“Be still, now,” my lady said, and rested her hand on the woman’s forehead.
The chief’s wife reached up and took the hand. “You are kind,” she said, “and when you touch me, the fever leaves my body.
“But”—the woman looked up in wonder at her face—“I have no sister.”
“Yes, yes, you do,” she assured her. “But at this time, when the moment of her incarnation came, she did not live long enough to draw breath. But she loves you and has been long your sister and will be again, in due time. She asked me to help you. And it is time. I am engaged in duel with the dark being, Bade. This is his creature.”
“Why does it harry us so?”
“Hush, my sister. Do not trouble your soul.” Then she kissed Aine on the forehead and turned to me.
“Fetch me some soup and fresh water.”
Soup was easy. I had put some on to be ready for supper. Fresh water, I had some trepidation as to that.
I went to the hearth and ladled some of the soup into a bowl. I gave it to Treise, telling her to bring it to her mother, then picked up a wooden bucket.
Risderd was sitting at the low table where the family took its meals.
“I would not go out there, were I you,” he told me. “Something, I cannot say what, is living in the reeds near the pond. It likes fish.”
“We will see,” I said, and strode out into the yard.
I went to the stream, but not to where it flowed past the garden. I dipped the bucket into the water just above the duck pond, then returned to the house. I felt its eyes on me and a cold, guarded intelligence behind them. And indeed the chief was right: the reeds did move as though something watched me from among them.
But perhaps the fish were easier prey. I had hurt him.
I brought water to her, and she washed Aine’s face with it.
She and I prepared a meal for the men. Finn, the elder boy, came out. I noticed the chief blocked the door that looked west to the mountains, where the carrion birds were flying, and I remembered the other son.
“What was his name?” I asked her.
“Ardal. ‘Mighty in Valor.’ And his courage suited his name. For had he not sacrificed himself, none of them would have survived.”
When we served the chief and his son, he rose and bowed to us.
“My lady,” he addressed her, “and also you the helper.” He bowed to me. “I ask that you join us at our supper, in token of gratitude for your assistance to me and my wife.”
She sent Treise away to be with her mother, telling the child to call us if Aine needed anything.
We sat on linen cushions that surrounded the low table.
I had made curd cheese, soup, and bread, and we drank—as was proper at the table of a distinguished man—mead.
Mead, yes—well, mead—there are many kinds. This was the mead of autumn, laced with the flavors of crab apple, cherry, and quince and even some wheat and barley, though there was enough honey to be sure it was not beer. It was a rich, heady brew, more fitted for a festival than a funeral.
The chief complimented our womanly skills. He thanked me for watering the kitchen garden, but did not comment on what happened while I was doing so. He must have known my whole right side was covered with bruises. We spoke of the chase. There was in fact a hare in the stew pot. Small game and large to be found hereabout, and how to hunt or trap it. The livestock, he expressed pleasure at, the cow’s new she-calf, a valuable addition to his herd.
I had begun to think his troubles had turned his brain. He no longer quite grasped the situation into which he and his family had been plunged.
Yet there was one thing Dugald, the Gray Watcher, and Kyra always agreed on and that was courtesy. One owed it to oneself and others.
He played the genial host—we in turn were the pleased guests. And between us, we kept the conversation both light and amusing until the end of the meal.
When the chief presented us with an assortment of nuts fried with salt, Finn rose to his feet, trembling, strode to the western door, and threw it open and gazed out toward the mountains.
“I propose,” he told his father in a voice that rang out across the room, “I propose to go up there and join him.”
I felt the hairs prickle at the nape of my neck. You see, I knew what he meant. It doesn’t happen often. Dugald had told me it was never very common a custom, more frequent in ancient times. Sometimes a person close to the dead man or woman would not let them journey forth alone but went to the place of passage and joined him. The method I cannot say—usually it was left to the voyager to choose.
I can’t think it mattered, being all one to the crows, the eagles, and flies. The rite is always voluntary, Dugald said. Even in the very oldest accounts he has never heard tell of any coercion being applied.
“No!” the chief said in equally ringing tones. “You know what I must do. And you will obey me in this if you are my true son, because you are all they will have left.”
The hall was flooded by the light of the westering sun. It brought its beauty to light and its strength. The black trunk of its guardian oak, the jeweled colors of the banners and wall hangings, the polished floors and the sparse intricately carved furniture that captures the eternal oneness of life’s web.
Finn walked back toward the table and stood behind us, facing his father, fists clenched. “That thing will kill you.”
Risderd smiled, looking every inch the chieftain he was. “That well may be. In fact, it almost certainly will be, but honor demands I take the mead of springtime and greet my bride. I will have my honor. If death is but a sleep, one wakes from a sleep. If not, why, then the sleeper is forever at peace. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
“As you are my true son, you will obey me in this. As I am your king, you will obey me in this.”
And then he added more softly, “As you love me, you will obey me in this.”
