Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

Here, now, began Alain.

“Nay, let him go,” said Urtan as Kel thrashed away into the brush. “That’ll make his ears sizzle. He’ll think twice next time he speaks.”

“But what did he mean about—?”

Pur coughed loudly.

“Hush,” said Urtan. “Here comes the Hallowed One and Pur back again.”

Adica made as much noise as possible, coming those last ten steps before she emerged into the clearing where a dozen adults waited, armed with spears or staffs. “Come, let us go to the feast.”

Mother Orla had died at the solstice of a lung fever and been buried with her gold neck ring, one hundred amber beads, a full bark bucket of beer, and a handsome flint dagger. The villagers had held council for over a month—there wasn’t much else to do in the winter—and finally chosen a new headwoman for the village, one who would bring them luck and prosperity.

Now, it was young Mother Weiwara who stepped forward to hand Adica a wooden ladle full to the brim with ale brewed of wheat, cranberries, and honey, flavored with bog myrtle. It stung a little, having gone somewhat flat after a winter in storage, but still had a good, strong taste, nothing sour or corrupt.

It was a balmy night, as sweet as a newborn child. They ate roast pig garnished with bistort and nettle tops, flat loaves of barley bread, stewed hedgehog, and greens, and drank enough ale to fill two rivers while Weiwara told the story of how the ancient queen Toothless built the tumulus with magic. Urtan sang of the hunt of the young queen Arrow Bright, who had captured a dragon and then set it free. If, as the night wore on and the moon cast its dazzling spell over the village, some women went off into the dark with men who weren’t their husbands, no one minded. The Green Man would have his own way in these matters.

Adica sat beside her husband, content. She had bathed his hair in violet-scented water that morning, and she could still smell it there. He always smelled of flowers.

He knew songs, too, that he sang in the language of the dead, which none of the living could understand. The dead still feasted and loved and fought on the Other Side. Of course they would need songs, like offerings. They sat by the fire for a long time, watching the flames tumble and lick, hearing the red-hot coals pop or sigh. Everyone else had gone. The moon rode high along her path, and Adica didn’t ever want the night to end, as if they could be stranded here forever, untouched by fate.

Alain held her close. He stroked her belly and whispered in her ear. “We make a child?”

One of the dogs, lying to his left, growled.

She smoothed a thumb over his cheek, found his lips, kissed him. “No child.” She had no more grief to give over to a child who would never be born. Like a loosed arrow, she had to remain fixed and true so that she would hit her mark. The Holy One had given her more than she had hoped for, and she would not let regret stalk her now.

He misunderstood her. “No child lives here yet.” His fingers tapped her skin caressingly. “We can make a child, yes?”

She sighed, not wanting to have to make him understand. “No child, beloved.”

“I will never let you or a child come to any harm.” Suddenly passionate, almost angry, he leaned away from her, still grasping her elbows, so that he could look into her face. “You think I cannot protect you, just like I could not protect—”

Both dogs growled and stood.

“That’s the loom! Someone is working the loom.” She leaped up and ran to the gate. Alain and the dogs caught up with her there. He had brought a torch but not lit it.

“Do you hear the stones?” She waited for the night watch to open the narrow portal and squeezed through, Alain following after. Crossing the bridge, she turned her face toward the hill. Threads woven out of the loom of the sky, drawn down by magic’s shuttle, traced so faint a pattern against the night sky and the glare of the full moon that only an eye trained to magic could discern them. The stones lay out of her sight at the height of the hill.

“Look!” said Alain as both dogs barked. A torch bobbed high up on the ramparts.

Who had come? Was it the Cursed Ones again?

The night watch blew two short calls to alert the village. Alain pulled her back through the portal, barring it behind them. Safe behind the palisade, she climbed the ladder that led to the gate tower. There, she waited as the torchlight approached and as adults of the village gathered outside the common house, ready with weapons.

A woman she had never seen before approached the gate, torch held high to light her path. In her other hand, she held a spear tipped with a flint point. Her hair, braided with bone and shell beads, gleamed under the torchlight, and her skin was mottled with strange markings, perhaps a scabrous disease.

But her voice was clear and strong. “Let there be peace among allies.”

“Let those who suffer join hands,” called Adica in reply. She signaled to the night watch. As he unbarred the portal, she climbed down from the parapet so that if the messenger brought evil spirits in with her, she would be the only one to take harm from them. The crowd gathered at the common house murmured at her appearance, but none called out. They, too, waited.

The woman had no disease: she bore the tattoos common to Spits-last’s people, who called themselves “Akka,” the Old Woman’s people. She spoke the language of the Deer people with so heavy an accent that it was hard for Adica to understand her.

“I am a Walking One of the Akka people. This message I bring for the sorcerer of the Deer people from the one who falls down when the spirit rides him.”

“I am Hallowed One of the White Deer people. Do you bring me a message from Falling-down?”

“This message I bring from the sorcerer who falls down when the spirit rides him: ‘Walk with the messenger who brings you this message. Danger time this day and tomorrow. Knife of Cursed Ones cuts our threads. They know who we are. Come to the land of the Akka people, of the north country. Come quick quick. There I wait.’”