“WHY DOES WITGERN welcome him?” Avenahar whispered to Ragnhild. They’d picked marsh mushrooms that day, and they sat before Ragnhild’s shelter, laying the mushrooms out to dry on a wickerwork frame. A warrior on horseback was approaching at a stately pace through the ash trees; he carried himself like a man from hero tales as he wended his way though camp with his war companions following him in a file. “I’d think they’d drive him off with stones. Sigibert concedes everything when he makes treaties with the Governor.”
“He’s not what he seems, Peregrina,” Ragnhild replied.
Avenahar saw how warmly Witgern’s men greeted this visitor. He’d obviously been among them before.
“But he’s betrothed to Chariomer’s daughter, Elza!”
“That betrothal just might be so Rome is better confused by him, child, and so, will trust him better and reveal to him more of her plans.”
Avenahar briefly wondered what sort of man would go so far as to take a wife among the enemy, just to keep his loyalties obscured. Who could trust such a wife, whose first loyalty would always be to her own clan?
“You might as well know it; he has a close alliance with Witgern,” Ragnhild said. “Sigibert comes about here more and more of late, to hold council. Next year will be the year, I think.”
Avenahar knew Ragnhild spoke of Witgern’s long-nursed hope of uniting the Chattian factions and waging a great war that would push Chariomer off their lands forever.
Sigibert was closer now as his graceful stallion, bred of an exquisite southern strain, threaded its way through ragged shelters as though it picked its way through lilies, nodding its beautifully tapered head. She stared at him in open wonder; in the past two months she’d seen no one so richly attired. A cloak sewn of squares of many hues of woad-dyed blue swept from his shoulders and onto the rump of his mount like some kingly train; on his bared arms were massive, richly-worked rings of silver. His town-made boots surely came from the finest provincial workshop. His hair flowed down in a noble mane; its color matched the coat of his glossy chestnut stallion. Avenahar was stirred by the beauty of them both; he caused her to think of the sun, full of brazen light, and she found that she didn’t want to stop watching either the man or the horse. Their compelling harmony of movement and form put her into a pleasant trance. He was younger than most of his men, but had attracted a great retinue of companions because his father was Sigwulf, slain long ago beside Auriane in the Chattian War, placed now among the lesser gods. Avenahar caught bits of his speech; he was gathering men for a boar hunt. He displayed so much broad confidence before his men, and seemed so much a man the gods loved, she believed any plan he wrought would win them glory.
As he rode past her, one sweeping glance encompassed Ragnhild’s shelter.
And Sigibert found his attention riveted upon a gaunt, haunted wood sprite with rough-cropped hair, who stared back at him with bold eyes. He pulled his mount to an abrupt halt.
Curtly, he motioned to Avenahar to rise and approach.
Fascinated as a bird before the flash of a mirror, Avenahar came close, and stood before his elegant stallion. For reasons Avenahar didn’t know, she gave no ear to a small, sharp voice within, insisting she take care lest she be recognized. She sensed obscure pathways opening up into a greater world, leading off to pleasant gardens unknown. For the first time since joining Witgern’s band, she felt a burn of humiliation at the thought of her mangled hair, and cursed the burdock burrs. She found herself reaching protectively for locks that were not there. What could this fine, proud man want?
But his eyes were not kind. They had a metallic glint. He settled his gaze somewhere just above her head, in a way that was most insulting.
“Is this the best you can do for your mother, Avenahar?”
It was the roar of a man with lion-spirit in him. Actors who played gods in the stage plays at Confluentes had voices like that.
He’d trumpeted her name for all to hear.
“To flee off like some idle-headed, ungrateful brat,” he spoke on, “and give her yet more torment?”
She was so startled by the insult, she was only distantly aware of those around her exchanging startled looks, muttering, Avenahar? This is Avenahar?
“How dare you,” Avenahar said softly. “Speak when you know what you’re speaking of, and not before, lest you look the fool before all your men.”
She turned about and began marching swiftly away from him.
“But your running away has only brought her shame,” he called after her, blustering now, his aim less sure, “just when she needs the strength of kin about her, who—”
Avenahar paused and whipped about.
