The Given Sacrifice c-7

by S. M. Stirling

  “What did she say?” Órlaith asked, startled into intense interest.

  “She sort of looked at me. . you know how mothers do, like you’re still about four. . and put her hand on mine and said in this amazingly irritating calm voice: ‘Darling, isn’t it possible this is just a phase you’re going through?’”

  Heuradys smiled ruefully at the ring of grins. “And my lord my father and Auntie Tiph didn’t help.”

  “Did they get upset too?” Órlaith asked.

  “No, they laughed. I mean, really laughed-I thought my lord my father was going to hurt himself. So Mom and I both got mad at them, which made them laugh even harder. I’ve never seen Auntie Tiph break up that way, not even when she heard about Sir Boleslav trying to drink a whole bottle of vodka standing in a castle window and the moat had been drained, and my lord my father was staggering when he got up and left. I think he told Sir Julio because then I could hear him laughing after a while.”

  Ingolf shook his head and grinned and seemed to be searching his memory.

  Ritva frowned a little. “It’s sort of funny. . I mean, most Associates are such strong Catholics and they’re really odd about things like that, so I can see, you know, some other mother doing things just like that if it were the other way ’round, or screaming and fainting. . but why was it that funny?”

  “I asked my lord my father and he just said I was far too young to understand-and so was my mother, a little too young. So it must be some pre-Change thing. You forget he’s not a Changeling sometimes because he’s so. . not a fuddy-duddy. Even Auntie Tiph isn’t a Changeling, not all the way-she was as old at the Change as you are now, Órry. But my lady mother was just a kid, younger than my sister Yolande.”

  The story seemed to break the awkwardness, and everyone pitched into dinner. Órlaith found her appetite was right back, and when you were sharp-set wild boar was absolutely scrumptious, rich but stronger-tasting than domestic pork. There wasn’t any butter for the biscuits, but the drippings did fine, and then her aunts Mary and Ritva got out their mandolin and flute.

  Much later in the tent, she reached across to the other cot and squeezed Heuradys’ hand in the darkness, the calluses matching her own.

  “Thanks, Herry. You’ve been a real brick.”

  “Hey, I’m going to be your liege-sworn knight someday, Órry.”

  “I know. But it’s even better to have a friend. ’night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dun Juniper, Dùthchas of the Clan Mackenzie

  (formerly western Oregon)

  High Kingdom of Montival

  (Formerly western North America)

  Beltane Eve, Change Year 42/2040 AD

  Órlaith almost missed her step in the dance as she checked the bower she’d built out of the corner of her eye.

  The nemed of Dun Juniper was a place whose name woke awe across the High Kingdom, the Sacred Wood. A circle of ancient oaks stood on a knee of land on the side of the mountain, many planted long ago with their successors in all stages of growth, a ring of smooth brown trunks like hundred-foot pillars and a continuous band of intermingled branches above bright-with-the-green new leaves. The path upward to the plateau was steep, winding back and forth through the dense green fir-woods, but it was filled tonight-not only with visitors from all over the Clan’s dùthchas, but others from across Montival and even a few from beyond it.

  For this was the center of the Old Faith in the world the Change had made, and its mistress was Goddess-on-Earth.

  Tonight the great trees of the circle were bound together with chains of woven flowers, budding roses, wood hyacinths and lilies of the valley, pansies and impatiens and larkspur. Torches burned in the wrought-iron holders at the four Quarters, and fire flickered before the shaped boulder that was the altar. They beckoned and glittered through the cool dampness and the thickness of the hillside firs. It was a gathering, a party really. . but there was something of otherness about this place, even on a quiet day alone. Tonight that feeling was raw and strong, the focused belief of the multitude like a weight stretching thin the walls of the world.

  Órlaith shivered a little in spite of the thick white wool robe she wore, feeling goose bumps against the fabric.

  Old Sybil Leek said it: Let those who would dance through the woods skyclad. I have too much respect for my own skin!

  Her feet swayed and moved to the rhythm that turned the dancer’s torches in the long line down the hillside. The ancient dancing style the Mackenzies practiced had various and sundry purposes; keeping you warm while on the trail to the nemed was certainly one of them. Another was the way the rhythm took you beyond yourself, until it seemed to settle into bone and breath and heartbeat.

