So someone is waiting for me, he thought. Now, isn′t that interesting?
Right now he′d almost welcome a fight. There was no sword at his belt, but he did have his dirk; the ten inches of double-edged killing steel slid into his hand, and he approached with a lightness that most found surprising in a man his size. Some had found it a fatal surprise, and not a floorboard creaked as he ghosted along the edge of the wall where that was least likely. He extended one hand to the knob and then paused.
Assassins didn′t usually start to sing as they lay in wait for you, not even very faint and sweet. Like a wisp of melody heard beneath the trees on a spring night that you could scarcely hear and might have imagined. It was a song he recognized too: not precisely a hymn, not quite, but a favorite of his people from their beginnings, and among the witch-folk before.
″So we′ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.″
Almost without his own will he answered, as quietly:
″For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself must rest!″
Their voices joined as he opened the door:
″For the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon;
Yet we′ll go no more a-roving,
By the light of the moon!″
The figure lying on his bed didn′t seem to be a threat; she didn′t look in a mood to fight at all, and the complete lack of clothing was only the first indication. The smile was another; it was Samantha Steward, the housekeeper. He′d thought her a handsome figure of a woman before, lush but taut, with large gray eyes, straight features and long hair so pale it looked white in the candlelight; now he swallowed abruptly to see that mane flung across the brown linen of the sheet and pillowcase.
She made a sign with her fingers; he answered it automatically. Then his own eyes went wider than they′d been already.
″And you′re of the Old Religion too?″ he said.
″Yah,″ she replied. ″My mom was, in Madison before the Change, and I was only two when she came here at the Change. There′s some of us around here, a couple of dozen within a day′s ride. We′ve heard of the Witch-Queen of the West . . . and you′re her son!″
Well, and I wasn′t expecting it to be that sort of an advantage, not this far from home! he thought, dazed.
The dirk suddenly embarrassed him, and he sheathed it. ″Ah . . . you′ve not come to discuss religion, I′d surmise, so?″
Her smile grew broader. ″What′s more reverent than this?″ she said, extending her arms. ″All acts of love and pleasure are My rituals.″
Rudi laughed over the blood pounding in his ears. ″Oh, now the Powers will have their little jokes with us, lady.″
He bowed elaborately. ″You are most fair, priestess of Her who blesses us with the joining of spear and cauldron, and my blood leaps at the sight of you, that it does. Nor would I decline the offer to worship Her with you lightly. But of my own will I have taken upon myself a geasa that will not allow it, so.″
She looked at him, and the smile died. His own grew rueful and he spread his hands, bowing again.
″By Raven who chose me in the nemed, I swear it; may She forsake me if I lie.″
″Hmmpf!″ she said, rolling off the bed and dressing in a long shift, with movements brisk rather than languorous.
Then, when she was clothed, she shrugged. He could see her let anger go as she spoke.
″I′m sorry. That was . . . well, I should have checked, first. The Catholic girl, I suppose? Some of my best friends are Christians, but—″
″We′re betrothed,″ Rudi said. As of five minutes ago, curse the luck!
″Oh, I am sorry!″ she said, obviously embarrassed.
″No apology needed! As I said, were things otherwise . . . I appreciate the compliment, that I do, most sincerely.″
″Well, if we can′t worship the Goddess together that way, there′s a favor I would like.″
″Ask and you shall receive, fair one!″ he said.
″You′re an Initiate, of course?″
″Of the third degree; red, white and black are the cords.″
″Good! We′re having a Sabbat, and I wondered—″
The discussion grew technical. At the last he nodded.
″That will be a fine rite. Not exactly as my folk would conduct it—″
″Nor exactly as our coven does,″ Samantha said. ″I like some of the things you tell me about Lady Juniper′s way.″
″But it feels right to combine them, so.″ Rudi grinned. ″My mother is wont to say that she′s not the Pope-ess of the Pagans, when others take her word too easily. For Gospel, so to speak!″
Samantha chuckled, and then her voice grew wistful:
″I wish I could meet her. It must be wonderful, where the Old Religion can be so . . . so open.″
″That it is; but it′s like the air—you have to do without for a while to see the value of the thing!″
She laughed, a long uninhibited peal, and he joined her.
″I′ll be happy to run a Moon School for your . . . Southsiders, they′re called? Sheriff Vogeler won′t mind, as long as we′re . . . discreet. He′s known about us for all my life, after all, and about mother. He′s really a gruff old bear, but he′s not a bad man. Not a busybody either, not like some I could name.″
″My thanks for that, too. It′s needful, but I have no time for it. They′re a rough tribe, untutored, but good-hearted for the most part. Yet they′re barren of things of the Otherworld to a degree I′d not have believed. And where a void exists—″
″Something will come to fill it,″ she said, making a protective sign. ″I′ll leave you to your sleep then.″
Rudi nodded. Precious little sleep I′ll be getting, he thought.
He showed her to the door, and bowed gracefully over her hand.
″A fond farewell—and skyclad, lady priestess, you are even fairer than one would guess from the comely sight of you clad.″
She tweaked his nose with a chuckle and blew out the candle as she turned to go.
