Caer’s past would be hidden from her, Beren thought. Caer would not fight and win as she hoped, not until love touched her heart. Perhaps she would love the boy her mother bound her to. Beren hoped and listened to the words of the young prophet.
“The battle will be met in Sul, the last Dark War. Men will join her; sons and fathers will die. The world forever will change, for Y Erianrod must come among us, and shed her mantle of secrecy. The evil one will fall, but a price must be paid in a life.
“A life must be taken to bring balance again into the world of magic. One must perish, either the Mór-Ríogain or Y Erianrod. A terrible sacrifice will be made. One who stands for good will fall into death. A life must be sacrificed for another to have life. The battle will meet here in the gods' council.”
Blood would be spilled; such Beren expected. War would come again to these lands, which she knew also. The Dark Wars Belial, second Dark Lord of the earth, already rekindled in the west; in the west she brought Eliudnir to life again.
Those wars already came upon them.
Her daughter would bear a mantle of secrecy, as the demon bore the mantle of power. Beren’s daughter would not be above Beren’s sister, but an equal and opposite of her. Miðgarðir would change when the light and the darkness met in Sul, when the fates decided a victor.
One must die for balance again to be brought to the lands of magic. Her sister would fall, but what price did the prophet speak of which must be paid, a price paid in the blood of another?
And the victory would be bitter, even in the minds of her forebearers.
“In the lands of magic,” Headred continued, “under the shade of Keros, Mór-Ríogain and Y Erianrod will meet their destinies. Náströnd, the door under the mountain, must be opened. The heart of the world must be reforged. The will of Belial holds sway over the heart of the world, and so the child of light must pass within. In Ull, in the shade of the mountain, the armies of Óskópnir and Sul will meet, and the fate of the lands will be forged.”
Beren understood. They would meet their destiny in the White City. The door under the mountain, locked away from Beren long ago when her sister succumbed to her birthright by Moloch, would be opened. But here they would face each other, and the victor would be decided.
Belial would not wait for this to happen. Through her dark arts she already would have peered into the fates and read what she wished. Yet the future would be clouded, and by the will of the gods Caer would be kept safe.
The demon would try to vanquish the light.
“Come,” Beren said to Hamald, as the prophet gathered his son onto his mare. “We will go into the city and bind our children in blood, love, and magic. Time grows short, and much remains to be done.”
“But milady…” Hamald started.
“Come.”
Her order hung in the air above them as she mounted her horse. Breca and Hamald followed her frantic pace to the White City where the fate of Miðgarðir and Sul would be decided, where the war would begin.
But not today, Beren thought.
“You saw what would come,” Caer breathed as she looked at Headred. Her mind reeled with the revelations. She always knew Beoreth held something back from her.
Caer sat on a chair, wrapped in a woolen shawl as she stared at the flames of the fire. When the fire began to burn lower, she threw another log onto it.
The flames licked the blackened hearthstones. Orange light illuminated the brown earth walls. It seemed so hard to believe. Her mind swam with revelations unveiled to her in the short time since Headred arrived.
Caer wondered, not for the first time, if when she awakened Headred would be gone. What would she do if she discovered this truth to be a figment of her imagination, another dream she would wake up from?
It couldn’t be. It felt too potent.
This truth seemed conceivable, for this life she always knew to be a fantasy, the reality she learned about now and the world of her birth to be verity. She realized the existence in Fensalir to be a comfortable dream she would never know again.
Everyone seemed to think of her as some kind of messiah. What could they mean? Headred’s story revealed so many secrets. No one could understand what she felt. After all, not every day did one discover oneself to be the prophesied messiah sent to deliver the lands from evil.
“Let Headred tell the tale of the demon.” Beoreth motioned to him to begin. “And it would be wise, I think, to try not to interrupt. I will speak for what you do not know.”
Headred breathed as he prepared to recount the tale. Firelight played across their faces, as Caer listened. The old wise woman shook with anguish, sorrowful for what happened, for never telling the truth to the child she thought of as her own.