  Fiorbhinn Mackenzie was May Queen. She sang greeting to flute and bohdrán as she danced, her silver and crystal-embroidered robe like a glitter on dew-starred grass between the two balefires at the entrance to the plateau; the only other sound was the rippling of the fire as it ate the fir-wood, and the wind soughing in the tops of the trees. Her hands were upraised, and her great pale eyes full of the moonlight; long blond hair swept down past the shoulders of her robe mingled with wreaths of white meadowsweet and blue hyacinth.

  The procession whirled by on either side, each dancer like notes of the song:

  “Moon rise and star fall

  Fire burn and night wind call

  Drum beat the wild song

  That heart sings at summer’s dawn!”

  The robed procession wound its way into the clearing, a spiral around the great circle of the nemed. Juniper Mackenzie was present with her consort Nigel Loring, seated in a pair of carved chairs whose backs echoed the twin ravens at the top of her staff and the corvine beak of his mask, each wrapped in a thick cloak. Her lined face was smiling, but this time for the first Beltane since the Change she was not presiding over the celebrations. That was for her daughter and successor Maude who now had the Triple Moon on her brow, no longer tanist but the Mackenzie Herself. She’d said she didn’t intend to dodder into her grave as Chief, the time had come when the Clan needed a Changeling at its head, and Maude could always come to her parents for advice. .

  “Sown are the new fields

  With bright seed of harvest’s yield

  Far down the roots bind

  The heart’s joy to summer’s time!”

  That glance aside at her bower meant she nearly tripped over Aunt Maude. The Chief laughed gently as she caught her spinning niece and righted her, her usually rather gravely handsome features alight with the festival. Nobody was drunk before the ceremony, but wine and the whirling ecstasy of the dance and drums were in many veins. Órlaith gripped Maude tightly for one short instant before a quick, light push sent her dancing up the path to rejoin the rest of the May Queen’s maidens, all dressed in white.

  “Leave the fire and come with me

  We’ll lie beneath the flowering tree

  And feel the breathing of the earth

  Rise and fall!”

  As one of the Maidens, Órlaith had set many of the stitches in the May Queen’s robe, and the more hidden white ones on her own, matching the white rhododendron flowers confining her hair. Five maidens attended the Queen, for the Elements and the Quarters and the hidden thing that united them all.

  Earth and Air and Fire and Water! And Spirit!

  She was Air, a belt of pale blue sapphires and cloudy white opals set in silver around her waist to symbolize it. Fire was the daughter of fiosaiche Meadhbh Beauregard Mackenzie, all dark skin and tossing plaited hair, her white robes belted with ruby and carnelian and gold. Earth and Water were both younger, Earth the granddaughter of Cynthia Carson, Water Diana Trethgar’s eldest boy’s youngest daughter. Spirit was Heuradys d’Ath, grinning at her companions with an imp’s light in her amber eyes.

  “The green time sings its song again

  To wake the hill, to wake the glen

  And raise in every living thing

  An answering call!”
>
  Órlaith smiled widely at Delia de Stafford as she danced by, her daughter Yolande laughing behind her, their black tossing hair the same shade of night with the white blossom in it like stars. Órlaith’s stitching had improved enormously in five weeks of tutoring Delia had given her and her robe reflected it. A Beltane robe was something you made with your own hands, as an offering.

  “Leap o’er the May fire

  Hold close your sweet desire

  For life’s Wheel will grant soon

  The heart’s wish for summer’s bloom!”

  Which is what I want! Órlaith thought.

  Suddenly she was breathing quickly at the sound of horns lowing and dunting through the wood, as if the sound snatched her breath away. There was a music in that call too, low and hoarse and. . hot somehow, like the sound of the bull elk’s call echoing across a mountainside.

