A Mankind Witch (15 page)

"Manfred, we're trying to find out about what we can expect in Norway, not about how refined Carnac is," said Francesca. "It sounds as if they might be similar, I admit, from what I've heard."

"Not 'we', Francesca," said Manfred. "My uncle, to my regret, has very firmly said that you are to remain here. He said something about the entire Empire not being able to afford enough furs to send you farther north. If it wasn't for a comment he made later, about me being able to ah . . . catch up with you once the job was done, I'd have said he was trying to separate us, my love."

Francesca looked mulish . . . for a moment. Then she plainly considered just whose orders these were, or perhaps . . . the gray sky outside her salon's mullioned windows. "I suppose I had better obey an Imperial order. However, you'll have to work a little harder at absorbing customs and diplomatic behavior among pagan allies, then. Even if the customs are like those in Brittany."

The monk looked relieved at the news that the prince's leman would not be going to join them. He nodded eagerly. "I have been sent on three missions by our abbot to visit monasteries and sources of pagan literature within the League of Armagh. In some ways the Norse are like the Bretons, yes. The Irish and Scoti have absorbed a fair part of the Scandinavian culture, along with the invaders to their lands. A substantial amount of this has passed on to the other parts of the League of Armagh. To Ritter Hakkonsen here, of course, it would be even more familiar. The nobility and their hearthmen will do things that nobles and knights would consider beneath their dignity in Mainz. On the other hand, they have to. No thrall would be allowed to cut beasts' throats for the midwinter Yule festival."

Erik frowned. "Thralldom is virtually extinct in Iceland. The church frowns on it. The few who consider themselves thralls are more like family retainers these days. But once upon a time a thrall could not even hold sharpened steel."

"It is still like that in Telemark," explained the monk. "As I said, even the slaughter of beasts is not done by the thralls."

"There's a hangover of the same thing in Carnac," admitted Manfred. "My father used to take part in the Martinmas slaughterings, until my mother made him stop."

Erik grunted. "With you out of the place, at least they have one less set of hangovers. But tell us, Brother. It is a pagan kingdom with which the Empire has a treaty. We have orders not to cause offence. What do we avoid? They're idolators—Woden worshipers, aren't they?"

The monk assumed an oratarial stance. "Woden is way the Danes pronounce it. The Knights of the Holy Trinity serving in Skåne took it from them. The word is of the same stem as the old Norse 'Odhinn' or Germanic 'Wouten' or Wotan. It has become 'Odin' among the Norse. Historically the Germanic tribes fractured into isolated shards, each with their own local form of Aesir worship, which vary a great deal. Some, particularly in the territory around our conquests near Uppsala, are truly vile, with a great deal of blood sacrifice.
Oferlundar
, as they are called. Others are less bloody. Odin is but one of their gods—he is, however, the king of the Aesir pantheon. The nobility obviously are very loyal to him. We also believe that they also absorbed several older local pagan religions into the pantheon as they colonized, particularly fertility gods such as Frey. Some of the idols have, we regretfully acknowledge, been imbued with certain magical powers. Some have been possessed by demonic and other spirits. There are scholars who consider each to be an avatar of Woden—"

Manfred held up his hands. "Stop. I see that we have a serious scholar in our midst."

The monk shrugged deprecatingly. "A minor one, Prince. Coming as I did from a pagan land, I knew the old gods had certain powers. I wished to understand how this could possibly be. But both Sister Mercy and Sister Mary are my superiors in scholarship, and Sister Mercy is an expert in the theory of pagan magic."

"And we have Brother Uriel to keep us on the straight and narrow," said Erik, looking pointedly at the goblet of wine in Manfred's hands.

Manfred grinned. "I'd better bone up on my biblical quotations. Saint Paul said, 'Take a little wine for the good of your stomach.' Brother Uriel is a stiff old stick but at least you can trust him not to send you off to brothels, unlike our last guiding abbot." He sighed and patted Francesca with a degree of unmonkish familiarity. "Unfortunately. It did Erik so much good."

Brother Ottar swallowed and looked around for escape.

