“No, bar it not,” Burhmund told him. “We will wait here as she bade till she returns or morning does.”
The first stars winked faint overhead. Buildings crouched shapeless. Edh led the way from the yard to the open ground beyond. Sere grass and wind-ruffled puddles faded off into blindness. Near the edge of sight stood a great oak at which Heidhin offered to the Anses. From behind it spilled a steady white light. Heidhin jarred to a stop. He made a noise in his gullet.
“You must be brave tonight,” Edh said. “Yonder is the goddess.”
“Niaerdh . . . she . . . has come back?”
“Yes, to my tower, whence she fetched me hither. Come.” Edh went steadily on. Her cloak flapped in the wind, which threw the loosened hair about the head she bore so high. Heidhin gripped his spearshaft hard and trailed her.
Gnarled boughs reached widely, half seen by the glow. The wind clicked their twigs together. Dead leaves squelched wet underfoot. The two came around the bole and saw her who stood next to a bull or a horse cast in steel.
“Goddess,” Heidhin moaned. He dropped to a knee and bent his neck. But when he rose again, he held firm. If his spear shook, it was with the same wild gladness that burst from his lips. “Will you now lead us to the last fight?”
Floris’s look searched over him. He stood lean and dark, somberly clad, face etched and locks streaked by the hunter years, the iron of his weapon asheen above them. Her lamp cast his shadow across Edh. “No,” said Floris. “The time for war is past.”
Breath rattled between his jaws. “The Romans are dead? You slew them all for us?”
Edh flinched.
“They live,” Floris said, “as your folk shall live. Too many have died in every tribe, theirs also. They will make peace.”
Heidhin’s left hand joined his right, clutching the spearshaft. “I never will,” he rasped. “The goddess heard my vow I made at the shore. When they go, I will dog their heels, I will harry them by day and raid them by night—Shall I give you my kills, Niaerdh?”
“The Romans are not going. They will remain. But they will restore to the folk their rights. Let that suffice.”
Heidhin shook his head as if smitten. He gaped from woman to woman for a whole minute before he whispered, “Goddess, Edh, do you both betray them? I will not believe it.”
He seemed unaware that Edh reached toward him. The wind ran between them. Her tone pleaded. “The Batavi and the rest, they are no tribe of ours. We have done enough for them.”
“I tell you, the terms will be honorable,” Floris said. “Your work is ended. You have won what will content Burhmund himself. But Veleda must make known that this is what the gods want and men should lay down their arms.”
“I—you—We swore, Edh.” Heidhin sounded puzzled. “Never would you make peace while the Romans held on and I lived. We swore to it. We mingled our blood in the earth.”
“You will set her free of that vow,” Floris commanded, “as I already have done.”
“I cannot. I will not.” Raw with pain, the words suddenly lashed at Edh. “Have you forgotten how they made you their slut? Do you no longer care for your honor?”
She fell to her knees. Her hands fended. Her mouth stretched wide. “No,” she keened, “don’t, no, no.”
Floris moved toward the man. In the night above, Everard aimed a stun pistol. “Have done,” she said. “Are you a wolf, to rip her whom you love?”
Heidhin flung an arm wide, baring his breast to her. “Love, hate—I am a man. I swore to the Anses.”
“Do as you like,” Floris said, “but spare my Edh. Remember you owe me your life.”
Heidhin slumped. Leaning on his spear, Edh huddled at his feet, he shadowed her while the wind blew around them and the tree creaked like a gallows rope.
All at once he laughed, squared his shoulders, and looked straight into Floris’ eyes. “You speak truth, goddess,” he said. “Yes, I will let go.”
He lowered the spear, gripped it with hands below the head, and stabbed the point into his throat. In a single swording motion he slashed the edge from side to side.
Edh’s shriek overrode Floris’s. Heidhin went down in a heap. Blood spouted, blackly aglisten. He kicked and clawed at the grass, blind reflex.
“Stop!” Everard rapped. “Don’t try to save him. This damned warrior culture—it’s his only way out.”
Floris didn’t trouble to subvocalize. A goddess might well use an unknown tongue to sing the soul on its way. “But the horror of it—”
“Yeah. Think, though, think about everybody who will not die, if we work this right.”
“Can we, now? What will Burhmund think?”
“Let him wonder. Tell Edh not to answer any questions about it. An apparition of her, when she’d been miles away—the man who wanted no end to violence, dead by it—Veleda speaking for peace—The mystery will lend force, though I suppose people will draw the obvious conclusions, which’ll be a big help.”
Heidhin lay still. He looked shrunken. Blood pooled around him and soaked into the ground.
“It is Edh we must help first,” Floris said.
She went to the other woman, who had risen and stood numbed. Blood had splashed onto Edh’s cloak and gown. Heedless of it, Floris laid arms around her.
“You are free,” Floris murmured. “He bought your freedom with his life. Cherish it.”
“Yes,” Edh said. She stared into the dark.
“Now you may cry peace over the land. You shall.”
“Yes.”
Floris warmed her for a while and a while.
“Tell me how,” Edh said. “Tell me what to say. The world has gone empty.”
“Oh, my child,” Floris breathed into the graying tresses. “Be of good heart. I have promised you a new home, a new hope. Would you like to hear about it? It is an island, low and green, open to the sea.”
Life stirred a little in the answer. “Thank you. You are kind. I will do my best . . . in your name.”
“Now come,” Floris said. “I will bear you back to your tower. Sleep. When you have slept your fill, send forth that you would fain speak to the kings and chiefs. When they are gathered before you, give them the word of peace.”
19
New-fallen snow covered ash heaps that had been homesteads. Where junipers had caught some of it in their deep green, it lay like whiteness’s self. Low to the south, the sun cast their shadows across it, blue as heaven. Thin ice on the river had thawed with morning but still crusted dried reeds along the banks, while bits of it drifted in midstream, slowly northward. A gloom on the eastern horizon marked the edge of wilderness.
Burhmund and his men rode west. Hoofs struck muffled on hard ground beneath, baring the ruts of a road. Breath steamed from nostrils and made rime in beards. Metal gleamed frosty. The riders spoke seldom. Shaggy in wadmal and fur, they rode from the forest to the river.
Ahead of them lifted the stump of a wooden bridge. Piers jutted naked out of the water beyond. On the opposite shore stood the other fragment. Workers who demolished the middle had rejoined the legionaries ranked on that side. They were few, like the Germans. Their armor gave back the light but kilts, cloaks, legwear, all cloth hung worn and dirty. The plumes of officers’ helmets were faded.
Burhmund drew rein, got down, and stepped onto the bridge. His boots thudded hollow over the planks. He saw that Cerialis already stood in place. That was a friendly gesture, when it was Burhmund who requested a parley-though it did not mean much, because the understanding had been clear that they would hold one.
At the end of his section, Burhmund stopped. The two thick-set men regarded one another across a dozen feet of winter air. The river clucked below them on its way to the sea.
The Roman unfolded his arms and lifted his right hand. “Hail, Civilis,” he greeted. Accustomed to addressing troops, he easily cast his voice the needful distance.
“Hail, Cerialis,” Burhmund responded in like manner.