Chapter One
Distant hoof beats vibrated the earth under Adriana’s feet. Hesitating only a few heartbeats, she clambered up the escarpment above the shrine and looked toward the distance, shielding her eyes from the low afternoon sun. A lone horseman cantered along the riverbank. Adriana watched until certain he wore the garb of an Astrian. Strange, he was not dressed as a soldier. No matter, an Astrian was an Astrian. Any would serve her purpose. This one looked very different, and he was alone. Recently, they had started traveling in bands too large to ensnare. Two and three invaders she welcomed. They were easy to separate in the mist, to wander lost in the woods, while she ensnared her chosen victim. A single Astrian was easy prey, and a fine offering to Rache.
Adriana had consecrated herself to Rache, the Goddess of Revenge, twelve years earlier. As a child of ten, she’d witnessed, with young and innocent eyes, the coming of the Astrians. She’d been gathering kindling in the forest when she had heard the thunder of warhorses and started to run for home but, tripping, broke her ankle. She’d dragged herself forward, calling for help, but had frozen into silence at the first shouts and screams. Huddled behind a growth of wild sweetberry bushes, she’d watched the distant smoke rise from what had been her village. The cries had continued long after nightfall, and by dawn, there had been silence. But by then, Adriana had known there was no one left to come to her aid.
She sobbed herself asleep in the gray of the morning. Hunger woke her by mid-afternoon. Dragging her painful leg behind her, she stripped the bushes of all the berries she could reach.
It was high summer, the bushes and brambles heavy with ripe or ripening fruit, but even if she could live on berries and crawl to the brook for water, how could she survive? Unable to walk, she’d be a ready victim for the first hungry bear or wolf.
Maybe now was the time to drag herself home and hope for help, but she knew in her heart that the silence meant there was no one left alive. In utter despair and pain, she lay on the soft, leaf mold and cried until her face was streaked with mud and bitter sobs racked her body. She was only partly conscious when someone touched her shoulder, but was instantly alert, her hands ready to claw and scratch.
“Don’t be afraid,” a soft voice said. “We will not harm you.”
Adriana blinked and stared. Two tall women bent over her. They were dressed in light brown robes and hooded cloaks of mottled green and brown.
“Who are you?” She knew as soon as she spoke. They were wood witches, the creatures no one saw, but to whom her village left offerings of food and young animals at the sacred shrines. Were they going to take her?
She sat up and tried to scoot backward.
“Wait, child!”
There was kindness in the voice, but also command. Adriana was too tired to resist. Even with two good legs, she couldn’t outrun these wood witches—crippled, she was helpless. But not hopeless.
“What would you do with me, women of the woods?” she asked, raising her fingers in the sign of protection.
The woman nearest smiled, tossing back her hood to reveal dark brown hair that framed her pale face. “We would like to help you,” she said. “What is your name, child?”
“Adriana,” she replied, flinching as the witch’s cool fingers stroked her swollen ankle.
“They did this to you?”
“I tripped when I was running.”
“Away from them?”
“I was collecting kindling for my mother. When I heard the soldiers coming I ran home, but I fell.”
“That fall saved your life, Adriana. I am Eadwyn, and this is my sister, Eadyyl. She is a healer and will set your ankle.”
They carried Adriana deeper into the woods and gave her an infusion of andine bark. As the potion took effect, Eadyyl set her ankle, wrapping it with poultices and splinting it with branches and strapping from her pack.
“Rest, Adriana,” she said. “We will take you to our sanctuary. In two cycles of the moon, your leg will be strong enough to walk on.”
Two moon cycles was too long! “I want to go home!” Not deep into the woods with witches.
“It is not possible,” Eadwyn said gently. “You cannot go home.”
“But I want to!” Adriana shrieked in her anguish. “I want my mother! I want to see my brothers and sisters and my loft over the mill. I want to play with the puppies!” She broke into wild sobs, beating her head on the ground and wailing aloud her fear and misery.
