Kel snorted. “Never can we trust the Cursed Ones. They sacrifice their human captives by flaying them alive, and then they cut out their hearts and eat them!”
“Have you seen it done, Kel?” asked Alain quietly.
“No! But everyone knows—”
Urtan broke in. “Humankind has always warred against the Cursed Ones, ever since they came over the seas in their white ships. Only now the fight has grown more desperate because the Cursed Ones have brought their metal weapons to the killing field.”
“Now we have a chance to defeat the Cursed Ones,” exclaimed Kel eagerly. “That’s why they tried to kidnap the Hallowed One. They’ll try again. We must be on our guard day and night—”
“Hush, now, Kel,” said Urtan quietly. “You’ll wake the sleeping. That’s why we have to wait here for the Hallowed One to return from the offering ground. In the old days, she would have walked to the marsh and returned all alone, but now we can’t risk leaving her alone. The Cursed Ones won’t give up.”
“I’ll protect her,” said Alain in that stubborn way he had, more sweet than grouchy.
“No one can protect her,” said Kel, stung by Urtan’s words into speaking unwisely. “She has a doom laid on her—”
Behind her, Pur hissed displeasure.
“What do you mean?” asked Alain.
Adica was suddenly aware of the grass stuck to her fingers. An owl hooted. There came a sudden splash, then silence.
Urtan started in. “If your mother were alive today, she’d be ashamed to hear you talking like a crow, all loud noises and strutting but without two thoughts to rub together. You treat words like pebbles. Grab a handful and throw them to the winds. Maybe you sleep in the men’s house now, but that doesn’t mean you’re a man until you’ve earned the right to have your counsel listened to.”
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.
