She paused, half fearful and half curious. The chanting continued, rising and faling. Beldrise Forest was not likely to have an open place large enough for a farmer-priest’s congregation. One of the voices seemed to be a woman’s. Perhaps Thorn had met a man among the trees? Could these be the sounds lovers made while mating? All the more reason the sorceress should not go on.
But the cool wind was blowing in advance of the approaching storm, and the woman’s voice seemed higher and lighter than Thorn’s husky contralto.
If the swordswoman’s trail had not led in the direction of the chant, Frostflower could have followed her with a clear conscience. But Thorn apparently had moved toward the chant. The sorceress laid one hand on Dowl’s head, hoping he would understand the need to remain quiet. Then, holding Starwind close, ready to turn back at the first whine from baby or dog, or at the first alarming sign from ahead, she moved cautiously forward.
She saw the three warriors well before they had seen her. Thorn was leaning against a tree, an expression of bored annoyance on her face. The other two were standing on either side of her, also looking bored. One of them leaned against another tree, the second propped herself on her spear. All were carefully facing away from what appeared to be a small glade just beyond them. The chant came from this glade.
Frostflower shrank back, trying to hide herself better among the trees. Thorn seemed in no danger. Apparently she had merely chanced upon whatever was happening, and been made to wait until it was over. But why had she been made to wait instead of being sent away? And if she was in danger, would she not scorn to show it?
Ah, God, guide me! thought the sorceress. Do I truly need to know what is happening in that glade, so as to judge whether or not the situation is dangerous? Or do I merely seek an excuse to satisfy my own curiosity?
She stooped and gently pushed down the dog’s hindquarters, making him sit. When he began to whine, she held his mouth closed for a moment until he stopped, then left him, praying he would wait in silence. Starwind still slept peacefully in the crook of her arm.
She circled softly until she could glimpse the clearing between the trees. Someone and something were within; but Frostflower waited until she was almost directly opposite Thorn and the other two warriors before she ventured nearer.
The thing in the center of the glade was a stone altar, recently erected. It was carved of mountain granite, its hewn surfaces unweathered, its edges sharp and even. It stood about waist high, and around its base were niches, every one with its statue of some god, every statue still unchipped. On the altar knelt a woman; beside it, facing her, stood a man. Both were in profile to the sorceress, who watched from her hiding-place among the trees.
The man and woman were in the long white gowns of the farmers, and wore wreaths of metal wheat-heads in their hair, the man’s wreath golden, the woman’s silver. Then the man must be Maldron, the woman one of his wives or sisters. He was of medium height, stocky, with streaks of gray in his dark brown hair; she was tall and slender, with a long oval face and copper-colored hair braided high on her head. They had apparently come here arrayed in layers of ceremonial garments and weighted with jewelry, for on either end of the stone altar lay a pile of brightly-colored cloth and glinting metal; but now only a few necklaces and bracelets, and their gold and silver belts, remained on their bodies to offset the stainless white of their gowns.
They were chanting, gazing deeply into one another’s eyes as they chanted. At certain intervals, they would extend their arms and each remove some piece of jewelry from the other’s body, bend down (still gazing at one another) and add it to one of the piles already on the altar. Then each would pick up a golden cup and hand it to the other. They would drink, return the cups to the altar beside the piles of removed clothing and jewelry, and resume their chant.
So this was a ceremonial of the farmer-priests? Thus far, it seemed graceful and harmonious—indeed, harmless, but for the base of falsehood on which it rested and which it helped to further. And yet, how could it further the superstitious religion the farmers used to control the common folk? Here were none but two farmers, alone together. Even the warriors who had accompanied them to this glade were waiting outside, with their gaze averted. Since they were not wanted in the ceremony, and since no one would dare attack the person of a farmer-priest, the warriors must be stationed here to prevent anyone from witnessing the rites, as they were preventing Thorn. Then what purpose could such a ceremony have? Did the farmers themselves believe their own mythology?
Frostflower moved back a little, looking toward the warriors. If her surmise was correct, one of them should make a round of the trees enclosing the glade, to be sure no wanderer approached from another direction. But it seemed they must be confident that wanderers would come only from the direction of Straight Road. Yes: to the south were Maldron’s own fortifications, to the east and north was a far deeper stretch of woodland.
When the sorceress slipped closer once more to the glade, Maldron and the priestess were removing the wreaths from each other’s hair. Their gowns were already unbelted, the last of their jewelry removed. For the first time since Frostflower had been watching, they took their gaze from one another, lifting their faces and arms up toward the sky, then down toward the earth. They hooked their wreaths together, and Maldron touched them reverently to the woman’s abdomen, then knelt and laid them before one of the statues. Priest and priestess drank, looking again into one another’s eyes, and afterwards poured what remained of the dark purple beverage from their cups onto the ground on Maldron’s side of the altar. Then, silent now, they reached forward and began untying the neck ribbons that fastened each other’s white robes, slipping the unbound garments down around each other’s shoulders.
