Like an echo of her cry, his spirit returned the call. His paws reached farther, and new energy flowed from his heart. The blessed cord that bound him to Barta collapsed in on itself; just ahead he saw…
Two figures struggled toward him, one stumbling and only half upright, the other with a blade in his hand. Loyal’s world snapped into focus. He forgot all want, all pain. With a bound, he leaped forward.
****
The great white hound erupted out of the snow as if formed from it, made into substance by some enchantment as wild as the storm around them.
Barta, stumbling forward at a hobble, suffused with pain, knew him at once despite the change. She knew him by the red slash angled across his deep chest—red on white, the colors of rarest magic—and by the feelings in her heart.
Staggering relief. Need answered, and love so profound it saw through any changes this world or the next might wreak.
Loyal.
She cried the word in her head, and for the merest instant his eyes met hers in a look that seared her to her soul. Then he hurtled past her—so close his white fur brushed her arm—and launched himself at the man who came hard behind.
The man with a dirk in his hand.
Barta spun, the breath seizing in her throat. She saw Loyal’s paws strike the Gael in the center of the chest and take him down backward. Loyal stood on the man’s torso and dove for his throat all in one magnificent movement.
Barta had seen Loyal do this before in battle—rend an opponent’s throat or even his belly. For an instant she felt sure he must win now. He would vanquish the enemy, change back—somehow—into a man, her husband. They would go home, raise their fortress, and spend their lives together.
But this version of Loyal had run far, carrying a dire wound, and he did not move quite swiftly enough. Barta saw the Gael’s dirk rise and fall, rise and fall, the blade flashing into and out of Loyal’s ribs near his great heart.
She screamed and ran forward without thought or consideration for herself. Loyal had sacrificed his life for her once. He meant to do so again, but now one thing had changed.
His life had come to mean more to Barta than her own.
Willpower carried her forward, devotion fueled by sheer love.
She barreled into Loyal from the side and knocked him from the Gael’s body, substituting her own where his had been. The Gael completed his stroke and the blade penetrated Barta’s side, biting upward at an angle.
She felt the pain but distantly then. Determination—most murderous—held her in its grip. She seized the Gael by the neck, her hands like claws, and pounded his skull against the frozen ground—once, twice and again before, with a loud growl, Loyal pushed her aside in turn.
She fell back perforce as Loyal rent the Gael’s throat. He turned next to face her, looking like a figure from a dream—white fur and hazel eyes gleaming, jaws dripping red and more red blooming at his heart.
He crawled into her arms with a whimper and sheltered there; she felt his great body shudder.
“Loyal,” she whispered, “and True. By all that is holy, I know you now. Forgive me that I did not see the truth sooner.” A sob wrenched her throat. “Forgive me for everything.”
No response. Snow continued to drift down, lighting atop the red-stained fur, blotting out the wound. The hound’s bright eyes had closed.
Did he breathe yet? She laid her hand over his heart. It beat, but low and slowly.
He would die here in her arms. After all he had done for her—endured and given—he deserved better, deserved more—warranted her life in place of his, if she could manage it.
She did not know how. The creature most beloved of her heart sprawled across her knees, the cord between them collapsed so she could no longer even feel it, while the life ebbed from him.
She buried her face in his fur, breathed in his scent—deep—and sobbed. Then she lifted her face to the sky and screamed: “Help me!” Prayer, incantation, demand. She vocalized every bit of love inside her, with Loyal’s head cradled to her breast.
“Answer me! He deserves better than this.”
What was it her mother had always said? Believe, for it to be so. Magic could not exist without belief. For an instant Essa’s spirit floated at Barta’s shoulder, put out a hand, and touched Loyal’s white head.
“Mother, help me. Goddess, answer me! I will do anything, give anything, sacrifice anything.”
Above Barta’s head, the snow cleared. The icy white orb of the moon appeared like a wise, milky eye examining her plight. The moon in daytime? What magic was this?
She could now barely feel Loyal’s heart beating. Blood seeped from the wound in her side to mingle with his. Snow settled on his fur; she could scarcely imagine him rising.
But she must believe. Believe! In something greater than herself, greater than the world.
In their love and the connection that bound them spirit to spirit.
She closed her eyes and imagined her companion stirring, rising whole and strong—a man. When she opened her eyes once more, the shaft of moonlight had become a woman standing just beside her, over Loyal’s body.
Beautiful she was, like the moonlight. And as cold? A beam of moonlight carries no heat, and this being’s face bore no warmth. But her eyes—milk white as the moon itself—met Barta’s, and she spoke softly.
“Brave hound.”
Barta gulped back tears, her heart racing in her chest. “He is the finest hound—and man—ever to live. I know him now—”
“Too late. He is dying—again.”
“You can heal his wound, if you will. My mother could have—”
“He perishes not from his wounds but from a burst heart. He ran too far.”
Barta said without hesitation, “Then give him mine. You could do it if you chose. My heart still beats strong.” By all that was holy, she could feel it pounding. “Pluck it from my chest, great goddess, and place it in his.”
“And then, girl, you will die in his place.”