Vortenbras came stalking into the room with a letter in his hand. Signy was glad of any interruption. It might just stem her stepmother's flow. Even her half-brother, looking as if he was about to tear someone's head off, was welcome.

"The Holy Roman Emperor is sending some of his knights and a team of his damned Christian diviners here to 'help' us find the arm-ring, Mother."

Albruna raised her eyebrows. "Tell them no. This is our—your kingdom, Vortenbras."

"I can't," he snarled, his huge hands crumpling the parchment. "Not in terms of the treaty. Not until after Yuletide."

Albruna looked down her nose at him—no mean feat, as he was standing and she was seated at the tambour frame. "Then we must accede with good grace and help them to find out that Sverre's witch has stolen it."

Signy started. Sverre, the grim king of Altmark to the north had been an ally of her father's. To the northwest of him lay Trondheim, captured by the Danes fifty years before. If Sverre had turned against them, then indeed the treaty must be reaffirmed, no matter how much it galled Vortenbras. He was a fool. They'd be in a pincer . . .

"The messenger from Emperor Charles Fredrik is waiting for a reply."

Albruna sighed. "I suppose you want me to help you draft one. Very well. We'll be delighted to have them and their assistants. In fact we'll provide a vessel, safe conduct . . ." She looked up at Signy. "Signy my dear, you look a little peaked. Why don't you go and take some fresh air. Vortenbras and I will be busy for some time."

It wasn't an opportunity that came often, and Signy seized it with both hands. Still, she would have loved to know more. All she knew was that the priests of Odin were near their wit's end. As she ran up the passage as quickly as she could she heard the queen saying. "Provide a ship to Copenhagen . . ."

Her river was a raging torrent right now. Not even the
björnhednar
could cross it and live. From a quarter of a mile off, the growling roar of tumbling boulders would have made it almost impossible for mere mortals to converse. Bakrauf and the great white monster that was her son had no such problems.

"Call out your hunt to carry us across," he said, staring at the churning water of the Fimbulthul.

Green-eyed and baleful Bakrauf stared at him. "You know the terms of their compact as well as I do. If I use them too often for things like this, then my nine calls will be spent. When I do really need them to bear me away they will come for vengeance, not for orders."

"Call them," he said, his yellow-eyed glare matching hers, unblinkingly. "You won't need them again this year. After
Joulu
they are yours again, for the nine calls of next year."

At length she dropped her gaze. "And how are we to get back? We need to be back by morning," she muttered.

"Fimbulthul is dropping," he said, pointing with a heavy claw. "By morning the
björnhednar
can cross. But we need to consult the easterners. We need to be within our wards before contacting the black brain. Chernobog is not to be trusted."

Bakrauf could not disagree about this. The demon of the East had devoured and enslaved others. It would not let common purpose stop it now. And the auguries she had performed showed hints of dire portent. But the signs were muddled and obscured, as if roiling through a mist of magics. Even she, the mistress of
seid
, could not tell what was coming. All she could see was that it was going to be, in some way, cataclysmic. They had the arm-ring secure and hidden now—and since then the signs had gone awry. The magics involved with that thing were deeper and more powerful than she'd realized. "Very well." She spat. Spittle, earth, and blood were all she needed. That and the words of summoning the bound ones. One of the
björnhednar
could spare some blood.

Soon the enchanted ones came, shrieking and cawing, a black and tumbling mass, appearing first as a squabble of blood-eyed ravens and crows. As they settled around Bakrauf and her retinue, the shriekers resolved themselves from their assumed appearance—into the hunt. Some were things of the nine worlds, others creatures more of spirit than flesh. Blood drinkers, creatures of the night. Crones and pale sylphlike girls with empty eyes. But in exchange for what she had given, they came. Hating her. Fearing worse.

At Bakrauf's command, they snatched her and her escort up. They bore the entire entourage across the seethe and ravel of water, cold hands plucking, not quite daring to tear. They set them down, with spiteful pinches for the bears if not for Bakrauf their mistress, outside the troll castle.