Eadwyn held her close, rocking and soothing with gentle lullabies until Adriana had cried it all out. She stayed on Eadwyn’s lap, leaning against her breast as she had as a small child on her mother’s knee. “I want to go home,” she sobbed, without the slightest hope that she would ever leave the woods.
“If you wish, we will take you home,” Eadwyn said, “but, Adriana, there is no one there.”
They carried her back through the woodland paths. From the rim of the trees, she saw smoke rising like gray plumes from the still-smoldering thatches. As they crossed the fields, no dogs barked and not a single cow lowed from the milch meadow. The gates to the pig sties hung open, the porkers being fattened for wintertide lay in pools of their own blood.
Adriana shuddered, but worse was to follow. In the village square, where they’d danced a few weeks back for May morning, grisly dancers hung from the maypole, their bodies slashed and mutilated. In the center of the square, where the high table had been set for her cousin Jaynew’s wedding, there was a stack of bodies—men, children, dogs, goats and women all heaped together. As they crossed to the mill, she did not want to look, but horror compelled her. By the stable door, one of the puppies lay on the flagstones, his head crushed. Inside she found her brother, Bryn, his throat cut and flies covering his face and neck.
“Why?” she asked. Who could do this to others?
“They are Astrians,” Eadwyn replied.
Adriana found her mother and father in the kitchen, their mutilated bodies thrown against the wall. Her two sisters and Cam, her baby brother, were speared to the walls of the pantry.
“Is there no one left alive?” Adriana asked.
They searched the village. Everybody who’d made up Adriana’s life had been slaughtered. The stench of bodies ripening in the afternoon warmth filled air that had once smelled of baking bread, or the boiling of jam or the dipping of winter rushes in beeswax.
The life she’d known was utterly destroyed.
Adriana’s eyes smarted with tears as she looked up at Eadwyn and Eadyyl. “Why would anyone do this?”
“They are Astrians.”
“I hate Astrians.” She spoke with the vehemence of a child who has nothing, not even hope.
“Come with us, Adriana,” said Eadyyl. “We will heal your ankle and teach you our ways.”
They had taught her well, and she’d been an eager pupil, learning to weave mists and shape spells. The Astrians forced the vanquished peasants to abandon the old groves and shrines in favor of stone-walled houses for their conquering Gods and priests. With Eadwyn and Eadyyl, Adriana dedicated herself to maintaining the deserted groves and shrines. They worked unmolested since the invaders eschewed the forest they feared, and when Adriana grew to womanhood, she chose as her patron Rache, the Goddess of Revenge. Dedicating herself to the service of the Goddess, she set up abode at Rache’s sacred springs. Adriana lived alone, contented, gathering sweet buds in spring, berries in summer, and nuts when the leaves turned brown. She kept a flock of wild goats and a clutch of hens that had wandered from an abandoned farm. She lived in seclusion, avoiding the Astrians unless she wanted prey.
She found them pitifully easy to snare. With magick and wiles, she lured them into her woods, and after wielding the power she drew from Rache, she ensnared them. She left them lost and wandering, forever shadows of the arrogant men who had stumbled into her domain.
And now another victim approached, oblivious to his role as sacrifice. The lone horseman rode across the distant meadows. Adriana had planned on setting fern spores around the cool spring today, but that could wait. Rache preferred prey to planting.
From her perch on the escarpment, Adriana drew from the springs below and wove a mist, snaking it toward the meadows and the narrow track. She wanted the rider to wander off the main bridleway toward Rache’s altar. As the mist swirled thicker and stronger, Adriana pulled out her flute and played a silent song to the rider’s mount. Lured by the calming music, the confused animal veered his way toward the forest and the sacred springs.
