Chapter Thirty-seven:
We remained in the upper chamber of the tower until the sun sank beneath the horizon, the blood-red sky reflecting the ill-fated city below. Our enemies had breached the eastern gate by then and converged upon Muniche from both sides, burning and ruining as they went. Each new fire stanched a bit of my blood, and the cries of each dying Teuton struck my heart through with a stake, causing me to cry out in pain over and over. Augustin held me in his arms, trying to help me regain my strength as we debated on what to do next. The pillaging army crept ever closer to the town hall with the approach of evening.
I heard Freia and Augustin discussing options while I lay broken, my awareness wavering, my life slowly burning out. They spoke in Rhenisch to each other, and I could hardly comprehend their words, though my Rhenisch was as perfect as my Ælte Teutonica by then. Augustin insisted that we must go before twilight had come, for soon the city would be so overrun that he may not be able to save Freia from the plundering invaders. My best friend put the wine bottle to my lips again and urged me to drink, to grant my body a temporary relief.
I closed my eyes and complied, the wine dulling the fringes of my pain. I ordered myself to find vigor somehow, so I could accompany my cohorts as long as possible. “Swanhilde, darling.”
I opened my eyes to see my husband’s face hovering over mine, his right hand laid upon my throbbing heart. His mien looked incredibly drawn, uncertainty and regret warring with the love in his gaze. “Freia and I must leave now before escape becomes impossible for mortal humans.”
“Yes . . . I know,” I whispered once Freia had lifted the bottle from my lips.
Augustin’s jaw trembled as he stared down at me, and I suddenly realized that he had said Freia and I . . . no reference to me. I blinked at him, and he said in a tremulous voice, “My precious wife, the pain you feel is intense, beyond words . . . and I cannot take it upon myself forever. You shall not find relief until you leave this place . . . to return to your future, your München, the city that prospers, its dark days behind. I see no point in prolonging your agony, my darling.”
The truth of the matter struck me between the eyes, and fear raced through my veins despite everything. “You . . . are going . . . to kill me?” I croaked.
He nodded gravely, tears trembling upon his eyelashes. “I must, Swanhilde, for you cannot stay here now, not with your connection to Muniche, for she shall vanish with the dawn. I shall be kind, I promise . . . numb your consciousness before I stop your heart. You shall feel no pain. I could kiss you in that last moment, if you wish.” A tear dropped from his right eye to fall upon my cheek.
I began to pant, fearing the unavoidable all at once, for it had come about so suddenly. I had no time to properly ponder all of the things that I desperately needed to say. “Augustin,” I gasped, reaching one hand to his face, “what about our bond? Will it survive the trip through time . . . and now, when Muniche has thrown her claim upon me? What if I lose you somehow . . . how can I . . . .” I choked. My own tears spilled upon my dress while his right hand gradually unwound the stays of my mauve bodice, slipping beneath the fabric to stroke the skin over my heart, his fingers firm and gentle at the same time.
“I do not know, my love,” he murmured, his face stricken with grief. “The city may release you, under the influence of time . . . but perhaps fate has plans for you as Muniche’s Lady in the future. As for our bond, there is no telling, but I shall not let you go willingly. My hand shall clutch your stilled heart here in the mortal world and in the spiritual realm. I shall focus solely on our love . . . perhaps it could be enough . . . perhaps.” I felt him wrap the fingers of his spirit around my heart in the other realm, solidifying our bond despite Muniche’s devices.
“I’ll cling to our love, too,” I promised breathlessly, trying to invigorate what was left of myself for the necessary journey. “Muniche can’t break us, even though your love can no longer fully satisfy me. You were my love of choice, Augustin, and if I ever find myself unchained again, I’d take you first, always.” He kissed me passionately in response, his tongue entwining with mine for a long moment.
When he released my mouth, I twisted my head to the left, searching for my best friend. “Freia?” I called softly, and she flew to my side, clasping my feeble hand in hers.
“I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” I said. “You’ve been such a wonderful friend, and I’ll never forget you.” Freia wept and threw herself upon me in a sorrowful hug. “Please . . . when you get to Eisenwald . . . look after my children,” I begged her. “And always be kind to Augustin. He’s not what everyone thought . . . please.”
