B007IIXYQY EBOK (53 page)

“It is disaster, and you act as if it were a fine thing. My people will not stop fighting, Decius. All it means for us
is that now we battle Rome alone. And Ramis is no good to anyone, with her riddling advice. Now, you never told me why your people offered payment for the villagers. It’s not their nature to show regret after they murder.”

“You are right—my people are not in the habit of admitting to a great mistake. It is yet another sign of uncommon wisdom in this Emperor, or in whoever advises him. You see, this Vespasian has a churlish son called Domitian, a jealous prince who hates peace.
He
ordered the sacking of those villages in an attempt to provoke war so he would be sent to war, but his father, the Emperor, disowns the deed and has soundly chastised him. It would have been far, far better, Auriane, for your people to have accepted the payment.”

“You say my father is wrong?” She watched him intently.

“I do not judge his acts. I speak only of the path of coming events. You are now set on an endless course of strike and counterstrike—”

“But they keep us from new croplands! Are we to lie down and starve?”

“You’ll have to learn to make the land yield better or migrate anywhere but south. You have no true notion of the full size and might of your foe. I have grim forebodings of the days ahead—
this
cannot end mildly.
It does not matter
which
side pushes the stone that starts the avalanche, once it is on its way. The wise man does not do battle with an avalanche. He gets out of its path.”

As they came within a day’s ride of the hall of Baldemar, they began to see great banners of red, white and black fluttering from the gates of every homestead in honor of the fourth moon, colors sacred to Eastre, who, the priests claimed, was mothered by the moon. They passed villagers who sang songs of the Hare as they gathered fuel for the bonfires that would crown every hill and cleared paths for the processions and dances. Auriane was intoxicated with potent childhood memories—of going through the forest with other half-grown maids, laying lilies on standing stones, plucking mugwort and vervain to be braided into chaplets, of watching the young men as they netted hares for sacrifice, of helping Athelinda bake the crescent-moon cakes, which her mother then left by the wells as an offering to Eastre. Athelinda by now would have readied her dyes, her arms stained red and blue up to her elbows as she colored the hallowed eggs of eternal life so they could be hidden in the forest for the children to find. Auriane felt an upwelling of old, well-worn joy, heightened by the pooled memories of all the festivals past. She remembered Thrusnelda saying to her when she was still small enough for Athelinda to carry her, “Joy is
meant
to rule—these are the words trumpeted by the lilies.”

The shouts of feasters could be heard across three fields as they neared the hall of Baldemar. It was late afternoon, one day before the Day of Sacrifice, when they rode wearily beneath the cat-skull gate and into the mist of high celebration.

The people came from five villages; they filled the yard and much of the barley field in back of the cattle sheds. Wood benches and long oaken tables were set before the hall; they were heavily laden with bread and meat. A line of villagers, arms linked, danced to a skin drum, occasionally colliding with the feasters. Songmakers sang, playing harps with dramatic, graceful strokes as they moved through the throng, telling tales of warriors, bold maids, testy trolls, evil elves, and wyrms guarding grave-fields. Near the mead shed an eager crowd gathered round a flaming cart, while Amgath, who claimed to be the strongest man of Baldemar’s Companions, prepared to clear it with one leap. Everywhere chickens fluttered, leaving trails of arcing feathers, children shrieked, chasing one another in games of tag, and skinny pigs darted between people’s legs. Atop one of the tables Sigwulf did a weaving dance, holding an aurochs horn aloft as he wailed a victory song that set Baldemar’s hounds howling.

Sigwulf saw Auriane first and called out to her. Then a good part of the throng rushed at the newly returned warriors, urging them to display their spoils. Her Companions were silent about the evil foretold by the bats; no one wanted to hear such things at a festival. During this reunion Decius unobtrusively left them, for his safety and hers, and resumed the role of humble thrall.

