“It is begun. We are too late,” Auriane said softly, moving back a step so Baldemar would not see her, lest her presence distract him. The distance, she noted with alarm, was already a pace or two beyond what she knew was Baldemar’s best throw.
Why must he subject himself to these needless tests of prowess? The people do not ask it. And the risk is great. Loss of strength will be read as loss of battle-luck and holiness.
She caught sight of Thorgild, watching him from a place much nearer to the contestants. His face was grim and closed, but Auriane sensed he, too, felt growing alarm.
“I would wager a year’s produce of this farm,” she said in a low voice to Witgern, “that Geisar’s behind this. Gundobad wouldn’t have challenged Father on his own.”
Witgern’s look darkened as he considered this, then slowly he nodded. Baldemar was all that restrained Geisar from lapsing back into Wido’s slavish obedience to the Romans. Were Baldemar not in his way, Geisar would be free to do whatever brought him wealth, from goading the chiefs to attack the villages of allies to partaking in the lucrative intertribal slave trade.
She held her breath as Baldemar began a quick nimble run, shifting and balancing the weight of the spear, summoning strength to aging muscles.
No mortal man remains strong to the end of his life, Auriane thought—why must he do this? He should not be seen humbled before those who take strength from his victories….
Gundobad smiled a wolfish smile, crossing arms massive with muscle and fat. Baldemar’s spear arced out, twisting slightly in flight. It bit deep into the post alongside Gundobad’s. She embraced Witgern, near to tears with relief.
It is even! Now, hopefully, Baldemar will remember his age and retire from these contests while they hold in mind the memory of his strength.
But she realized with horror Gundobad was measuring out an even greater distance and drawing a fresh line ten paces farther back.
“Son of a black sow,” Witgern muttered. Auriane used all her strength to hold herself back; she wanted to run to them and implore them, in the name of all Baldemar’s past deeds, to stop this folly.
A thrall’s boy pulled the spears from the post and ran the length of the roped-in enclosure to return them to the two contestants.
“Witgern, never tell him I was here,” Auriane said softly. Grimly Witgern nodded.
Gundobad took his turn first. The arc of his spear was brave at first; then it seemed to lose power. It nearly died in flight, striking very low on the post and hanging there precariously, shuddering with the effort of reaching the mark—but the target was struck. Gundobad’s Companions cheered, reminding her of a brace of barking hounds.
Baldemar readied his spear. Auriane knew from his face—she knew him so well—that he expected to fail.
She realized she was trembling. “It is not right,” she said so only Witgern could hear.
She felt Baldemar gathering himself for the greatest effort of his life. He burst from stillness into furious motion.
Has he not always done what all said impossible, through sheer greatness of spirit? But this, surely, is asking too much of the gods.
She saw a number of Baldemar’s Companions avert their eyes, unwilling to watch. Auriane forced herself to look and was glad of it afterward. She saw the moment doubt cleared from Baldemar’s face, that soul transcended flesh.
Aged or no, he will not be defeated in life.
The spear shot forth in a straight, brutal path; it flew as if Wodan’s winds propelled it. It struck with violence, well above Gundobad’s on the post.
His Companions raised a lusty roar, as though they expected it as one more gallant feat of their chief. But she saw from Baldemar’s face he was as amazed as she was; Baldemar knew this victory should not have been.
He knows this is the end, she thought with dread. He knows he must never enter such contests again, but he does not know how not to enter them. Next year Gundobad will humiliate him for certain.
Gundobad laughed as though it were all no matter. And why not? Auriane thought. Time is with him. “Next year,” he cried out at Baldemar in his brazen trumpet-voice, “we do it again!” He started to give Baldemar a genial slap on the shoulder, but his hand was arrested in mid-air when he saw the grim look on Baldemar’s face. Gundobad shrugged as if the contest had been nothing but a joke in poor taste, then turned and disappeared among his men.
