PROLOGUE (137 page)

Adica smelled Weiwara's tears.” You will be honored among us as if you were one of the queens of the ancient days. I promise you that. No one in this tribe will ever forget you, as long as we have children." "Thank you."

"Is there anything else you would ask of me?" To think of lying down alone on her old pallet made her think of the queens, asleep under the hill, but she knew she had to sleep, to keep up her strength just as she had to eat. So Shu-Sha had told her. Nothing mattered more now than that the great weaving be completed successfully.

"I will sleep. You must look to the village now, and I will prepare for what is coming."

Amazingly, once Weiwara had left and she lay down undressed on her pallet, covering herself in furs, she dozed off easily. Weariness ruled her. She slept, and she did not dream.

But the morning dawned cold and ruthless, nor had sleep softened her heart. She rose at dawn and did what she could to air out her bedding. She examined the dried herbs hanging from the rafters, weeding out lavender that had gotten eaten away by a fungus, burning a tuft of thistle too withered to be of use. Already, at dawn, villagers gathered before her house.” Hallowed One, the birthing house hasn't been purified properly."

"Hallowed One, my daughter got sick after drinking cider, but Agda says it was the berries she had, not the cider. There are still five jars left. Maybe evil spirits got in them, or maybe they're still good."

"Hallowed One, is it true that Alain didn't come back with you? My dog got a thorn in his paw and one of the geese has a torn foot—"

It was a relief to be busy. She dressed, broke her fast with porridge and goat's milk, and went first to the birthing house. After

three new births, it desperately needed purifying; she smelled spirits lingering in the eaves, making it dangerous for the next woman who would enter to give birth here. As she examined the outside of the house, testing how the thatch had weathered the summer, looking for birds' nests, spiderwebs, and other woven places where spirits might roost, she glanced occasionally back at the village.

Manure from the byres was being carted out to the most distant fields in preparation for the winter. Beor and his cousins were slaughtering a dozen swine to feed the war parties, camped up beyond the embankment, and his sister had just brought up a big pot of hot boiled barley to catch blood for a black pudding. Young Deyilo tended a flock of geese out on the stubble of a harvested field.

Getsi appeared with a covered basket. She had grown a hand in height since Adica had last seen her, and the shape of her face had begun to change. In another year she would approach womanhood. But Adica would not be the woman guiding her across that threshold.

"What do you have there?" she asked the girl, more sharply than she intended.

"My mother has been collecting herbs and flowers for you. Where shall I set them?"

"Here, Daughter," she replied, a little shamefaced, pointing to the ground just in front of the door.” Your mother will have my thanks. This thatch needs beating. You've had a frost that loosened it."

"It's been cold early this year," agreed Getsi.” I'll get my sister to come do it. My mother says I'm not strong enough to do it right yet."

"You'll soon be."

Getsi smiled, careful not to look her in the eyes, and loped off back to the village, lithe and eager.

Best to keep busy, and not to think on what she had lost. She completed her circuit of the birthing house before kneeling down before the basket, uncovering it. A rush of scent billowed up, dust dancing as wind caught and worried at dried summer milfoil, placed at the top. Beneath them she found small woven pouches containing flower petals or juniper berries, and beneath these but terwort, betony, and mint leaves, the bundled stalks of tansy and five-leafed silverweed, as well as lavender so fragile that it crumbled at a touch. She laid the contents of one of the pouches on her knees to sort it, sheltering the light petals from the breeze: eglantine and wild rose, made pale by age.

A horn call blared: the alarm from the village, a triple blast to call every person in to the safety of the walls. Shocked, she simply froze, lifting her head to stare as children shrieked and men and women dropped what they were doing and went running.

The horn sounded again, a single blast followed by silence, followed by another short blast. She heard shouts and cries turn from alarm to amazement as people streamed out of the gates, running to meet what a moment ago they had been running from. Still she did not move.

A dozen horsemen appeared around the southern flank of the great tumulus, the Queens' Grave. In the next instant she saw they were not horsemen but the Horse people. One of them carried a rider, a human like herself. Running among the centaurs came two huge black hounds.

Petals slid unheeded down her thighs, catching in the cords of her skirt. Never could she mistake him for anyone but himself, nor would she ever mistake another man for him. She leaped up, rose petals falling in clouds around her, trailing after her, as she ran to meet him.

He pushed through the crowd gathered to stare at the centaur women. They gave way, seeing his purpose. Breaking free, he hurried forward and caught her in his arms, holding her as tightly as if he never meant to let her go, his face pressed against her hair.

He said nothing. She wept helpless tears of joy and relief, and after a while he pulled back to kiss them away, although even he could not catch every one.

"Hush, Adica. I am come safely home. The Holy One is rescued. We couldn't return south to get you because of the war, but when we learned that Queen Shuashaana had already sent you home, my friends agreed to bring me here. All is well, my love. All is as it should be."

"I love you," she said through her tears as the hounds bounded up, great bodies wriggling like those of pups in their eagerness to get a greeting from her.” I was so afraid I had lost you."

"Never," he promised her as he embraced her again.” Never." Held within that warm embrace, she knew she would not falter now, not even when it came time to walk forward to the death that awaited her. She would not go gladly, never that, but she could go with unhesitating steps because she had been granted strength and joy by the gift of love.

child
or
flame
PALACES floated on a river of fire, each linked to the last by means of bridges as bright as polished gold. At intervals brilliant sparks flew up from the river of fire in the same way sparks scatter and die when a blacksmith strikes molten iron with a hammer. These sparks lit on her body as she met the embrace of a host of creatures, daimones whose substance was made entirely of fire.