“Let me tell you the truth you never knew,” Headred warned, and as Beoreth cried, he continued.
*****
“But milady…” Beoreth cried, walking behind the Queen who bore her daughter to the tower.
“Trust in me, Beoreth, my friend,” Beren said to her friend and advisor.
The silver tresses on the wise woman’s head prickled at the sound of the Queen’s voice.
“Milady,” Beoreth sighed. “You must rest, and you must heal… if you do not you will not be able to fight our enemies when they come upon us.”
“They will not come upon us yet,” Beren said, turning before entering the chamber. “I stop it here. We will fight another day.” The baby wiggled in her arms and nipped at her breast in hunger. “She will fight another day.”
Beoreth threw up her hands and followed Beren into the chamber, where Headred tried his best to look brave, his eyes darting at the Queen and Hamald. His father stood behind him, his hands on Headred’s shoulders.
“Let us begin,” Beren said, handing the baby to the midwife.
Beoreth held the baby and looked at her innocent face. Once again it struck her, how the gods could be so merciful, and yet so cruel. For all mortals did, all they strived for, all the gifts they received, always a price must be paid.
A sweet face must pay for the painful destiny awaiting her. She would love Headred and would choose between his life and the salvation of the world.
Beren led Headred by the hand away from his father, to the center of the room. Hamald drew the window shutters. The firelight played on the figures around him, illuminating their faces as they stood in silence.
“I call to the Earth,” Beren began. “I call the mother, who knows the pain of birth; and the children upon her, both good and evil, hear my call.
“I call to the Fire, to the Wind, to the Water; elements within her spirit, hear my cry.”
She gazed around the room and stopped at Headred. She placed the boy’s small hand on the hand of her baby daughter.
“Two spirits, two hearts we bind tonight, by rope, by pledge, by love, by right. We call on the realms of Miðgarðir, to care for this bond we forge. We call to the gods; bless this union we make.”
Beneath the city, in the shadow of Kern, the earth quaked. The stars grew as bright as a thousand suns. The waters of the eastern seas thrashed and roared, and the winds rose and fell in Sul.
It passed, and silence overcame them.
Beren took a cord and wrapped it once around the hand of the boy. Beren saw fear in his eyes. Though he held the power of the gods, as she possessed the gift of magic, he never saw a witch cast a spell.
“God and goddess, by blood and by right I offer challenge to thee, to separate the wills of these two spirits by force and magic. Or bind them, I ask, by magic and rite, together as one.”
She wrapped the remainder of the cord around her daughter’s limp hand as the baby slept in her nursemaid’s arms.
And when the hands of the Witch Queen left it, the rope glowed with the radiance of the moon, cast by Frigg, goddess of light, of love, and of sanctity, whose globe shown down now on the wintry world.
“By god and goddess, demon foe,” Beren said, her voice low, almost a whisper. �
�I bind them now in holy union beneath the heavens. By Mother Earth, fire, wind, and sea, elements four I ask, this union blessed be.”
The rope fell to the floor without a sound. She finished the handfasting. The children would always be joined together, as their fates intertwined. They would live even if others did not. She saved two lives, and now one must be sacrificed.
The Witch Queen prayed for mercy.
*****
“Milady!” Gasping, Athellind collapsed onto the floor of the tower chamber, exhausted. The ritual finished, Beren stopped to look at the healer. Athellind's feet, frozen by blizzard she ran through to get here, were white. Her heart raced for terror of the wolves in the woods; all of the way to the city she feared they saw her.
And her heart raced for the child who slept in Beoreth’s arms, and for the revenge of Belial.
“Athellind, what troubles you this night?” Hamald asked the chief of the healers, fearing she broke the circle of power forged by the Queen.
“I have seen.” She pointed to her eyes. “Waermund betrays us. He drinks the blood of magical creatures. In the woods this night he called to the demon and betrayed the Queen.”
Beren’s face remained placid. She knew this would come. She foresaw it. “Close the gates. No more will pass into this city tonight.”