  And as Fiorbhinn danced through the ancient oaks’ arch, the men from Cernunnos’ court entered the sacred grove from all points, a leaping torrent of torches and wildness, bare skin and paint and tossing fire. Raghnall McClintock of Clan McClintock was the Horned One tonight. Years back his father had sent him to Dun Juniper to learn the trade of chief, for the head of a clan was intermediary with the Powers as much as ruler and battle-leader, his folk’s link to the land and ancestors. Now he returned from his southern hills to do honor to its mistress. He was a tall man, strong through the shoulders and with long brown hair drawn back in the McClintock queue through carved bone rings, his face half-hidden behind the tanned deer mask.

  And his Fire Squire was Diarmuid Tinnart McClintock, whom she’d met days ago in the preparations for the ceremony. Their glances had crossed. .

  “Green shoot and pale flower

  Garland the Beltane bower

  Circle with joined hands

  For heart shines with summer’s dance!”

  Órlaith felt the movement of her blood, from face and heart and loins out to the tips of fingers and toes, an unfolding like flowers beneath the sun, like waves beating on a beach, a sweet inevitable rightness. Diarmuid was wearing the horns and deer breechclout, his feet bare on the flowered turf and the muscles of a runner and bowman moving clear as liquid metal beneath white skin that glowed taut and clear. Though he was too young for a McClintock warrior’s tattoos, swirling blue patterns in woad showed where they would run on back and shoulders, legs and arms. From behind the bright red paint on his face, she could see his dark blue eyes cast about, seeking her among the maidens.

  Generally I pay more attention to ritual, she thought, halting in her dance in Earth’s place. But ritual is symbol and this is the truth it speaks.

  “Leave the fire and come with me

  To walk beside the dreaming sea

  And watch the fading of the stars

  As the new day dawns!”

  Cynthia Carson giggled and pushed her back to Air’s proper place.

  “Your ribbon is blue!” she whispered and exploded into giggles again.

  Órlaith felt herself flush to the roots of her hair, trying to keep her place in the circle.

  Panpipes sounded, weaving themselves into the hymn. She skipped forward to the maypole set in the center. Fiorbhinn and Raghnall seized the silver and gold ribbons. Each pair of Maiden and Squire took the colored ribbon of their Attribute and backed away, turning the long ribbons into a net of colored tracery in the fire-shot darkness.

  “We’ll try to catch time in our hands

  To hold the wave against the sand

  And watch this glow upon the land

  That soon will be gone!”

  The drums beat and Órlaith felt a shiver stroke her backbone, like the touch of a feather drawn from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck.

  This year, she prayed. Mother-of-All, this year, when we are both together, please let him. .

  She hesitated, not sure what she wanted from Diarmuid this year. There was a sense of eyes opening at the back of existence. A presence. . a Presence. . fond and amused, gone before she could be sure it was anything but her own yearning. Like a warm breeze carrying with it a scent of cinnamon and musk.

  The circle had danced forward and back, now pulling on the orange and purple ribbons. And the beat came and Órlaith danced, weaving in and out, over and over, hand touching each passing dancer, men tuathal, women deosil, invoking and evoking the spring, the growth, the green, the rain. And each time Diarmuid went past, he stroked her palm rather than swing her hand.

  “So drum beat and flute sound

  Once more we’ll circle ’round

  For the world turns and the Wheel spins

  And all ends that once begins!

  This green hour, the heart knows,

  Is brief as the budding rose

  Though Wheel turn and bloom fade

  The heart sings the birth of May!”

  The ribbons tightened down as they danced and circled, binding the May Queen and May King in place, against the pole and each other, then the purple and orange ribbons closed upon her and the other Maidens and Squires, they were pressed forward, into the center, bound to the pole by the rest. The dancers halted and flung their hands up in a roar of laughter.

  Órlaith heard the great shout and whispered, “Merry meet and merry part. .”

  “And merry get these ribbons gone!” she heard Raghnall grumble.

  Delia came and tied the maypole ribbons tightly to the top above the heads of the May Queen and King and laughed, mischievous joy in her voice.

  “So, Horned Lord, King of the Wood? Can you free yourself and take your prize?”

  Maude stood beside Delia, laughing too.

  “And free the Maidens and Squires that they may chase one another through the bowers!”

