She was in the grip of a burly kinsman of Gundobad’s, who meant to drag her to death. Slowly, steadily, he succeeded in pulling her in the wrong direction; she was caught in a deadly current that would draw her down her into the maelstrom. Her screams were unheard.
Gradually she realized Decius struggled to follow her, though she did not know what he thought he could do to aid her. The axe was gone; he now had a spear.
Then she saw Decius drop to his knees, falling beneath the melee. He thrust the spear’s point between the legs of one battling warrior and into the thigh of Auriane’s captor. The kinsman of Gundobad shrieked a curse and released her. Suddenly free, she was flung backward, but Decius broke her fall on one side, Witgern on the other. She realized she was among a knot of her own Companions. She did not have time to worry if they were still willing to protect her. Immediately they formed a wall about her.
Then suddenly she had room to maneuver; fighting abreast with Witgern, Decius, Fastila, and a half dozen Companions, step by step, she cut her way through to her horse. Once when the fighting slowed because all were packed too closely together, she met Witgern’s gaze—and he looked away. She could see he counted himself ruthlessly betrayed. His single damning eye called to mind Wodan himself, the One-Eyed God, her own wronged husband, whose wrath surely was upon her now.
But at least Witgern was not ready to hand her over to her enemies. That he helped her while he thought her crime despicable made his judgment all the more painful.
One by one, torches were toppled and snuffed out in the mud; soon the ghastly scene was lit only by wan starlight; no one could tell friend from foe—and inevitably kinsman struck down kinsman. The Assembly of the New Moon fell into chaos.
Auriane saw dimly Berinhard’s pale head, pricked ears, ahead in the gloom.
But one horse would not be enough. Witgern seemed to think of this at the same time. “Auriane!” he shouted. “Take that one too. Behind your horse—the little mare. It’s Romilda’s. I’ll settle with her.”
Then Decius slipped in mud and blood, landing hard on his back. One of Gundobad’s men was poised over him, spear aloft, readying the death blow.
An animal scream was torn from Auriane’s throat and she flung herself forward, feeling her whole soul lived in her blade. With a two-hand hold she struck down diagonally, catching the descending spear in a glancing blow, deflecting its course so that Decius’ attacker pierced his own foot. He shrieked as he realized he was pinned to the ground by his own spear. Hurriedly she dragged Decius to his feet.
When they had nearly battled their way to her horse, she saw a Companion of Wulfstan’s gliding toward Berinhard in a crouching run.
He means to hamstring my horse.
Decius saw, too, and gave chase; he sprang onto the warrior’s back. The man buckled beneath him, contracting in agony; Decius’ weight, flung onto him with such force, caused his ankle to give way and break. Decius fell with him and rolled. Auriane sprinted past them, covering the last of the distance. While Decius dispatched the warrior with his dagger, Auriane cut both horses’ reins so she would not have to fumble with the knots.
The Companions then broke through the last of the resistance and swarmed protectively about Auriane and Decius.
“Take Berinhard!” Auriane shouted to Decius. “He is faster. I know the terrain better—they won’t catch me.” She started to pull herself onto the back of the small black mare, but Decius dragged her back down.
“No! You take the good horse. You are with child. I insist upon it. If one of us lives, it must be you.” Decius gripped the mare’s mane and sprang lightly onto her back. “Though I don’t personally plan on getting caught, either,” he added, grinning.
She vaulted onto Berinhard’s back. “Head down!” Decius shouted at her. A stone from a sling passed overhead with a lethal rush. Then Witgern was at her side, holding her horse by the bit, using the weight of his body to prevent Bernhard from rearing and exposing her to missiles, leading her toward the unbounded forest. Moments later Fastila rushed up on her other side, helping Witgern hold her terrified horse.
“Auriane, where will you go?” Witgern shouted up at her. She felt a grab of hope in her heart. He must not despise her completely if he wanted to know where she could be found.
“To Ramis,” she shouted down to him, feeling awkward, “at her lodge in Alder Lake.” She wanted to add, Witgern, for so long I was among the dead…do you understand at all? But a rush of pride prevented her. The full realization of what he must think of her collected behind some closed door in her mind, awaiting a time of peace when it would burst out and cause great torment.
