Chapter Twenty:
My study sessions with Augustin resumed that Thursday afternoon, continuing as usual two days per week throughout the month of November. Augustin’s tenuous grasp on twenty-first century American English had begun to improve, for he had a knack for picking up languages without much difficulty. Once he had perfected his English, I promised him that we would move on to modern High German, which would probably seem a lot easier to him, more like another dialect. He asked me at one point what I would teach him next, after he had mastered both languages. I responded with a chuckle that if we found the time, I could teach him Bayerisch and French.
He admitted that my accent had improved, along with my knowledge of Teutonica in general, which pleased me. Soon we could focus on Ælte Teutonica, the language of the heathens, the language I needed to know in order to read those tomes in the archives. I wondered, once I had improved my skills with the dialects of my people, whether Augustin might instruct me in Latin or perhaps Arabic or Italian. We had over two decades; by the end, I could call myself a linguist.
Augustin and I kept our discussions focused primarily on languages and study, choosing not to reopen the many personal wounds we had uncovered in recent weeks. Keeping our encounters official helped me contain my foolish love for him, since both of us agreed that I ought to spend my time in more rewarding pursuits. We did not sit outside on the porch, nor did we walk in the gardens or beside the stream. Interestingly, Augustin did not broach the subject of Teuton rituals during the month of November either. Perhaps he was unsure what to ask of me in return for more classified information.
I continued to practice using blood control on the three servant girls when I joined them in their sewing. After a few more failed attempts, I managed to drain the blood from Eva’s left foot early one afternoon. My efforts prompted her to rise from her cushion and limp around while the blood returned to her toes. Felda and Emilie advised her to cross her legs differently, and I kept my focus on the path of my needle, fighting a laugh and a blush. I’m getting good at this, I thought to myself as Eva sat back down. Now I need to figure out how to heal wounds.
I worked on that on several occasions, usually by pricking one of my fingers with a sewing needle. The first time I failed spectacularly, for I had gotten hung up on the concept of arteries, the key to draining blood from limbs. It took me several tries to imagine the network of capillaries in my fingers, and once I had managed that, I practiced summoning platelets, sealing the tears in my skin. I found it much easier to redirect the course of a Teuton’s blood than to break down its components. Sometimes I wondered how the Teutons of old had learned to do such a thing with only a rudimentary grasp on biology. Perhaps Wuotan himself had trained his early followers on the nuances of their magic.
Freia’s birthday came on the twentieth of November. The count and I held a party for her, inviting many of our friends from the nearby estates along with the ironmaster and Joel. The party included a hearty luncheon and indoor games like chess and an early form of darts. Joel and I occupied the chess board for two full games; Joel won the first match, and I took the second. At one point, all of the men went outside into the front garden to challenge one another’s ability with the bow and arrow while all of us ladies watched from the porch, giggling at their masculine posturing and loud guffaws. Joel’s skills impressed me, for only Count von Reuter outshot him. When they all came back inside, I told Joel that he ought to get a job with the hunters of Muniche. “I bet you could bring down more deer than the rest of them,” I said.
“I probably could,” Joel agreed, looking flattered, “but for now, I’m just a metalworker. Once things start getting rough around here, I’m joining the Prince’s army; there’s no doubt about that.”
“You can be like Legolas,” I suggested, remembering his love for Tolkien’s novels. Joel smirked and said that his beard made him look more like Aragorn.
Freia gained quite a few gifts from the guests, but I think her favorite was the one she received from Master Denlinger—a brand new flute. Her eyes opened wide when she saw it, excitement at the prospect of music radiant upon her face. Before the guests departed, she played several lilting melodies for us, all from the Rhineland. Joel and I sat together on the hearth as she played, the flickering flames of the fire warming our backs, Joel cautiously twining his fingers with mine.
I sighed a bit at the impossible desires Joel’s touch engendered within me, ordering myself to stop wishing he was Augustin, to be grateful for his loyalty to me, for his choice to stay with me in the eleventh century. I remembered Freia’s suggestion, back when she used to urge me to stay clear of Augustin, that once Joel and I married, we should leave Teuton lands to travel around the Germanic cities, perhaps settling down at Eisenwald. As much as I did not want to leave Muniche, I knew that we would have to once things came to their ultimate conclusion—for our offspring would be mixed, hybrids. And I would need to put distance between Augustin and me, or I would constantly face the temptation of a nasty love affair.