Auriane found herself thinking for the briefest moment: It would be better if he died. Let no one see his glory gone! Then she brought herself up short with a sickening lurch. No, that thought was not mine. But it was, it was—those who are cursed by the gods manifest such thoughts.
And she was taunted again by the memory of the bats.
As evening descended a grave sadness took Auriane, and she could abide the celebrating no more. She got her mare from the horse sheds and galloped to the rise behind the Village of the Boar, a bleak place where only scrub pines grew; it afforded a vast overview of the countryside—from here she could watch as Eastre’s bonfires were lit. She discovered, not greatly surprised, that Baldemar had ridden to the same place.
His black stallion capered sideways at the scent of her mare. She rode up beside him without a word, sitting in a somber silence that was not really silence, for she sensed a complex and comforting communication between them. The first bonfire, atop Axhead Hill, was lit while they watched; the fuel was mostly birch and holly dipped in pitch and it flared up quickly, rapidly swelling, stretching for the sky. Soon it was a triumphant torch crowning the hill.
Then a second bonfire materialized on the hill to the south, seemingly touched off by the first. And within moments, one after another the high places as far as the eye could see bloomed with the bonfires of Eastre, the most resplendent of all the flowers of spring. As the darkness deepened, it seemed a constellation of warm, beckoning stars had sunk to earth; before them was a meadowland of blooming light. Joy surged through Auriane at the sight. Fria sees all those fires and knows our devotion, and out of love she brings the dawn.
Finally Baldemar spoke. “That victory was not mine, Auriane. Gundobad is the stronger. Wodan permitted me one last indulgence. I must not try the god’s patience again.”
“Gundobad has a small, mean soul and can rally few behind him. You’ve nothing to fear from him.”
“Thus it is so, but he is a signpost.” Baldemar’s temper shifted suddenly, and he looked at her, smiling with pride. “Tell me, how did you know that fort by the Main was set out as a trap? What a tale! I’ve heard at least five different tellings.”
“They put it in a place they knew would rouse our ire—that’s when my suspicions were first roused. They are not fools enough to accidentally bar our route to the salt springs. And they left it so poorly manned—the gates were not even complete. Romans are never that careless, not without willing it. We looked closer and could see the straw covering the ditch where they’d concealed their soldiers. But Sigwulf would not listen.”
He laughed and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve the sight of an eagle, the persistence of a wolf. I am well pleased.” He studied her face too long, as if to hold it in memory.
“I have things to tell you that I have long held in mind,” he then continued, “and you must know them now, so you will be prepared for what comes. First know this: You need not worry over my fading.”
She shut her eyes and felt a jolt of sickness in her stomach.
“This morning an owl fluttered close as if it wanted speech with me, then flitted off and landed on the hall’s roof,” he continued. “I could almost hear Hel singing with delight in the wind, ‘He comes, he comes.”’
“The owl means only that someone in our hall will die. Many abide there.”
“Do not look away from this, my beloved child. The abyss brings sadness only for those who fight it. In other matters you fight, not in this. For the abyss is a kinswoman, you know…one hoary with age when the Nine Worlds were made.”
“You
are young still,” she tried to say with strength, but her effort seemed to work against her, and her voice was tremulous, “and strong, without the least sign of…” She felt she danced on fire.
“And you are a blind daughter. Even my sight is no longer good—not for the hare at a hundred paces anyway. However, it’s excellent for things to come.”
Her silence and roughened breathing were the only signs that she forced back tears. She braced herself, sensing doors were now to be flung open that had been closed for years.
“I know the Roman thrall instructs you. I have known it for long.”
She felt she struck a wall. Her whole soul seized up.
I should have known I could not conceal such a thing from him.
“I do not bless it,” he said quietly, “and it saddens me. Perhaps the gods have some purpose in this, though it is obscure to me. You should have concealed it better. When I am gone, you know, nothing stands between you and Geisar.”