Bakrauf spoke the words of opening, and slowly the hilltop rose on the huge brass pillars. The
björnhednar
bore her within. Trolls, svarts, and human thralls were up and about. The place was full of the smokes and sound of industry, which was as it should be. Her subjects groveled as their mistress passed.

They cowered as her son passed in her wake.

In her throne room the circles were prepared with meticulous care. This was no time or place for haste. Time did not run at the same pace here as elsewhere, anyway. Guardians of flame and ice were positioned.

At last, the blood was spilled and the words spoken. Bakrauf found herself speaking once again to the Grand Duke of Lithuania—or at least to the demon that wore that face.

"My spies have sent me interesting news from the Empire, troll-wife. You've hooked a very big fish with your small machinations."

Bakrauf did not like her works described as small. But she held her tongue. One day there might be reparations. One day. "What big fish?"

"One so big that I will be very generous if he is destroyed," said Jagellion.

Bakrauf smelled trouble. A trap. The Black Brain's "generosity" was infamous. "I say again: what big fish?"

The great scar on Jagellion's forehead pulsed. "The Holy Roman Emperor has dispatched none other than his nephew, Manfred of Brittany, to accompany a group of Christian mages to see the ring found again. This prince has . . . angered me. And his death will weaken the Empire."

Her son growled. It was a horrible sound, deep enough to make braziers vibrate. The guardian flames shivered. "We know that. And his death would bring down the wrath of the Empire on our heads. We are not ready. Not yet. We need to gather the disaffected to us first. Spring is the earliest we can begin the raiding. By next autumn . . ." He growled again.

Jagellion smiled savagely. "What else can you do? Let them find it? That is what my auguries say he will do. Make it appear accidental. Cut off a few heads in ardent apology."

Bakrauf let her breath hiss between her big square teeth. That was what it had all meant! Curses! Black curses! "You hope in vain. Even if we wished to oblige you, we cannot kill him. The magics on the oath-ring will prevent it."

The metal eyes stared out at her. The pulse in the scar on Jagellion's forehead throbbed. Then Jagellion smiled again. "Delay. If you delay enough, until the oath no longer binds you, then you can kill . . ." The grand duke paused, as if something had just occurred to him. "No. Better still. Better by far! Let him disappear. You can be searching desperately for him! His death would be a prize for us, but the Holy Roman Empire could be torn asunder by pretenders and conflicts . . . if he just vanishes." Jagellion's metal eyes gleamed. "Make him disappear, and I will reward you, generously."

"It would have to be generous indeed," said Bakrauf, sourly. "You know what sort of trouble this would bring down on us? Even here, away from mortal realms, we are not beyond the reach of Christian mages. And it could severely hurt my plans in Telemark."

Jagellion, or the thing behind him, did not seem concerned by her problems. They were, after all, allies of convenience, not choice. "You don't have any other options, troll-wife."

That appeared true enough. She hated being trapped. But there'd be ways to turn this to their advantage. This princeling could be kept as a useful hostage, for starters, once away from human realms where he could be found. And she could engineer things so that their hands were clean. Let some others of the nine worlds carry the blame if finding-magics were invoked. "So what rewards do you offer?" she demanded. Best to bargain hard. She could always renege later. Subtly, of course.

Later, when they had finished speaking, Bakrauf sat back on her throne, pondering. She began to think that there might be quite some possibilities in this situation: if it was played right, both the Empire and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania could be milked. Already Chernobog had given more than she'd expected. And she was the mistress of seemings after all. She began to think in wider terms. She avoided the old gods and their powers. Even dealing with Chernobog was safer, for one such as her. But they, too, might be persuaded to deal for a key to their lost worshipers.

Once all of Germania, Saxony, and Jutland had sacrificed in the groves, too. The smell of those sacrifices must have been sweet. She scowled, sending frightened thralls scurrying. One-eye was not to be trusted.

She sat and considered her options. Seemings and weather magic were her particular strength. Some deep snow might be an advantage. Such things took time, though.

Her son's growl broke her reverie. Well, that would please him, too. He liked deep snow. He liked fresh blood soaking into the whiteness. And if all her illusions and magics failed to lead this prince into entrapment, her son could always take him with brute force. That was his forte.