard he was growing.

  The woman rose slowly, and for a second, she shimmered. Eleanor caught a glimpse of an exquisitely beautiful woman dressed in shining white robes and understood Arthur’s odd behavior.

  "Welcome, young sir and lady.” The voice was like honey, and Eleanor felt the flesh on the back of her neck prickle. She had an impulse to run from the clearing. Only the panther’s cool assurance stopped her. "Won’t you come inside out of the sun?”

  They entered, Arthur eagerly, Eleanor with some reluctance. The interior was as smooth as glass and black. She caught a reflection of herself, a pale face with a bruised eye, hair tangled with leaves and twigs, and a garment almost as tattered as her hostess’s. I look like death warmed over, she thought.

  There was a fire pit surrounded by white stones and a couple of benches. Over the fire hung a cauldron that smelled of stew. The floor was hard-packed dirt.

  "Pray, be seated.” Like a conjurer, the woman produced two wooden cups filled with a foamy brew. She handed them to Arthur and Eleanor with a toothless grin. "Heather ale,” she explained. Eleanor tasted it cautiously and found it a robust beer that banished her thirst almost instantly. Arthur gulped his down, and the woman refilled his cup from an earthenware pitcher. To break the silence, Eleanor said, "It’s delicious.” "Thank you, my dear. I brew it myself. Would you like to use my comb?” The object appeared in a wrinkled claw of a hand.

  Eleanor took it gingerly and set to work getting the tangles out. Arthur just stared at the woman like a man bewitched and drank his ale. The only sounds in the hut were the popping of the fire and an occasional grunt from Eleanor when she discovered a bad snarl.

  Finally the woman spoke. "Do not be afraid, child. I am no enemy of yours. It is not as if you were unfamiliar with my face.” The seamed countenance changed, and Eleanor looked into her father’s face as he breathed his last, then Doyle’s, and finally the blood-smeared head of the wolf. Her throat thickened with unshed tears, and her hands came to rest in her lap, comb and hair forgotten.

  "Yes,” she said finally. "But I don’t know you.”

  "No, no mortal does, until the end. And yours is many years away.”

  "I suppose I should be gratified.”

  "Poor child. It is so hard to live, isn’t it?”

  "Yes, ma’am. I keep having to make decisions, and I always worry I’m not doing the right thing. I feel I’m not really up to everything.”

  "That is the burden of mortals—doubt. The deities do not suffer from it, so their failures are more crushing. There is, for instance, one fellow I have been pursuing for over a millenium. He keeps eluding me, and I wonder if I’ll ever catch him. Oh, I will, for all flesh comes to me eventually. Our successes count less, and yours more, because you can overcome your fears. We have none and thus are robbed of achievement. We must content ourselves with toying with the fra
gile existences of those who no longer even acknowledge our presence.”

  Eleanor found herself smiling. "I never thought of it in that light.”

  "Certainly not. Being self-involved is one way man and the gods are similar.”

  "You can say that again,” Eleanor answered, thinking of Bridget. "What now?” She picked the comb up from her lap and went back to work on her hair.

  "Now you will eat and rest.”

  "And what will that cost me?”

  "Ah, you know my nature better than I thought.”

  "I think I could even put a name to you, lady.”

  "How polite of you not to do so. You may, if you wish, then.”

  "Bera, perhaps.”

  "My sister Sal told me you were clever. She holds you in great affection.”

  "It is very mutual. What do you ask from me?”

  "Just a little blood.”

  Eleanor blanched, though she knew Bera the Hag v was a vampire. "That seems a stiff price for hospitality.”

  "I will also give you a charm that will... discourage, shall we say, that brother-in-law of yours.”

  "Baird?” She raised her fingers to her swollen cheek and felt a quiver of fear. "Yes, I’ll do it for that.”

  The bright eyes within the wrinkled face regarded her thoughtfully. "You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” "Yes, some.”