“I’ve no shame over it, Father. It is a god-inspired thing, I think, and I could not have done otherwise.”
“Have I asked for shame? Shame is for fools. Perhaps you have been led to the sword down a humble path in back of the hall. I accept what is, as I accept this.” He slapped a hand against the leg that had never properly healed. “Your whole life, you see, is a god’s sign.”
He shifted his gaze to the valley between two distant hills into which the sun had died. Its shape oddly resembled a yawning mouth, and Auriane imagined the Great Wolf had swallowed the sun as he would at World’s End.
“Listen well,” he said. “When I am gone, there will be a terrible bloody fight for my sword.”
She nodded. The sword of Baldemar was the greatest of all family treasures, a living thing that must not pass out of the clan, for Baldemar’s spirit would live on in the blade. Whoever wielded it would have more than human luck in battle, for Baldemar’s powerful ghost as well as the spirits of his ancestors would be fighting with him. “Sigwulf and Witgern will await my will,” he went on, “and will not murder over it. But Gundobad and others have plans to seize it. When I am gone, I have instructed Athelinda to bury it five paces behind the mead shed, aligned with the willow by the well.”
“Sisinand has sons,” Auriane said carefully, feeling she reached out to explore a dangerous place in the dark. “What need have I to know where the sword is to be kept?”
“She has sons, indeed, and two of them at least are fair and bold in battle. But none are great-souled, with a ganna’s sight and the fierce heart of the mountain cat who fights for her kits, nor were any great signs given to them that they were to protect the land. The next to carry that sword will be you.”
Some part of her must have known, but still it numbed every sense, as though she flew into the sun and all were a blinding blank. She felt a long shiver down her spine. “I…? But I thought you thought….”
Then she saw at least one thing clearly. “You planned it this way from the first!” she said, turning to him slowly with a look of cautious triumph. “You allowed the secret practice to go on because you did not want Geisar and Sigreda to know you prepared me to take it up.”
He smiled faintly but did not answer. “Now listen well. Geisar has had you watched for years. He knows of the influence the Roman thrall has on you. He knows you listen to his judgments on matters of strategy, and this is exceedingly dangerous for you. He knows, too, of those war engines you seized, against all our laws.”
She felt stripped naked. She cast her eyes down, fighting shame. Did he even know of her feelings of love for the thrall? She prayed fervently he did not.
“And when Geisar can no longer harm me, he will reach me through you. For your own protection, my Companions must stay together after my death. I have charged Witgern and Sigwulf to protect you from him with all their strength.”
“I do not need their protection.” Her voice betrayed hurt and confusion.
“Proud words, nobly spoken! Auriane, you must take care of Athelinda. Never leave her!”
“Yes.”
“And to the end of your days, exact vengeance on the Wolf-Spawn of the south. Blood alone pays for blood. Do not ever forget this.”
“Yes,” she answered firmly, but he discerned the faintest uncertainty in her tone.
“You have doubts. You cannot have doubts about such a thing.”
“Decius”—she ventured once more into treacherous country—“makes it all appear differently.” Baldemar scowled at the name, but she continued undaunted. “Among their people, as among ours, some are evil, some are blessed, and, as among ours, one should not be held to account for the family deeds of another.”
Why do I speak for them? she thought. Has the sight of the wonders in the house of the slave-dealer infused me with a measure of their soul?
His first impulse was to anger. But he honored her too much to dismiss any thought of hers without deep consideration. “The thrall is not wrong,” Baldemar said at last, “he speaks his own truth. And your great soul lets you see…multiple truths, not just the truths of our people. But you must stop your ears to it because you have taken an oath, and this is a barrier wider than any sea, a thing that cannot be crossed or compromised, a pact made directly with the gods.”
She nodded slowly in assent, full of the peculiar feeling he was both utterly right and wrong at once. How could it be possible?
“When you take up that sword, you will never be alone. I will be with you.”
