by J. M. Hofer
“Of course.” Gareth left to fetch it.
Determined to make her guest feel welcome, Lucia poured some apple wine into a cauldron and hung it over the fire. “Let’s leave the ale for the men, shall we? I’ve something a bit finer for us.”
Gareth returned with the shawl and gave it to his mother. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, Gareth. Thank you.”
Gareth nodded. “I’m headed back to the forge, then.” He bid them farewell and left them alone in the hall.
Lucia wrapped the shawl around Viviaine’s shoulders. “The end of the summer’s nigh upon us, I fear.” She kneeled beside the fire, ladled the wine into two clay cups, and handed one to her guest.
Viviaine put the wine to her lips. Lucia watched with delight as her eyes lit up and color returned to her cheeks. “Better?”
Viviaine nodded with approval. “Yes, thank you.”
Lucia took a sip as well, delighting in its sweet heat. “Now,” she prompted, “my son tells me you’ve brought a message for my daughter?”
“I have.” Viviaine reached into her satchel and produced a carefully folded, sealed parchment. “From Queen Igerna.”
Lucia took the letter and ran her finger over the red wax seal, delighted by the details of the dragon embossed in it. How do I explain Arhianna’s absence without raising suspicion? I certainly can’t send a message to Caer Leon saying she’s gone north with her Saxon husband to live with the enemy. She stalled by asking about the king and news of Caer Leon, and then settled on a half-truth. “I’m sorry to have to disappoint Queen Igerna, but Arhianna’s abroad, and we I regret we don’t expect her back for some time.”
The color the wine had restored to Viviaine’s cheeks faded. “Oh? Why? Where has she gone?”
Lucia felt surprised by the bold inquiry. Viviaine must have noticed, for she added, “I only ask because I am certain the queen will be curious.”
“Then, you may tell the queen she’s gone to spend some time in the court of Urien in Rheged, and, from there, I must admit, I’m not certain. Perhaps up to the court of Ceredig in Alt Clud, where her brother served as head blacksmith.” Lucia sighed. “She has her own mind, and a thirst for wandering as terrible as her father.”
Viviaine grimaced. “Oh, dear. A few years? My lady so longs for her company, and she certainly could not wait that long. Between us, I believe the queen may be with child.”
Lucia raised her brows, happy for the opportunity to change the subject. “Well, that would be wonderful news, wouldn’t it? I’ve no doubt Uthyr longs for a son. All men do, but kings most of all. How proud he will be if she is!” Lucia narrowed her gaze on her guest. “You and the queen seem to be very close. Are you a cousin or relation of hers?” If bold inquiries were to be the order of the day, she intended to have her questions answered as well.
Viviaine shook her head. “No. I would not say so.”
To Lucia’s disappointment, she revealed nothing further. “Forgive me, Lady Viviaine,” she ventured, “but why did the queen not send her letter by messenger instead? The roads aren’t safe for a woman traveling alone.”
Viviaine shrugged her shoulders and gave her a meager smile. “I offered to deliver it. I have my own reasons for being here in the North. Though I may, perhaps, appear incapable of protecting myself, I am quite resourceful. Do not worry yourself about me, Queen Lucia. In fact, I wish to profit from as much daylight as I can before night falls, so I will take my leave now. Thank you for the wine. It was lovely.”
“Very well, Lady Viviaine. I wish you well on your journey, wherever it takes you. As you can see,” she motioned to her stained clothes and hands, “I have much work to do. I’ll send someone to see to your needs.” She mustered a gracious smile, stood up, and left.
***
Viviaine, now alone in the motherhouse, took out the letter from Uthyr recommending her as a suitable guardian for the grove. Ugh! You dreadful girl! She threw the parchment into the fire with angry disdain. Now, instead of tending your beautiful Grove, my love, it will be yet more rocky roads and biting winds for poor Viviaine. Oh, Mistress, why Rheged, of all places? Frustration surged inside her chest. And curse you, Myrthin, for being such a stupid, greedy fool! This is your fault, yet who is here? I am, far from my beloved Affalon, far from my love, while you sit like a fat old seal by the sea watching the tide come and go. When this is done, you shall suffer as I have. This, I promise you!