“You know nothing, yet you keep talking. It’s a weakness in men who’re given too much too soon, after having worked for it too little. Maybe one day wisdom will curb your foolish mouth. For myself, I plan to earn the glory I get.”
When he’d collected his wits after the unexpected rebuke, he burst into free, full-throated laughter; he was of a nature to take pleasure in the sight of any creature putting up a vigorous defense.
Avenahar locked her gaze to the ground as she pushed herself to walk faster, seized with a need to find Witgern. Now they know. . . . She almost tripped on a root. Many had risen to their feet to get a better look at her, and they milled about, impeding her progress. Ragnhild strove to follow her for a time, but couldn’t keep up. Murmured questions broke out here and there, and a peculiar, thoughtful quiet fell over the band; each person’s wonderment had its distinct character. She stole occasional looks at them: Many studied her face in simple surprise, while nodding to their fellows. “It is no wonder she cured Hagbard,” she heard one man’s voice above others.
But as she crossed through the part of the encampment that lay closer to the stream, she began to see darker looks, accusing stares. She could guess the shape of their thoughts: You and your mother chose Roman comforts over your kin. She caught the musk of hatred on the air.
Spawn of a murderer. Decius’s daughter. She felt like crockery smashed in pieces; each picked up a piece, supposing it all of her.
If I cannot stay here, where, then, can I go?
What an arrogant, unthinking lout this Sigibert is. Why would Witgern join forces with such a man?
Her way was blocked by a press of men; among them, she saw the ruined face of Hrolf, who had tormented her before. A thick-faced man, flushed scarlet from draught-spiked mead, caught her by the shoulders and twisted her about, displaying her for his fellows to see. A loathsome reek drifted from him.
“Good companions!” he shouted. “Look what’s been foisted upon us. A whelp half-Roman, sired by Chariomer’s pet dog.”
Terror caused a weakness to sweep over her. She had no ready retort; they’d found her out. She hung limply in his hands, feeling like a condemned criminal suspended from a cross, dangling in final pain and humiliation.
“It’s no wonder our luck’s been cursed,” came a low mutter.
“She’s the reason the bridge didn’t collapse!” a man cried out.
“Let her go, you carrion,” came a calmer voice—but this man was too far off to give aid.
“Is she a good enough sacrifice?” bellowed the man who held her, “or will she pollute the altar? Shall we take a life, for the ones taken?”
He dropped her then; Avenahar landed off-balance and fell backward into mead-soaked mud. The flushed-face man straddled her drunkenly, wildfire in his eyes as he began energetically kicking her. Two of his fellows rushed to join in, but they became entangled with one another, and fell on top of her. Avenahar thought she would suffocate in mire.
From somewhere, Avenahar heard the crisp, fast rhythm of cantering hooves. Suddenly there were fish everywhere—heavy, silvery, and slick, plop-ping fast in the mud, rapidly piling up about her.
Fish?
It startled her attackers into forgetting their purpose; they clambered to their feet. Above her, Avenahar saw Sigibert on his tall stallion; in one h
and he held an upended wicker basket. He’d seized a basket of fish from the bed of a provisions wagon—nothing better had been close at hand—and dumped the contents on the brawling men.
A freed Avenahar got, trembling, to her feet.
“Don’t help me, you arrogant blockhead.” She picked up a fish and hurled it into Sigibert’s face. “Go chase your boar-pig.”
As she forged her way onward, once again, she heard Sigibert’s open, free laughter behind her. Lodged somewhere in the older, steadier parts of her was gratitude, even amazement, for the rescue. And, in spite of herself, she recognized his laughter as that of someone nobly good-hearted. She noted, too, that it continued an instant too long—as if to hold her there.
She found Witgern sitting outside his tent, in the company of a senior provisions woman called Ethelberga; both peacefully watched the stream as they discussed something of import. They seemed oblivious to the fact that she’d nearly been offered in sacrifice.
“Witgern.” Heaving for breath, Avenahar burst between them. “That strutting cock you joined forces with has spread my secret to the far ends of the earth. Give him my thanks!”