Frostflower turned away and slipped back through the trees. So this was nothing more than farmers’ love-making. Who would have thought they shrouded it with such ritual, even when alone together? Or that they would come so far from their own bedchambers? Those few sorceri who chose to sacrifice their vow of virginity and their powers for the sake of marrying and bringing children safely into their retreats used love-making as a simple wonder, requiring no more ceremonies than did the resulting childbirth—at least, so far as Frostflower knew. But perhaps all other folk of the Tanglelands followed such preliminary rituals as she had just witnessed through her foolish curiosity? Dared she question Thorn? No—such knowledge would be useless and perhaps dangerous to her. Besides, despite her embarrassment, she smiled at the mental image of the sunbrowned, tumble-haired warrior kneeling docilely on an altar and permitting some tradesman to strip her of weapons and garments.
Dowl was waiting where Frostflower had left him. He rose and came toward her. She cupped her hand round his mouth just in time to keep him from barking.
And now? Should she retreat at once, or wait here until she saw Thorn permitted to return? They must certainly release Thorn; and the sorceress had already strained her vow of prudence to the limit. Yet what reason could they have to hold the swordswoman this long? Frostflower crouched beside Dowl, her left hand stroking his head while her right arm cradled the sleeping baby. Before her, a few faint grunts and moans came from the glade. Behind her, the first thunder rolled faintly in the distance. Dowl shrugged his ears, but her stroking kept him silent. The sorceress began to count her heartbeats.
At about the thousandth heartbeat, the farmers began to chant again. This time it lasted only a few moments. Then, after more moments of silence, Maldron came out to the three warriors. He was again dressed in his white robe, belted with the gold chain. His wreath was on his head, a single gold necklace around his throat, and he carried one of the golden cups.
“The senses must be purified, of all who have witnessed these mysteries,” he intoned, in a voice that seemed meant to call forward anyone who, like Frostflower, had wandered near the glade. The sorceress shivered and kept her hand clamped round Dowl’s mouth.
The first spearwoman turned, stepped forward
, and knelt before the farmer-priest. Having dipped his forefinger into the cup, Maldron touched her ears, each in turn. He dipped his finger again, bent, and touched her eyelids, afterwards handing her the cup. When she had drunk a little, he took it back, dipped his finger a third time, and sprinkled her. Finally, he motioned for the next warrior.
So this was all! Or would it be all for Thorn? Frostflower watched while the farmer touched and sprinkled his second warrior. Then Thorn advanced, knelt like the others, and underwent exactly the same process.
The sorceress allowed herself a sigh of relief, then silently upbraided herself for having followed the swordswoman at all. Dowl might have betrayed her—he tried to obey, but was much too friendly to understand that some people were enemies. Or Starwind might have awakened at any moment. Frostflower considered slipping back again the way she had come…but best not try it yet. Here, she was in a small depression, well screened by several large trees. Better not to risk leaving her cover until Maldron and his party had gone. The wind was strengthening, the thunder coming nearer; but the storm was less threat to her than discovery by the farmer-priest. Why did they not leave?
Maldron stood between his two oak trees, slowly gazing around the forest. Could he suspect? Frostflower shrank a little deeper into her hiding place.
“You will shelter with us for the night. Will you not, swordswoman?” said the farmer. The tone of ceremony had not quite left his voice.
“All gods keep you, Reverence. But I’m expected at Gammer’s Oak.”
“I doubt you can reach the town before the storm.”
“Then I’ll get wet.” Thorn shrugged. “I’ve been wet before.”
A single clap of thunder sounded, close enough to be distinct rather than muddled. A few steps to Frostflower’s left, some small animal suddenly broke cover and bounded away. Dowl strained to get up, his muscles twitching for the chase; but she kept her hand tight around his mouth and he subsided, thumping his tail once in perplexity.
Maldron and his warriors looked toward the sound. Surely they must know it for a forest creature?
“A rabbit,” said Thorn. “With your Reverence’s permission, I might still give that storm a decent race.”
“Not yet, swordswoman.” Maldron transferred the cup to his left hand, while with his right he removed the gold chain from around his neck and dipped it into the liquid. His manner had once again become completely ceremonial, completely solemn. He lifted the chain, held it dripping for a moment, then tossed it to the ground in front of him. Looking down at it, he raised his arm and pointed towards the area where Frostflower crouched, where the rabbit had broken cover. “Some other has witnessed our mysteries.”
“I’ll search the middle,” said Thorn. “Clopmule, you take the left, Wasp—”
“You are not in my hire, swordswoman, nor raidleader of my warriors,” said the farmer-priest. Then, lifting his voice, “Unknown witness, come forward now! You will have seen the rite of purification. It is nothing to fear.”
Aye, nothing, for a common person. But for a sorceron, who might be hung for a night for so much as listening with one ear against an outer wall to hear a farmers’ chant…
“Be it was you will,” Maldron said after a pause. “Wasp, Clopmule.”
The two strange warriors touched fists to lips and started forward, the swordswoman of them limping.
They would come slowly until something moved, then they would rush toward the movement. As soon as the spearwoman saw a figure in the black robe of the sorceri, she would hardly scruple to throw; and although there were many trees which might deflect the spear… If nothing moved, they would continue to search until Maldron were either proved right, or until he himself called them back with some excuse for his augury having been mistaken. Since Frostflower was too near the glade to hope they would not reach her, Maldron’s guess would be proved correct.