She gulped down the rest of her wine, as well as the wine Lucia had left behind, hoping it would quell the rising tide of anger choking her throat. To her relief, it helped. She tossed off Lucia’s shawl and left, more determined than ever to find Arhianna and be done with it all.
***
Lucia watched Viviaine ride away from the village.
Gareth put an arm around her shoulders. “Well, what news from Caer Leon?”
“Queen Igerna longs for your sister to visit her,” she mumbled, squinting to keep Viviaine within her sights.
“That’s it? She came all the way here for that?”
Lucia shook her head. “She says she has other reasons for her journey, but didn’t say what they were.” She shuddered. “That woman is hiding something, I just don’t know what. She’s no handmaiden, that’s for certain.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know.”
Gareth motioned to the parchment she still held in her hand. “Well, start by opening that letter. Might give us a clue. Besides, it could be moons before we hear from Arhianna.”
That, too, caused her to shudder. She had grappled with misgivings about her daughter’s departure since she had left. She had not been lying to Viviaine. The North was a dangerous place; uncertain and full of tribes with allegiance to none but their own. She sighed, broke the seal on the parchment, and opened it.
Dearest Arhianna,
I beg you, come and visit me at Caer Leon. The land here is much like that of my home, which you loved so well, but the wind torments us far less. I’ve more jewels, dresses, horses and servants than I know what to do with. Come and help me make use of them. I treasure and long for your company, and the comfort and confidence only a friendship like ours can provide. I believe I may carry Uthyr’s child, but, please—tell no one. You know how such things can end in tragedy before a child fully quickens. I grieve that you have not yet even met my little Morgause, who now walks and speaks like a little lady.
Please, I have so much to tell you that I am not content to send by letter or messenger. I will settle for nothing less than speaking all to your lovely face. Come soon. Please send word that you will.
Your faithful and ever-loving friend,
Igerna
“Well?” Gareth asked.
“It’s as she said. Igerna wishes for Arhianna to visit her. No more than that.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll write back on Arhianna’s behalf. You can take the letter with you next time you travel to Caer Leon.”
“Right. Well, I’m going back to the forge, then.”
Lucia nodded absently. “Tell your father I’m going to the grove. I may spend the night there.”
She had spent many nights in the grove since Myrthin left, often craving the peace and solitude it afforded. It helped ease the pain of Bran’s illness and Arhianna’s absence. She also cherished the feeling of closeness to Islwyn and Taliesin she felt when she spent the night in the little hut they had once shared. She kept the hut clean and Islwyn’s apothecary fully stocked, with all his bowls and leather pouches arranged just the way he had left them. She often sat beneath the yew tree where he was buried and spoke to him. But, tonight, it was not Islwyn she wished to commune with.
She reached the grove before nightfall. She settled into the hut, built a fire, and prepared everything she would need for the night. When all was finished, she examined the winter shawl she had loaned Viviaine earlier that day. She was pleased to find a few of the strange woman’s long hairs upon it and pulled them of
f. wellWhile picturing Viviaine’s face, she wrapped them slowly around her left forefinger, opening herself to whatever the Sight chose to reveal to her.
Time faded away, as did her connection to her body. After decades of practice, she could now turn her Sight toward whatever she wished to see—especially with something that provided a connection to the subject of her vision. Blood, hair, or fingernail clippings were powerful in this sense, for they contained the essence of a person. She was never without a lock of hair from each of her children and husband for this very reason. She kept them in a leather pouch tied about her neck at all times, except when she slept or bathed. Yet, even then, the pouch was ever within arm’s reach.