Finn was silent and hung his head. Risderd’s face was a study in power and beauty in the golden light. “When it is done,” he told his son, “you will lead your mother and sister to whatever place my people now live. And you may carry yourself with pride, being the last of such a line. Your mother and sister will marry well. Now go and rest, because tomorrow we will gather what possessions we might, and the day after, I will begin my journey. If I do not return, you will know what to do.”
Expressions chased one another across Finn’s face. He looked as though he wanted to say a lot of things, but Risderd had caught him in front of, as he saw it, two female guests. The boy was too shy to speak his mind or grieve terribly for—again as we saw it—his father’s pointless death.
She rose; I followed quickly. It doesn’t do to be disrespectful of them.
“My lord, will you require another meal tonight?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said. I could tell he was stiff and favored his injured side. “I believe I would like to sleep and save my strength for the morning. I will have much to do … then.”
The sun was pouring through the western doorway now, the light so bright I could not look into it, as it poured from the sky over the crag where his eldest son lay.
“They have almost stopped flying,” he said in a carefully neutral tone.
I knew the boy’s bones must be a red cleaned scatter in the grass.
“We will put him under the hearth,” Finn said.
“No,” Risderd answered. “You”—he emphasized the word—“you and I know he didn’t plan to be there. You will mix them with honey, mead, oil, and the remaining spices—sandalwood and myrrh—pound them to dust and burn them. Then send the ash into the wind from the shore. I would not have him come here past the broken roof and fallen walls and search for us in vain.”
The light streaming through the house began to fail as the sun slowly moved behind a mountain in the distance.
“If you will, my lady, bar the doors against the darkness.”
“I will, my lord.” She curtsied.
I curtsied also, and Risderd departed with his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Oh, God,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Good. It’s about time. I have none. Let’s get the doors and go back to the workshop before this fool kills himself. He’s working on doing it faster than I can save him.”
“I’ve heard of that spring mead. A good long drink of that stuff and that horror won’t have to eat him,” I said. “Besides, I’ve been wondering all day why the thing isn’t in the house with us.”
“It can’t come within the shadow of the tree. The tree is a sacred thing and can’t be defiled, even by Bademagus.”
“It’s night,” I said. “The tree isn’t casting any shadows.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she answered. “Everything the tree shadows at one time or another during the day is safe.”
“Good,” I said. “I’d hate to rely on the doors. They don’t seem that strong.”
“It can’t get us in the workshop either,” she told me. “Come on.”
I did. We made glue. Glue is disgusting stuff. It stinks, gets in your hair, under your nails, on your skin, on your clothes. She was a help cleaning up, though. She could make unpleasant things disappear by waving her hand. She did that when she got a big, nasty spot on her dress.
“You’re a goddess,” I said. “Why can’t you just kill it?”
“A goddess,” she repeated, interested, while I braided sinew and then braided the braids with rawhide. “That’s what those Greeks called me. I lived in a cave on the rock where they founded their city. A goddess—no name—just a goddess. A-thena. The A is feminine.”
“I know,” I said. “Dugald tried to teach me Greek. Did you really turn that dumb girl into a spider?”
“No, not guilty,” she said. “I won’t say I haven’t done a lot of unpleasant things. No good reason to be a goddess if you can’t make life unpleasant and even short for some shitasses. Like Bademagus, for instance, trying to steal one of my sacred wells.”
She ground her teeth. “He won’t come within arm’s reach of me. And I don’t blame him. I’d melt him down into a little puddle of piss. If I ever get the chance, of course.”
“You’re pretty far from home,” I said.
“Distance is as distance does. What would you know?”
She had me there.
“The girl said she was a better weaver than you are.”
She chuckled. “Not difficult. Any human is. Look at you.”
“Lend me a finger,” I asked. “I’ve got to tie this bow together. Maeniel taught me,” I said.
“Yes, but you are clever enough to build the thing without any experience when you need to.”
“Let’s hope,” I answered.
“Yes.”
She put her finger on the string. I tied.
“That’s half. Let me do the other.”
“The only thing I did for those Greeks was keep the peace. I didn’t fool with turning anyone into anything. Do you know what a goddess is good for?”
“No,” I answered, braiding away.
“There is always something that needs to be done so that events may take their proper course. A rock balanced at the top of a ridge might fall to the right or the left unless … what?”
My skin grew cold.
“Unless you give it a push,” I said even while I was thinking this one might push mountains.
“Poor child.” She patted my cheek. “I’m not comfortable company, am I? Well, the simplest way of putting it is that I gave those talented, exasperating Greeks a push. I created a truce at my shrine, because those fools reminded me a little of your people—when they weren’t talking, they were fighting. They needed to give their bellicose dispositions a rest, so they could concentrate on other matters. And my plan worked. Otherwise, I feasted on my sacrifices, enjoyed my new dresses—the women made me a new one every year—and in general enjoyed their company. They were very stimulating individuals, and when nothing much was happening, I gazed out over the very beautiful Aegean Sea.
“They asked me to tell them the future. I am no better than average at that. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s not difficult. I remember one sweet thing, she had a husband and not one but three lovers.”
I began laughing.
“As you can see,” she told me, “some things ought to be obvious.”