As they came to the towering darkness of the pine forest, Witgern said solemnly, “Your luck and your fate go with you, Auriane.”
He took her hand, but to Auriane’s mind he did it ceremonially, to maintain an outward appearance of friendship.
Then Fastila cried up at her, “Auriane, I will come to you there when the way is passable, I vow it! We have not deserted you!”
“You must not. You’ll be cursed.”
Fastila could hardly hear these words in the din. She shouted again, her voice growing hoarse, “I will come!”
Then Witgern released Berinhard, who snorted, half reared, then galloped free down the wide, grassy lane between the pines. Decius’ mount burst into an ungainly gallop that seemed to skip a beat. This was not an animal possessed of natural grace, and Auriane held her breath while she watched Decius struggle for his seat. He must not fall off. In moments it would be known by everyone that they fled on horseback; some surely would pursue. Auriane had to hold Berinhard in or his smooth, powerful strides would have pulled her steadily ahead.
And soon there was muffled thunder in back of them. It sounded as though three, perhaps four, gave chase.
“We must separate!” she shouted to Decius, “and pray they come after me.” She surmised they would have little trouble overtaking Decius’ horse. “Just before the creek, you go north.”
“Right!” Decius shouted back. She hoped they would hear Berinhard noisily splashing in the creek and follow her—and hopefully not hear a lone horse’s hooves going north.
He called out, “You saved my life! You are quick and steady—a lioness! The oak-leaf crown should be yours!” He referred to the corona civica, the honorarium given a Roman soldier who saved the life of a fellow soldier in battle.
She felt a stirring of pleasure at these words, savoring his approving smile, so seldom seen. But even then it seemed there was a certain restraint in his praise, and suddenly she realized his reluctance to praise her stemmed from his fear that the fragile bond between them might be broken, that she would think so well of herself, she would no longer need him. It was not stubborn pride that held him in check, but fear she would desert him. It made little sense to her, but somehow she was certain then that this assessment was true. She felt a rush of pity for him, and a burst of love that was more close and familial than what she had known before.
They galloped close and clasped hands for a brief moment in farewell.
“Decius!” she cried out, not certain what she meant to say, just wanting to hold to him a moment longer by speaking his name, seized suddenly with the thought she might never see him again. He clasped her hand tightly—a quick, sad last embrace—then released it. Her hand felt cold and empty.
He wheeled his mount north, following the creek. Immediately afterward, Berinhard splashed noisily into the shallow water; fortunately the season had been dry or they would have had to swim across. When she emerged on the opposite bank, she released Berinhard into the wide meadow beyond. Joyfully he bolted; all that power and grace were unleashed, and she felt herself hurled into the night as the stallion’s strides grew steadily longer. The dark mane lashed her face as she leaned far over his neck.
Distantly behind her she heard several horses splashing into the creek. That was well—they were following her. She knew they would never catch her now—unless Be
rinhard fell.
How can I ever return? This time the gate is barred forever.
Ramis, you have your wish. I am separated from battle, severed from kin. Rejoice, you sister of Hel. You have me and my child.
The brawling beneath the Sacred Oak gradually wore itself down; no one had a taste for fighting in the unhallowed dark, especially now that the cause of it all had fled. As the injuries and deaths were tallied up so blood-debts could be paid, Sigwulf found the tattered remains of the imperial document. He touched a torch to it; to aggressive cheers he burned the edict of Domitian, God-King of the Romans.
Auriane journeyed steadily west, into the desolate fir-clad hill country. She made no fires and stayed well away from the ridge trails used by itinerant traders. Often she paused on high ground to climb a tree and carefully study the dusky purple shadows of the deeply folded hills behind her to make certain she was not pursued—she sensed the presence of tree spirits and elves rustling in those melancholy deeps, but no human enemy was to be seen—though at times her loneliness was so vast she almost wished for one.