“I do not care.” Barta placed her cheek against Loyal’s head. “Better that he should live than I—he is far finer and far more deserving. Gladly will I give you my life in trade for his.”
“Ah.” For the first time the Lady displayed some emotion. Her features smoothed in comprehension.
But she said, “Girl, I have already returned him to life from cold flesh once. What more will you ask of me?”
Desperate, Barta gazed up into the goddess’s face. “A life for a life, only that.”
The lady shook her head; her hair swirled around her like moonlight. She began to turn away.
And beneath Barta’s splayed fingers, Loyal’s heart ceased to beat.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The lady’s radiance gathered in upon itself and swirled like mist about to dissipate. In a moment she’d be gone, leaving Barta there in the frigid dark with a dead hound in her arms. What could Barta say or do to make a difference? She’d offered all she had—all she was.
She threw back her head and wailed a single cry, “Love!”
For an instant the hovering moonlight wavered; then it continued to swirl. Barta closed her eyes in despair.
And heard a deep, male voice sound directly in front of her. “Hear her, wife. She speaks of love.”
Barta’s eyes flew open; they might just as well have remained shut, for she doubted what she saw.
The woman made of moonlight had once more coalesced. Another being stood beside her—tall he was, towering and glowing with dark green light. Half man, half stag, he emitted an aura of power as distinct as scent.
For a moment, Barta’s heart seized in her chest. She would die here with Loyal, the two of them lying in the snow. Then the god looked at her. In his face Barta saw the compassion the lady lacked and such a strong force of life she had to blink.
The Lady answered him, “Do not interfere in this. I raised him once. It is done.”
“You raised him once,” the god said, “and thus he remains your responsib
ility.” Again his gaze moved over Loyal and Barta, tactile as a touch. “Did you not make him a promise? Yes, I heard what you said.”
“What said I?”
“That if the girl knew him despite his changed form, they might remain together.”
“I know him.” Barta spoke swiftly, desperately. “I did not at first, but I do now. If this was the bargain…”
“So it was. And had he lived, girl, I would have held to my part of it and allowed him to stay with you. But he dies—again.” The Lady turned a serene face to her lord. “It is finished.”
For many long moments the two gazed at one another while Barta’s desperation beat through her and she strove for something she might do or say to change the Lady’s mind.
At last the Lord’s voice rumbled, “Yet she speaks the word of magic: love. They love, wife, even as we love. They are as eternally bound.”
The lady said nothing, but her gaze returned to Barta and Loyal, twined on the hard ground.
“I know their pain,” the god went on softly. “Are you not lost to me each month? I am forced to watch you dwindle and slip away from me. Yet just when my spirit is darkest you reappear, and soon your lovely face shines full upon me once more. Then does my heart beat stronger and do I run more fiercely through the forest.”
The Lady swayed toward him, pliable as a beam of moonlight.
“Do I not sing to you?” the Lord asked then. “Like wind through the leaves, do I not cry out my heart and set the cords between us vibrating like music? Why should it be any different for these two? They are bonded. They love as we do. Should they too not be allowed to return to one another?”
The Lady sighed. “Love is eternal,” she agreed. “As such, it will endure between them even if they be apart.”
“In torment. Why do you think I cry songs to you if I do not long for you? Love was born when we entered the minds of the first beasts and men. The music is most ancient. Even I dare not still it.”
“Nor I. But he has had two favors from me. I will grant no more.”
Barta’s heart sank. Already, Loyal’s body cooled in her arms.
But the god spoke softly. “Yes—you granted the hound’s request. The girl has had no gift from me.”
He turned to Barta even as her heart rebounded sickeningly. He gazed at her with deep kindness.
“Girl, what would you ask? Speak the words carefully: they create your world and your future.”
Barta’s thoughts leaped, and she bade herself to caution. If she’d learned one thing since the night Loyal first died and she awoke to find herself lying beneath a sharp, deadly moon, it was the lesson of selflessness.
She gazed up into the god’s broad face and spread her fingers on Loyal’s fur.
“I want what he would want—no matter what it may cost me.”
The god smiled. “Then let us awaken him and ask.”
He bent and quite simply laid his hand on Loyal’s head. Barta, reminded forcefully of her father’s broad hand descending just so on the head of his hound more times than she could count, gulped back a rush of tears. Tenderness lay in that touch, kindness. Love.
Loyal’s body jerked, and he stirred. Barta felt the bump against her knee as his heart started up, and the bright, warm surge as life filled him. The bonds between them—so still a moment ago—crackled.
The great white hound lifted his head, picking it up from Barta’s lap. He gazed into her eyes. Bright hazel his were—those of the hound, the man, the spirit she loved.
Far more than the world.
Far more than herself.
Almost lazily he licked her cheek, placed his head against her chest and leaned in. She wrapped her arms around his head and let the tears come.
“Do not weep,” the god admonished. “We are not done. Will you have him as hound or man?”
Barta shook her head. “I tell you—it is not up to me.”
“Then we had better let him tell us, no?”
The god straightened. Loyal surged to his feet and turned to face him. For several moments they stood wondrously still; Barta sensed they communicated without words.