She slowly worked her way to the door of the hall, where she thought her mother would be, greeting everyone as she went. Sisinand’s daughters stopped her to show her their newborn babes, and she looked carefully into the eyes of her cousins’ children to see if poor Ullrik, the boy she had killed accidentally, had been reborn into the clan. But she did not recognize him in either child’s face. And then she saw Witgern.

He ran to her and lifted her up as they embraced. All bitterness between them had long since vanished; their friendship felt to her as old and comfortable as smooth river-washed stones. His love had mellowed to a tame affection that asked little but close companionship, though once she had seen a flare of hurt in Witgern’s eyes when he accidentally came upon her speaking to Decius. With a lover’s acute knowledge of the beloved, he knew the Roman thrall roused her affections more than he ever would.

Witgern’s boy clung to his leg; the child was old enough to shout her name, and she lifted him up. This child was living proof Geisar’s oracles were not god-inspired, she thought—the priest had insisted Witgern’s first child would be born blind in one eye
as Witgern was, and he had refused to perform the boar sacrifice at the wedding. The child was exceptionally healthy and whole, as if to spite the bitter old priest. Behind Witgern was his wife, Thurid, the freed thrall-woman the Holy Ones had permitted him to marry in spite of his affliction; she smiled with simple pleasure, looking placid and pleased, her belly swollen with their next child. Auriane felt a momentary tug of longing, thinking: She stands in my place. Auriane envied Thurid the warm comfort of her life, the freedom from wandering. But in the next moment she knew she could not live so: She would be like the horses caught wild who were never easy with confinement, always galloping restlessly along the fence, pining for the open hills.

She gave the boy to Thurid, and Witgern began pulling her purposefully through the crowd, shouting over the din, “Come and speak to your father. He will not heed me, perhaps he’ll heed you. Why must he get into these cursed contests!”

Her consciousness of Baldemar’s mortality, normally kept carefully submerged, surfaced dangerously.

They threaded their way through drinking bouts and tale-tellers, moving past a long table burdened with roasted pheasants, suckling pigs, haunches of oxen, great tubs of cheese, and flat loaves of festival bread imprinted with crosses, the potent sign of rebirth that aided the land in returning to life. Eager dogs pressed about the feasters, waiting for them to toss down the bones. As they slowly made their way around the hall, Auriane briefly saw Athelinda from too great a distance to call out. Her mother was laughing gaily at some warrior’s jest as she handed round a horn of her best mead, dispensing it as though it were the god-infused mead Wodan won from the Giants as she offered her always eagerly sought advice: This horse should be bred to that, that field should be burned and replanted. Her ornaments caught the sun as she gestured gracefully. She is like a dancer among them, Auriane thought—artful, balanced, and quick; at festivals she is at the center of life, where she belongs, doling out hope and blessings as though she were the great ghost of Eastre herself clothed in human flesh.

Witgern brought Auriane to a strip of ground marked off by ropes; a spear-casting competition was in progress. She squinted into the sun, and at the far end of the partitioned-off strip she saw the majestic form of Baldemar, his lion’s mane of hair stirred faintly by the wind. He stood unnaturally still, poised to launch a spear; the world about seemed to have eased into stillness along with him. His opponent, Gundobad, leader of a lesser group of Companions, a man with crudely rounded bear’s shoulders, a shock of red beard, broad pockmarked face and mead-reddened nose, had just completed a throw that sank deep into the oak post they used as a target.

“It is begun. We are too late,” Auriane said softly, moving back a step so Baldemar would not see her, lest her presence distract him. The distance, she noted with alarm, was already a pace or two beyond what she knew was Baldemar’s best throw.

Why must he subject himself to these needless tests of prowess? The people do not ask it. And the risk is great. Loss of strength will be read as loss of battle-luck and holiness.

She caught sight of Thorgild, watching him from a place much nearer to the contestants. His face was grim and closed, but Auriane sensed he, too, felt growing alarm.

“I would wager a year’s produce of this farm,” she said in a low voice to Witgern, “that Geisar’s behind this. Gundobad wouldn’t have challenged Father on his own.”

