″We could agree on stopping those histories,″ the Mother said, as the campfire returned. ″Edging them out, cycle upon cycle, until they vanish in implausibility.″
″Yet the Others would not let us do much more,″ the Maiden said, sadness in her voice. ″What we did . . . was something so terrible that only a greater terror made it possible to think it.″
The Mother nodded. ″All we could do while Mind was divided . . . was take this island out of its year, so that it could then reach across the spiral and make the Change. The Change gives you time, no more, as the island was given time. Time to learn, so that when you regain the powers taken from you they′ll be used properly. How the future of this turn on the Wheel is shaped . . . what we become . . . that is up to you. You youngsters. You are the seed of God. We can turn through time—we have traveled the endless coil—but we cannot do more than help, and open possibilities.″
The Maiden scowled. ″The Others can. They take, because they care less for the damage they do, they who serve entropy. So we have made the Sword for you, to sever their power and show humankind the truth of things. That much we can do in this turn of the Wheel, without breaking reality asunder with our contentions. All the rest is your burden.″
Rudi took a deep breath. ″I will bear it.″
There was a glint of tears in the Mother′s eyes as she spoke with a trembling tenderness:
″Then bear what you must, O my child, my child.″
The Maiden′s warmth, a scented flower meadow in spring:
″Do what you must, beloved.″
The Wise One′s sternness, like rock and iron:
″Become what you must, to serve the world′s need.″
And he was . . . elsewhere.
The others saw him as he stumbled down the stairs, bleeding from nose and ears and eyes and mouth. The sheathed form of the Sword lay across his palms. He met their eyes, and choked out:
″Remember. Remember, all of you. Most of all you, Matti, anamchara, beloved.″
Mathilda′s voice was infinitely gentle: ″Remember what, my darling?″
″That I was a man, before I was King. Remember for me, when I forget.″
His hand closed on the black double-lobed hilt, and the moonfire in the opal glowed. He drew the Sword, thrust it high.
And screamed as pain beyond all bearing ripped through him like white fire, turning his body to a thing of ash and smoke.
He screamed, and knew.
EPILOGUE
THE NEMED (SACRED WOOD) CASCADE FOOTHILLS NEAR DUN JUIMPER MONTIVAL (FORMERLY WESTERN OREGON) IMBOLC, FEBRUARY, CHANGE YEAR 24/2023 AD
BD breathed out, and in, and out, and in, her chest vibrating with the deep-toned sounds of the power raising, breath steaming in the chilly air. That was full of the mountainside forest scents, the musty smell of damp earth and the spice of fir resin, wet wool and the sputtering torches. Every one of her sixty-odd years ached in her joints, from today and from the hard travel south from the Kyklos villages. Mist drifted across the steep forests and the outthrust knee that held the nemed, merging into the clouds above.
This Imbolc ritual had given her no peace. As many as could make the journey to the nemed had come, and it was crowded, almost enough to jostle her; she was far from the only non-Mackenzie. The dim late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the circle of great bare-limbed oak trees in shafts, picking out people in hooded robes of many colors, though white and yellow dominated. It was Imbolc and the rising of the sun, the lengthening of the days that started the Wheel of the Year anew.
Beginnings, she thought. Start of term for Moon Schools, babes brought for wiccaning, apprenticeships started. But not this time.
On the roughly chiseled altar a large sheep′s milk feta perched on top of the huge round of braided bread. This was the only time of the year when sheep′s milk was used to make cheese, for the ewes went dry when the lambs were weaned. The crackle of the teine eigin, the need fire in the bowl-shaped stone hearth, gave a little warmth.
Sternly BD brought her mind back to the chant and the purpose of the power raising. It was possible to lose oneself in the chant, but once concentration was lost, so was power. And power was their need. The strength of the CUT to influence people who were in any way corrupt had left every realm in the countries of the Meeting—
Montival, she reminded herself
—in Montival exposed. Castles were falling through treachery. The CUT′s ability to defile was like tentacles of poison stretching into minds, like threads of mold in spoiled bread.
Thank you, Athena, that some can detect their High Seekers. And fight them. Gray-eyed One, Maiden of the Spear, Defender of the Polis, aid!
