A Mankind Witch (44 page)

"Explosives?" said Manfred suspiciously.

"Well, gunpowder anyway," admitted Cair. "No big explosions. I have some interesting new experiments I haven't tried out yet with additives to the powder. Finely ground iron. It has interesting effects."

Erik and Manfred looked very distrustful.

Tch. He hadn't killed them yet, had he?

* * *j

"As the senior representative of the Emperor's delegation you must lead your men to the temple," said Vortenbras smoothly.

Juzef Szpak could cheerfully have pushed his sword through the big self-satisfied bastard's spine. They'd planned to hold a section of Kingshall against all comers—and short of the Norse setting fire to their own halls, they'd have been the very devil to dislodge.

Now, by following the pretenses of the truce, they would be forced into leaving their security. Well, the Norse would still pay a very steep price for their treachery. If he had a hundred knights on horseback they'd have had a real fighting chance. "We will be there. Dressed as befits the occasion."

"Good. I will be going to the temple now to spend some time in solitary vigil for my sister. She may have been evil and a witch, but she was still my sister. Or that's what my mother says. I will have a thrall sent to fetch you at the appropriate time. Your heathen priests must of course remain here. We cannot have Christian priests defiling Odin's temple."

Juzef drew himself up and touched the cross on his surcoat. "We knights are part of an order militant. We are as much priests as they are."

"Oh." That gave Vortenbras pause, but not for long. "Well, I dare say it will not matter in an hour or two. Let them see a real god's temple then."

"We've seen the true God's temples," said Szpak, stiffly. What was the point of this pretense? "Let them go, King Vortenbras. What are they to you?"

The Norseman snorted. "You will learn," he said, as he turned and left.

Juzef Szpak looked at the departing man, eyes narrow, thoughtful. There was no point in assuming a defensive stance in the temple. So he, personally, was going to see if he could save his brothers back in Småland and Skåne and Prussia a lot of dying later, by killing this man. When trouble broke, they would not form a defensive circle, but a wedge, and they would try to reach the Norse kinglet. He went to inform his brothers-in-arms.

He was not surprised to find the knights in agreement with him. He was considerably more surprised to find that the Servants of the Holy Trinity were pleased to go to the temple. Uriel looked down his long nose at him when he suggested otherwise.

"God's service asks not how little we can do, Ritter. It asks for our all. We are secure in his arms," said the monk dryly.

Szpak wouldn't have minded being secure in twice the number of Ritters, too. On horseback.

The mist swirled thickly through the bare oak branches of the
Vé
when they marched in perfect formation to the temple. The temple was full of warriors—Vortenbras's personal guard, and the nobles of Telemark.

As the knights took up their positions inside the temple, a party of Odin's priests and their acolytes in their wolf-skin cloaks came in carrying the huge log between them, on short strops of grass-woven rope. Behind him Szpak heard one of the nuns draw breath sharply. "Witchcraft!"

Coming, as it did, from a witch-smeller, that was no typical priestly accusation to be taken with a pinch of salt. Especially when Juzef recognized the scruffy large man on the far side of the log . . .

Erik thought Cair's fountains of smoky yellow sparks would probably have been an adequate distraction, even without the mist and the fast-descending winter night. When the mist lit up with sparks and hissing fountains of fire, several of the acolytes who had been rounded up for the heavy lifting had run, shrieking. In the pandemonium, joining the procession in their places had been almost ludicrously easy.

Disguises had been harder. Men here wore beards and long hair. Signy had had to undo her tight braids—that was easy. The glorious cascade of white-gold hair that this released was not masculine, however. Beards had to be contrived with a little help from the horse manes. Breeches had to be found for Signy: The bonder's scanty wardrobe had not been removed, and his spare breeches were available. But they were barely a disguise. They accentuated her narrow waist and broad hips, as the dowdy riding habit had not. And with her hair loose and framing her face, she looked far more feminine. It accentuated the high cheekbones, the fine structure of her face, and those deep blue eyes, which Erik thought were looking more Alfar by the moment. He wondered why he'd never noticed it before.