The cold was cruel and penetrating. For shelter the first night she found a shallow cave; on the next she fashioned a crude lean-to of pine branches, meadow grasses, and Berinhard’s saddle blanket. For two days she had no food but a portion of a loaf of oat-millet bread and goat cheese she had brought to the Assembly. As she passed distant homesteads, the air was filled with the rank smell of slaughtering. This was the time of year known as the Days of Blood, when the breeding animals that could not survive the food shortages of winter were sacrificed to Fria. The people feasted on the meat and salted the rest to sustain them through the snows. Occasionally she passed far-off wisps of blue smoke and heard joyous shouts.
In all that passed in the last days, hardest for her to bear was the shame she knew she caused Athelinda.
For the second time in my life, I try my poor mother past the limits any mortal should have to bear. And when the great war comes, she will be in misery and alone.
As she came to lands where she was less likely to be known, she was not so careful about concealing herself and she passed close to some of the village celebrations. She was treated kindly and offered meat and mead. Her warrior’s ring drew curious looks. Once she was asked if she was the Maid of the Chattians who had carried out storied deeds. She denied it because she wanted no talk of her to linger in these places, but she was amazed she was known this far from her own village.
On the fourth day, snow laid a dusty coverlet of white over the hills. She felt she, too, drifted into the deathlike sleep of winter, but with no promise of a joyful reawakening in spring.
She was crossing the outskirts of the lands of the horse-loving Tencteres when she halted at a lonely homestead, meaning to seek further directions to the winter sanctuary of Ramis. An ancient farm-wife emerged with waddling gait from her round hut, meaning to assist the lone traveler. She wore a long, swaying necklace of lynx’s teeth for protection against ghosts. Her eyes were slits, almost invisible in folds of fat; she seemed a storehouse of unpleasant secrets. The old woman pointed north, toward twin barren hills so smooth and even they might have been giant’s barrows, and told Auriane that if she passed straight between them, then rode on for half a day at a brisk trot, she could not miss Alder Lake, where the greatest of Holy Ones dwelled but was seldom seen.
A little village has grown up about the place, the farm-wife told her, peopled with those who awaited the high one’s favor. “But mostly,” she added, “our Lady disappoints them.”
Auriane thought grimly, this old woman knows of whom I speak. Ramis has made a lifelong habit of sowing disappointment.
The farm-wife assured he- pilgrims had marked the path well with small shrines—piles of smooth stones, sticks of yarrow bundled together, collections of hares’ skulls. Then she finished with a warning: “If you’ve any mother-wit you’ll turn that horse round and go home. You’re comely and young and strong—she’ll want you for a slave. She’ll change you into a frog to make music for her at night. That one’s got the hounds of Hel at her beck and call, all tame as fat geese feeding from her hand.”
Auriane thanked her and moved on. Beyond the two hills she came to an avenue of hard-packed earth that parted a sea of snow-feathered sedge and broom; here she urged Berinhard to a gallop. As the stallion began to tire, they surmounted a rise thick with hardy rowan shrubs; she knew from their even rows that they had been planted deliberately—the rowan tree offered powerful protection against harmful magic. She tautened with excitement; her destination must be close. Then suddenly, below her, was Alder Lake, black, shrouded and still; the vapor drifting off it made it appear to exhale ghosts. She realized the lake must be fed by a warm spring. She looked on the scene for long moments, feeling wrapped in an old, familiar peace, as though she nested in the palm of Fria. At the center of the lake was a grassy island roughly as large as a thrall’s field, or what one ox could plow in a day. Three pinewood lodges occupied it; a red-stained stag’s skull was affixed above the door of the grandest one. A thin thread of smoke issued from a fire before the door.