On the first Tuesday in December, Augustin called at the Meldorf estate after dark, later than usual. I had already put our reading and writing materials away for the night, assuming he was not coming. When one of the female servants informed me of his arrival, I threw my coat on over my nightdress and descended the stairs with a candle in one hand, fully intending to tell Augustin that he had come too late and our studies would have to wait until Thursday. I met him in the vestibule and saw that he was clad entirely in black, likely to help him blend in with the night. He nodded once at me and said without preamble, “I have reached two conclusions during the past several days, neither of which should be discussed inside.” His blue eyes scoured the shadows, the doorways, his expression alert.
My intentions of asking him to depart for the night crashed to the ground as my curiosity sprang to life, so I gestured at the front door with my candlestick. “Perhaps we could discuss your conclusions on the porch?”
Augustin frowned severely and answered, his voice a little too loud, “That should suffice. Nonetheless, if anyone attempts to disturb us, he does so at the risk of his life.” He glared into the shadows of the hallway once more, then spun and opened the front door with a flourish, his cape flaring out behind him.
I followed him outside and set my candlestick down onto a holder on the table between the two benches on the right side of the porch. Augustin settled himself onto the bench with his back facing the house, as before, and I took the one against the railing, shivering with the early December frost. I focused briefly on my ice, asking it to meld me with the chill of the air. Then I turned my attention to my companion, the murderous priest, and asked what exactly he had figured out.
Augustin crossed his arms underneath his robes and turned his face in my direction. “I have pondered the fall of our people since the day I read the bitter truth in your blood. I likely did not see every aspect of their fall in your memories before my attention diverted to other matters.”
He paused, his mouth twisting into that familiar smirk, then continued, “It occurred to me, as it has likely also occurred to you, that the true reason for our people’s defeat remains elusive. Your memories attribute it to the Saxons’ desire to command the southern trade routes and to conquer our successful agricultural operations. Though these reasons seem believable at first glance, I considered the fact that the Saxons have excellent trade routes of their own with Flanders and the islands, and that their manors are also prosperous.” Augustin nodded sagely at me with the conclusion, “Therefore, there must be some other reason, some unspoken cause for their invasion, for their victory. And it came to me that there is one . . . and only one . . . plausible . . . explanation.”
My eyes opened wide as my mind worked to keep up with Augustin’s ideas. The possibility hit me then and there, with the suddenness of hitting the floor after tripping down a staircase. “Maybe . . . maybe they were after . . . the secrets of our magic.” I quaked at the thought, my breath freezing the air in front of me.
“Not our magic, Swanhilde, for only Teutons can perform Teuton rituals. But there exists one power . . . one discovery . . . that the Saxons could possibly seek for themselves . . . and if they found it . . . .” Augustin’s own eyes widened, glowing while he stared into the yellow flame of my candlestick, which flared in response to his element. “If they obtained it . . . they could destroy us all.”
A horrified squeak escaped my lips, and I pressed my hands to my mouth when I recognized the truth. “The song,” I gasped, my brain working overtime.
“Yes.” Augustin’s voice was deep; the flame of the candle leapt to the height of a man’s index finger, shades of blue melding with its natural yellow-orange. “If the Saxons learned the secret of my brother’s song, they also could open the gates of time. They could use that knowledge as horrible leverage over our people. With it they could amass an army that spans time itself, a force that could defeat us . . . in 1066.”
Augustin fell silent, and I started to hyperventilate on the bench. How could I not have seen this from the beginning? That’s probably what Beth was trying to tell me back at college, when she connected Prince Otto’s travels with the Teutons’ fall. Of course it had to be from the song . . . that was why the Prince wanted to remember it at the end, to change what had happened.
“But how,”—Augustin’s deep voice brought me out of my horrified reverie—“how would they have found out such a guarded secret?”
I knew, of course I knew, for everything had fallen into place now. I gasped once, producing a cloud of ice crystals in the air, then whispered, “Paulus. The Prince taught him the song. According to our history, the Saxons captured him . . . tortured him for a year before killing him at last. It was him. He told them the song.” My hands grew solid, shaking in spite of the ice coating them.
Augustin remained silent for a long instant, his eyes as wide as saucers, his fire turning them an ever brighter blue. Abruptly, he slammed his fist down onto the table with a force that shook the entire porch. He leapt to his feet, knocking the candle to the planks of the deck, its flame extinguishing with an odd suddenness. “Damn him!” he spat, stomping harshly to the steps of the porch, smoke rising from his shoulders. “Damn that pretentious idiot, that wretch who could never trust me, the one who would never break under foreign torture! Damn him for revealing his secrets to Paulus, the weak one, the one who joined the church, the one who never underwent torment to earn his priestly robe . . . . Damn them both!”
