by Nancy Holder
“No,” Holly whispered, thinking of her terrible dream. But as soon as she said it, her eyes were closed, and she was drifting, back to the river and her father and life as it never would be again.
The University of Washington at Seattle
The sweat lodge was filled with sweat and nearly naked bodies. Jer was very quiet, searching for the serenity that had eluded him last night. It had been Lammas, one of the most important Rites of the warlock year, and his father had never showed.
He and Eli had celebrated together, a desultory affair, since neither brother could stand the other. As the younger brother, Jer was obliged to serve as backup during the Rites, fuming as Eli made fun of the entire ritual and finally concluded by intoning in a mockstern voice, “Go in peace. The Black Mass is ended. Mwahahah.”
“So, are you tired from whatever you did or what?” Kari asked. Jer didn’t open his eyes. It was bad manners to talk in the lodge, and she knew it. She had been upset last night when he had left because he hadn’t invited her.
Does she think I feel guilty, so I’ll come across with some information for her? Because I don’t feel a shred of guilt.
“C’mon, baby. It’s for my paper on harvest folklore,” Kari persisted, arching her back and moving her neck, wafting the steam and smoke toward her chest with her hands. It was said to cleanse one of impurities, within and without. Jer resented her trying to manipulate him by drawing his attention to her body, and he was humiliated that it was working. Guys were entirely too much governed by their desires, and girls like Kari knew it.
“Hey,” Kialish protested. “No talking.” Over time, Kari seemed to have forgotten that she was a guest here; the lodge belonged to Kialish, Eddie, and Jer, if it could be said to belong to anybody besides the University of Washington.
“Sorry,” she said, not at all sorry. She touched her forehead. “I’m just too hot in here today. I can’t keep my focus.”
“Nobody can, if you keep talking,” Kialish said firmly.
“Okay. Sor-ry. Look, I’m going to split.” She gazed at Jer expectantly, wanting him to go with her.
Jer gave his head a quick shake, then moved his shoulders to show her that even though he wasn’t in the mood now, that didn’t mean they couldn’t hook up later. That mollified her.
I have issues with women, he thought. His father insisted that his mother had been terribly insecure and passive, a very weak person. It had occurred to Jer more than once that leaving someone takes a decisive act of will, which a passive, very weak person would be unable to accomplish. Likewise, he tried to leave thoughts about his mother in the past, where they belonged, but he found that impossible. Since he didn’t trust his dad’s version of her, and that was all he had at present, he was better off not forming an image of her at all.
Someday I’ll have the magic for it, though. And I’ll cast a finding spell and locate my mom, see if she’s okay. And I’ll ask her if she’s sorry she left me with him and Eli. . . .
Kari rolled onto her feet and crouched beneath the low, rounded ceiling of the lodge. She gave Jer’s knee a caress and said softly, “See you later, babe.” Then she opened up the flap and crawled out, careful to refasten the Velcro strips on the outside.
Now that she was gone, Jer refocused his attention on the burning logs. He stared at them, his lids half-closed, lulling his emotions to a passive place; letting his arms and legs slacken, his breathing to slow. He imagined the heat and smoke entering all the cavities of his body and warming them, the herbs in the smoke mingling with his being so that part of him was the mixture created by this place and this moment. Like sips of water, he took in that image, and he began to let go of his other thoughts—about the missed Lammas ritual, his brother and father, school assignments, Kari, what his life would become after college . . . every concern seemed a distant, odd object that he firmly discarded, clearing his mind of clutter and debris.
The fire appeared to grow larger, the rocks more like small boulders; the flames those of a bonfire; the logs were felled trees. As he stared, the smoke whirled and eddied into shapes alien to his culture, more Eddie’s and Kialish’s totems and icons than his—salmon and orcas and strangely clawed bears. Ravens flew everywhere, and other birds joined them, wheeling in a sky boiling with fire and smoke. Falcons skyrocketed toward the moon, joined by hawks. The ravens wheeled around the other birds as falcon and hawk squared off, each rushing toward the other, screaming through clacking beaks, wings flapping. Whum, whum, whum; the smoky sky vibrated with their great wings’ beats.
