Because it’s true Decius is my father. But if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it anyway.
Or maybe you would, this time—which would be worse. “No, Ragnhild. I’d only fallen to the ground from exhaustion.”
“You were found lying against a tree on a bitter-cold night, with no cover and no weapon, and you’d let that fine black stallion loose with all your possessions tied to the saddle. No one who means to stay in the world does that.”
“No, Ragnhild, I—” Avenahar gave it up; Ragnhild was watching her as if she were trying to cheat at dice.
“All right,” Avenahar whispered. “You’re right. I was.”
“An honorable woman doesn’t do that without a good reason.” Ragnhild pressed on sternly. “Why would you run off from so noble a mother, and give her grief?”
On that night, she’d slid from the stolen stallion’s broad, strong back after riding all day, straight north. The beast had wanted to run; both horse and rider had exulted in speeding swiftly to nowhere. The horse was a ship, sailing north under the stars. The powerful stallion had slowed at last, in this twilit grove of mountain ash. Avenahar had meant to let the wolves and the cold have her. I belong nowhere. As a ghost, perhaps I’ll be welcome here. As a spirit, I could stay.
Avenahar knew she must concoct a suitable reason, if she hoped to silence Ragnhild’s—and everyone’s—questions. She couldn’t meet Ragnhild’s eyes as she mumbled, “My Roman father, Marcus Julianus, planned to marry me to a piggish lout of a man against my will.” She felt she’d fouled her tongue—surely the Fates would avenge this base slander of Julianus.
Fortunately Ragnhild’s normally keen senses suffered a lapse. She slowly shook her head in sympathetic understanding.
“Ah. Romans have no shame. A woman has a right to refuse a father’s choice of husband, everyone knows that. Sleep now, Avenahar.”
Avenahar obeyed at once; she’d grown weary, and was eager to avoid further questions. She crawled to the back of the hut and curled like a puppy among the woolen coverlets. Ragnhild topped off the heap with a bearskin.
But before she fell off asleep, her hand crept into her possessions sack and she pulled out the marvel—an exquisite serpent-form fibula inset with sapphires and a single, great pearl. On her first night after her rescue, this impossible thing had simply been there when next she’d looked into the sack, a mysterious beauty shedding its muted magic, its presence a severe test of her occasional doubts about the immortal gods’ interest in human affairs. She was certain it was put there by some good spirit of the forest, and it comforted her.
She pressed her lips to it, put it back into the sack, then dropped swiftly into blackness, greatly relieved to leave the world for a time.
As Avenahar descended deeper into dreams, she began to hear a soft pulse of skin drums. Her spirit edged toward the sound. She imagined it the heart of the world, promising succor was to be found somewhere. Ages fell off like sloughing snake skin and she plummeted downward, to find herself in a bright cave where there was a fire. Condensing from dream-darkness were the same nine women who had come to her at her initiation ceremony. Nine pairs of knowing eyes, each transmitting a different quality of strength. Their voiceless speech took shape in her mind.
Regard, Avenahar. We are long dead. Yet we live.
Avenahar felt the sustaining warmth of close kin pressed about.
You are the stone on which we inscribe. You are your own mother. We declare you our own blood.
Then they commanded her to go outside the cave, and see what she saw.
Avenahar obeyed. Before her was a low plain where mist pooled to form a white lake. Onto the plain came a hart; its branched horns were imprecating hands reaching to the sky. A mountain cat shot from the mist, and was astride it like a rider. She saw savage writhings, white teeth. But the mountain cat was feeble and starved. Wolves came to help, streaming through mist. Fleetingly, she saw through wolf eyes, felt a blow to her side as the wolves were mangled beneath the great hart’s hooves. As hart and mountain cat sank together beneath the mist, both bearing terrible wounds, she once more overlooked the plain, suffused with a numbing sorrow. She waded into the fog, meaning to help the injured creatures.
And found herself returning to the women in the cave instead, understanding that this would aid them more. As she entered, one of the nine women rose, smiling, and gave her a yew staff and a crown of vervain.