All that her horse-hair moustache and beard did was to make them all laugh.

"You'll have to put on a glamour to fool them," said Erik, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

Strangely enough, that just made her smile. It was the kind of smile that made men do really stupid things, like walk into walls. By the look on Cair's face, he was ready to walk right through them for her, right then. "I'll have to do that," she said calmly.

"I might suggest a hat as well," said Cair, regaining his composure. "Or a hooded garment such as the late owner of this place has left."

Maybe it had been the hood Signy wore. Or maybe she'd cast such a glamour over all of them that even Cair's display of sparks was unnecessary. But no one even questioned her right to be there. None of them got a second glance.

The party of priests—real and false—walked in through the dripping trees of the
Vé
grove. They stepped in through the carved doorway of the Odinshof to face the waiting crowd.

"Looks like they've had nothing to do but polish armor since we left," muttered Manfred to Erik. But that was real relief in his voice, at seeing Szpak and the rest of the escort grimly arrayed for war—here, where he had least expected their support.

The log was set down, and the old high priest of Odin had doddered forward with a
hlauttein
twig in his hand, when Manfred stepped forward. "Greetings. King Vortenbras. We have found where the arm-ring has been hidden."

Vortenbras's jaw dropped as he stared at Manfred and plainly recognized him. "Wha . . . seize him."

Manfred held up his hand. "Hold. We still have a truce. You, Vortenbras, are still bound by it," he said, grimly. "Bound by an oath sworn on the holiest symbol of all Telemark. Break it if you dare."

The Norse stood frozen. Only a few of Vortenbras's malcontent ragtag foreign camp followers stepped forward . . . and realized that no one else had. They stood, too, uncertain.

"We need witnesses." Manfred turned to the elderly priest. "The arm-ring of Telemark cannot be taken outside the temple
waerds
, without extreme pain. It will return magically to the altar stone if removed from contact with it. It is never worn except on Midsummer Day and Midwinter Night."

"Yes, outlander," quavered the old priest. "That is correct."

Manfred pointed to the altar. "Yet it isn't lying on top of the stone, which means there is only one place it could be, if this is all true."

Erik and Manfred seized the altar stone and heaved together. Slowly it came up from the earthen floor.

There was a hiss of indrawn breath.

Pressed into the hard earth was the image of an arm-ring-shaped object.

It had been there, all right.

But it wasn't there anymore.

Cair had taken the opportunity presented by Manfred's showmanship to melt back into the shadows. He wasn't watching Erik or Manfred. Instead he was watching Vortenbras . . . and somebody else.

Queen Albruna.

Her head looked just like it had in the jar in Bakrauf's castle.

He was less surprised than Manfred or Erik when the arm-ring turned out to have been removed. Vortenbras's face betrayed him. Cair could predict the next moves—and none of them were good for Signy or for him.

Signy looked at her stepmother in the same way that she'd looked at the dwarves when they tried to disappear. The image of the apple-cheeked, comfortably plump blond woman blurred and shivered as if viewed through a heat haze. But Signy was horrified to see that it was still someone she recognized.

Erik spoke. "This is plainly where the thief hid it. Has this place been unguarded since then?"

The old priest shook his head. Peered rheumily at the hole under the stone. "No. A priest and four guards have been here every hour of the night or day since the holy object disappeared." His voice quavered slightly. "We tried scrying . . . augury. All the signs
did
say that it was in the temple. We've searched. But no mortal could lift the stone."

"Can we put it down now?" asked Erik, making something of a mockery of that statement.

Manfred nodded. "On the count of three, mind toes."

They dropped it.

And the leader of the Frankish knights spoke. "King Vortenbras said that he came here to meditate in solitary this afternoon."

The old priest blinked. "But he is the king. It is his right."

"He is also the only man I've seen who could possibly have lifted that stone alone," said the man, Szpak, she thought he was called.

The deathly silence that followed was broken by Queen Albruna. "The witch must be here, too, Vortenbras. The one in the hooded cotte."