Whum whum whum . . .
He became aware that his heartbeats matched the rhythm of the wings; and then the sound changed and became what sounded like the beating of a skinheaded drum: Brum, brum, brum . . .
. . . and Jer was somewhere else, very different from the lodge; and he was someone else, someone not so very different from himself . . . someone named Jean, who was a Deveraux, like him. . . .
The drummers sounded as the Great Hunt trooped through the forest; the rounded, ringing tones reminded Jean of the drumming that preceded an important execution. Dirgelike and purposeful, relentless . . . death comes for all us, but at this moment we are Death’s army, he thought with amusement.
He was riding Cockerel, his favorite warhorse, at the head of a phalanx of Hunters. Fantasme, the Circle’s falcon familiar, rode on his shoulder like an eager little brother, screeching for his dinner.
The drummers marched on foot several meters ahead. All in all, a glorious sight, the Deveraux on the move through the Greenwood, home of the God in his aspect as King of Nature and of the Hunt. Green and red livery, fine ermine robes, crimson jewels and fine golden cloaks from the Holy Land gleamed and flashed and sparkled beneath the smile of the sun.
Swelling with pride, Jean signaled to the flushers to continue their work. With large wooden canes, they smacked the forest undergrowth, easily driving out the foxes, ermine, bears, and other game, which Jean and the others would happily slaughter, spurs to the flanks of their mounts, swords and hatchets drawn and dripping with gore and blood.
They had been routing out the animals for hours, with great success. Behind the lines of noblemen, servants loaded the carcasses of the animals routed thus far; the scent of blood was intoxicating to the clusters of hunting hounds that strained at their leads beside and around the tumbrels. Their eagerness and bloodlust matched the men’s own.
Jean’s father, the Duc Laurent de Deveraux, trotted up beside his son and smiled broadly at him. He tipped his head, swathed in fine velvet and a golden tassel, to Fantasme, who screeched in reply. Laurent was dressed in hunting finery of ermine and leather. Jean was a younger version of the great lord of the manor—flashing, dark eyes and heavy brows, an abundance of dark, shiny hair and beard. Their noses were quite straight, their mouths strong, not too fleshy. Deveraux faces were hard and sharp. Deveraux faces promised no mercy, no tenderness, no warmth. They were warriors’ faces. Leaders’ faces. Some said devils’ faces . . .
“We’ll have a magnificent feast,” the Duke said approvingly, gesturing with his head over his shoulder at the huge amount of game they had harvested. “We’ll show those posturing Cahors how real men make a wedding banquet.”
Jean smiled proudly at his father. “And make a wedding bed as well.”
The two laughed lustily. The Duke clapped his son on his shoulder and said, “In the old days of the coven, the master took the virgins first, you know.”
“Oui, mon père, and as I recall, leadership of the Circle was achieved through combat to the death.” He slid a sly, somewhat challenging glance at his father.
“Touché.” Laurent threw back his head and laughed, clearly amused by and unafraid of his son’s mild challenge. The Duke was a lion; Jean knew it would be years before he could hope to inherit the titles, both of their House and of the coven. The prospect did not bother him; his father was a good leader, and Jean profited well from his guidance.
“It’s a grand day for us, boy. The Cah
ors dowry makes us the richest noble family in all of France.” His eyes glittered at the thought. “Get Isabeau with child tonight, and I’ll make him king by the time he’s twelve.”
“As you wish, Father,” Jean said, sweeping his arm downward like a gallant. His blood stirred at the thought of bedding Isabeau. “I shall do my best.”
“With all the spells we’ve cast, we’ll have a boy by Beltane.”
“Certainement, the Green Man will reward our generosity.” Jean jerked his head in the direction of the animals they had already slaughtered. “We’re giving him plenty to eat. And soon we’ll give him plenty more.”
The two smiled at each other. Laurent made a magical motion with his hand and winked at his son. Almost simultaneously with the gesture, a flusher dressed in Deveraux green and scarlet emerged from the thick copses of chestnut trees and shouted, “The first of the prized flesh!”
