B007IIXYQY EBOK (28 page)

Sigwulf viewed it all with relief and hope—Baldemar’s power would not be wrested from him while he lay wounded. But when he saw Auriane, relief became pity. She was more gaunt than he remembered, and seemed tragically older; in one summer she had passed from wise child to care-fraught young woman. He saw her brave struggle to hide her weariness; she stood stiffly straight, eyes cast down, her tangled hair making her appear some orphaned maid abandoned to the forest. Her only ornament was the chaplet of vervain someone had set on her head.

Geisar stopped before her. He seemed some frail thunder god, debating whether to hurl a bolt of fire.

“You make a mockery of sacred law,” he hissed, lifting Auriane’s chin. “Off with you, before I break my staff and condemn you.”

She met his gaze calmly, too weary to feel fear. “It was never in my mind to carry the standard, only to take the oath. And I mean to take it.”

“You are the last child of your family. You are needed to produce heirs.”

“It is not to be, Geisar. Baldemar has charged me to tell you—
I
am the appeasement gift. This is my father’s sacrifice. He offers me to war, and we willingly yield up all hope of heirs.”

She saw a spark of alarm in his eyes as he realized her full purpose. “Never on this earth. I will not allow it.”

“He will not allow it!”
shouted a man of thunderous voice for the benefit of the crowd. This brought an angry groan from the people, followed by another rain of refuse—Geisar was narrowly missed by fishbones, entrails, broken crockery and dung, while Auriane and Hylda shielded themselves as best they could. Those at the front of the throng watched open-mouthed—never had they seen Geisar abused so.

Geisar struggled to maintain a look of outraged dignity, but fright undermined him. The fearful respect he always commanded was so swiftly withdrawn he had not time to fully accept that he was naked of it, and vulnerable. Though he always counted his hold on the people a fragile thing, its means mysterious, he had long lulled himself into thinking of it as unshakable.

From far back in the crowd, someone cast a spear. It bit deep into the earth, striking within a finger’s breadth of the priest’s foot.

Geisar gave a hoarse shout, eyes blank, face agonized as though his heart had been pierced. He sank to his knees, tearing at his hair, writhing and wailing, certain this was a sign he angered Wodan, god of the spear. Sigreda, terrified too, rushed forward, pulled him up, and had him led off to the deerhide shelters on the far side of the circle.

To soften the throng, Sigreda ordered the two sacrificing priests to give Auriane the oath.

When all was in readiness, Auriane was veiled as a bride. She faced Sigreda across the firepit, where precious woods smoked and burned. Sigreda wore the mask of a cat; to the people she was possessed of the soul of Fria. Beside her was a priest whose face was half concealed beneath the drooping hood of his cloak, leaving one doleful eye visible; he held a short silver spear in his hand. He embodied Wodan. An assisting priestess made her way slowly toward the fire and put a bone flute to her lips; she was clad in a bloodied boar’s hide, her face reddened with ocher.

The flute brought a spirit-filled silence to the people as its light note darted about, dipping low, soaring suddenly, then dissolving into ripples as though wind disturbed the surface of a lake, its tone unpredictable as life, first sweet, then sour, always achingly clear. Auriane’s eyes glistened with sadness, and she was not certain why—she felt some terrible jest was being played on all creatures living, and she was helpless against it.

A sacrificing priest took a bit of boar’s heart from the great bronze bowl atop its tripod, spitted it, then thrust it into the sacred fire.

Then Wodan spoke to Fria: “Tree of life, whose roots go down and down into nether rime, we bless you and praise you. I who am the steed of the dead, give breath to all living and put poetry on the tongues the wise, I who suffered and died to know the secrets of the Well of Urdr, take this woman as bride.”

And Fria responded: “I am memory. I am Chaos from Chaos in the time before time. I brought the age of Ice then took it away. I see all that flourishes in the Nine Worlds. Close friend to the Fates, I create and destroy with one hand. The Sun and almighty Moon are my eyes. God of the Spear, I bid you, raise the veil.”