Avenahar awakened with a jolt when the sun was already high. The hut was empty—of course, she thought, it is so late in the morning, Ragnhild’s already gone out somewhere.
Fria save my mother, was her first miserable thought as the waking world claimed her again. But she was surprised to find that the vise-grip of horror that had come with yesterday’s news had lessened somewhat. That potent dream—surely it was the cause. It coated everything in its beauty and mercy. The nine elders’ presence was so close, she smelled the smoke of burning mullein clinging to their clothes. The dream was gently provocative. She sensed it prodded her somewhere necessary, and that if she yielded to it, she would give strength to her mother.
As Avenahar rose and made her way to the stream, she found herself full of the exuberance of the strong stallion that had carried her here.
For the first time since she’d run off, she ardently wanted to live on.
If Auriane were not in the world, then she must be, was somehow required to be. It was the only way to defy Auriane’s death, and embrace the Fates as sisters. And soon as she knew this, desire for the fate she’d nurtured through childhood began to flood back: She would fight for the land. She would win vengeance for all the Chattian dead.
And she would cleanse the poison of Decius from her blood.
As Avenahar washed briskly in the frigid stream, wincing at the cold, then began beating the dirt from her cloak, she strove to remember the elderwomen’s words. The dream was, at first, hazed in memory, but the morning’s forming light solidified it, and with it, her certainties. By noon, her course was set. Had not the elderwoman said, You are your own mother? The plain she’d seen was a battlefield. The hart, surely, was the Cheruscans, for this was their spirit-animal; Chariomer himself was said to have been fed by a hind, when he was a babe. The mountain cat was her own Chattian tribe. The wolves were Witgern’s band. And she had been one of them—she felt an ache in her side where the hart’s hoof had struck her.
Ramis had said of Auriane, at her birth, You will be a living shield.
Surely I have inherited that fate.
The Wolf Coats’ women numbered eleven. She must see that number raised to twelve.
When she returned to the willow-withy shelter, Ragnhild was there, depositing an armful of tinder onto the ground near her fire. The old woman was alert to the bright purpose in Avenahar’s eyes.
“Where are you going?” Ragnhild asked, frowning.
“I must see Witgern.”
Something shifted in Ragnhild’s eyes; in them was a sorrowful darkness Avenahar had never seen there before. “He’s not here.”
“But I’ve heard he hasn’t left his tent since yesterday morn.”
“And I hear traitorous thoughts clamoring in your mind. Why must you see him?”
“Because I must! How can you say he’s not here?”
“He is a slender gray wolf, loping south to scout the forts, and learn when they’re most poorly defended.”
“You’ve the power to see him when he spirit-travels?”
“Yes. And do not forget—you are my herb woman.”
Avenahar looked down. “Ragnhild, I have had a . . . a telling dream. It is what must be.”
“Traitor.”
The word tore at her. Avenahar bit back a protest, then turned about and strode down the path toward Witgern’s tent.
As Avenahar tramped through the camp, she passed knots of men speaking of the news that had come this morning: One of the Roman observers sent into Chattian country to report on the tribal assemblies had been lure
d from his escort and murdered; it was a reprisal for the Governor’s condemnation of Auriane.
When she reached the stream, she followed it until she came to a place where the shallow, stone-strewn waters were broken by a small island. On it was pitched a sturdily made tent fashioned of goat leather. Its peaked roof was fastened down by ropes; the rectangular interior was designed to house eight soldiers. Avenahar recognized it as the standard issue of the Roman Army. Witgern had made it his own by painting moons, stars, and protective runic signs on its sides. Nine Wolf Coats were posted about it as sentries.
She crossed a log bridge over a short stretch of rushing water. Ash leaves drifted from above.
“It’s the villa princess!” one sentry called out gaily.
“What’s the trouble, the maid too slow bringing the sauce for your misery bread?”
“She’s come to complain we forgot to stoke the fires for her hot bath.”
“Or that the ground’s too hard,” called out another. “Someone fetch her a cushion.”