Witgern’s look darkened as he considered this, then slowly he nodded. Baldemar was all that restrained Geisar from lapsing back into Wido’s slavish obedience to the Romans. Were Baldemar not in his way, Geisar would be free to do whatever brought him wealth, from goading the chiefs to attack the villages of allies to partaking in the lucrative intertribal slave trade.

She held her breath as Baldemar began a quick nimble run, shifting and balancing the weight of the spear, summoning strength to aging muscles.

No mortal man remains strong to the end of his life, Auriane thought—
why
must he do this?
He should not be seen humbled before those who take strength from his victories….

Gundobad smiled a wolfish smile, crossing arms massive with muscle and fat. Baldemar’s spear arced out, twisting slightly in flight. It bit deep into the post alongside Gundobad’s. She embraced Witgern, near to tears with relief.

It is even! Now, hopefully, Baldemar will remember his age and retire from these contests while they hold in mind the memory of his strength.

But she realized with horror Gundobad was measuring out an even greater distance and drawing a fresh line ten paces farther back.

“Son of a black sow,” Witgern muttered. Auriane used all her strength to hold herself back; she wanted to run to them and implore them, in the name of all Baldemar’s past deeds, to stop this folly.

A thrall’s boy pulled the spears from the post and ran the length of the roped-in enclosure to return them to the two contestants.

“Witgern, never tell him I was here,” Auriane said softly. Grimly Witgern nodded.

Gundobad took his turn first. The arc of his spear was brave at first; then it seemed to lose power. It nearly died in flight, striking very low on the post and hanging there precariously, shuddering with the effort of reaching the mark—but the target was struck. Gundobad’s Companions cheered, reminding her of a brace of barking hounds.

Baldemar readied his spear. Auriane knew from his face—she knew him so well—that he expected to fail.

She realized she was trembling. “It is not right,” she said so only Witgern could hear.

She felt Baldemar gathering himself for the greatest effort of his life. He burst from stillness into furious motion.

Has he not always done what all said impossible, through sheer greatness of spirit? But this, surely, is asking too much of the gods.

She saw a number of Baldemar’s Companions avert their eyes, unwilling to watch. Auriane forced herself to look and was glad of it afterward. She saw the moment doubt cleared from Baldemar’s face, that soul transcended flesh.

Aged or no, he will not be defeated in life.

The spear shot forth in a straight, brutal path; it flew as if Wodan’s winds propelled it. It struck with violence, well above Gundobad’s on the post.

His Companions raised a lusty roar, as though they expected it as one more gallant feat of their chief. But she saw from Baldemar’s face he was as amazed as she was; Baldemar knew this victory should not have been.

He knows this is the end,
she thought with dread. He knows he must never enter such contests again, but he does not know how
not
to enter them. Next year Gundobad will humiliate him for certain.

Gundobad laughed as though it were all no matter. And why not? Auriane thought. Time is with him. “Next year,” he cried out at Baldemar in his brazen trumpet-voice, “we do it again!” He started to give Baldemar a genial slap on the shoulder, but his hand was arrested in mid-air when he saw the grim look on Baldemar’s face. Gundobad shrugged as if the contest had been nothing but a joke in poor taste, then turned and disappeared among his men.

Auriane found herself thinking for the briefest moment:
It would be better if he died.
Let no one see his glory gone! Then she brought herself up short with a sickening lurch.
No, that thought was not mine.
But it was, it was—those who are cursed by the gods manifest such thoughts.

And she was taunted again by the memory of the bats.

As evening descended a grave sadness took Auriane, and she could abide the celebrating no more. She got her mare from the horse sheds and galloped to the rise behind the Village of the Boar, a bleak place where only scrub pines grew; it afforded a vast overview of the countryside—from here she could watch as Eastre’s bonfires were lit. She discovered, not greatly surprised, that Baldemar had ridden to the same place.