In her mind′s eye she could see the spiral, the cone of power rising. It wobbled, dangerously. She shook her head and took a deep breath, projecting the ahhhh in deeper tones than the people around her. The lower sound caught, spread, humming through bone and blood until her very teeth vibrated with it. Folk focused on the task at hand. She hadn′t been the only one distracted by fear.
We are losing this war.
Juniper was in the center. She held her rowan staff overhead, turning deosil, the staff—the distaff—taking up the power, revolving widdershins above her head. BD focused on the silver raven, perched on the head of the staff; inwardly she felt a sudden spurt of homely laughter at what a real bird would do, held horizontal like that.
Flap his great wings and go: crawk! she thought.
In her mind′s eye the power was stabilizing, the buildup almost complete. The air felt heavy with it, like the tension before a thunderstorm; she could smell the tingle in the air, feel it prickling the little hairs along her forearms and on her neck. From her usual position in the East, as Apollon′s Pythia, she shot a glance across at Judy, who also was watching. Judy caught her glance and nodded. They signaled the other two guardians and raised their hands. Voices soared from the deep tone of the ahhhh, rising to a banshee shriek as the Mackenzies followed their lead.
Birds and small animals broke from cover, flew and ran, rustling the branches and tall grass around. Juniper twisted the staff in a complicated figure-eight pattern, raising it high and then bringing the heel to the ground with a thump that dug it in several inches through the yielding turf and soft earth beneath. She ran her hands up the staff gathering the melded power and flung them up, palms to the sky.
″Light!″ she cried. ″Gods most high! Lugh of the Sun! Brigid of the Healing Flame! Give us Light! Lugh, help us see! Lugh, help us see into hearts! Lugh, God of Light!″
And Juniper′s palms glowed, two shafts of light cutting upward through the wan afternoon. They rose and merged in a twisting column. The dim gray turned bright—just on the edge of pain, but turning every twig and blade of grass into a maze of glittering diamond for an instant. Not since the old world fell had she seen such brightness, but it surpassed those ancient wonders. A moan went through the crowd, and as one they dropped to a knee. A few went on their bellies and beat their heads on the turf.
She could see, into the hearts of trees, into the roots of the mountains, into herself. But nothing was dreamlike. It was more real than that, hard, sharp-edged, definite, each mote and lingering sere yellow leaf and fir needle so intensely itself that she could have wept for wonder.
That′s not a vision! her mind gibbered, and she felt her body shake, commanded it to be still and her throat to let breath pass.
The light was within her, but it was also without.
Not just a vision. It′s not a metaphor. I′m not just seeing it with the Inner Eye. That′s photons, by the Gods, as real as sunlight or a burning torch! Apollon Helios, Lord of Light, be with us now!
The light soared and spun, broadening into a wall that stretched into the clouds and moved eastward, fading as it went. Instant by instant it swelled, and then was gone—gone from the body′s eyes, at least.
Juniper′s head was tipped back, her mouth fallen open, her eyes black with the dilated pupil
s. Before BD could react pain hit, a pain she had only felt once before, on the day of the Change. And a voice echoed, like the wind in crags, like the growth of flowers, roaring like a lion and as silent as the fall of windless snow:
Artos holds the Sword of the Lady! The Sun Lord comes, the son of Bear and Raven! The High King comes, as foretold! Guardian of my sacred Wood, and Law! His people′s strength, and the Lady′s sword!
Fast and sharp, the pain was gone. Juniper brought trembling hands down to her chest level and looked at them, swaying and beginning to buckle at the knees. BD and Judy and the other High Priestesses moved forward. Nigel was faster; his fox mask pushed up on his head, he snatched her into his arms, looking at the tears flowing down her cheeks. The staff cracked across his cheekbone, unnoticed.
″Did . . . you see that?″ she whispered. ″Did anyone else see that, or am I mad?″
″I saw. And I′m a confirmed skeptic, remember? Or I was. You′re not in the least mad. It′s far stranger than that.″
She raised her hands to him, quivering as they touched his face. ″They′re just my own worn hands. That′s all they are!″
″That′s what they were, my dear,″ he said with tender denial. ″But that′s not all they are. Not anymore.″
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
The Sword of the Lady Page 59