Where they touched her, crowding around, she burned. Her hands burned, her skin burned, and fire from within broke the bonds of the binding Da had wrapped around her so many years before. He had tried to seal her away from herself. He had crippled her for so many years, but in this place his magic held no power. Sparks pierced the locked door behind which Da had hidden her soul, melting the lock until the door swung wide and vanished in a cloud of steam, and she burned until her flesh was consumed and fire within met fire without.

She was like them. She had a soul of fire no different than their own.

Joy struck at her heart like lightning. The universe changed into purity around her, and in her heart and in her soul she knew she had entered a place existing beyond the mortal limits of humankind. Even her bow, Seeker of Hearts, had vanished. She had nothing of Earth left to her, nothing binding her to Earth any longer.

In the embrace of fire she burned for an eternity, or perhaps only for one instant.

Then she found her voice.” Who am I?"

Here in the realm of fire their voices thrummed as though they were themselves taut strings on which the music of the spheres played out its measure.”
Step into the river of fire, child. Here nothing can be hidden that you call past, which binds you, and future, which blinds mortal eyes."

She let herself fall, and the river swept her into the past.

She knows this handsome villa, its proud architecture and well-built structures, an entire little cosmos sufficient unto itself. She recognizes the vista of craggy hills and of forest so dense and green that the midday summer sunlight seems to drown in leaves. Fields surround the villa, a neatly tended estate. Not one weed grows out of place. Even the bees never sting. This'is the place where she was born and spent her early childhood.

She knows this pleasant garden, once languid with butterflies and now made gold by a profusion of luminous marigolds. But the prize bed of saffron is quite simply missing, scorched and trammeled. A man stands with his back to the rest, surveying the ruined saffron. The other five weary, somber figures gather around the seventh of their number, which is in fact a corpse. It is one of these who kneels, face hidden, to gingerly examine the prone body.

One of the Seven Sleepers has died in the struggle, and Anne for the first time loses her majestic calm. She shrieks anger, an expression that on her face looks so startlingly wrong that it takes a moment for Liath to realize how much younger Anne is, here in the past. She has her grandfather Taillefer 's look about her, well built and excellently proportioned, with fine eyes and a dignified manner. She cannot be much more than thirty years of age, strong and extraordinarily beautiful in her prime.

" We were to bind a male daimone! " she cries, outraged at their failure.” It was to be the father! I was to be the one who would sacrifice my blood and my purity to bear a child."

"This is the second death we've suffered," says Severus, "although in truth I haven't missed Theoderada 's incessant praying these last six years.” Taking years away from his face has not improved his sour aspect.” Can we risk a third death?"

"We must," insists Anne as she glowers at the dead woman, crumpled on the ground, robes burned to nothing and her skin ash-white, still hot to the touch.” We must have a child born to fire who

can defeat this half-breed bastard being raised by King Henry. Do you doubt that all is lost if we do not counter the influence of the Aoi? Do you wish to set their yoke over your neck? "

"No," says Severus irritably, having been asked this question one too many times.

Meriam sighs as she regards the dead woman.” Where will we find another to join our number? Poor Hiltrudis was too young to think of dying."

"Aren't we all?" snapped Severus. His arms are burned, his cheeks flaming as though with fever. Blisters are already forming along his lower lip, and his eyes weep tears.

The youngest among them, a slight woman with wispy pale hair, stands back with a hand over her mouth to stifle the horrible stench. They are all marked by bums.” I'm afraid,” she whispers. She glances toward the seventh of their number, the man standing a stone's toss away from the rest with his back to them. Light shines in a nimbus around his body, which by its position conceals something standing in the middle of the charred saffron. She begins to weep silently in fear.” I'm afraid to try again. You didn 't tell me it would be like this." She gestures toward the corpse.” Hiltrudis didn't know either. How could you not have warned us?"

"Hush, Rothaide," murmurs Meriam, taking the young woman's arm.” Surely you understood all along that sorcery is dangerous."

The man kneeling beside the corpse looks up. At first, Liath does not recognize him. He looks so much younger than when she knew him, with only a trace of silver in his hair. He is even a little homely, the kind of man whose looks improve as he ages.” If we try again," says Wolfhere, "it will surely be worse. Can we not make do with what we have? We succeeded beyond our expectations.”

Anne makes a noise of disgust, turning away.” Then I am forced to act alone, if I must. This day's work is no success.”

But the man standing in the ashes with his back to the others sighs softly.” She's so beautiful.”

"Go!" says Anne suddenly, caught by that voice.” Leave the body. I must think."

They are not unwilling to retreat to salve their wounds. Meriam leads away the weeping Rothaide, Severus limps after her and, after a moment, but hesitantly, Wolfhere goes as well, not without two or three backward glances at Anne. The butterflies have begun to return, fluttering around her like winged jewels.

Then Anne is alone with the corpse and the man standing with his back to her, who has not, apparently, heard her command to the others.

"Bernard,” she says softly.

Surprised to hear his name, he turns.

Ai, God, it is Da, but so much younger, about thirty years of age and, by all appearances, a few years younger than Anne. Liath never knew he was handsome. She never really understood how much she looks like him, even with her golden-brown skin and her salamander eyes. The years of running took their toll. The magic he expended to hide her scarred and diminished him. This is the fearless man, face shaven and hair trimmed in the manner of a frater, who walked ardently into the heathen lands of the east without once looking over his shoulder. But that was all before her birth, before their flight, before that day when, by crippling her, he crippled himself.