Mark of Windhaw thanked the Five Gods he wasn’t a superstitious man. Else he’d be convinced this mission was bedeviled. Two sennights ago, three of them had left Astria at the emperor’s behest. One of four parties sent to the new territories to investigate reports of abuses and mistreatment of the subject peoples. Mark hoped the other three envoys had fared better. His recorder had broken his leg when his mount had stumbled and fallen in a hidden badger trap as they took a shortcut across a fallow meadow. Karrel now lay in a village inn at Four Cross, his leg splinted. His mount had been less fortunate, so Mark had sent Pait, his squire, back to the nearest barracks with a request for remounts while he journeyed on to Merridale, the first town on his circuit.
If the fine weather continued, Mark hoped to arrive in less than two days’ ride, but the sudden onset of mist meant delay. Of necessity he slowed, staying on the marked trail to avoid misdirection, but letting Rian, his mount, set the pace. It was an inconvenience, nothing more. He carried the emperor’s sigil. Not even in these barbaric lands would anyone dare hinder his progress.
He hated these fogs! One lost all sense of time and distance in the dank silence. He’d been alone on the road for most of the day, but had at least seen his way. Now his only hope was to stay on the trail until the blasted fog cleared. Rian was content, more than content in fact, as she gamely clopped on. Mark sensed she was willing to proceed faster, but he kept a tight hold on the reins. After Karrel’s mishap, he rode cautiously.
After a time, Mark sensed the mist thinning. The ground, though still well-worn, looked rocky beneath Rian’s hooves. Around him, Mark noticed the outlines of dark trees and the distant sound of water. A river perhaps? The Merri even? If so, he was nearer his destination than he had expected. It was unlikely given his setbacks, more likely a stream or brook. As the mist thinned more, Mark sensed the incline of the path and noticed more trees. Had he wandered into the forest? Rian’s hooves sounded on rock, not trodden earth, but the path was firm and dry, and Mark gave his mount her head. She moved faster until, as if bursting from the cloying damp, they emerged above the mist into warm spring sunshine.
They were on a rocky knoll in a forest clearing. Ahead of them was the stream he’d heard for the past while. They must have followed the path uphill and now stood just armspans from where the water sprang from the escarpment. Mark dismounted and led Rian to the water’s edge. While she drank, he looked around and listened. There was not a soul in sight, but his senses alerted him to a watcher—the mists still clinging to the trees could conceal a rebel army. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, but nothing broke the silence except the jangle of Rian’s bridle and the sound of rushing water.
Mark knelt on the rocks by the stream bank and filled his waterleathers, drank deeply, then refilled them. He cupped his hands to scoop up the clear water and washed his face and neck. He dried them on the lining of his cloak. Refreshed, he stood up and looked around. There had to be another river, a waterfall even. This stream burbled over the rocks and gravel, but from nearby came a roar of a torrent. He felt no desire to explore; this little sun-drenched corner was haven enough. He’d wait for the fog to clear completely and proceed on his way. Rian seemed content to chomp the wide verge of new grass that bordered the stream.
Cloaking herself with invisibility, Adriana watched her prey.
He was travel-stained, and his rough-coated horse in no better condition. The animal hesitated, perhaps sensing the magick around, but her rider had no such qualms. After he finished drinking, he stood up and brushed his hood off his face. The sunlight caught golden lights in his long hair. A yellow-haired invader. The worst kind. The dark- haired mercenaries came, killed and returned to their own country. But the yellow-haired invaders stayed, taking lands and farms from the vanquished and inhabiting the houses of those they had murdered. Whole families of invaders now lived in Endholm, the village she’d fled those years ago. The invaders’ slaves farmed the fields her slain uncles had planted with roots and grain.
After drinking and washing, her prey led his horse over to the swathe of new grass. He patted the beast’s neck and talked to it, showing more concern for a horse than Astrians usually showed villagers and children. No matter, the invader had drunk from Rache’s cool water; soon he would pay the debt for which Adriana yearned.
She eased down from her perch, stepping forward as the stranger raised his foot to the stirrup.
