B007IIXYQY EBOK (64 page)

But her endurance began to annoy him. And her cunning was maddening. Was she just managing to avoid the full force of his blows—or was he losing his wits? His rage increased as he began to sense he was losing the respect of his men. Destroying her was taking too long. He began to feel as ridiculous as some buffoon swatting and missing a fly, again and again.

He let out a growling roar, his face reddening dangerously. He began to sweat heavily and grow clumsier. He knew he was tiring.

Auriane felt herself but a concentration of energy and force. She had come here ready to die, but to her amazement found herself more triumphantly alive than she had ever felt. She was suspended between earth and sky, lifted high over grief. She felt clean and newborn, unbounded by the limits of the body; she might have been drums and flutes, or a hundred dancers, or some celestial instrument tuned to the stars, drawing beauty from silence. Where was her evil? It could not catch her.

All who watched felt themselves in a fated place, witnessing the gods working their will through this violent eruption of clashing blades. Witgern sensed the spirit of Baldemar pressing close and thought: He dwells among us still. How could I have ever doubted?

Auriane imagined herself a cat in a waking sleep as she continued to lure Gundobad forward, awaiting his first moment of inattention.

Suddenly Gundobad caught one of the tentpoles and tore it free; the white canopy drifted down. Now he had two weapons, the sword in his right hand, the pole in his left.

This brought a volley of objections from both Gundobad’s men and Baldemar’s former Companions. “Treachery! Dishonor!” Sacred law governed every aspect of single battle, and the code limited each combatant to one weapon.

But Gundobad’s rage obliterated all concern with proprieties. He brought up the tentpole and delivered a cracking blow to Auriane’s right shoulder; she sank to one knee, pain evident in her face. But she quickly recovered herself, staggered up, and delivered a hard two-hand blow to the pole, snapping it in two. Immediately she knew she had only improved his weapon; it now had a sharp jagged point, and was shorter, rendering it better for maneuvering at close range. And fear knifed in for the first time.

Gundobad lunged, holding the pole low, aiming the point at her stomach. She found herself melting into step with him, gliding backward, a hand’s breadth out of range. Then she grasped the pole’s end in her free hand and pulled hard, choosing the precise moment he began a step forward and was most off balance, jerking him in the direction he was moving. Gundobad fell toward her, and she wrenched the broken pole from him as he opened his hands to break his fall.

“Well done! Well done!”
cried warriors of both sides. Gundobad had lost his own men. He recovered his sword while Auriane tossed the broken pole out of his reach. Then Gundobad lurched for her once more, before he was fully on his feet. Auriane stopped a low cut that would have severed the tendons of her leg; the impact knocked her sideways. When she recovered her balance, she made an answering downstroke, then paused in place, as if uncertain what move to make next.

He thrust energetically at her unguarded left side, not detecting this as a ruse. But she did not complete her cut with a defensive backhand stroke, which he would have naturally expected. Instead, she whipped about.

Gundobad’s sword gutted the air. In one continuous motion Auriane spun round to face him once more, moving so swiftly that Gundobad’s arm was still extended—and he was still wondering why she was not where she was supposed to be—when her blade struck him a powerful blow in the side, biting hard into a rib.

Frenzied motion dropped into stillness. Gundobad bent forward, clutching at the deep gash in his side, trying to staunch the bleeding, fixing her with his battle-glare.

One of Gundobad’s men muttered in a low voice, “That truly is it—the sword of Baldemar.”

Gundobad heard, and his whole body seized up. He regarded her sword as if it were some viper with a will of its own. All her skill in swordsmanship he attributed now to the marvelous properties of the weapon.

Auriane sprang for him then; with a double hold she struck the sword from his hand.

Gundobad fell ponderously to his knees. Her blade whipped up, poised at his thick, bearded throat.

Among the company, dread-filled silence gave way to the first cautious stirrings of rejoicing. She had reclaimed her place, and Athelinda’s, and set to right what had been wrong since the death of Baldemar. She was blessed, or never would the gods have allowed her to unearth that sword. No one doubted in that moment the power and presence of the Three Fates, those gloomy weavers-of-life who handed out their judgments beneath the World Ash; their primeval spirits looked out of Auriane’s eyes. Had not Ramis named her for the
aurr,
the sacred earth on which the three dark sisters stood?

“Victory is ours!” one of Gundobad’s men called out gaily.

“Baldemar strikes down his enemy from beyond the grave!” Witgern exclaimed, laughing. Athelinda noticed a blush of life in Witgern’s face she had not seen when he rode into the yard. It didn’t seem odd to any of them that their enmity was gone, and they had melted into one band. All accepted it as the natural result of the presence of Baldemar’s ghost.

Auriane felt mildly dazed as she stood over her humbled, panting enemy. What
was
that spirit that possessed her while she’d fought? She had had only a glimmer of it while practicing with Decius; today it had nearly shaken her soul from her body—this glorious exuberance that heated the blood must be what sword dancers felt at festivals when they danced to near exhaustion. Why had no one told her that swordfighting was like taking a draught of the mead of the gods?

She feared for Decius, now that she revealed her secret to all—but she was fairly confident no one would suspect he had instructed her in secret. If good fortune held, all would attribute her skill to the sword and look no farther.

“I should not let you live,” she said to Gundobad between heaving breaths, “for you have gravely insulted my mother.”

Gundobad was pitiably childlike without his shield of arrogance. “Let me live and I will serve you all my days,” he said in a voice that put her in mind of a dog’s whine, “…and more loyally than any thrall. I can be of use to you. I will dedicate my band to your service. Think on it!”

Auriane disliked this role of judge, for there were too many unknowns. Who
was
this man, truly? Forcing Athelinda was monstrous. But what if some out-land spirit had possessed him then that now was exorcised? He did not appear monstrous now.