  "You hide it well. As for the lad, I will not take more than a year or two, which he can well spare. Besides, he’s eager for my touch.”

  Eleanor almost protested. Instead, she said, "What will he get out of it?”

  "He will never be afraid of me again.”

  "That, I think, is a great gift.”

  Bera just smiled and said, "I know.”

  They ate, and Eleanor found herself very sleepy after the meal. She stretched out on the floor on her tired cloak and slid into a dark dream. Some great weight oppressed her, and there was a sharp moment of pain in her throat. Then there was pleasure, a deep, black pleasure that coursed through veins and mind, followed by nothing.

  A gray dawn was coloring the heath when she looked out the hut door. Arthur was still asleep, a faint smile on his lips. He looked different somehow, and she realized his beard had thickened and darkened. He was more a man and less a boy. Bera sat on a bench, twirling a spindle and humming softly.

  "Did you sleep well?” the Hag asked.

  "Yes, thank you. I feel... wonderful.” That imp which made her speak before thinking possessed her. "Was I tasty?”

  The Hag laughed, and Arthur woke up. "Delicious,” she said.

  The man stretched, yawned, and scratched his face. He regarded Bera affectionately, rose, and placed a gentle kiss on the withered cheek. "Good morning, milady.”

  Eleanor wondered what he would do if he could see the beldam as she really was, then decided that was not her concern. He obviously had gotten a fair trade for his life’s blood, and that was all that mattered.

  They breakfasted on stew and ale. Then Bera rose and opened her hands. A violet tunic lay across her outstretched palms. "I think you will find this more suitable than what you are wearing, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor took it and rubbed the soft linen between her fingers. A pattern of white blossoms was embroidered around the neck and cuffs. "It is beautiful. Thank you.”

  "And this.” Bera held out a sprig of white heather. "Baird won’t like it at all.” She gave a tooth-rotted grin and a cackle, which made Eleanor’s blood chill in her veins. "Not at all.”

  She tucked the sprig into her belt pouch. "I thank you for your gifts, lady.”

  Bera reached out a clawed hand and patted Eleanor’s cheek. "Such a polite, solemn little one. So brave. But you should laugh more. That hero’s heart that throbs within your chest would be better for some gaiety.”

  A protest rose and died unspoken. Eleanor could not speak the pain inside her, the unspent grief and the rage beyond it, and Bera knew all that in any case. What do I have to laugh about? I think my Irish blood must be very anemic. And, with Celtic perversity that made her smile, both for the sudden notion of Cuchulain or Finian with an iron deficiency, and a realization that after a brief time in Bera’s arms, she possibly was, a little.

  The loneliness she bore swept across her, and she felt the pang of separation she had experienced the morning she woke up outside Sal’s mound. I am beloved of the goddess, she thought, and was both humbled and furious at the distinction. Some need lay within her to return that affection, the love she had never shown her mother, which could only be pressed by touch and feel, the press of flesh on flesh.

  Eleanor embraced Bera, kissing the withered cheek and stroking the weedy locks of hair. She stared unafraid into eyes like ponds of dead water and smiled. To her astonishment, two huge tears rolled down the Hag’s face, rilling into the canyons of skin that ran from nose to mouth and dripping from the pointed chin. She felt bony hands tremble upon her shoulder blades.

  "I am repaid tenfold by thy grace, Eleanor.” The voice shook and sounded old. “You have put me in thy debt.”

  "Huh?”

  "We are never... spontaneous. Our gifts are all a calculation, to buy that which is called by the paltry term love. Only men can give that thing freely and with joy.” Another tear swelled from an ancient eye.

  "Don’t cry, Mother,” Eleanor said quietly.

  "Why not? I had almost forgotten how. I see now why Sal holds you so dear. I feel quite young again, and I wish you might abide here with me forever.”

  "No doubt I will return to you someday.”