Signy felt all eyes turn to her. She pulled the hood off, shook her hair free, and for the first time in her life feeling every inch a royal princess. Now that she knew and understood that she'd been a prisoner, and magically oppressed, it was easy. Now she understood why her stepmother had abused her, too. Albruna—as she'd called herself—had been afraid. Signy lifted her chin and stepped forward, speaking loudly and clearly. "Yes. I am here. I am free of those who captured me, who would have seen me killed for
their
theft and
their
murders. Who have falsely accused me. Who have also sought to dishonor and break the truce my father swore to."

She pointed. "I name you, Vortenbras, as the murderer of the guards of Odin's temple. They would have known and trusted you. You were their king. You gained access and killed them, unsuspecting. The arm-ring was not stolen. It was hidden under the altar stone by the only man who could lift the stone. The outlander Christian magicians pointed to the thief—not to me, but to the person who stood behind me. You. Vortenbras, I accuse you. You are a murderer and a thief. You came here alone this afternoon. You insisted on being alone. Show us your upper arms, if you dare."

Vortenbras laughed. "Make me. I am still the king. I rule here. I give the orders here."

But Signy could feel the crowd in the temple draw toward her. She could hear the fear behind her supposed half-brother's bravado.

But she'd not accounted for her stepmother. "A woman? Even in men's clothing? Touching the holy log of Odin? That is sacrilege."

Manfred and Erik were back among the knights now, but Manfred of Brittany spoke up for her. He was an honorable man. "Strictly speaking she was not touching the log," he said loudly.

He might as well have tried to stem the tide. The
Joulu
-log ceremony was an older and far more powerful part of the life and belief of the people than any mere royal machinations or murder could be. On this rite the fertility of the whole land depended. There was a murmur of fear and horror. And with her new-awaked sensing of magic, Signy knew that these were being manipulated. But she did not know how to counter it. She saw that the Christian mages were trying something. But it would be too late for her.

"Take her to the tree," said the high priest, his old voice cracking with rage. And she found herself swept along in a tide of priests and warriors. Carried outside the temple.

The tree was ready for the sacrifice. It was a strong young tree, just outside the temple doors, its bare branches stark in the light of the torches they carried out with them. A stout rope was attached to it, and it was bent.

It was something of a signal honor they were paying her. Kings died thus. King Vikar had, to appease Odin for his people. She held her head up high as they put the rope around her neck. She would show them how she could die, even if she'd never had a chance to show them how she could live.

"Tell them to let go of me, damn you, Szpak," said Manfred, furiously. "We've got to save that woman!"

The four knights that Juzef had detailed to the task did nothing of the kind.

"Prince Manfred, we cannot intervene," said Szpak, sternly. "We cannot take up arms against the Norse without breaking our oath."

"The devil take that oath, man." The struggling Manfred had dragged all four knights to the door of the temple. "They're going to kill her. And I persuaded her to do what they plan to kill her for. Erik!"

But Erik wasn't there.

When Erik Hakkonsen had heard the queen mother speak, he'd looked at her in some surprise. He did not, by this stage, expect Cair to be wrong. She was dead and her head was in a jar in Bakrauf's Trollheim castle. But she appeared alive enough, and spreading her poison. It certainly looked like her, down to the detail of the silver bear earrings.

It was that final detail that overcame what he was later convinced was a magical compulsion. With a snarl he'd leaped away from the other knights. Albruna was still standing up, regally, smiling as if she had not just sent her stepdaughter to her death. She had seven bulky Norse guards with her, but they were in front of her. "I need your cross," Erik said to Brother Uriel, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Uriel did not hesitate to give it to him.

Taking it, Erik ran up the shallow stair between the banks of seats, and grabbed her, pushing the cross against her as he did so.

"Got you, Bakrauf!" he yelled, grabbing her from behind.

The cross did have an effect on her glamour.

It might have affected her magic and her strength too, but these were vast, anyway. She writhed and swung a blow at Erik that very nearly leveled him. The second fist hit his other cheekbone. Erik saw stars, but still held on tight, managing to pinion her. He was dimly aware that the seven guards had turned to bears, and that Manfred was calling him. The bears weren't his problem. The knights and several of the Norse nobility were dealing with them.