Witgern focused on her gradually, seeming to rise slowly through soft layers of sleep. Finally he said, “Avenahar, sit. If that’s not too much like putting a storm in a bottle. This is good. Now my men know who you are.”
“Good, you say. Yes, it gives them a good reason to roast me alive! When you avenge my death, strike down Sigibert. He’ll be the cause, surely as if he struck the blow himself.”
Ethelberga smiled wanly, benignly.
“He’s not a bad man,” Witgern said placatingly. “He talks faster than he thinks, but he always regrets it later. Quiet yourself a moment. I have something to tell you. You know, Sigibert just came from the south, and—”
“I don’t want to be Decius’s daughter anymore!”
“Avenahar, stop this at once.” Witgern pulled her closer to him, and put his hands on her shoulders with a most maternal kindness. “It will be well. Is it not better to be completely free from the burden of pretense? It just means we’ll have to hide you better from those who would harm you. You must not go out alone into the forest anymore—”
“If I could fight for us, then maybe they wouldn’t treat me like a scourge.”
“No. Now, more than ever, you must live. Listen to me. Despise Sigibert if you must, but he does hold your mother in great esteem, and he has journeyed long to give me, in person, some grave news of her.”
This dropped Avenahar through a trapdoor into another world. The insults, the fish, were forgotten.
“Does she live?” Avenahar scarce recognized her own thready voice. She felt like a prisoner at the place of beheading, extending her neck over the mysteries of the abyss.
“She lives, yes. And while she lives, so does hope. But they’ve had a trial for her, at the fortress. They say she’s transgressed a law laid down by their Emperor. They’ve condemned her to death.”
Avenahar made no sound; she just sat forward, grasped her hands about her knees, and trembled.
“But for reasons we don’t understand,” Witgern continued, “they haven’t yet carried out the sentence. We are trying to discover what this means. Perhaps they fear us. Ah, if only Auriane had come with me, last spring . . . ! But the very best you can do for her, child, is to stay alive and find your fate.”
AVENAHAR AWAKENED THE next day to an oddly altered world. Many met her gaze now as she passed, nodding faintly, or speaking her name; overnight she’d shed the role of barely tolerated outlander and taken on that of close kin, and for some, of living talisman. Now they saw the ghosts of others living in her—Baldemar, her grandfather, who’d kept them free for a generation; Athelinda, her grandmother, still giving counsel from the village of the Boar. If her persecutors pressed too close, she would find Hagbard or others lingering nearby, ready to protect her. To the herb women, all that mattered was that she was the daughter of Auriane. They would call her to their fire and ask her opinion on matters, small or great. But acceptance wasn’t as sweet as Avenahar expected—was anything, ever? a growing part of her began to wonder. And the smoke of hatred still smoldered darkly, at the edges of the camp. Hrolf and those of like mind were held in tenuous check only by Witgern’s will.
Sigibert stayed for a day and hunted with Witgern’s men, but departed for home on the next, for word had come that a force that splintered off from Chariomer’s army had laid siege to his farm and hall. As he departed the Wolf camp, he rode out of his way so that he would pass near Ragnhild’s shelter. He met Avenahar’s gaze from a small distance, and a wordless truce passed between them. The intensity of Sigibert’s look confused her; she saw kindly interest there, blended with something she didn’t understand, that was rich, strange, encompassing; it left her feeling a clandestine excitement, a languorous yearning. There was sorrow in his look, too, and apology. She smiled somewhat wistfully, and nodded at him.
She wondered, afterward, about that peculiar drunkenness in the flesh, that sense of filling pleasantly with warm water—that could be inspired by no more than the sound of his voice. Gods below, is this desire? So, the flesh can desire when the spirit does not. For I’m quite sure I don’t want him.
Mother. You could tell me if this were a dangerous mystery, or nothing at all. And if you’ve ever known such a thing. It’s you I want. He can go to Hades. This is brutal beyond bearing.
That eve, the provisions women brought them news of the latest outrage committed by the Four. The cavalrymen had seized the half-grown daughter of a village priest of Wodan, to sell at the small slave market by Mogontiacum.