Radiance flashed, far brighter than the moonlight and many times more powerful. When Barta could once more see, she leaped to her feet.
The Lady had gone, faded like gossamer. The Lord remained, and in front of him stood a man—tall, lean and graceful as a hound.
“True?”
He turned and faced her. Naked he was, with a red slash across his chest. His wheaten hair now bore streaks of white, but his eyes were the same. Bright and brimming with life, they contained her world.
Robbed of all speech, she reached out and seized his hands.
“Love is greater than we,” the god said. “Remember that. The first thought before all others, it creates all we see, all we feel—all we are. Nothing can ever be more powerful.” He smiled again. “Live in happiness, my children.”
As simply as that, he slipped away into the gray dawn.
Barta fell forward into True’s arms.
They wrapped around her, tight. The tears came again, but he swept them from her cheeks and kissed her, a kiss that felt like life returning. Joy flooded through her, making her tingle.
But she broke the kiss at last to ask, “Why? Why did you choose to be a man?”
“Ah then, Mistress, that is easy.” He looked into her eyes and joy seized him also, uniting them. “Men live longer than hounds. It will give me more time with you.”
Barta nodded, unable to speak. She summoned the frightened pony with a whistle, reproducing the Gael’s signal as best she could. True donned the dead man’s clothing—stiff with blood—against the cold. Together they mounted up and turned the pony’s head back the way they had come—eastward into the new dawn.
Chapter Thirty-Five
True awoke when the sunlight touched his cheek, not before. He lay for the span of many heartbeats with his eyes closed, just sensing the day and experiencing his gratitude. Good to feel his heart beating. Good also to be a man once more and to know—because he could feel her—that Barta sat beside him.
Waiting for him to wake. She’d told him over and over again all he needed in order to mend was plenty of rest. Time. She would wait as long as it took.
So he lay there a few moments longer examining his condition. A man—no longer a hound, not ever. A husband with a wife who gladly—even joyously—deferred to him. New, that. Used to following her always, he couldn’t quite get used to her waiting on him quietly as she did now. He might never get used to it. Then again, he might.
Gratitude knew no conditions—no more or less. Neither did love. Neither, as he knew, did belonging. They were absolutes. It did not matter who waited on whom, who bowed to whose will. Love had returned him to life; love was all.
Through every change, the love between him and Barta had never died, never flagged, never wavered.
Eyes still closed, he put out his hand. She slid hers into it. Pleasure suffused him. As easy—and as profound—as that.
He opened his eyes and looked at Barta. Gratitude mixed with the pleasure and flooded him again.
How beautiful was she, his woman. His friend. The other half of his spirit. Eyes of smoke gray seemed to contain the essence of the magic that had raised him. She’d braided her hair in an effort to keep it neat, but it gleamed warm red-brown as if it had trapped the light of autumn. At the front of her tunic he saw the swell of one small breast; he wanted to nuzzle into it, longed to nuzzle into her so much it hurt.
But that could wait. They had forever, as the great god had told him. Life after life after life.
She smiled at him, and he saw the beauty of her spirit shine.
“How do you feel, Husband?”
“Very well, Wife.” He stretched luxuriously. “You let me sleep over-long.”
“You need…”
“Yes, I know.”
He needed something else as well. Three days had passed since they’d returned on their
stolen pony. In that time they’d not made love, but now he rose for her like the morning sun.
“Wicked hound,” she said with great affection. More than half the time she could read his mind. “Have you no shame?”
“What is shame? I love you.”
“And I, you.” She bent down and kissed him, a lingering caress of tongue on tongue. “But there’s work to be done.”
Yes indeed. The Epidii had taken back their former camp where so many—including Barta’s parents and True’s mother—had died. They’d gleaned anything useful from the Gaels’ possessions and burned the rest in an act of purification. Now they concentrated on digging in.
Most of the wintering Gaels had died in that last confrontation. A few like the yellow-haired leader had fled. Sacred ground, once purified, would become sacred again.
Barta ran her fingers through True’s hair. “You are very handsome, husband, with your streaks of white. Marks of honor these are—and of bravery. Here was I thinking you could not get more beautiful.”
“I thought you said there’s work to be done.”
“Yes.”
“But if you look at me that way, I will drag you off into the trees and take my pleasure.”
“Will you, then?”
“Oh, yes.”
Sadly she shook her head. “Not until that wound of yours heals. If you think I will endanger you again…”
He laughed. “But I heal swiftly—like a hound.”
She caressed his bandaged chest with the lightest touch and sobered abruptly. “You have no idea how frightened I was. I almost lost you for the second time.”
“No fear of that. You must let me show you my…”
He broke off when a cry split the air, a voice that sounded like Tally’s calling Barta’s name. She leaped to her feet and True followed, their fingers linking without conscious intention.
A mild day for the beginning of winter; now at midday a blessing of sunlight bathed the settlement. It showed True a party newly arrived, being greeted by Tally, Brude, and a number of other tribe members.
Strangers? Mostly. But surely he, True, knew one among them.
“Wick!” Barta squealed at that moment. She drew her fingers from True’s and ran.
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