Mudrin caved onto the mead bench and broke into desolate sobs. Fredemund held her hands to her temple while slowly shaking her head, muttering, “Lady of Night, have mercy! Fria, how can you allow it.” Athelinda took a battered Roman short sword from the wall, a relic from the battle with Wido. When she had put on the long white garment, she instructed Mudrin to conceal the weapon beneath its folds, and had her cut a small opening in the shift so the sword could be drawn out.
“And bring in the pendant of garnet and the doeskin shoes. Today I will greet Baldemar before the Sky Hall arrayed exactly as on our marriage day.”
Carefully Fredemund arranged the cloth to disguise the sword. Then she put a silver circlet on her lady’s head and fastened the gem-studded iron clasps at her sleeves. Over this she put a cloak dyed in delicately tinted squares of red and blue, fastening it at the shoulder with an intricate gold fibula in the shape of a boar with a carnelian eye.
“Quickly, the hearthfire, or he will suspect,” Athelinda said to Mudrin. The thrall woman got up heavily as if drunken with tears, found a jug of water, and poured it down the hearthfire’s length, extinguishing it. At a wedding the hearthfire must be lit anew. At the last moment Athelinda felt a spasm of faintheartedness, and she turned away from the door.
“I have never used a sword,” she whispered. “I cannot!”
Fredemund leaned close, her lower lip protruding slightly as it did when she set her mind on a thing. “You’ve gutted a hog, haven’t you?” she said in her rough, sweet whisper, gripping Athelinda’s shoulder with a doughy hand. “Rest your fears, my lady. Wodan will guide your hand.”
In answer Athelinda stiffened her spine, nodded slightly, then went out into the sunlight in her finery, forcing herself not to think of the sword, hoping this would prevent Gundobad from noticing its outline against the cloth.
She saw that while she was preparing herself, Witgern and his party had arrived. As she suspected, they were pitifully few, a disheartening sight, each with skeletal hollows about the eyes, the stench of hopelessness about him. Among them were Amgath, who once leapt a flaming cart, and tall golden-haired Coniaric, never defeated in a footrace. Neither looked strong enough to sit a horse. They collected by the gate, quietly watching.
I should not have sent for them, Athelinda thought. I only summoned more witnesses to this loathsome ceremony.
The marriage priestess, a sturdy, bland-faced woman of middle years called Alruna, stood in the shadow of the tent, her head bowed. In one hand, she held a torch to relight the hearthfire; in the other, a gilt horn of mead for the wedded couple to share.
Gundobad was surprised by Athelinda’s sudden docile calm, but thought: Ah, she admires my boldness—and she is, after all, a practical woman.
As Athelinda walked down the avenue of shields and moved into the shade of the tent, she walked a little stiffly but maintained a look of serenity, looking neither right nor left. The blade of the sword was like ice against her thigh. She halted beneath the marriage tent alongside her groom. Discreetly her right hand moved closer to the opening Mudrin had cut in the cloth of her gown. Gundobad stood next to her, smiling smugly, his thrust-forward stomach reminding her of a rooster’s chest, his heavy, rasping breaths making him seem greedy even for air. She thought—an ox would have more sensitivity to what passes here.
Do they not see how violently I tremble? What madness! Baldemar, come close and lend me strength.
“I call down Fria to witness,” Alruna drawled in settled contentment. Athelinda despised her; how could she take part in this sanctified rape? Athelinda knew then how great Geisar’s influence still was among the Holy Ones; no priest of Wodan before him had ever succeeded in corrupting a marriage priestess. These were evil times, a good time to die.
“…this hallowed joining of woman to man…,” Alruna droned on. Athelinda paid little attention until she heard the words, “…you will now cross hands, left to left, right to right.”
Athelinda tensed. The handfasting. This was the rite that would bind her forever to Gundobad. His hands were already extended. She forced herself to meet his eyes. Slowly she brought her own hands up; her palms grew wet with perspiration.
Now. The sword. Now.
The silence was sundered by a noisy clattering of hooves.