This central lodge, she surmised, must be the winter dwelling place of the Veleda, she who is the One Who Sees. It was a house that expressed Ramis’ soul—austere, remote, but accessible—if one had patience and was willing to travel over dark water to reach her. Unlike her predecessor in the office—a fearful old woman who sequestered herself in a high tower, was never seen unveiled, and spoke to the people only through intermediaries—Ramis walked openly among the villagers, allowing petitioners to speak to her face to face, while actively discouraging those who tried to worship her as a goddess on earth. Auriane had heard a tale of two Batavian tribesmen who had traveled here, dragging with them a captured Roman legionary soldier whom they proudly offered to Ramis as a human sacrifice. But Ramis was greatly offended. She ordered the victim set free and even gifted the Roman captive with a casket filled with silver coins. Then she admonished the Batavians, telling them it was unfortunate that, long ago, man forgot the true meaning of the highest sacrifice. Wodan himself provides the noblest example, she told them—you must sacrifice yourself to yourself. And then she drove them from her presence.
A temporary village, a motley collection of dwellings made of turf and hides and broken carts, was strewn randomly about the lake. The people who traveled here to await an audience with Ramis thrived off the food and gifts brought to the Veleda by wealthy chiefs who came to beg her for oracles; Ramis took what little she needed to live and distributed the rest among the petitioners.
Auriane stopped when she came to the bolted gate in the low fence of staves that ran about the precinct; clearly strangers were not to pass until admitted.
There was a festival atmosphere in this odd place where people came not to live but to wait. She heard the gallop of many drums and saw through the tents the flash of brightly robed dancers. Here were women and men from diverse tribes; she saw a warrior of the Suebians with his black hair coiled into a tight knot over one ear, shepherding a child with some crippling ailment. Two snowy-skinned, black-haired women of the tribe of the Sitones, wearing peaked caps and cowrie-shell necklaces, looked up at her from a board game, their eyes glimmering with magic. An aristocratic Gallic woman with knotted hair held in place with golden netting and a rich checkered robe that brushed the ground was carrying a lapdog high on her breast while she strolled about trailed by her two maids. Auriane even saw men of Decius’ smaller stature, who must have been of the Roman lands of the far south. Everywhere cattle, goats and geese wandered about unmolested, for none here ate the flesh of beasts.
Auriane pulled the rope of a bronze bell attached to the sagging gate.
A woman stirred within one of the tents, then strode purposefully toward her. There was a heavy silence about this woman, as if she had long ago decided to commune as little as possible with fellow human creatures. Her coloring was that of a woodland creature, from her great, round, mourning eye
s speckled with forest colors, to the red-brown freckles on her nose, her sienna-and-gray mottled robe, the fox fur thrown over it for warmth. Hers was a big-boned and homely face with an oddly contrasting sensuous mouth, yet Auriane guessed no husband or lover had ever known that thin, hard body; about her was the air of the harsh celibacy of priestly service. She identified herself as Helgrune, Ramis’ servant.
“The granddaughter of Gandrida has come.” Helgrune said it joylessly, as a flat statement of fact. She extended a hand. “Cross this threshold in health.”
“Blessings and luck to you,” Auriane said, inclining her head, trying not to sound too wary. “But how do you know me?”
“I do not. It is she who knows you.” Helgrune nodded faintly in the direction of the island in the lake. Auriane guessed from this obstinately brief explanation that her coming on this day had been prophesied.
Helgrune unfastened the gate, then hesitated, looking darkly at Auriane’s sword. “Iron belongs in the earth. You must put it back.”
Auriane protested and told her whose sword it was.
“Baldemar is beloved of us. Still it is a sword and must stay outside. Wrap it carefully in linen and bury it just outside the enclosure. It will come to no harm.”
Reluctantly, Auriane obeyed. Then she rubbed Berinhard’s coat with charcoal to darken it so the horse would not be recognized by anyone stalking her, and put him into the rude stables.
She then began what Helgrune told her was a purification time. Not only had she been polluted with iron, she was polluted with blood. Auriane was tempted to object that it was enemy’s blood, but she sensed that would not matter here. She was secluded in a lodge constructed of rowan branches and given only special grains raised within the seeresses’ sanctuary to eat. She drank springwater in which gemstones had been steeped; their various properties drew poisons from heart, lung and belly, and cleansed past, present and future. Daily she bathed in the holy waters of the lake. As one day, then another passed, her unease intensified. Why should Ramis concern herself with the troubles of a woman who long ago had scorned her?
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