With the point of his spear Wodan lifted the veil from Auriane’s face. The act married her to him.

“Now I mark her as my own,” the priest who was Wodan intoned. He bared Auriane’s left upper arm and, with a bone dagger, carved into her flesh the runic mark that signified the strength of a wild ox. Auriane’s tears flowed freely from the pain. Then Fria reddened her finger in the boar’s blood and drew the same sign on Auriane’s forehead.

Next the assisting priest held out to her the roasted heart. It was still dark and bloody. Auriane ate slowly, using all her strength not to vomit.

“This heart gives her the heart of a boar that never falters in the charge,” Wodan proclaimed. “Now, draw forth a plait.”

As Auriane obeyed, she felt boar-spirit surging in her. She saw herself with fierce, bright eyes and a dark heart pumping angry blood.

Mother, a maid cannot protect you well. But a boar can,
the dim words came half formed in her mind.

Auriane then chanted the words of the oath along with the priest who was Wodan:

“I foreswear mead shed, hall, and farm. I foreswear peace while my enemy lives. I foreswear all mortal marriage. Vengeance is my meat, blood is my mead—”

They were interrupted by a furious beating of heavy wings. An owl dropped out of the night, flapped angrily before Auriane, then was off. She heard murmurs of unease all around. The bird was strangely bold; Auriane felt it knew her.

I feel Hertha’s spirit in that bird.
This ceremony is hateful to her; she wants it to stop. She is certain it leads to some great evil. Hertha, you harried me enough in life! Stay with the dead.

“In your name, Wodan, I redden my spear with enemies’ blood. Bringer of victory, I am your own.”

“Hail, Day. Hail, Night. Hail, all hail,” the masked Sigreda responded softly.

The priest who was Wodan then placed a twisted ring of silver on Auriane’s right arm. When she felt the weight of the warrior’s ring, she had a sense of welcome emptiness. Now the bridge was crossed and torn down. She found herself alone on a wilder shore, a bleak and dangerous place, but at least it was a place of hope.

Hylda took up iron shears and began cutting off Auriane’s hair. A woman’s hair was a house of spirits, rendering her too holy to touch weapons of iron. As the heavy tresses fell and collected in the dirt, Auriane for one horrified moment knew them as sentient things, severed and bleeding. She was taunted by Ramis’ words,
“Never forget the power in hair.”

But I shall forget it, Auriane decided. Take your shadow life from me.

As Hylda swiftly wove the shoulder-length remains into one thick braid, Auriane felt her neck exposed to the chill breath of night spirits. She felt too light, as if her hair had anchored her down—now she might float off and be swallowed by night.

Hylda burned the cuttings in the fire, lest anyone retrieve them and use them to work magic against Auriane or her family.

“Bring forth the standard,” a voice from the throng cried out, followed by an eruption of cheers and a resumption of the chant—
Daughter of the Ash. Lead us out.

Sigreda debated briefly, not wanting to do the bidding of an unruly crowd, but she was wise enough to know that on this night the battle was lost and the throng was victorious. She nodded to the assisting priest, who approached with the standard.

The standard of the army was a cat skull mounted on a short pole hewn of hazelwood. As Auriane took it from Sigreda, the throng raised up a mountain of noise that surely was heard, Auriane thought, in Roman Gaul. As the joyful thunder went on and on, Auriane watched the firelight play on Sigreda’s silver cat-mask with its great staring eyes, warping it into forbidding shapes. In one moment Auriane saw the living eyes within the holes bored into the black-painted eyes of the mask; Sigreda held her gaze for a time to make certain Auriane was aware of the cold hatred there.

Auriane knew then Sigreda held her to account for the humiliation of Geisar. She knew, too, of Sigreda’s vindictiveness, and her long memory.

She will work and plan for as long as is necessary until she finds a way to condemn me to some shameful death.

When the midsummer bonfires died and the Assembly dispersed, Auriane rode with the Companions to Elk Ridge, where Baldemar was camped. Her arm burned with pain from the god’s mark—but never had pain been so welcome. The oath protected her from Wido better than any high palisade; he might murder her, but no power on earth could marry her to one of his sons, for she was married already. In some moments she felt a great hollowness, and envied other women their mortal husbands.