A single rider galloped at great speed beneath the Cat-Skull Gate, then halted abruptly where the flax field gave way to the yard. Athelinda recognized the horse first—it was the dappled stallion from the horse test. She looked more carefully. Then drew in a breath and took a quick step forward to better see, almost toppling the priestess’s oakwood table.
Auriane.
She wanted to cry out a warning. My child, why do you come alone? They will murder you.
But Athelinda’s throat was frozen. Too late she realized her quick movements exposed the sword’s pommel through the opening in the marriage dress.
Gundobad saw. He seized Athelinda’s sword, roughly drew it out, then angrily threw it onto the ground in front of his men.
“Treacherous troll-woman!” He grasped Athelinda’s arm in one huge fist, twisted it painfully and forced her to her knees. She uttered a small cry of pain.
Gundobad’s men stiffened uncomfortably, their feelings ranging from embarrassment to outrage on Athelinda’s behalf. Mudrin ran to her mistress, all reason gone, crying out, “You swine! How dare you!” Gundobad struck the thrall-woman so hard across the mouth that a thread of blood streaked down her chin. Mudrin sank to the ground.
“Gundobad,” one of his men said quietly. “Look behind you.”
Gundobad turned, and said with nonchalance, “There is nothing behind me but the ghost of a niding who dares skulk about amongst the living.”
“Get up!” he then commanded Athelinda, attempting to drag her to her feet. But Athelinda wrest her arm from his grip and fell back to her knees in the dust. Then she sat motionless, eyes fixed on the sky as she rapidly intoned the words of a curse.
Auriane sprang to the ground and approached them, halting when she was but a spear length from the marriage tent. A taut silence descended as the company shifted its attention to her. Athelinda joined them, slowly dropping her gaze to look at Auriane.
Athelinda was disoriented by the sight of her—she did not know this woman who was her daughter. Auriane’s hair was drawn sleekly back into a Suebian knot, giving her a look that was steely, refined. Those gray eyes were remote as she stood alert and still in a warrior’s stance, concentrating fiercely upon Gundobad alone. Athelinda felt fear for her and pride in her, standing there so straight and young in a fawnskin tunic; she seemed womanish and boyish at once, while calling up something else that was neither, just pure human spirit that was flexible and strong, a creature blending her father’s will of adamantine with her own pure and solemn passion.
There was something of ancient songs in the scene. This spear maid returned from the dead to aid the living seemed to have sprung from the imagination of some bard.
Athelinda then recognized the hilt of Auriane’s sheathed sword. She has found it. But what does she think she is doing? Surely she does not mean to engage Gundobad in single battle.
Impossible fool, Athelinda thought. The use of the sword in single battle requires time and schooling. Even with a powerful weapon such as that, a valiant heart is not enough. Daughter, your blood will soak the ground.
“Leave at once, Gundobad,” Auriane said. It was a voice to still hearts as when a temple bell is struck, sharp, clear, resonant, and rich with generosity. Only Athelinda noticed it faintly trembled. “And I will let you live.”
“The closeness of marital happiness must have addled my wits.” Gundobad’s red lips stretched into a broad grin. “I thought I heard you say—”
“You know well what I said!” With a light swift motion Auriane drew the sword. Athelinda shut her eyes and silently spoke the word, No.
“Alruna! Commence!” Gundobad commanded. “Pay her no mind.”
But Alrun
a was staring at the sword in Auriane’s hand, a look of slow recognition coming into her face. Witgern, Thorgild, and the former Companions edged close, and they, too, began to regard Auriane’s sword with sharp interest. Gundobad did not have time to wonder why.
For Auriane erupted from stillness to frenzy. The crude instinct of a beast of prey was all that saved Gundobad’s life, for he drew his own sword just in time to deflect a strike that would have decapitated him.
The soul-shattering clang of blade on blade shocked him awake, and Gundobad realized how close he had come to death. What is this? A witch-warrior? A woman possessed by Tiwaz himself? So quickly was he spun into the narrow world of life and death he had no time to be amazed at her fury, her art, as that swordblade flashed out with fearful speed and assurance. She was all about him like shifting gusts of wind—surviving this storm was his single thought.