Her best chance, then, was to come forward. She knew little about Maldron, after all—and some farmer-priests could be merciful. If he did not question her so that she must confess actually having seen part of the mysteries, she might escape comparatively easily. Ah, but to step forward with Starwind, to add the weight of that suspicion to the offense of having heard the chant…
She must choose quickly, while Wasp and Clopmule were still far away. Feeling as if she were tearing out her own heart, she laid Starwind softly on the layers of old leaves and whispered to Dowl, “Protect!” He would give no protection against any human who approached, but he would lie by the child to keep it warm and to frighten off any chance forest creature.
Frostflower tried to cry out that she was coming, but her throat was constricted. She stroked Dowl’s head one last time, then stood and took several hasty steps forward.
“Damn!” said Thorn.
Frostflower looked up and saw Maldron’s spearwoman taking aim.
“Lower your spear, Wasp,” said the farmer.
“But a sorceron, Reverence—”
“If she was going to blast us, she’d have done it by now,” said Thorn.
Maldron glanced at her. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, warrior. I am judge here. Sorceress, come forward.”
Common folk usually showed their fear of sorceri. Farmer-priests did not. Frostflower came forward with arms crossed over her breast and head lowered, an attitude calculated to reassure farmers’ folk, who seemed to think sorceri could not use their power when holding their arms thus. She glimpsed the spearwoman moving to one side, keeping her in range for a sudden throw; she heard the uneven stride of Maldron’s swordswoman moving in at her back, no doubt preparing to strike quickly from behind at the first suspicious move. They credited sorceri at once with so much power, and so little! The storm would soon be near enough, and then Frostflower could direct a charge of lightning before they realized she had begun concentration. But, please God, it might not be necessary.
“What have you seen and heard, sorceress?” asked the farmer.
“Enough to know this was a private ceremony, Reverence.” Frostflower kept her head bowed. A glimpse of her eyes would not incline Maldron to believe her.
“So you came no closer?”
He was shrewd; already she was pressed to find answers that would appear to lessen her guilt without being untruthful. “I was closer for a time, Reverence, but I retreated again.”
“Close enough to see?”
“She couldn’t have been,” said Thorn. “We never saw her.”
Maldron frowned at the swordswoman, then at his own two warriors. “Nor did you suspect her presence when she was as close to you as the sixth tree in an orchard is to the first. Sorceress, what did you see?”
The thunder grumbled, a little closer yet.
“What difference does it make what she saw?” asked Thorn. “I saw a few things myself, before your women turned me around. Purify her and let us go, Reverence.”
“Do you try to command a priest, warrior?” said Maldron. “More than wine is needed to purify a sorceron. There must be pain also, and blood mixed with the wine…”
“Well, how long will it take?” Thorn demanded.
The farmer turned towards her. “You are traveling with this sorceress?”
“Hellbog, no! I never saw her before in my life, Reverence. I just want to leave before the storm hits us.”
Frostflower felt a twinge of envy for Thorn’s freedom to lie quickly and easily.
“Then leave, swordswoman. You are purified.”
The sorceress risked a glance at Thorn—the angle was such that she hoped Maldron would not see the colors of her eyes. “Do not wait to be rained upon, warrior,” she said respectfully, trying to send a silent appeal: Return to where I was hiding. Find Starwind—keep him warm and dry. Even if you hate your son—save him!
“Get out of here, Thorn!” said the swordswoman behind Frostflower. “His Reverence told you to leave!”
“He gave me permission to leave, Clopmule. It happens I’m curious to see this.”
Thorn reddened and touched her fist to her lips. The farmer turned back to Frostflower and lowered his voice again. “There must be pain in the guilty senses to purify them.”
Frostflower trembled. “Will you deafen me, Reverence?”
“I would not be overly harsh.… We will do best to return to my hall while I think of this.”
To be taken inside a farmer’s dwelling—held prisoner there, more at his mercy than most common folk suspected—subject to some unknown purification which threatened her hearing and sight—perhaps even her power! To risk the horrors of a farmer’s dungeon! Yet she might have gone meekly—she thought she might have been willing to go—if she could trust Thorn to remain behind and recover the infant.
But Thorn seemed determined to remain near her. The sorceress knelt before the farmer-priest. “I beg your Reverence, if it is possible, purify me at once, here beneath the trees. Even if you must be more harsh.”
He might choose the surest and quickest way—signal Clopmule behind her to use the sword. Or he might stab her ears and eyes at once, without trying to devise a gentler rite. But the storm was almost near enough now, almost above them. If she could delay Maldron only a little longer, she might soon be able to catch a bolt.
The farmer sighed. “Well, then, a small slit in the skin just below each eye, just inside each ear, on the tip of the tongue; then a few drops of wine poured over each slit and organ. There is the pain and the blood. Best add a time of lying in the rain afterwards, until the stain is washed away. We will leave you to guard the sorceress, Thorn.”
“Will you pay me a silver or two for standing guard in the rain, Reverence?”
Frostflower and Thorn Page 4