The tribal warriors followed at a slower pace; by the second day ten thousand were camped among the beech trees on the ridge. Before Auriane presented herself at Baldemar’s tent, she looked long at Wido’s encampment on the grassy plain below. It was a busy ant colony atop its gentle mound of earth. Roman order had had but a slight effect on barbarian disorder, and the placement of buildings and tents was to Auriane familiar chaos. Roman military wagons moved in both directions through the fort’s main gate, which had been rebuilt in the fashion of the drop-gate of a Roman fortress. A cavalry exercise seemed to be in progress.

The camp was a festering wound on the body of her country. Hopelessness fell on her like a yoke. The numbers of Wido’s troops and their supplies were inexhaustible.

The guard of honor before Baldemar’s tent let her pass unannounced.

She paused to let her eyes know the dark. The tent’s smoke hole was open; Baldemar sat isolated in thought before a small yew fire, birch rod in hand as he drew symbols in the dirt representing land features and men. The leg, heavily bandaged, lay on a pile of hides.

“Father, I am here.”

Baldemar did not look up. She smiled, doubting he heard. Then she moved close and began studying his marks in the dirt. Soon she was as absorbed in the battle plans as he.

“The pits and the stakes—so that is how they are set out,” she said intently.

“Yes. The thrall you brought with you calls them
lilia
—that
is their Roman name. See how they are dug in patterns of five. It explains why Wido waits for us to attack. The Romans see no dishonor in trapping an enemy like a hare.”

“They must have crept out to dig them on moonless nights,” she said. “If that is how they are dug, when we find the first row, we know the position of the rest. We could crawl on our bellies like snakes and thread our way through. We must attack at night then.”

“Yes. I’ve learned they protect two gates—the Main and the West. My guess is Julianus got impatient and cut off support and money before Wido had a chance to dig them everywhere he wanted them. I know he was not given the material and men to fortify the West Gate as he was the other three. It is there we should break in, of that I have no doubt. But what I do not understand is…” And then they were lost in speculation, without even a word of greeting. Neither thought it odd. It had always been that way.

The sun was directly above, sending a shaft of light through the smoke hole, before he looked up and truly saw her. He regarded her for a long, full moment, nodding faintly, a well-pleased look on his face.

“My little hunting cat.” He caught her hands and pulled her closer. “You have done us great honor, great honor indeed. The tales that have come of you! I tell you, I do not like to be outdone!” He smiled broadly, but his face saddened her—the sorrowing he felt was written there clearly as the word signs on Decius’ bookroll.

A kettle of herbs—a preparation to aid the knitting of bones—boiled over then, making the fire spit and hiss. She moved quickly to take the kettle from the fire before he reached for it, for she knew that moving about caused him much pain, though he would never speak of it. Then she poured it into a clay vessel for him, dropped to the ground and sat next to him, looking at the injured leg with concern.

“It is a small matter, and it quickly heals,” he said, following her gaze. But she wondered. Bones did not heal quickly at his age. He smiled. “It pleases me, Auriane, to see the god’s gift is a gift to you as well!”

She gave him a quick conspiratorial smile. “Do not priests always say the willing sacrifice is best?” The smile vanished, and she went on, her voice taut with grief—“But nothing has happened that is good that was not bought with more than we had to give.” Tears came, and she did not try to stop them as she would have with her mother.

He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “I know. I ask it again and again of the gods—why are we tormented so? Why did they not take one of my limbs instead of Arnwulf? Take me, not my child, I would have said…but the gods did not ask. I would walk in fire myself, if I thought it would bring an hour’s solace to Athelinda. The beast strikes hardest at the vulnerable and the young. Day on day, I try not to think of how we bleed. In the end, fighting’s better than grieving; sorrow keeps the wound open. Ah, I praise the gods for your brightness! You are shining proof we’ve life in us yet!”