“Sir Traveler,” she said. “Welcome to Rache’s springs. Will you not stay a little and rest? Your horse looks tired, and the road ahead is hard and perilous in the mist.”
Turning, hand on sword, he looked at her, his eyes wrinkling at the corners as he smiled. To her utter surprise, he inclined his head in courtesy. “Lady, forgive the intrusion. I was lost in the mist when I spied this stream and paused to refresh myself. I thought this glade abandoned.” His eyes shone blue as periwinkles in spring.
“Not abandoned, traveler.” She smiled and took a deliberate step forward. “I live here.”
“Alone, lady? Is that wise? These are hard and dangerous times.”
“Indeed, they are.” She fought to keep the irony from her voice. “But I have lived here alone for years and nothing ill has befallen me.”
“And I, lady, trust and pray it never does. There have been ill times enough.”
It pained her to agree with an enemy, so she inclined her head, and on meeting those clear eyes again proposed, “I have little to offer but Rache’s clear water, sweetberries and roasted roots, but if you would accept my woodland hospitality…”
He hesitated, but his hand hung clear of his sword hilt. In his arrogance, he considered a mere woman no threat.
Adriana smiled. “Come, and let us sit in the sunshine.” She indicated the flat rocks that served her as table and bench.
As he met her gaze, she willed hunger and weariness on him and watched the debate behind his eyes. He was uncertain, and she smiled to calm his unease. “I would be honored. I have but few visitors.”
“Lady, if I do not intrude, then I gladly accept your hospitality.” He stepped forward, and Adriana knew he was hers as surely as any mayfly caught in a spider’s web. “I have food aplenty and invite you to dine with me,” he said.
He took a pouch from his saddle and added his provisions to her roasted roots and berries. While Adriana brought drinking vessels and bowls from the depths of her cave, he produced ham—from some dispossessed peasant’s hogs no doubt—cheese and a hunk of dry, but still sweet, dark bread. She hadn’t tasted oven-baked wheaten bread in years. Just looking at it, she smelled new-baked loaves coming from Fax the Baker’s oven. Enough! No time for daydreaming. Adriana smiled at the intruder as he sliced ham and placed it on a trencher of bread. She offered him a treen dish of roasted roots.
“Lady, as your guest, I must identify myself and my house. I am Mark of Windhaw, son of the lines of Dingle and Saltram.”
How the invaders spoke of bloodlines and manors, as if property and possessions were all important. “I am Adriana.”
“No patronymic or distaff name, Lady Adriana?”
She shook her head. “I have no family, and…” she smiled, letting her mouth curve just enough to set the dimple in her left cheek, “in the woods, we lay no claim to titles.” She took, with both hands, the trencher he offered. The ham was pink and moist, no doubt fresh-cured this past winter. Her mouth watered at the thought of the taste of salt and rich meat. Never before had a victim offered her food, and she half-hesitated, but the smell of fresh ham was too much to resist. “I have nothing this rich to offer. Here in the woods, we live on berries in the summer, nuts in the autumn and stored roots through the winter.”
“Lady, in this glade, and with such company, all is a banquet.” The corners of his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled and reached for a roasted parsnip. A pretty enemy in looks and words.
As he bit into the dark, roasted root, Adriana tasted the ham. It was as she remembered—salty, moist, and needing chewing. The taste evoked memories and times long gone, of winter festivals, spring plantings, harvest homes and sacred feasts—a world long bled away under the invaders’ swords.
Her victim was hungry, that was clear, but he ate with grace and skill, closing his mouth as he chewed and cutting food into small portions before spearing them with the point of his knife. Even his beard stayed clean as he ate. A gracious and dainty invader who smiled as he sliced her parsnips and took the treen jug himself to the stream to refill it.
It would be no hardship to seduce Mark of Windhaw.