Avenahar left Ragnhild’s shelter to listen at Hagbard’s fire. She felt a bolt of excitement, for this time, it seemed the Four’s destination was known. The cavalrymen were overheard to speak of journeying to a village called the Raven’s Nest, where it was rumored silver had been thrown into the local spring, as an offering to its sprite. This village lay less than a half-day’s ride from Witgern’s winter encampment.
Avenahar sat for a time in agitated quiet with her rapidly fermenting plans. Hagbard smiled at her questioningly once, wondering at her silence.
Then she took leave of them and walked down to the stream, listening for the voice of her mother in the softly rushing water. Do you see me? Are you well? She pulled the earth amulet from beneath her tunic and pressed it to her cheek. High above, a white-gold moon swelling to fullness was a softly effulgent glory against the chill, clear lavender of the sky. Is this not my charge?
She sensed only beautiful silence from the stream, the moon, the wood spirits.
Then she started at a subtle movement across the stream. Among a stand of crooked, lichen-mottled elder trees, an old she-wolf, much battered from her hunts, was walking with a delicate limp. She was the color of the dusk. She halted, and fixed her messenger-eyes on Avenahar. They were formed of the same white-gold matter as the moon. They glowed with deep-forest knowings.
Yes, this is your charge.
I have my test, Avenahar thought as she walked back to Hagbard’s fire.
I will destroy the Four.
“RAGNHILD,” AVENAHAR ANNOUNCED on the following morning, “I must leave the camp for a time.”
Ragnhild, bone needle in hand, halted in her work of stitching up a tear in her best woolen cloak. Her deeply seamed face appeared more ravaged in the thin purity of early morning light. Avenahar hesitated, feeling she had committed a grotesque cruelty, then forced herself to speak on. “I’m going to earn my place among the Wolf Coats. I mean to hunt down the Four. And stop their marauding, forever.”
Ragnhild made no protest; she just cocked her head slightly, considering these words, sadness accumulating in her eyes.
Feeling awkward in the silence, Avenahar ventured, “Surely you knew, always . . . that I was never an herb woman.”
Ragnhild shifted the cloak slightly so the sun fell on her work, and returned to rapidly, expertly, pulling
the spun wool through the coarse cloth. Words sprang from her unexpectedly.
“I’m not a fool, Avenahar. I know you’ve been stealing off to practice-spar with Hagbard. But four trained soldiers against one maid? Why not save them the trouble and just draw a dagger across your own throat?”
Avenahar was amazed that Ragnhild launched no greater protest than this; there was even a measure of grim acceptance beneath those words. But then she considered that Ragnhild probably expected that any daughter of Auriane’s would seek an unusual fate. This all made Avenahar increasingly uncomfortable, and she went on weakly, “I’ll get their horses, Ragnhild. Your dun’s worn out. I promise you a younger, stronger mount that will carry you far.”
“And bring me a few whiskers from Wodan’s horse while you’re about it.” She angrily put down her work. “You insult me, trying to win me with a gift.”
Avenahar fought tears.
Ragnhild looked at her then; the old woman’s eyes were suppurating wounds. “Avenahar. You have a medicine woman’s hands. Not so many have this gift. Yet you toss it off like old soup bones.”
“They are going to kill my mother,” Avenahar said passionately. “As a warrior I’ve some hope of helping her. Or at least, of avenging her, if it comes to that, for by every god, avenge her I will.”
Ragnhild returned to her sewing, making small, tight, angry stitches. “You have no faith in the powers.”
“I do, Ragnhild. I was taught to love Fria as a mother. What I do, I do in adoration of her. Please . . . I’ve trusted you enough to tell you . . . don’t betray me to Witgern.”
“That would be like standing in the way of the wind. So be it, then, the Fates have you now.”
Ragnhild’s words made Avenahar feel a small door had been shut in her face, and locked.
“I . . . I am grateful for all your teaching, Ragnhild. You must know it.”
But Ragnhild said only, “You shouldn’t ride out alone. You’ve got a lively crop of enemies lurking about. Remember what we found in the cave. Somewhere hereabouts is a seeress who wishes you ill.”
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