Augustin screamed, a fierce cry of wrath, ripping his hands through his black hair, prompting me to turn frightened eyes toward the front door, hoping against hope that none of the servants would come to investigate. Most of the time Augustin von Bayern maintained a quiet veneer, a pensive discontent, yet when his anger arose, he reacted like any other man. I worried for the safety of the wood on the porch.
The infuriated priest collapsed against one of the posts, his hands searing the wood, the word “Why?” bursting from his lips repeatedly, mechanically. I sat still on the bench by the railing, watching his anguish, feeling it churning within my own soul, though I did not react as violently as Augustin. Together, we had deciphered the real reason why my people had fallen, and it had all resulted from the Bayern family itself—a family plagued with mistrust, ruined by the untimely death of its matriarch. At last, while Augustin gripped the post in despair with his shoulders trembling, I spoke a pledge, a solemn oath, “I will fight them myself when the time comes, though it will do no good.”
“And you will die, as you have planned.” Augustin turned from the post to face me once more, his anger cooled, resignation taking its place. “We all will fight, and we all will die. That is how it has been written, and I suppose there is no use bemoaning what is to come. But I must now hate both of my brothers forevermore, one for his hypocrisy, the other for his cowardice.” He grimaced, lifting the candle from the deck and relighting it with his blue fire, setting it on the table.
“So,” I began as my companion situated himself upon the bench once more, “what’s the other thing you concluded?” I had to change the subject somehow, before the melancholy of knowing the future overcame us both.
Augustin raised his eyes to mine, a disturbing smile appearing on his face. He leaned back against the house and said, “I have concluded, my darling Swanhilde, that I must bleed you again, soon. Your blood holds far too much fascinating information for me to be satisfied with one simple bleeding. The problem is, your blood also tastes incredibly Teutonic. Despite my good intentions, if I bleed you once more, I shall likely almost kill you again.”
Augustin paused, still smiling while fear crept up my spine at his words, at their implications. “There is one way around this issue, my gorgeous swan princess, and if you would take the time to recall what I told you about priests and their wives, you may be able to predict what it is.”
I gawked at him, my hands trembling once more as I endeavored to understand what he sought. Priests and their wives . . . bleeding . . . the heart-bond . . . .
I gasped, abruptly realizing what he wanted, what he required. “My . . . heart?”
His smile widened. “Yes. I want your heart, Swanhilde. You see, if I held the heart of your soul as though it were my own, you would belong to me. I could pump your heart myself while I bleed you, channeling the blood of Wuotan’s realm to eliminate the risk of your death. I could finally come to understand your heart, your soul, and the strange standards you have, which are now alien to me. I want it, yes . . . . I want to ponder your purity, your kindness . . . your love.”
I stared at him in horror, my heart pounding hard in response to his terrible request. How could I give up my heart, my free will, my soul . . . to this monstrous, devil-worshipping sadist? Memories of Ina and Walfrid back home in the twenty-first century arose in my mind, and a strange sickness crept into my stomach.
He had her bound in a room that I wish I’d never seen while he repeated black lies over and over to her, his energy jolting her heart every few seconds. She was crying, and her eyes could not see my spirit. Fonsi’s bleak description of Ina’s fate as a bound wife prompted me to shudder. If I allowed Augustin to claim my heart, he could use his fire to torment me the same way, if he felt so inclined.
Eventually I realized that he awaited my answer, while he sat just paces from me, his eyes reading every reaction that sped across my face. “That would make me your slave,” I whispered, my common sense rebelling at the concept.
Augustin nodded at me, his smile transforming into a smirk. “Yes, but I would not be a harsh master, my darling. In return for your heart I would give you everything you want. I would teach you everything I know, every Teuton ritual, every Teuton secret, the things no other woman has ever known. I would train you in blood rituals far beyond simple matters of controlling its flow. I will grant you anything you wish . . . asking nothing more in return . . . for to me, holding the heart of a Teuton woman would be payment enough.”
I sat rigid on the bench, breathing shallowly, my thoughts muddled. “I . . . I don’t know . . . what to say.” I wavered, my eyes darting this way and that.
Augustin rose from the bench and pointed his feet toward the stairs and the pathway to the road. “I shall give you one week to think it through. Next Tuesday, I shall require your answer. I bid you farewell until then, Swanhilde.”