The warriors watched in baffled quiet—in one moment a wedding proceeded, then this. They had seen dogfights easier to follow.
When Gundobad recovered from surprise, he collected himself and began to bear down on her, driving hard with coarse, sweeping strokes, striving to push her back through brute power. But Auriane was fluid as water flowing around stones; she performed a seamless dance of whiplike cross-strokes, each executed with raw exuberance as if this were play. Lightly, deftly, she teased him forward.
Athelinda felt a chill as if a spirit crossed her threshold. There was a power here above her understanding, greater than that startling skill, that bewildering speed, that towering confidence—and, of course, it must be the sword.
This is the Fates’ deliverance. I am not abandoned.
Gundobad slowly took ground, using his sword like a scythe cutting invisible grain. He was not a subtle man and he knew no cunning tactics, but he had never needed them. In a world where strength was always pitted against strength, he was stronger than most men; he was more than twice her weight and had their blades contacted directly he could have thrown her to the ground with enough force to knock the breath out of her. His victory, he knew, was a matter of time.
But her endurance began to annoy him. And her cunning was maddening. Was she just managing to avoid the full force of his blows—or was he losing his wits? His rage increased as he began to sense he was losing the respect of his men. Destroying her was taking too long. He began to feel as ridiculous as some buffoon swatting and missing a fly, again and again.
He let out a growling roar, his face reddening dangerously. He began to sweat heavily and grow clumsier. He knew he was tiring.
Auriane felt herself but a concentration of energy and force. She had come here ready to die, but to her amazement found herself more triumphantly alive than she had ever felt. She was suspended between earth and sky, lifted high over grief. She felt clean and newborn, unbounded by the limits of the body; she might have been drums and flutes, or a hundred dancers, or some celestial instrument tuned to the stars, drawing beauty from silence. Where was her evil? It could not catch her.
All who watched felt themselves in a fated place, witnessing the gods working their will through this violent eruption of clashing blades. Witgern sensed the spirit of Baldemar pressing close and thought: He dwells among us still. How could I have ever doubted?
Auriane imagined herself a cat in a waking sleep as she continued to lure Gundobad forward, awaiting his first moment of inattention.
Suddenly Gundobad caught one of the tentpoles and tore it free; the white canopy drifted down. Now he had two weapons, the sword in his right hand, the pole in his left.
This brought a volley of objections from both Gundobad’s men and Baldemar’s former Companions. “Treachery! Dishonor!” Sacred law governed every aspect of single battle, and the code limited each combatant to one weapon.
But Gundobad’s rage obliterated all concern with proprieties. He brought up the tentpole and delivered a cracking blow to Auriane’s right shoulder; she sank to one knee, pain evident in her face. But she quickly recovered herself, staggered up, and delivered a hard two-hand blow to the pole, snapping it in two. Immediately she knew she had only improved his weapon; it now had a sharp jagged point, and was shorter, rendering it better for maneuvering at close range. And fear knifed in for the first time.
Gundobad lunged, holding the pole low, aiming the point at her stomach. She found herself melting into step with him, gliding backward, a hand’s breadth out of range. Then she grasped the pole’s end in her free hand and pulled hard, choosing the precise moment he began a step forward and was most off balance, jerking him in the direction he was moving. Gundobad fell toward her, and she wrenched the broken pole from him as he opened his hands to break his fall.
“Well done! Well done!” cried warriors of both sides. Gundobad had lost his own men. He recovered his sword while Auriane tossed the broken pole out of his reach. Then Gundobad lurched for her once more, before he was fully on his feet. Auriane stopped a low cut that would have severed the tendons of her leg; the impact knocked her sideways. When she recovered her balance, she made an answering downstroke, then paused in place, as if uncertain what move to make next.
He thrust energetically at her unguarded left side, not detecting this as a ruse. But she did not complete her cut with a defensive backhand stroke, which he would have naturally expected. Instead, she whipped about.