She held Viviaine’s white-gold hair between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing its smooth shining surface in a slow, even rhythm. She whispered a chant to keep her mind from wandering. Viviaine, I see your face, reveal your heart, and what you chase…
A parade of visions began to come to her, like a meandering dream. She saw Viviaine, but not as she had seen her earlier. She was dressed in no more than a light shift, hair unbound, laughing and chasing a herd of deer. A boy ran beside her. Lucia gasped. Taliesin? Why are you here? She had to run to keep up with the pair. Taliesin chased Viviaine to a willow tree. They disappeared within its thick veil of hanging leaves. Lucia recognized the tree. That’s the willow where I found Arhianna and brought her from her sleep... She hesitated, watching the willow’s long trailing leaves sway back and forth in the breeze, overcome with the feeling that she should not disturb the couple. After a moment, she remembered this was her vision. She parted the tree’s green veil and looked inside. Viviaine lay on the ground beside Taliesin, her head in his lap. He sat with his back against the willow, stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes. Lucia relaxed into the soft beauty of what she saw, fearing she had judged Viviaine too harshly. So peaceful was the scene, that she was wholly unprepared when her daughter’s voice screamed out in agony, splintering her vision into a thousand shards of fear.
She lurched out of the vision, heart pounding. With shaking fingers, she reached into the pouch around her neck and pulled out one of her daughter’s hairs. She wound it around her finger, just as she had done with Viviaine’s, but the Sight would not cooperate. She saw nothing but blackness.
She froze with dread. Arhianna, where are you?
CHAPTER FIVE
An Oath is Sacred
Arhianna dug her fingernails into the bark of an old tree, steadying herself as she retched over the bracken beneath it. She had neither slept nor eaten well since leaving Mynyth Aur two weeks ago. When she felt her stomach could not possibly be any emptier, she returned to Jørren. He raised his brows at her. “No better this morning?”
She shook her head, weary from her daily ordeal. “No. I daresay it’s getting worse.”
He put his arms around her. “It won’t be long now. We’re nearly there. My mother knows a thousand tonics for such ailments. I’m sure she’ll know what to do. Gods know I don’t.”
Arhianna summoned a feeble smile. “Let’s hope so.”
He kissed her on the forehead and helped her back on her horse.
They were now north of the wall, moving through questionable territory. Jørren could spot a Saxon settlement with no trouble, however, and succeeded in finding them food and lodging each night. Some settlements were so large, they had an inn or drinking hall near the road. Now that he was among his own people, Jørren made many inquiries about where he might find his clan. After four nights, fate led them to a drinking hall where someone, at last, seemed to have knowledge of his clan’s whereabouts.
“You wish to find the people of Hraban the Terrible?” a grisly man growled from within his mug of ale. He was seated alone near the hearth.
Arhianna felt a jolt of hope and shot Jørren a look.
The man looked their way. “You are Jørren, who took Hraban’s place as earl, am I right?”
“Yes.” Jørren stood up and walked over to him. “Do you know of my kinsmen? Our village was burned to the ground in the battle with Uthyr. Many of us were killed or taken captive, but, by the grace of Woden, I escaped. I’m hoping I’m not the only one.”
The man drained his mug, and looked down into its emptiness with disappointment.
Jørren motioned to the bartender to refill the man’s mug, and gave him a generous amount of coin. “Keep it full and bring me one as well.”
The man gave Jørren a nod of thanks. “I know of your people. They serve Earl Ingvar now.”
Jørren furrowed his forehead. “Earl Ingvar?”
The man raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “You have not heard of Earl Ingvar?” He glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of several others who were in the hall. “That surprises me. He is well known in these lands. In fact, it was he who opened his village to what was left of your people.” He shrugged and raised his brows again. “Even though they were traitors.”
Arhianna’s stomach lurched.
“Traitors?” Jørren asked.
The man stood up. “Yes. Traitors. Against Earl Hengist. They refused to follow the orders of their earl, who had granted them good land and saved them from the Danes.” He ventured closer. “Tell me, Earl Jørren, how did you repay him when first he called upon you to fight for him?”
Arhianna felt a rush of danger grip her, as if the man before them had transformed into an adder, about to strike. But before she could do anything, he lunged at Jørren, grabbed him by his tunic and sunk a blade between his ribs.