They stared at her. Hamald moved first, making for the door and carrying the order to Raed, wondering how long it would be before the Belial’s armies gathered at the gates and the city descended into fires and damnation.
“Athellind,” Beren laid her hand on the healer’s head. “Be frightened no more, my sister, for the time comes not for the darkness to hold sway over the White City, or over the destiny of my daughter.”
“Milady,” the healer begged. “She will strike now; she will kill the child!”
“I know,” Beren said, as a single tear slid down her face. “Yet I know also my daughter will be safe for a time.”
Beren lifted the child from the arms of her nursemaid. “Do you remember, my faithful friend,” she whispered to Beoreth. “Enyd gave to your mother Berwyn a child to care for: Belial, damned from her birth.”
Beoreth shook her head, her eyes pleading.
“I do not want to ask this of you, but I must,” Beren explained. “For the yoke I place upon you will be far greater than the last.”
“Milady, I cannot raise your child while you surrender to your enemy,” Beoreth fell to her knees, beseeching Beren.
“I do not sacrifice myself to the darkness,” Beren said, letting tears run from her eyes. “I ask you to take her and raise her where hope lingers. Take her and leave this place, and trust the enchantment I wove will protect you and her until the time comes for you to return.”
Beoreth cried, thinking of her husband, children, and grandchildren. They would also die in the fire of the demon if the child died. “I will do as you wi-wish,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Good.” Beren kissed her daughter’s face, handing Caer back to the old woman. “Take her and prepare her. You must leave tonight, and the journey will be long.”
“Aye,” Beren muttered through her tears, looking at the face of a child who would not know her mother, and praying to the gods Caer would not suffer the same fate as Belial.
*****
A rapt silence fell over the listeners as Headred finished and stared at the woman who never knew of the truth of her birth. Caer perceived the fire in his eyes, hatred for the demon and her kindred and also, she thought, in part for her.
“We are connected by magic?” Caer asked, feeling a cold ache in her heart. Her mother handfasted him to her, bound them not by love, but by a spell cast in desperation. Caer thought herself just a stupid girl. He was no prince, not like the stories.
“Yes,” Headred answered. “Our people practiced handfasting for generations.”
Caer stared at the floor. He did not care for her as she cared for him. And he would not see her cry. He would not see her sorrow, not now, not ever, not if she could help it. She would just forget about him, as he seemed to forget about her, about the meeting in the woods so many years ago. She winced.
Though as a child he did not know the girl in the woods to be his betrothed, he knew now the girl to be Caer; he would know her as the girl whom he met in the woods, ever a childish little girl, and not a woman.
And in dreams did he love her from his heart? She wondered. Or did he love her because magic willed him to?
“Never before have I known of a union between the prophets and the witches,” Beoreth explained. “While witches and prophets share the gift of magic, they hold different and equal parts of the gods’ powers. A child born of such a union would hold the full power of the gods.”
“We are the servants of mortals,” Headred said. “A mortal woman, Veleda, and the god Heimdall conceived the first of the prophets Aske, and the first of the fairies in their daughter Mab. ‘Tis our curse, for Veleda wed a mortal man, and bore him a daughter, Dana, the mother of the witches, who in turn bore a daughter by Woden. And for the adulterous mating of Veleda and Heimdall, for her betrayal of her husband, her children the gods made to leave behind the mortal world, or to serve the will of others within it. A child of a witch and a prophet would hold great power, both of magic and prophecy.”
“Why bind you to me?” Caer asked Headred.
Headred shook his head. “None now know Beren’s motivations.”
Beoreth nodded. “She had her reasons,” Beoreth said, “and I believe she did so to protect you both.”
Headred moved on, to continue the tale.
*****
Waermund saw the gates above him, the White City gleaming in the stillness of the night. And with his unnatural power he felt the demon far away, beyond the western mountain, where the gates of the Eliudnir deep in Óskópnir opened, and the armies of Belial amassed.
The gates of Ull remained shut.