“Oyez, oyez, the first of the prized flesh!” shouted Compte Alain DuBruque, the Marshal of the Hunt. “This bounty is reserved, mes seigneurs, for the bridegroom!”
A roar of approval rose from the lines of the mounted huntsmen. The drums thundered; the hounds bayed and lurched. Jean let go of his reins and held both hands above his head, receiving the approbation of the gathering as his due. Cockerel pranced in a circle and chuffed and Fantasme capered above his head, crying with bloodlust. Jean put his heels to Cockerel’s hot, solid flanks, and the fantastic stallion reared majestically. Fantasme landed on his head, riding the horse like its master.
“Release the dogs!” Jean commanded.
Trumpets flared. From the rear of the hunting company, a brace of dogs, made savage from near-starvation, were loosed. Shrieking and baying, they dashed through the ranks of human hunters, dodging horse hooves as they hurtled themselves toward the shadows of the forest. Jean joined the race, Cockerel’s mighty hooves narrowly missing the eager curs.
Then the quarry emerged, forced into the open by the threshers. A tall peasant of perhaps sixteen, he was. Jean was pleased; the quarry was a young, vigorous man, capable of many more years of life. It was a good sign; the Green Man would be appreciative of such a fine gift, and surely requite his acolyte’s efforts with a male child. The firstborn of the Cahors and Deveraux must be an heir. Laurent and Jean had no idea how long the alliance between them would last; who knew if it would be long enough for him to get a second child on his new wife?
Galloping ahead of the dogs, Jean reached the man, who, seeing him, turned tail and fled. Fantasme screamed with eagerness and flew after him.
Fool, Jean thought with a vicious thrill; this horse outran a thousand infidels in Jerusalem; does he think an underfed serf can achieve what hardened warriors could not?
To shouts of encouragement from his men, Jean urged Cockerel forward; then, coming abreast of the man, he drew his sword, let go of the reins, and arced downward at an angle. At that moment, the young serf looked fearfully over his shoulder. He saw the sword headed for him and opened his mouth to shriek. Too late; Jean’s sword sliced off his head, very cleanly and neatly. The head shot forward for some distance before it smacked against the earth and rolled.
Jean jerked his right boot out of his spur and hoisted himself over the saddle, so that he was draped at a dangerous angle on the left flank of his charger. Like a wild Arabian, he leaned down, grabbed up the head, and threw his body upright astride his saddle once more. He held it high for all to see while the dogs dove in a frenzied heap upon the headless, still twitching corpse. Blood gushed from the neck, and the horrified eyes stared at Jean for a moment. There were some who said that those who were beheaded lived for a few seconds afterward; in case that was true, Jean laughed at the dying face and said, “Your death brings me a boy child, or I curse your soul to the Devil.”
The eyes rolled up in the head. And Fantasme took his share while the assemblage cheered their familiar . . . and the heir of their Circle.
Laurent galloped up and cried, “Well done, my son!” He held out his hands, and Jean tossed the head into his father’s arms. Then he waved at his cheering fellows and cantered away to prepare for his wedding, leaving the others to take the rest of the peasants selected for the Hunt.
Moonlight and firelight gleamed across the courtyard of Castle Deveraux. The great stone gargoyles that had haunted Jean’s childhood nights stared down at the assembly, fire pouring from their snouts. Torch flames whipped in the warm air, and great bonfires flared from the tunnels leading down to the dreaded dungeons, infamous throughout France as bastions of unspeakable cruelty. Woe betide him who crosses a Deveraux, went the saying, and it was true. The Cahors had been wise to entangle their fate with the Deveraux, now that they knew the Deveraux had achieved the creation of Black Fire. They would be loath to have it used against them.
As was the custom of the day, Isabeau joined Jean in front of the closed chapel doors. Men and women married before church doors; thus it was no insult to the Bishop that they did not go inside the church. On this night of the Blood Moon, the two stood facing each other before banks of lilies and twining ivy. Lilies were the flower of the Cahors, and ivy, of the Deveraux. Fantasme and Pandion were present, each preening on a beautifully decorated perch. Loose them, and they would kill each other.
