Avelynn: The Edge of Faith (25 page)

Her words smacked at my growing unease. “What of your daughter and her practices? If anyone is guilty of witchcraft and devilry, it’s Marared. How did she learn her craft, if not from her mother?”

She filled two cups, handing one to me. It smelled like mulled wine, the notes heavy with spices, but I waited until she took a drink before sipping my own.

Her lip twitched in amusement, and she sat on a small bench. “My mother was a powerful völva. Fresh from Jutland, she carried her faith and her customs with her when she joined my father here. At home, she was revered and sought by all members in the community for her knowledge and her prophecies. Kings deferred to her wisdom, men bent a knee for her blessings. In time, the priests here grew suspicious and fearful of her power and influence. Eventually, my father tossed her aside and married a Christian.”

Had my mother and Muirgen faced the same hostility in Ireland? Was that why they’d crossed the ocean?

“Despite all the good deeds and healing my mother had affected since arriving in Wales, they called her a witch and cast arrows of aversion and distrust into the community. She became a recluse, shunned and feared by those she had once advised. She grew bitter, and her divine gifts turned into powers of manipulation. She could force others to bend to her will and orchestrate accidents and tragedies. Marared would visit her often, and the girl seemed to cheer her, so I let the relationship flourish. I realized too late that my mother had become unstable. She filled Marared with dark thoughts, teaching her secret knowledge and granting her the power to hurt others.”

I sipped the wine, my eyes never straying from Sigy. “Do you share in this secret knowledge? Do you have the power to hurt others?”

“Words and actions have the power to hurt others, but if you mean to call that magic, then yes, I suppose I possess some ability to affect the will of others.”

“How?”

“Magic is merely coincidence, a feint and sleight of hand—the genesis of suggestion. The victim believes what he is seeing is real, even seeing things that are not there at all. Suggestion plants the seed; fear allows it to grow.”

“Your daughter threatened me. Three days later, I fell ill. I found an effigy with iron nails driven into its stomach, half its face and arm burned off. The pain I experienced was real. I saw the flames.” A shudder passed through me. I could smell the stench of my hair burning. “That was no power of suggestion.”

“Are you certain?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“I’m not saying magic does not exist, for it does. Perhaps my daughter is in possession of that knowledge, but in my experience, most things we view as extraordinary are rarely that. If Marared threatened you, perhaps she suggested how she might do it, what you might experience. Then given the right encouragement—”

“The milk.”

“Once the seed is planted, a powerful herb or two can help it flourish. Perhaps Marared saw the effects of her efforts and mirrored them onto the effigy.”

I tried to remember back to when Marared threatened me. She had placed a wax figure on the table, but had she mentioned pain or burning? “The window! There was someone at the window, watching.” Could that really be all it was? A cruel trick? “And if your experience is wrong and your daughter is using dark arts to affect her desires?”

She shrugged. “There is much in this world that is unexplainable. Magic has been here since time immemorial. I cannot refute its existence or its use. What I can be certain of is that dabbling in its mysteries carries a great cost. It involves detailed ceremonies and human sacrifice. It always ends with a personal toll taken on the practitioner. It cost my mother her sanity.”

“Human sacrifice?”

“At very least, blood, but yes, human.”

“Is this what your daughter has been doing in her attempts to rid me from Alrik’s life? Her mind is twisted.”

“Disillusioned, irresponsible, and rash, perhaps, but her mind is quite lucid. I wish I could stop her and turn her thoughts from Alrik, but I cannot. The two of you need to leave, immediately.”

She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but getting Alrik to believe it was another matter altogether. “He won’t leave. He’s convinced reason will prevail where it comes to your daughter. He’s too wrapped up in male notions of honor and loyalty to break his oath. He will not leave until he sees this business through.”

Sigy nodded, setting her cup down. “That is unfortunate.”

A chill crept up my back. “What do you mean?”

“Marared’s hostilities will only increase the longer you stay. You are not safe here.”

“Is there nothing you can do to stop her?”

“Perhaps.”

“I guess the better question, then, is will you?”

“Every rash action Marared makes where this nonsense with Alrik is concerned threatens her position at Gwgon’s side. It is in my best interest to stop her, and I will do whatever is necessary to achieve my aims. I do have a few tricks of my own.” She sorted through a couple of boxes, settling on a small one, no bigger than a loaf of bread. She unlocked the clasp and pulled out a small pouch. She reached in, fished out and then discarded several items, letting them drop back into the bag before finally withdrawing her hand. “I can offer you protection.” In my outstretched palm, she placed a smooth and sanded oval round of wood and a small black stone, polished to a brilliant shine. Jet.

“If you think magic has been cast against you, you must light a sacred fire. Add to the flames herbs of frankincense and myrrh. Place the jet and wood in the middle along with a personal possession of Marared’s. If she has been using dark magic, you will need to counteract that with blood. Yours.”

I gaped at her.

She waved away my concern. “A drop or two will suffice.”

I thought back to when I’d first met Muirgen. She had cut my hand, and used my own blood in the making of a despicable drink. Had she used magic?

Sigy placed her hand over mine and closed my fist around the two small objects. “Stand beneath the linden wood and hold fast under a black shield so that they may block the spears of spite and hate.” She smiled sardonically. “May the Lord protect you.”

On the last day of March, dawn spread golden tendrils across a blazing horizon. Mist hovered over the valleys, the hills rising like islands in a sea of fog. A temperate ocean breeze teased the hair about my temples. The promise of spring rode on its crest. Despite the grim prospect of battle looming, everyone’s spirits lifted with the sun’s ascent.