“Then explain to me why Risderd has to die if I can’t kill the monster.”
She walked away from me, out of the circle of lamplight. “Because he is a king, chief, husband—words are limiting.”
“Try to transcend them,” I said.
She laughed.
I set the bow down on the floor and crouched, arms around my knees, wiggling my toes on the dusty floor.
“Where to begin?” She half turned toward me, her face in profile. “With an explanation for kings?” she asked. “No, too long and complex,” she answered her own question. “I’ll keep it simple. He must wed the Flower Bride. That was what he was trying to do when Bade sent the monster to destroy him. His people, the Atrovinties, are great warriors, but they fled like thistledown before a wind when Risderd could not complete his task. Only he remains, with his family.
“His wedding the Flower Bride seals his people’s title to their holdings here. Their land, in other words. His failure means they cannot ask sustenance of this earth.”
She stamped her foot and pointed down. “This earth here. The embraces of the Flower Bride confer title to them. She is sovereignty. For him to fail her maims him. Makes him like the Fisher King, one who cannot draw sustenance from the earth at all. And if he can’t, his people can’t either.
“He feels it is better for him to die. That way, they can choose another chief—perhaps one who can face down the monster. So he will drink the spring mead, go to her dwelling.… ”
“That horror will tear him limb from limb,” I filled in the sentence.
“Yes,” she answered.
“What will happen then?”
“Umm,” she considered carefully. “When he is dead, his people will flee, leaving Bade in sole possession. They will try to begin life somewhere else.”
I looked down at the bow. It was fully tied, the center post connected to the elastic horn and sinew, and the laths at each end were also tied on and fastened with glue. In the normal course of manufacture, the ties that held it together would be cut off once the glue was set, but I had constructed them to be left on. It took a week or more for the glue to fully harden, and I was pretty sure after the day’s events that I wouldn’t have that much time.
“A very powerful instrument, that,” she said, pointing to it.
“Yes,” I answered. “It will drive in an arrow with tremendous force. Especially if you use it close up, like I’m going to. I need arrows.”
I had spent some time considering the matter and decided to favor quality over quantity. I needed to put those arrows in deep. This was no deer that would run away. I suspected that I could pepper this thing with enough shafts to make it look like a pincushion and it would be still attacking and still dangerous—no, lethal.
We began making arrows, and we didn’t talk much, because both of us were busy. I carved the heads from bone in the way Maeniel had taught me was the best for spear points if we can’t forge metal. And I couldn’t—not where I was now.
Bone or stone is worked into wide but very thin triangles, then sharpened at the tip and sides. They resemble leaves, only the edges are razor sharp. You don’t bother with a barb, because they penetrate deeply, and shock and swelling keep them from being easily removed.
My lady worked, too. Bronze is the very devil to keep sharp, so she sharpened while I carved.
When we were done, it was close to dawn, and I had only four arrows. But I reasoned that might be enough. I didn’t bother to notch the shafts, because they weren’t going to travel far and I didn’t want them to spin.
“You had best g
et some sleep,” she said, turning away from the grindstone.
I looked down at my fingers, blistered and bloody from my task, and set the arrows on the workbench.
She handed me a mantle. I wrapped myself in it and prepared to lie down right there.
Something floated to the top of my memory. “They say it takes a hero to rescue the Fisher King.”
I looked up and her eyes glowed strangely, a little the way the dragon’s did in the sunlight, an opalescent fire in the last light of the guttering lamp.
“Why do you think Dis Pater sent the boar for you?” she asked.
I didn’t answer.
I don’t remember lying down. Only that her eyes were pools of light and darkness both—a sea of nightmares and dreams. I fell into them and went down.
TEN
E WOKE, KNOWING HE WAS BEING watched, the fear like a stone in his gut, closing his throat. He was lying under a bush, a holly bush, the sharpened points of its leaves pricking through the homespun shirt he wore. He was lying on his stomach. He moved and the prickly leaves wounded him again.
When he woke, he wiggled forward on his stomach until he was clear of the bush, then rose to his knees. He pushed up with his left hand instinctively. And when he looked at his right, he saw why. It was swollen and had two oozing marks surrounded by angry red tissue on the back where the fangs went in.
Experimentally, he moved his fingers—it hurt. And he knew he wouldn’t have much use of it for some time.
He had been bitten by a snake.
Had he been bitten by a snake? He didn’t know, his mind wasn’t clear. He was having a lot of trouble thinking. Thinking and seeing both. When he tried to look around, the light pained his eyes. But he did see enough to know he was in a forest.
He was kneeling next to the holly bush that was growing out of a pile of fallen limbs near the trunk of a giant oak, resting on its side, broken by lightning.
Just beyond the tangle of dead wood that had been the tree’s crown was a pool. He could see the glint of the sky’s reflection in the water from where he knelt.
He staggered to his feet, not out of any confidence that he could walk but because he couldn’t crawl. He was certain his damaged right hand wouldn’t support him. He wanted water badly. His tongue felt like a file in his mouth.
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