Avenahar approached the one sentry who hadn’t grinned through these taunts, and begged for a word with Witgern.
“He can’t be troubled by the likes of you. Off with you, now.”
So she settled herself in, just outside the opening of the tent. Witgern would have to come out sometime. The sentries glared threateningly at first, but soon grew used to her presence and let her be.
The sun travelled across the first quarter of the afternoon sky. Within the tent, she heard men’s voices in three different pitches. Avenahar’s legs began to ache from sitting. Just as she was ready to give up in weariness, two Wolf Coats emerged from the tent, ignoring her as they briskly strode past.
Now Witgern was alone. Avenahar got to her feet.
One of the sentries whipped his ash spear across the opening, barring the way.
“I see a stray wolf-cub out there,” came Witgern’s amused voice from within the tent. “Let her in.”
Chapter 21
At first Avenahar saw only the hazed shaft of sunlight slanting from the smoke hole cut into the tent, and a glowing worm of light that was an herb fire. As her eyes made darkness their home, gradually she discerned Witgern. He sat cross-legged on a wolf skin, regarding her with a peaceful vagueness in his eye. Looking on that fine-boned old face, she thought of beauty collapsing, of gently ruined grace. Ash-hued locks long enough to break at his shoulders were neatly combed back from a broad, high forehead. The ruined eye was a mystery beneath a black woolen patch. Wodan, the seer-god worshipped by his men, also had one eye, and most saw it not as an affliction but as an open door to the world of helpful spirits. For a fleeting moment—was it just the smoke-daemons riding upward on the column of light?—Avenahar thought she saw a wolf face materializing over Witgern’s features, a furry countenance with golden eyes, brimming with wolf-qualities—shyness, mournfulness, ferocity.
Witgern gestured for her to sit. For a man who lived not much better than a beast, he was meticulous in his habits: He’d washed his hair clean in a preparation the people called Batavian soap—goat fat mixed with ashes of beechwood. A neatly combed beard was remarkably free of all evidence of his last meal. The cloth of his brown cloak was worn smooth from many washings over stones. A warrior’s ring of beaten silver gleamed dully on his spear arm. Fragrant leaves of coltsfoot made his fire most pleasant; he breathed this herb for a cough that had lingered through summer. His tent was bare, but for his lindenwood shield painted with images of the Sun and Moon, a possessions sack, and a great clay jar of salt, a thing so precious that it was always in Witgern’s keeping.
“Avenahar.” He said it seemingly for the enjoyment of her name’s rhythm, letting it rouse hosts of leisurely memories. She fidgeted, not knowing when it was proper to speak. He seemed to have drifted off. She felt like an overfull grain sack ready to burst. Finally he nodded, encouraging her, saying, “Silence the part of you that sorts things out. Let your immortal part speak.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant. He waited, patient, amused, while she struggled over how to begin.
“Witgern . . . I am grateful to you for giving me to Ragnhild as her helper. She’s taught me much of the ways of the plants, and one day I hope—” She stopped. “And what is so amusing?”
“Nothing,” he said, mastering the smile. It was her guile—her strategy of expressing gratefulness first, to soften him toward whatever she planned to ask—carried out with such childlike earnestness, it didn’t offend him. “Speak on.”
The interruption caused her to lose her place, but she plunged on. “At home I practiced every day with the native spear, and in the last year, with a sword of steel. Last spring I even saved my mother’s life, when we were attacked by fugitive sailors on the river road. And as it’s my own blood that’s in peril, it’s my place to avenge. After all, I—”
He raised a hand for silence.
“Let me quicken the pace or we’ll never be off at dawn tomorrow. My answer is no. This much, I owe your mother.” Such a look of anguish came into Avenahar’s face that he added, “This I owe to you. Do you not see why?”
“No. I do not see.”
“Avenahar, you are not your mother. Now, don’t take it ill, I did not mean it that way—”
“How could I not take it ill? I will show you, I am my mother.”
“Avenahar, the tests are arduous. You’re scarce fourteen. You’ve never slain a man, you’ve never suffered through a winter in a war camp.”