He had fought treacherously, and most likely would do so again.
Finish him then, for the safety of the people
. But then, he had been attacked by surprise. Any man might have reacted thus….

She stopped herself abruptly, realizing she was thinking as Decius would, considering not only the act but the circumstances clustered about it. Sacred law was no longer an impenetrable wall; it had crumbled in places and she could see beyond.

Athelinda regarded them with a hard, ungiving stare. She knew her mother wanted her to kill him.

Then Auriane knew she could not, and it was not entirely the doing of Decius. The stark memory of her father’s face distorted in agony somehow increased her sympathy for all the living, no matter what their station or condition; she saw Baldemar in every death. It seemed mad and insupportable, for Baldemar and Gundobad were as far separated in honor as men could be. Perhaps, she thought, it is just some weakness in myself.

“I will let you live,” Auriane replied, “if you repay my mother well for the injury done her. All these marriage gifts she will keep. Above that, you will pay to her a third of the produce of your family farms for three years.”

Athelinda was outraged at first that Auriane was releasing her tormentor, but the size of the payment pleased her greatly, more because she knew it would impoverish Gundobad than because of her desire for these things, and her face softened with satisfaction.

“Yes. It shall be done,” Gundobad agreed eagerly.

“And you must give oath to aid me in bringing my father’s murderer to me.”

Gundobad gave a manic nod of assent, too relieved to think closely about the implication of those words. But the others did, and they exchanged baffled looks.

“And you will humble yourself before Athelinda now,” Auriane continued, “and beg her lenience.” Feverishly Gundobad nodded again. Auriane motioned for him to rise. Gundobad got up unsteadily and prostrated himself before Athelinda.

Only then did full knowledge of what she had done fall hard on Auriane’s shoulders. Death had closed so tightly about her she could scarcely breathe, held her for a time, then passed on.
Now
she felt fully the terror of the battle—fury could carry her for only so long, then it dropped her, weak and shivering, back to earth.

She stood very still, her gaze on Gundobad, still not daring to meet Athelinda’s eyes, not knowing if the sight of her was loathsome to her mother. Athelinda let Gundobad stay in that humble posture for a while, then she whispered, “Get up, niding’s accomplice. Never come near this farm, and I will ask no further punishment for you.”

Two of Gundobad’s men helped him to Thrusnelda’s lodge so she could tend to his wound. Witgern then approached Auriane, who still faced away from her mother. “Auriane,” he asked carefully, “what did you mean when you said, ‘my father’s murderer’?”

Auriane caught her breath when she looked at Witgern; he was so emaciated it seemed a good gust of wind would bear him off.

“I learned from…from a Roman thrall a thing that is commonly known among our enemies.” Without emotion, she retold Decius’ tale. She shut her ears to the sound of Athelinda’s muffled tears, fearful she would go mad.

A slow smile crept over Witgern’s face. “That is wondrous! Then vengeance can be won!” he whispered. “We are saved!”

From behind them came cautious shouts of joy. It would take time for Baldemar’s old Companions to fully appreciate that freedom had come. Auriane could not find pleasure in their rejoicing; grief still owned her completely.

“Auriane, then you must…,” Witgern began, and broke off awkwardly. He meant to say, “return to us,” until he remembered Athelinda’s curse.

“Go now,” Athelinda broke in curtly. “Leave me in peace, all of you.”

Auriane gave Witgern a look of pity and understanding, then embraced him. Gradually all did as Athelinda bid, leaving by twos and threes for the village.

When they were gone, Auriane turned to find Berinhard, who was grazing among the apple trees. She meant to return to the forest.

“But not
you,
Daughter. Stay.”

Auriane stopped abruptly. They stood alone in what seemed a wasteland. The wind kicked up eddies of dust; it reminded her of that barren twilight when she came here to find Baldemar’s horse, riderless.

Finally the silence pressed too heavily on her chest. “You cannot want me here, Mother. I will go now.”

Athelinda said to her back, “I do not say what I do not mean.”

Auriane fought hard to say no more; then the words were torn from her: “I don’t know how you could have cursed your own flesh and blood!”

Athelinda was surprised to silence. “Auriane,” she said at last, her voice now a firm, gentle hand pulling her close, “I thought you
knew.
You must have known. I cursed you to keep you
alive.
Geisar would have killed you after you so boldly named his crime before the throng. I am a mother. Any mother would rather have her child cursed than slain horribly. Grief must have snatched your wits—in days before, you would have understood at once.”

“Do you count me his murderer?” She winced as she spoke, as if her throat were a wound, and the words, stinging salt.

“Never! Never did I.”

“Why would you not look at me on the funeral day?”

“I looked at no one. Grief blinded. I saw nothing.”

“Hertha’s vile words were true.”

“No. Hers was a loathly and bitter spirit. She saw evil in everything. Should Wodan come to me in face and say it, I would not believe my daughter a murderer of kin.”

“You…you will undo your curse then?” Slowly Auriane turned round and forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. There was no hatred there, only the look of a creature lost.

“It was undone at once, that very night, in a secret ceremony with Thrusnelda.”

Auriane rushed to her then, and her mother held to her tightly; neither spoke for long moments. Stroking her hair, Athelinda continued, “My poor child!
Now
it will be no secret. You have returned, which is to Geisar as though Baldemar returned, or worse, for you so openly thwarted his authority. I want you
here,
understand. But listen to me! It would almost be better if you stayed in the forest, for it will only be a matter of time before Geisar finds an acceptable way of murdering you.”

She disengaged herself from her mother’s arms. “I must stay here…. I’m certain it’s what Father wanted. What is done is done.” She looked behind her, the direction of the advancing Roman plague. “Geisar is a horsefly compared to what menaces us from the south. I won’t abandon our people.”