Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4)

Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4) Page 383

“It’s true that the Hallowed One’s power can bring evil spirits into the village,” Urtan said, when Alain asked him. But he fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable. “She doesn’t mean to. She’d do nothing to harm us. Not she, who is giving everything—but that’s her duty, isn’t it?”

“I can’t talk about it,” said Kel, flushing bright red. “I’m not married yet. I have to go help my uncle split logs.”

Alain went to Beor finally, hoping the man who had once been his enemy might prove more frank. But Beor only said, “She’s a brave woman,” and would not meet his gaze.

So it went, until the day came that she walked to each house in the village and made a complicated blessing over it, to insure good health and fortune over the coming winter. As if she wouldn’t be there to watch over them. He followed along with her with Rage and Sorrow at his side, staying out of her way. It took half the day, but he finally understood the depth of her fears. He understood the solemn feast laid out that night: haunches of pork basted in fat and served with a sauce of cream and crushed juniper berries, roast goose garnished with watercress, fish soup, hazelnut porridge, a stew of morels, and mead flavored with cranberries and bog myrtle.

He was woozy with mead by the time they walked the path up into the ramparts and ducked into their shelter. The cold night air stung. They snuggled into their furs, kissing and cuddling. Adica was silent and even more than usually passionate.

“Is the great weaving tomorrow evening?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” Even holding her so close, he could barely hear her whisper.

“You’ll be free after the weaving? No more demands made on you, beloved? You’ll be free to live your life in the village?” He heard his own voice rise, insistent, angry at the way Shu-Sha and the others had used her. She was so young, younger even than he was, and he thought by now he’d probably passed his twentieth year. It wasn’t right the other Hallowed Ones had made her duty such a burden.

A few tears trickled from her eyes to wet his cheeks. “Yes, beloved. Then I will be free.” She drew in a shuddering breath, traced the line of his beard, touched the hollow of his throat, drew a line with her finger down to his navel and across the taut muscles of his belly. “I don’t regret the price I must pay, I only regret leaving you. I’ve been so happy. So happy.” She kissed him, hard, and rolled on top of him. She was as sweet as the meadow flowers and twice as beautiful.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she whispered afterward. “I don’t want ever to leave you.”

The notion dawned hazily in his mead-fuddled mind. “You’re afraid of the weaving.”

“Yes.” She broke off, then continued haltingly. “I fear it.”

“You’re afraid you’re going to die. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Every person fears death. You’re the only one I know who isn’t afraid of dying.”

“I’ll come with you tomorrow.” Obviously he should have thought of this before. The Cursed Ones might still attack. She and the other Hallowed Ones had to thread a weaving through the stones, a great working of magic. That much everyone knew, but the workings of sorcerers of course remained hidden from all but the Hallowed Ones themselves, just as only clerics could read the secret names of God. Knowledge was dangerous, and magic more dangerous still. But he would risk anything for her. “I’ll stand beside you at the working. You know I’ll never let any harm come to you. I swore it. I swear it.”

“As long as we both live, I know you will never let any harm come to me.”

“I’ll never let you leave me.” After a long while, after he made plain to her the depth of his feeling, she slept.

But he could not sleep. He dared not move for fear of waking her, who was so tired. He dared not move, but as he lay there his heart traveled to troubled lands. He kept seeing over and over again the dying child held in the arms of its starving mother, to whom he’d given his cloak that day he’d ridden out hunting with Lavastine. He kept seeing the coarse old whore who had taken in Hathumod on the march east, to whom he’d given a kind word. He kept seeing the hungry and the miserable, the ones crippled by disease and the ones crippled by anger or despair. He kept seeing Lackling, the way he threw back his crooked head and honked out a laugh. He kept seeing the guivre, maggots crawling out of its ruined eye.

So much suffering.

Why did God let the Enemy sow affliction and grief throughout the world? Ai, God, didn’t the natural world bring trouble enough in its wake, floods and droughts, windstorms and lightning? Why must humankind stir the pot to roil the waters further?