Sigy’s frank conversation had replayed in my mind throughout a restless night. I rubbed a hand over my face and blinked hard, trying to dislodge the desire to crawl back into bed and sleep. All around me idle men had set up ways to keep busy. They’d cleared a wide swath of field and turned it into an impromptu exercise field, with sword battles, axe throwing, and sparring areas. The healing tent would swarm with the fatuous oafs. Sore losers and swaggering, bloated winners alike would congest the small space.

When I found Alrik, he was playing dice with one of his men. I smiled and waved. He caught my eye and stood. His opponent’s smile faded and turned into a frown as Alrik held out his hand. He grumbled his displeasure but dropped some coins into Alrik’s outstretched palm. Alrik pounded him on the back. “You can win it back later, Knut.”

Knut nodded and bowed to me before taking his leave.

Alrik set his shoulders and motioned for me to step in time beside him.

“We need to talk.” I wanted to tell him of the conversation I’d had with Sigy, and while not pressing, I wanted to share the conference Angharad and I had had with Gwgon. I missed our intimate moments together. It had been too long.

“Yes, we do. There is much we need to discuss.”

His tone was short and clipped. I stopped to regard him. Cormac called him over.

“Aye?” Alrik answered.

“A moment?” Cormac called.

I could sense Alrik’s hesitation.

I laid a hand on his arm. “Whatever we have to say can wait a few moments longer.” Given his mood, I didn’t mind the delay.

He nodded, and we made our way to Cormac. The two men clasped arms.

Cormac flashed a robust smile. “I’ve been training this lout. See if he’s ready to fight.”

The lout in question was Knut’s son, Svein. Fourteen summers this July, he was old enough to fight in the coming battle against Rhodri if Alrik deemed him ready. It would be a great honor, and Knut stood off to the side, pretending to look dispassionate as he sharpened the vicious edge of his axe.

Alrik gestured to a nearby rock, and I settled in beside him to watch.

Svein acknowledged Alrik’s scrutiny with a nod and turned his attention back to Cormac. The two combatants faced one another and for a moment seemed to size up the other’s weaknesses.

Svein lunged. Cormac dodged the attempt and aimed his sword at Svein’s right side. The blow would have connected if the boy hadn’t been anticipating the attack. He blocked the affront with his shield, which earned a considerable smack from the broad side of Cormac’s wooden sword.

Svein grunted with the impact but recovered with admirable fortitude. He struck out, twisting around Cormac’s shield arm in an attempt to make contact with the mountain’s ribs. Cormac raised his elbow, blocking the blow, but didn’t have time to turn before Svein closed in on his back. With a loud curse of displeasure, Cormac stumbled to the side to avoid the hit. He had just enough time to raise a sword to block a strike that would have torn into his shoulder.

The boy was good. I chanced a look at Alrik. Despite his normally impassive countenance, a slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

Watching Svein reminded me of Edward. What was life like for him in Mercia? Had Ealhswith been able to soften his heart? Turn suspicion and fear into acceptance and understanding?

Gods, I missed them all. My mother, my father, Edward, Muirgen. The swordplay between Cormac and Svein faded, and I remembered a similar time when I had stood in front of Wulfric, my father’s greatest friend and fiercest warrior. To me, Wulfric was a tough but fair teacher, whose soft spot for me distracted him.

I waited in a low crouch, watching for his attack. I was fifteen, but my instruction had begun as soon as I was old enough to hold a stick. My mother had encouraged the training, insisting a woman must be able to protect herself. I pressed Wulfric to teach me more, to make me strong, agile, and fierce. I wanted to make my father proud. Edward was too young to fight at my father’s side. I wanted him to know that I could, if he ever needed me to, and I desperately wanted him to need me. On this day, my father, the Earl of Somerset, had come out to the field where Wulfric and I practiced. He’d never watched me train before, and I was nervous. All the years of advice Wulfric had given me, all the techniques, the form, the instruction battled for my attention. My memory strained to recall a single word of it.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The lessons were grueling, but the sword was no longer heavy. My muscles had long ago adapted to its weight. I could wield it with precision and deadly purpose, though I’d never had to use it. My life was too sheltered. Only men traveled to faraway places and fought in unimaginable wars with strange and fierce people. I didn’t know then that all that training would serve me in my position as leader of my people. The test came when I stood front and center in the shield wall, staring down an army of Vikings.

On that day, with my father watching, it was just me and Wulfric. I wouldn’t be caught weak or deficient in my father’s eyes. I would prove myself worthy of the responsibility I wished he would bestow upon me. I wanted his admiration and respect. I wanted him to be proud of me. Even more, I wanted him to see me for who I was—not a daughter, or a girl, shackled by society’s laws and judgements, but as an intelligent, capable heir to his legacy. I didn’t want to be an obligation or an afterthought.

Wulfric charged at me. Two hands and his full weight bore down on me. I spun out of the way and let him stumble. His momentum took him careening off balance. I lifted my leg and pushed his rump forward with my foot, smirking.

He turned back to face me, his grin hidden in his scruff beard. “Like that, is it, then?”

I bowed, giving him an “at your leave,” and he righted himself. His eyebrows scrunched, eyes slanted, assessing me for a weakness. He knew all of them, but there were fewer and fewer as the years went on. And in return, I knew his.

We circled one another.

He lunged forward, careful to keep his balance, and our swords met in a clash of steel. The edge of his blade slid down, only stopping when my cross guard impeded its progress. I dropped the point, letting his sword slip altogether off mine and dipped low for a two-handed swing. I cut at his thighs. He blocked the blow and swung, hoping to catch me off balance as I lifted out of my crouch, but my footwork rarely let me down. Each step planted was firmly grounded. We created a dance, stepping, turning, and gliding past one another. Each meeting of the swords made a sharp staccato beat that echoed in my heart. The music of steel pinging and twanging rang in my ears. The metallic taste of sweat dripped from my upper lip.