″I don′t believe it!″ Mathilda Arminger hissed to herself, her head only a handspan above the top tread of the stairs.
She′d heard the voices and the laughter, but—
″I don′t—I won′t—″
Her voice choked on tears as she fled for the safety of her room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FREE REPUBLIC OF RICHLAND SHERIFFRY OF READSTOWN (FORMERLY SOUTHWESTERN WISCONSIN) OCTOBER 10, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD
O dard was strumming at his lute and reciting—perhaps trying out a tune to fit the words; he was a part-time troubadour, after all. Mathilda paused outside the window to listen for a moment, with the crisp leaves crunching beneath her feet.
″The hour the grey wings pass
Beyond the mountains
The hour of silence,
When we hear the fountains,
The hour that dreams are brighter
And winds colder,
The hour that young love wakes
On a white shoulder,
Master of the world, the Persian Dawn!
That hour, O Master, shall be bright for thee:
Thy captains chase the morning down the sea!″
She shook her head and smiled and passed on. Odard tried so hard to be a worldly cynic, and then sometimes he spoiled months of labor with a single unguarded moment. It was then she remembered she was three or four years older than he.
″Though I′m really snooping,″ she murmured to herself, and walked on. ″But you know, Odard, you′re much more likeable when you′re not trying.″
People waved in friendly fashion as she strolled through the pasture behind the manor, and past the church and school and football field. It was
the tag-end of as fine an autumn day as you could wish for, and there probably wouldn′t be anymore like it—shirtsleeve weather in the afternoon, and still comfortable in the jerkin she had on, though she was carrying a cloak over her shoulder. The woods beckoned, and there were no reivers in this neighborhood; she had her sword, but that was automatic precaution.
More to the point, I′m not so damned sore anymore. Amazing what a couple of nights of really good rest will produce! Maybe Rudi′s gone for a walk too—haven′t seen him or the twins or Ingolf or the others since lunch. It′s good to just plain rest for a couple of days, too.
The air was drowsy with autumn, musky with the scent of damp earth and the fallen leaves that rustled softly around her boots. Mathilda sighed, draping the blanket-thick cloak around her shoulders; it had been sultry-warm earlier, but now it was getting on towards full dark, chill enough to raise goose bumps along her strong bare arms. She felt a little tired, but too restless simply to seek supper and bed and sleep, even though she′d walked farther than she intended.
Itchy inside my skin today for some reason, she thought. Homesick, lonely . . . this is a good place, but it′s not my place. I wish I hadn′t quarreled with Rudi, if you can call it a quarrel.
She winced a little. She′d asked if he was sleeping with Samantha, and gotten a blunt no and a glare.
It was nothing, anyway, just me being paranoid, but . . .
Indian Summer here in the Kickapoo Valley had a disheveled beauty not quite like anything back home, full of a sadness that was like a recollection of childhood—not the thing itself, not remembering her father swinging her six-year-old self up on his broad shoulders, but somehow the world itself embodying the feeling the memory brought. The security she′d felt at his effortless strength, the bitterness not just of loss, but loss of that child′s innocent trust.
The leaves were still a mantle of old birch gold and maple crimson, lit at their tops with the last light, but mixed with pines here where the valley floor rose in rolling hills, their needles a dark dense green turning black with the coming of night. Glancing behind, she could see the lights of the Sheriff′s manor glinting like flickering stars across rail-fenced fields, and then the pale twisting ribbon of the river. Both dropped out of sight as she followed the trail, hoping it would loop around rather than make her retrace her steps. Now and then she stopped, once when a pair of early-rising raccoons stared at her with an insolence that made her chuckle before they waddled along about their nocturnal day.
Then she heard something, not the normal creak and click and buzz of the woods, but faint and far. The cloak fell free as she went to one knee behind a thicket of blackberry canes with her hand on the hilt of her longsword. She ghosted forward, silent now with long-trained caution and skill. Through a narrow cleft where rock broke through pine duff, then a hollow dell where faded straw-colored grass stood shaggy amid tall white oaks and hickories and white ash and younger rowans that looked planted. A broad open space held a fireset, a heap of timber laid crisscross twice a tall man′s height amid a circle of earth that had been beaten bare by feet. An altar stood there, rough-hewn from a great boulder, with instruments laid upon it, chalice and blade and book, salt and water.
Her eyes went wide in alarm. And the sound was stronger, sending a prickle down her spine as she sank again behind a clump of hornbeam. She knew that music. The eerie chill of panpipes; a harp playing on the strings of the listener′s mind like mist drifting across forested hills in the purple dusk of an autumn gloaming; drums throbbing until it seemed like the pulse of your own blood in temples and throat and between the thighs.
How could she not recognize it, when she had spent so much of every year in her youth among the clansfolk who followed the Old Religion?
The Hymn to Herne the Wild Hunter, she thought. It′s time for it—the pagans think he rules the cold season, and grants luck in the hunt.