Gundobad’s sword gutted the air. In one continuous motion Auriane spun round to face him once more, moving so swiftly that Gundobad’s arm was still extended—and he was still wondering why she was not where she was supposed to be—when her blade struck him a powerful blow in the side, biting hard into a rib.
Frenzied motion dropped into stillness. Gundobad bent forward, clutching at the deep gash in his side, trying to staunch the bleeding, fixing her with his battle-glare.
One of Gundobad’s men muttered in a low voice, “That truly is it—the sword of Baldemar.”
Gundobad heard, and his whole body seized up. He regarded her sword as if it were some viper with a will of its own. All her skill in swordsmanship he attributed now to the marvelous properties of the weapon.
Auriane sprang for him then; with a double hold she struck the sword from his hand.
Gundobad fell ponderously to his knees. Her blade whipped up, poised at his thick, bearded throat.
Among the company, dread-filled silence gave way to the first cautious stirrings of rejoicing. She had reclaimed her place, and Athelinda’s, and set to right what had been wrong since the death of Baldemar. She was blessed, or never would the gods have allowed her to unearth that sword. No one doubted in that moment the power and presence of the Three Fates, those gloomy weavers-of-life who handed out their judgments beneath the World Ash; their primeval spirits looked out of Auriane’s eyes. Had not Ramis named her for the aurr, the sacred earth on which the three dark sisters stood?
“Victory is ours!” one of Gundobad’s men called out gaily.
“Baldemar strikes down his enemy from beyond the grave!” Witgern exclaimed, laughing. Athelinda noticed a blush of life in Witgern’s face she had not seen when he rode into the yard. It didn’t seem odd to any of them that their enmity was gone, and they had melted into one band. All accepted it as the natural result of the presence of Baldemar’s ghost.
Auriane felt mildly dazed as she stood over her humbled, panting enemy. What was that spirit that possessed her while she’d fought? She had had only a glimmer of it while practicing with Decius; today it had nearly shaken her soul from her body—this glorious exuberance that heated the blood must be what sword dancers felt at festivals when they danced to near exhaustion. Why had no one told her that swordfighting was like taking a draught of the mead of the gods?
She feared for Decius, now that she revealed her secret to all—but she was fairly confident no one would suspect he had instructed her in secret. If good fortune held, all would attribute her skill to the sword and look no farther.
“I should not let you live,” she said to Gundobad betwee
n heaving breaths, “for you have gravely insulted my mother.”
Gundobad was pitiably childlike without his shield of arrogance. “Let me live and I will serve you all my days,” he said in a voice that put her in mind of a dog’s whine, “…and more loyally than any thrall. I can be of use to you. I will dedicate my band to your service. Think on it!”
Auriane disliked this role of judge, for there were too many unknowns. Who was this man, truly? Forcing Athelinda was monstrous. But what if some out-land spirit had possessed him then that now was exorcised? He did not appear monstrous now.
He had fought treacherously, and most likely would do so again. Finish him then, for the safety of the people. But then, he had been attacked by surprise. Any man might have reacted thus….
She stopped herself abruptly, realizing she was thinking as Decius would, considering not only the act but the circumstances clustered about it. Sacred law was no longer an impenetrable wall; it had crumbled in places and she could see beyond.
Athelinda regarded them with a hard, ungiving stare. She knew her mother wanted her to kill him.
Then Auriane knew she could not, and it was not entirely the doing of Decius. The stark memory of her father’s face distorted in agony somehow increased her sympathy for all the living, no matter what their station or condition; she saw Baldemar in every death. It seemed mad and insupportable, for Baldemar and Gundobad were as far separated in honor as men could be. Perhaps, she thought, it is just some weakness in myself.
“I will let you live,” Auriane replied, “if you repay my mother well for the injury done her. All these marriage gifts she will keep. Above that, you will pay to her a third of the produce of your family farms for three years.”
Athelinda was outraged at first that Auriane was releasing her tormentor, but the size of the payment pleased her greatly, more because she knew it would impoverish Gundobad than because of her desire for these things, and her face softened with satisfaction.
“Yes. It shall be done,” Gundobad agreed eagerly.
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