The Fourth Moon continued its waning. The Day of Sacrifice came; on this day a willing victim of noble birth atoned for all the sacrileges committed by the people throughout the year, taking their evils on his own head. The multitudes traveled to Wolf’s Head Lake. They were so silent that geese and cattle could be heard in the far fields. At the precise moment the sun dropped beneath the western pines, leaving all washed in wan light, Ramis came forth from the forest, a solitary figure robed in black, that dread face heavily veiled. She moved at a stately pace down an avenue of wind-whipped torches held by Holy Ones from many groves. Eyes were cast down as she came close. Dangling from one of Ramis’ slender hands was a short length of rope. Fria’s necklace, Auriane thought, with which she takes men back into her body so they might be reborn.
The man who freely gave his life sat at the edge of the lake, on an oakwood throne garlanded with lilies. His eyes were fixed on the sky that was his destination; he did not look at Ramis as she came up behind him, silent as the descending hawk.
She strangled him swiftly and mercifully.
Auriane had been taught to think only of the encompassing love in the sacrificial act—he died so they could live, as an appeasement gift for the whole tribe. As attendant priests took his lifeless body into the lake and weighted it down with hurdles, all felt his spirit in the wind as he was raised up to the place of greatest honor in the Sky Hall. He had not died. And he would return. She, with others, looked on with tears of gratitude.
Land and people waited three days. Then came Eastre’s day, when death’s victory was overturned by the triumph of life. The man who gave his life, now called the Blessed One, would on this day be resurrected like the moon. At dawn, Auriane sat before the hearthfire, Athelinda beside her, while Mudrin stood by the black pot that hung over the fire, adding honey and goat’s milk to a gruel of spelt rye, knotweed, and vetch.
As Fredemund served them steaming bowls, Auriane listened for the first sounds of the bands of roving children. At dawn on Eastre’s day, girls and boys gathered together at the villages and then went journeying, laying catkins at every door they passed—the catkin, because it carried the new life of the tree, was potent with the magic of rebirth. When one of these companies of children, a mix of all ages, finally arrived laughing at their door and dropped their magical catkins on the threshold, Athelinda hurried out, bantered gaily with them, then gave each a colored egg and sent them on their way. Egg magic was exceedingly powerful; wherever the children passed with their baskets lade
n with eggs, animals’ wombs would be filled and fruit trees would bear abundantly.
Athelinda, Auriane and the thralls then readied themselves to go to the bonfires, which had been carefully fed for four days. Baldemar was in the yard, assisting the groom who prepared his horse. The house thralls got in one another’s way as they tended the mutton and venison smoking over the fire, or hurried with leeks, herbs, peas, barley, and sacrificial meats for the cauldron, or herded geese out the hall’s wide door. At the west end of the hall were the shadowy forms of those of Baldemar’s Companions who sheltered here for the night; some were asleep in arms beneath the mead benches, painted shields of linden covering their faces; others lazily played dice and drank mead as they awaited the festivities about the bonfires.
Baldemar by long custom would not go with them; he held his own ceremony in a place known only to the women of the family. Across Marten River was a lonely summit difficult to climb because the steep slope was dense with scrub pine—one path, barely visible, wended its way to the top. At the peak was an oddly shaped outcropping of rock hollowed out by nature, resembling the impression of a scallop shell in the earth. As a young man Baldemar had sacrificed here after his first successful raid, while returning home for this very festival, and he had seen a vision of a mountain cat destroying a wolf. Wodan’s priests declared this meant that if Baldemar made an offering here every year on this hallowed day, his people would one day succeed in driving Rome from the Chattians’ ancestral lands. And so, annually he climbed the summit with nine Ash Priestesses and sacrificed a stag, letting its blood run into the natural vessel.
As years passed, the women thralls knew of the place, too—at first only Mudrin and Fredemund, then eventually all the women who worked the looms; where so many labor so close together, secrets are nearly impossible to keep.
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