“But you have a war companion who’s twelve.”
“He was reared very differently from you, orphaned at six, stealing food to live, and never a day without a spear in his hand since.”
“I will perform the tests. I will raid with you or I will die.”
“You are not ready. Truthfully, I do not know if you will ever be ready.”
“You are wrong, Witgern. And I’ve had a dream that proves it.”
As she related the dream, Witgern frowned thoughtfully and pulled at his beard; he was often inclined to count the intelligence culled in dreams of greater worth than information gathered in waking life. Finally, he said, “That is a dreadful, powerful dream, Avenahar. It causes me to quake in fear for us, that both Cheruscan hart and Chattian cat were grievously injured. However, the young can fashion meanings to fit ardent wishes. I am not so certain what your part was. I would tell it to a seeress. Gunora comes through these valleys, next moon; let her interpret it. But today I can only follow my own senses as to your fitness to be a Wolf.”
“You, too, think me a coddled villa-child.”
“No,” he said firmly. “That is very far from what I think. Sit still. Can you stop twitching about and not speak, for the time it takes to milk a goat? Your impetuousness forces a meaning into my words that is not there.”
Avenahar stilled herself by main force, fixing her gaze on the dirt floor near his feet. Witgern smiled faintly; she didn’t look as though she could remain that way for long.
“You don’t know what a narrow, bitter road this one is,” Witgern said. “We Wolves are condemned to the wild and barren places, because we’ve been permitted to live nowhere else. You were reared in a larger world, and that makes you too large for this world. What I mean is, you’ve a questing mind that’s been opened to the vastness of things—you’ve been schooled in sums, the arts of writing and of understanding what people of old have written, and this changes the spirit. You’ve the ghosts of other peoples, other ways, living in you. You do have a fire in you, but it’s a fire of knowing, of swaying minds. I do not think you were made for warring.”
He raised a hand to stay a protest, and continued, “This is not an ill thing. There are so many other noble paths in this world.
“I think, Avenahar, you won’t let yourself see how you are different from your mother because you believe that to be unlike her is to be somehow worse, or perhaps even to be scarce worthy of life. You see the glory given your mother. But there is noisy renown and there is
quiet renown, and even unknown renown, all of which are equal before the gods, for is it not somewhat mad to suppose our greatness increases with the number of people who witness it? No, it’s just there, like a silver ring, whether people know it’s there or not, and it’s more valuable than salt, and you carry it always, even into other worlds, Avenahar.
“I once saw Thrusnelda of the village of the Boar walk right into a village known to be cursed,” he continued, “when no other priestess dared, for it meant defying the battle chief who’d cursed it. But she didn’t care, because the people within were sick and she had the knowledge to help them. This sort of courage—to stand against a small or great evil when it blocks your path—is one of your greatest fires.
“There’s also this, Avenahar: We face torture if we’re captured. We fight men better armed than we are. No, I cannot allow it, for the love I bear your mother. You should live to marry one day, and carry on Auriane’s line. I’ll protect you long as you want to stay in this camp, but you will not raid with us. Stay by Ragnhild. Let her teach you healing. That will lead you to your fate.”
Avenahar would not meet his eyes. He is wrong. Adding to her distress was the memory of Auriane telling her, “You are far cannier than most, in the herb woman’s arts.” She put up a stone wall round her mind so neither of them could get in.
Without warning, the sorrow of yesterday’s news closed about her, and she dropped her head into her hands. “My mother . . . I cannot bear it . . . what will they do to her . . . ?”
“Avenahar, Avenahar,” Witgern said, finding her hands, clasping them strongly in his. “None of us know. We will do all we can to lend her strength. But in the end, know this: Your mother and I have faced such calamities before. Life is not long, poor child. And she and I have survived far longer than most. You must remember there is an eternity in the halls of the gods, and we’ll all be there some day.”
She started to tell him she would either be a Wolf Coat or laid out on a pyre, but summoned the strength to force herself to silence. Far better to keep her purposes veiled. They would grow stronger that way.
Lady of the Light Page 37