She shrieked in shocked horror, looking around for help, but none of the faces she saw bore any sign of compassion or shock. The weight of what was happening descended on her heart like a hammer. We’re trapped, we’re going to die…we’re going to die…my child will never be born…
“Oath-breaker!” the man seethed, chilling her blood. “An oath is sacred! You offended the gods and betrayed your earl, and now you shall die for it.”
Jørren looked over at her with crushing agony as Ingvar yanked his blade out. “I am Earl Ingvar. What men were left of your people, I killed, and your women now serve me as slaves, which is all they deserve. Your wife will become one of them. Think on that as you die.” He kicked him square in the chest, sending him flailing backwards to the floor.
Arhianna bolted, but two men caught her easily and held her fast. Awash in panic, she clenched her hands to summon her Firebrand, but nothing came forth. FREYA! Please! Please, HELP ME!
But Freya did not answer, and no fire came.
She kicked and beat her fists against the men who held her, even though she knew it would do no good. Overcome with fear and grief, she screamed until one of them hit her so hard, the world disappeared.
***
Arhianna awoke to a white-hot pain shooting through her head like a bolt of lightning. She whimpered.
“Ah, good, you are awake,” a man’s voice said from above. She realized her hands were bound and that she had been slung over the front of the man’s horse. “You can walk now.” He brought his horse to a halt and threw her off. He tied the other end of the rope that bound her hands to the pommel of his saddle and rode on, forcing her to march beside him.
The events of the afternoon came back to her in a suffocating storm of black fear. Worse than Jørren’s death were the plaguing thoughts of how his final moments must have been. Watching me, feeling helpless, knowing he will never see our son…dying alone, without glory. She choked on her tears, the road blurring in front of her as she stumbled on, a captive once again. This time, however, she was alone, without her people, and without her Firebrand. Again, she prayed to Freya. Freya, do you hear me? Please, help me.
An answer came this time, as clearly as if Freya were walking right alongside her, but her words were not comforting. Summon your courage, daughter. Your destiny winds along dark roads. I cannot change your path, but I shall never abandon you.
But what of my child? Will he survive? What will become of us?
Freya spoke no more.
***
They reached a large village four days later, built much like the ones back in Jutland. She felt an unexpected surge of nostalgia emerge from the miasma of her fear, but it lasted only a brief moment. As soon as they were through the gate, Ingvar strode over, grabbed the rope from the pommel of the man’s horse she was tied to, and dragged her toward a huge barn. He unbarred the door and swung it open. “Look who I’ve brought to keep you company! Your traitorous queen!”
He yanked her forward by the rope, causing her to nearly fall to her knees, and then threw the rope to the ground. A moment later, she felt his boot slam into her lower back, sending her sprawling into a throng of her former kinswomen. Her face hit someone’s shoulder or elbow, she could not tell which. She felt hands shoot out to steady her and righted herself. Her lip throbbed from the impact. She turned around in defiance.
Ingvar wore a wicked smile. “She can take Ragna’s place until we hunt the bitch down and bring her back. And make no mistake, we will bring her back. Then, you will see what happens to slaves who run.”
Whatever Ingvar had in mind for Ragna inspired a sickening look of eagerness in his eyes. Arhianna knew that look well. She had seen it many times in a young man’s eyes as he tortured a helpless animal or burned insects for his own amusement. Some lads never lost their appetite for such things. They grew into cruel men who took pleasure in violence and torture.
He grabbed Arhianna by the face, squeezing her jaw within his large, meaty hand. “Enjoy the reunion. Your sisters can tell you all about how life is for them now. Give you something to look forward to.” He grabbed his crotch, sneered at her, and left.
No one spoke for a few heavy moments. Arhianna felt her heart heaving in her chest. She licked her now fat lip and tasted blood.
Once Ingvar was out of earshot, the women began to murmur. Arhianna turned around to look at them. They were thin and gaunt, their skin a sallow yellow. She spied bruises on arms and chests, and a few black eyes. Some, sadly, were with child, as she was.