  "No. The willows have marked you as their own, and Sal will claim you when your body fades, but it is a sweet thought. Now, you must go.” Bera slipped out of her embrace.

  They took their leave of the Hag, and Sable led them across the heath. Arthur was quiet in a thoughtful way for some time. Finally, he spoke.

  "Who was our fair hostess, Lady Eleanor?”

  "Death,” she replied without thought.

  Arthur gave a grunt. "I suspected she was not as she appeared. I feel very strange. Are you angry that she came to me... in the night?”

  "No. I’m not the jealous sort, and who you bed is your business, in any case. You aren’t afraid to have lain with the Hag?”

  "She is very beautiful,” he replied, as if that settled the matter. "No, I am not afraid of anything this morn.” "I wish I could say the same.”

  XXV

  The southerly route the panther led them along clung to the coast, so they skirted lochs of great grandeur and were never more than a few miles from the sea. The days became blurred, each like the one before, though Eleanor noted a difference in her companion. He was stronger, more assured and confident. His hunting skills improved, and they ate better, for which she was grateful. She carried a nagging horror of the effects of malnutrition upon the unborn child in her womb, though in truth she was not sure just what diet was best for a healthy baby. Fresh fruits and vegetables seemed logical, so she gathered berries whenever they found them and learned to recognize the leaves of wild onions and the feathery fronds of carrots. Milk, which she loathed, she conjured each evening and drank as a kind of penance.

  Sometimes her loneliness was nearly insupportable, and she would dream of Doyle’s body covering hers, raising her arms in sleep to clutch a phantom. Then she would awake weary, bruised from her tossing, and unrefreshed. His name lay on her lips each dawn, and her hair would be a mass of snarls she yanked out with rough fingers, as if the pain would ease her grief.

  Five or six days after they left Bera, she knelt by a still pool beside a brook to wash her face and found a haggard reflection staring back at her. Baird’s bruise had faded, but dark circles under both eyes had replaced it. Her mouth was a thin line, and she could see her jaw muscles taut with tension. The eyes seemed to stare back at her like grapes, lackluster and emotionless. I look starved, she thought, studying her cheekbones, or shell-shocked. The hilt of the fire sword over one shoulder glowed like a flame, heightening t
he pallor of her skin.

  Eleanor thrust her hands into the water to dash the reflection into shards and splashed chill water on her skin. The sword seemed to press down on her, and she was so weary of its weight, she would cheerfully have consigned it to a watery grave. The water seemed to have no power to refresh her, so she stood up, filled her cooking pot, and walked back to the campsite.

  Arthur knelt beside their fire, plucking the feathers off a plump grouse. She stood for a moment behind him, studying the line of his back and the jut of his jaw adorned with an auburn beard full of golden glints. His hands were big and strong, and she liked the purposeful way they moved across the plumage. Her mind made a picture of those hands upon her breasts, and she pushed the image away in horror. Doyle was not even two weeks dead. A blush of shame rose in her cheeks and traveled downward to her thighs.

  What am I thinking of, came the angry words in her mind. There was a terrible impulse to hug him, to put her head upon his chest just to feel the steady lub-dub of another heart. I’m so lonely I could kiss the Devil, she thought.

  Eleanor remembered the day of her father’s funeral, and the college chapel filled with faculty and students, past and current. It had been a warm May day, and the damp smell of floral tributes had mingled with the slightly musky odor of too many bodies crowded together in a confined space. She had thought the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows heartless, as if nature should have wept for Daniel Hope’s departure.

  But afterward, at the home of the department chairman, who was hosting a very civilized wake, at least for an Irishman, people she barely knew had hugged her and kissed her. Her mother had sat in splendid isolation in a wing chair, dry-eyed and hard-mouthed, putting back neat Scotch as if she were trying to single-handedly cancel Britain’s trade deficit. Eleanor had been almost blind with grief, her eyes ever full of unspent tears. And something in those awkward gestures of comfort had eased her pain a little.