Isabeau was like a fantastic she-dragon, dressed as the mighty lady she was, and would become, in ebony shot with silver thread. But she trembled like a shy virgin, and by the light of the full moon, he saw how pale she was beneath her black and silver veil.
How long will you be my lady? he wondered silently. How long before our Houses feud once more, and I poison or behead you, or burn you at the stake?
At this, she looked up at him, her eyes flinty. She didn’t blink, didn’t waver as he returned her gaze. Her eyes glowed a soft blue. The air between them thrummed with tension. He was delighted; this lady had a spine, by the God! He’d best look to his own person, or she would be the one to do him in.
He chuckled low in his throat, then turned his attention to his father.
As the two houses chanted in Latin and languages even more ancient, Laurent held his athame at the ready, preparing to cut open the wrists of the marrying couple. The hood of his dark crimson robe concealing his face, he towered like a dark statue before the altar. Isabeau’s mother, Catherine, also wore black and silver; they were the colors of their House.
It was a glorious sight for those assembled, and power and passion flared and rose between the young couple as they were joined, soul to soul, until the end of days. Their wrists were cut and blood mingled together in flesh and into flesh, as Laurent and Catherine bound their children’s left arms together with cords soaked in herbals and unguents designed to ensure fertility. Both Houses were strong and boasted many young ones, but those of the Coventry were scattered throughout the land, and there could never be enough witches and warlocks in France to please either family.
Once more, Isabeau began trembling, and lowered her gaze. Jean was not fooled. The strong, cruel blood of Cahors ran through her veins. She was a skilled witch, and she had cast spells that could match many of his own in bloodless, single-minded purpose.
Indeed, he knew that she and her family believed they had arranged this match with their own magics, their aim being to tame the hot-blooded Deveraux. The two houses had never agreed on a single course of action to get what they wanted, which was complete control of their region of France, and in due time, the crown bestowed upon them by the Christian bishop at Reims. To win that, the Deveraux were active, direct, and violent. Enemies fell to curses or swords. Obstacles were cut down, burned, poisoned.
In contrast, the Cahors, while certainly no saints, preferred subterfuge and complicated diplomacy to further their own ends. Where a Deveraux would murder an inconvenient cardinal in his bed, the Cahors would entice him to their favor with jewels and maidens, or urge him to sin and then threaten blackmail. They pitted brother against brother, organizing whispering campaigns and planting false witnesses to such
extent that no one with any modicum of power could trust another.
Thus the Cahors claimed to be more discreet and peace-loving. They argued that the Deveraux were too obvious and overt with their use of spells and magics, and the hidden things that only those allied with “un-Christian elements” would know. With their “impatience,” the Deveraux provoked the common folk to grumble about witchcraft, and murmur about bringing down both families by appealing to the Pope.
The Deveraux, for their part, knew that the Cahors angered many of the other noble families and lines of France, to the point that several prominent castled names had refused to have anything to do with either Cahors or Deveraux. It was one thing to anger slaves; it was quite another to sever relations with slave owners.
Thus the Cahors, thinking themselves the cleverer of the two families, had decided to bind their heiress to the heir of Deveraux—they had no male issue in line for the castle—and Jean and Laurent had scoffed privately at their many spells and rituals designed to engender Jean’s lust for Isabeau. What they did not realize was that for years the Deveraux coven masters had sacrificed untold virgins and propitiated the Lord of the Greenwood in all his many guises, in order to inspire the Cahors to the match in the first place. Laurent wanted Isabeau Cahors in his castle—whether as his son’s wife or his own mistress, it made no difference. For if she lived in his castle, she was his hostage. The Cahors loved their daughter and would let no harm come to her. It must be clear to them that she was more likely to live to an old age if she was the property of a Deveraux man, and the mother of Deveraux sons.
All this ran through Jean’s mind during the ceremony, but at the instant that Isabeau’s blood mingled with his own, he was enflamed with love for her. Uncanny surges of adoration made him reel; he had always wanted to bed her, of course—what red-blooded man would not, for she was an unparalleled beauty—but now he could barely stand for love of her.
I not only desire her, but I love her truly, he thought, reeling. I love her in the manner in which weak men love women! I am unmanned! What have they done to me?