“Open the gates!” he yelled to the tower guards. No one answered. “Open the gates, I say!”
“What business does the priest have in the woods and winter, in times such as these?” Raed, chief guard, queried, a bite in his tone. The cloaked figure of a woman stood beside him.
“I gather roots and sacrifices for the altar,” he improvised. Once again Raed gave no answer.
“Open the gates,” Beren told Breca, who carried the message to the towers. Beren turned and descended to the gates.
The gates creaked open, and revealed to her the traitor, and to him the vengeful face of the one he betrayed, the Witch Queen of Sul.
“Waermund, son of Waerlith.” Her piercing eyes gazed into his very soul and made him shudder under their stare. The snow fell thick around them. “You return to us, to make your last sacrifice in our dire need.”
Waermund did not move, did not speak, as he felt her power, the witch’s magic, flood through the demon’s magic in his veins. And she knew now his deeds.
“My Queen.” He threw himself on the snow before her.
“You betrayed us.” Beren stepped back as his vile hands touched the fur hem on her full-length robe.
“No-no, my Queen, my master,” he cried and clawed at the cloak.
Raed hoisted Waermund to his feet. In the woods the wolves howled on their journey west to meet with the armies of their master.
“Your master betrays you,” Beren’s chilled tone filtered through the blizzard’s howl. “Her servants return to her. You she leaves alone, at my mercy.”
“Yes, my mistress, my merciful Qu--” he squeaked and stopped, yanked by the hand of Raed as he tried to grovel.
“Your treachery cannot be undone, Waermund,” Beren said. “Yet I will show you mercy.”
“Milady?” Raed asked, stunned.
“Merciful, gracious master,” Waermund said, released for a moment from Raed’s grip. Again he crawled through the snow towards her. Beren raised her hand to the sky.
“Hefon,” Beren commanded. Her skirts and cloak whipped
around her in the sudden wind, and through the traitor back to the gates. He fell face-first in the snow.
“No, I am not merciful. I am the vengeance, as I am the white. You betrayed me, and in your treachery gained a new master. To her I release you. Find your path. Ever and anon you will be forbidden from this city and these lands. Go to the demon now and pray to see from her the same mercy I bestow.”
“No!” he cried out, as Raed gripped him again while he lay stunned. She seemed to glow in the moonlight, as if her power became visible to him, through the black magic lingering in him for a short time longer.
But his scream came too late, and his pleading not enough. He felt himself lifted and thrown out of the gates by their keeper. For a moment he lay there and listened to the creak of the closing gates. He stood and turned to see the gap growing smaller.
“No!” he screamed, running for the gates, reaching them as they closed and the locks bolted.
“Let me in. I know the plans of the shadow. Use remains in me!”
Again no answer came. Deep in his heart, touched and blackened by the demon’s power, Waermund knew there would be no more answers.
*****
The night drew on, ever colder, ever darker, as the snow fell around those who remained by the gates.
Long before, Raed watched the traitor leave, pacing in the snow before the city, almost frozen and exhausted. Outside of the city gates, Waermund conjured a blue fire for warmth, which hovered above his hand, and walked away.
“No doubt the demon’s gift,” Raed muttered and glanced down at Beren in the courtyard. Her pale face seemed old beyond her years; the toll of the night would mean her death. But she did not fear it for she knew what would be, and the sacrifice she would yet make.
*****
The night grew ever colder as the blizzard gripped the city and the lands beyond. The winter flurries fell around them in the blinding cold. Beren’s face became a mask of desperation, fear, triumph, love, and sadness mingled as she stared at the barred gates of Ull.
“My Queen.” Raed’s voice started Beren out of her memories.
The guards finished their rounds. Soon the gatekeepers would make ready to open the gates at the first sign of dawn. So much now would be lost, she thought, as the agony of her loss, and the loss her daughter would endure, clutched her heart. Remember me, my child. She wept for this night, in all its great and terrible glory, for the winter, for her beloved Sul and for Miðgarðir.
The Ice Queen Page 7