  From the cocoon of ribbons Raghnall began to saw at the tangle of tough smooth fabric with the flint blade tucked into his breechclout, the cloth parting to the touch of the keen stone. By custom he should have taken the May Queen by the hand and led her to the Queen’s Bower. Instead he caught her up in his arms and dashed headlong away, flourishing his antlers and giving a startlingly realistic bull-elk call, while Fiorbhinn laughed and threw up her arms in a theatrical gesture of helplessness. Maude paused thunderstruck. Out at the edge of darkness Juniper thumped her staff on the ground and laughed as well.

  Órlaith was falling back when a feather touch on her shoulder brought her head around and her lips into a kiss.

  “Diarmuid!” she gasped and then her hand darted forward, grasping and pulling at the wreath that encircled the gilded spikes of his antlers.

  It broke and came away in her hand. By the law of the rite he must follow now; she darted away, hearing his sudden laugh, and knew him to be behind her. She ran, darting through the many people who cheered as she passed, calling luck-bringing-and bawdy-encouragement. Her legs kicked high, the skirts of the robe flying. As she ran, sweet heat gathered in her chest, and curled out, like a leaf uncurling in May indeed.

  Diarmuid sprang ahead, spread his arms and she fled down another path, doubled back.

  “By Flidais!” she invoked, trying to dodge under his arms and back to the main path. He caught her by the waist, spinning her around and up, and up and up, his horns falling off, her flower wreaths disintegrating into showers of petals. His lips sought hers, questing at first and then as her body took fire, becoming more insistent, more demanding. She gasped as he lifted his face and looked around.

  “Where. .” he asked, distractedly. Órlaith blinked and cast a quick glance at the woods.

  “Here!” she said. “I was with the crew that prepared this stretch.”

  “A pity,” murmured Diarmuid, “a pity. I set up a bower I hoped to bring you to.”

  Órlaith giggled, “But so did I! It’s a little farther up!”

  There was another bower, just behind them, with an oiled tarp, strewn with petals, a hay mattress, two quilts, one old, one new, one blue, one green, pillows and at the far end, a small box that would hav
e wine and nibblements for later.

  “They do say that it’s bad luck to use the one you set up.”

  Órlaith hiked her skirts to get at the boots and squeaked when Diarmuid let himself fall like a tree next to her on the hay tick.

  She yanked them off and he laughed. .

  “Something borrowed!” he said holding up a pair of socks.

  She was laughing, but it seemed to catch in her throat as Diarmuid leaned over her. “Shall I put them on you?”

  She blushed furiously. “Not, not, not now. Diarmuid!”

  He was bending for another kiss, but pulled back: “Yes, Golden Girl?”

  “Bah!” she said, her embarrassed mood breaking, “You would tease on that! Diarmuid, have you? I mean, I, ah. .”

  He sat up abruptly. “Haven’t,” he said shortly.

  Órlaith opened her mouth, looked at the tense back and flopped back. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  He turned swiftly, “Thank goodness?”

  “Thank Goddess. It seems right to learn with somebody. All my tutors teach me, but this, this should be different and special.”

  His dark blue eyes lightened and he stroked a hand down her cheek. “Can I kiss every inch of your body?”

  “Well, you can, but from all I’ve heard, it’s not going to last very long.”

  “Yes, that’s what Da told me, and all the older boys say the same.”

  “And the girls to me!”

  “So if we can’t make one time last, let’s see how many times we can do! And that will take us to the dawn!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  County of Napa, Crown Province of Westria

  (Formerly California)

  High Kingdom of Montival

  (Formerly western North America)

  April 29th, Change Year 46/2044 AD

  “Speak to me, they speak to me

  Of sky and wind, of sea and stone

  Of moss and fern and cedar tree

  Of cliffs where wild arbutus grow!”

  Hooves beat through the mild spring warmth beneath the song as the Royal party and its escort of lancers and longbowmen and train of pack-beasts and varlets made their way south. It was as small a group as the High King of Montival and his heir could get away with on such a long trip to the wild frontier and not have Lord Chancellor Ignatius make yet another attempt to retire to his monastery in protest. The air was thick with birdsong, and swirls of Tortoiseshell butterflies rose before the hooves of the mounted party.