Adriana watched as he bent to dip the wooden jug in the sparkling waters. He’d discarded his cloak to reveal his dark shirt and riding breeches, which only served to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his legs. Invaders never had bowed legs from famine and disease. Although invaders seldom acted with such courtesy, or walked with such grace. She made herself watch the afternoon sun glitter on the ripples of Rache’s stream, not on the handsome Astrian picking purple water daisies. As he bent, the leather of his breeches strained against the muscles of his thighs. As he stood, she tore a crust of sweet dark bread and chewed. Hunger assuaged, soon it would be time to tempt other appetites.
Her Astrian prey offered her the posy of daisies with a bow. “Little enough thanks, Lady Adriana, for your graciousness…but I travel on the emperor’s charge, and I fear am unprepared for such hospitality as yours.”
How truly right. “The emperor sent you alone into his conquered territories?” Or was Mark of Windhaw the herald of another invasion?
He sat down gracefully, tucking one booted foot under and stretching out his other leg. “I didn’t set out alone on my commission. Misfortune befell us. I’m one of the emperor’s auditors. I had a recorder and a page when I set out.” He told her of their misadventures.
“What will you do without them? It’s unsafe in wild parts for lone travelers.” Most unsafe! They fell into Rache’s clutches.
His broad shoulders rose and fell as his wide mouth curled at the corners. “I carry the emperor’s sigil. Few would risk his anger. I left Karrel under that protection at an inn, to rest until he can ride, and I hope to meet Pait and new mounts when I reach Merridale.”
Merridale—the nearest market town, where her uncles had once sold lambs and pigs, and her mother had traded eggs and honey fruit. In those distant times, market days had been like festivals. “And from Merridale you travel farther?”
“Perhaps. I will stay there as long as necessary to fulfill the emperor’s orders. If there is time before winter descends, I go on to Stoneholm and Holmhaven, but I will not leave Merridale until satisfied.”
“Why did he send you?” Was she asking too much? It was of no consequence why this invader was here.
“He has heard stories of misuse and abuse since he annexed these lands.” Mark shook his head. “I am sent to ascertain the truth and ensure peace and law.”
Indeed! “It has been many years. Why wait this long? Is he not satisfied with his appointed masters?” They’d compelled the emperor’s law with horrendous zeal.
“Lady, here in this sylvan paradise I doubt the affairs of state intrude.” Was he foolish or merely ignorant? “The last years have been hard on the empire.” Harder still on the vanquished. “Now that all is stable in the realm and the threats to the throne removed, the emperor wishes to ensure peace and justice throughout the empire.”
“He believes there is injustice?”
“There are tales. I come to ascertain the truth.”
And she could tell him hard ones, but what would it matter? Did he really believe his emperor cared about mere peasants? She’d seen otherwise. It was time to appease Rache.
Adriana took a sip of water and let the cool liquid play on her tongue. She then focused her power to weave a spell of weariness. Mark of Windhaw yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his callused hand.
“Your pardon, Lady Adriana, I fear weariness overcomes me.”
“Small surprise, sir, if you have ridden since sun up and through the mist. If you will, you may rest in my shelter.”
“Lady, you are ever gracious. To stay would be a pleasure, but my duty to my emperor calls.”
Forest magick called louder. At his next yawn, his eyes closed, his long, honey-colored lashes brushed his cheeks before he forced his eyes open again. “I must…” He stood, feet unsteady and eyelids heavy with her spell.
Adriana sprung up beside him, grasping his upper arm with both hands. His muscles warmed under her fingers as she led him into her cave. Guiding his stumbling steps toward the sleeping pallet in the corner, she eased him to the ground. He was deep asleep as she covered him with sleeping furs.
Adriana stood up and glanced down at the sleeping warrior—or auditor as he called himself. His chin bore a scar that had surely been acquired in battle, and his body was strong as a fighter’s. He was pretty though, his hair golden against the dark furs, and his skin weather-tanned to the color of ripened waynuts. A fine sacrifice to Rache.