But when she was staying at Dun Juniper she′d been able to keep to her own room and pray before her prie-dieu when she heard that sound trickle through the night-haunted woods. Now she couldn′t, nor even leave without the risk of someone spotting the movement; and these wouldn′t be the friends of her childhood, ready to make allowances. Mathilda turned her eyes away. Then, inch by inch, they crept back. She watched half against her will, half with a tightness in her throat that made breath come hard.
The bonfire waited, in the clearing beyond the tattered oaks, beneath the moon and great soft stars. The night was turning crisp, but the two figures that came dancing with torches that made meteor strokes through the darkness were as comfortable in their bare skins as if woodland animals themselves. She recognized Mary and Ritva with a shock of surprise that she knew was foolish—this was their faith, and what matter if they′d found unexpected company for it?
The twins′ high clear voices rang:
″Blazing blood on a moonlit night
Firelight glinting, burning bright
We dance and chant and sing delight
Flames, flames, let the Light inspire—
Nothing tames our Sabbat fire!″
One wore only a garland of flowers white and scarlet about her long wheat-blond hair. The other had a delicately beautiful doe-mask over her face, painted leather and twin slender golden spikes over her brows; around her waist and loins were a belt and strap that held a spray of silver bells on either side that dangled against the smooth hard curve of her hips, and a flaunting white deer′s tail behind.
″Swirling sparks in a fiery flare
Call to each one of us by name
Igniting passion, staking claims
Couples pair, and it′s all fair game
Flames, flames reaching ever higher
Roaring, panting, hissing fire!″
They spiraled inward and then threw the torches high with a last shout, pinwheeling against the sky in a spray of yellow and red sparks.
The dry stacked wood of the fireset was woven with even more flammable straw and pine needles full of resin; it caught with a roar, a tall pillar of hot gold and molten copper that erupted skyward in a shower of flaming glory. Even at this distance the dry clean scent of it cut through the dew-heavy evening smell of the woods, and the light formed a circle that made darkness more absolute beyond; Mathilda blinked against the dazzle.
Out of those cave-dense shadows came the coven and its guests, in a file of men and another of women, barefaced or masked as wolf and badger and bear, raven and coyote and cougar and more. A woman led them, fair-haired, heavy of breast and hip, comely with a full woman′s beauty; a headband carrying the Triple Moon was around her brows, and a belt around her waist with the Pentagram hanging from a chain to lie below her navel. She recognized the Vogelers′ housekeeper, and wondered distantly if they knew what else she was.
The coven sang as they came, in voices that held merriment and awe and a husky wildness:
″Hunter who tracks outside of time
Guardian Lord of ancient rhyme
Brother Stag in the musky glen
Consort of the Goddess in this woodland den!
″Blesséd are we children of the—″
All of them put their clenched fists to their brows for an instant to mark where their God′s horns sprouted, and shouted:
″Horned One!
Blesséd are we children of the—
Horned One!″
The High Priestess stopped before the altar, made reverence and turned. Arms raised, feet spread in the Stance of Power, she let her palms face the ground, then rise to cup the moonlight. Her voice cried in a high chant that called:
″Song and rite, Herne—ours but Thine, Herne!
Bid us dance; let flesh and bone
Wheel around the sacred Stone—
Hieee! Hieee! Herne! Herne! Herne!″
The witches lining the edge of the firelight swayed together, faces in-humanly rapt or blankly hidden by the masks; their voices answered as the swaying turned to a spiraling dance, stately and
slow at first but growing faster as she watched to match the beat of the cry:
″Heerrrnnne! Heerrrrrnnne!″
The call went on, and on; she realized that the voices were taking it up in relays. The sustained rise and fall of the sound had a savagery to it, an elemental need, and somehow it spread—until it began to ring from the stones beneath her and the sky above and the hills to either side, until her own bones and organs buzzed with it. Her skin tightened until she felt she must burst, as if her very life depended on ripping her clothes away and running to join the celebrants; unconsciously her fingers dug into the thin earth and her body ground against it.
Silence, sudden, jarring, leaving her as breathless-winded as a punch in the gut. The High Priestess spread her arms in welcome, and the coven-folk bent the knee, inclining heads bare but for flowers or grotesquely masked. Then a great voice sang the next verse of the hymn from the circling woods—not far from her. A voice she recognized, but altered as if speaking from some deep well of time, growing as it approached:
″Chant the prayers and work your rite
Burn scented sacred candles day and night
You may leap till dawn to the pounding drums
But you best be ready—″
For a moment the song turned to a huge shout from every one of the worshippers, drowning even the crackle of the need-fire:
″—when the Horned God comes!″
It was Rudi who came, naked save for the great stag mask and spreading antlers, the firelight shining upon the long-limbed grace of his body; in his hand was a tall spear tipped by a flame-shaped bronze head. Mathilda shuddered and bit her lip until the pain cut through the haze that seemed to cloud her eyes and fill her brain. Bending, leaping, strutting in rampant maleness, the figure of Herne turned amid the laughter and the dance, feinting with the spear. Its blade touched some of the revelers in the whirling snakelike chains, metal delicate as a kiss.
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