My husband’s hand tightened upon my heart at my words, and Freia promised that she would heed my final wishes and wait for me in heaven with Heinrich and all the children. She squeezed my hand firmly, imparting a touch of her light to take with me on my journey. Then Freia stepped back, nodding once at Augustin and wiping her tears on her sleeve.
Augustin sighed, and I turned my head toward his one final time, forcing the tears back so I could fully appreciate the affection shining in his light blue eyes. “My darling Swanhilde . . . my lovely Muniche,” he murmured softly, “I can only wish that we had more time . . . but fate has greater plans for you . . . I know it. And I promise you, by the dead blood that flows through my veins, that I shall avenge you. I will never rest until the Toteheri and each Teuton traitor has been wiped off of this earth. My love for you encompasses your city now . . . and I shall not fail you. I promise.”
He leaned down to kiss my forehead. My lips trembled as I whispered the only parting phrase I could give him. “Augustin, I love you . . . now and always. Don’t ever forget . . . and thank you.”
His arms tightened around me, and he whispered back, “I love you, too, my darling Swanhilde. You will always be everything to me, even in death. Close your eyes now, my precious swan, and relax. Do not weep, for we shall meet again.” His eyes flashed a promise, and he bent his head low to kiss my lips, our final goodbye. I squeezed my eyes shut, concentrating on the taste of his tongue, on the heat of his fire, waiting for oblivion to take me, to free me from the agonies of a dying city, to send me home.
Augustin’s lips released my mouth rather abruptly, and his body stiffened, his attention diverted from granting me a merciful death to something else, outside my funereal chamber. I heard a growl rumble in his chest. “Who could dare to disturb us now, at the very end?” he snapped.
I opened my eyes, blinking in confusion. My husband lifted his hand from my chest, quickly securing the ribbons again, pulling me upward from the stone floor, his arms enclosing me in a fiery shield. I heard the distinct sound of footsteps upon the stairwell, and Freia drew close to us, her countenance frightened. “Is it the Saxons?” she asked in Rhenisch, her voice barely audible.
My husband’s eyes narrowed, glinting cobalt. “No, it is a Teuton . . . a young one . . . a man of molten rock. I do not recognize his spirit.” He scowled at the doorway to the stairs, his right hand sliding across my body to grasp the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip.
My ice froze me as I turned my eyes to the doorway, belated shock flooding my veins at this sudden interruption of my death. An instant later, a brown-haired Teuton soldier burst into the chamber in a wave of heat, his armor bloodied, his appearance disheveled, his eyes a boiling orange, like fresh lava. He ground to a halt, panting, looking at each of us in turn. Then he ducked his head in an almost-forgotten display of decorum.
“Forgive me . . . for confronting you in this way . . . my lord and ladies,” he began in a breathless voice, his eyes cooling into a muted blue-gray, “but I have a message for the Lady Swanhilde . . . from his majesty . . . he sent me to find her . . . made me swear to get this to her.” He retrieved a soiled roll of parchment from beneath his armor and glanced uncertainly from me to Freia.
I took a shaky step forward, Augustin’s hands holding me steady, and I told the winded warrior, “I am the Lady Swanhilde. What is it?” My eyes locked upon his ragged scroll, perplexity mixed with an odd thrill filling my soul. My Keyholder has not forgotten me . . . he has sent me a message . . . perhaps an apology.
“His majesty ordered me to see that you received it, with his regards and wishes for a brighter future.” I could tell from the soldier’s expression that he had no idea what lay inside the sealed scroll, let alone the meaning of the Prince’s commands. I shook my head in bewilderment and accepted the message. I heard Augustin shoo the messenger away with a bit of annoyance, commenting to Freia in Rhenisch that letters had no meaning now, only to delay the inevitable. And my quaking hands cautiously unrolled the scroll.
My eyes flew open, a veil of blue enhancing my vision. My hands began to shake so violently that I almost dropped the parchment. A choked cry escaped my lips, for my disjointed mind could hardly comprehend what I was seeing—lines, notes, symbols, a musical score written in black ink, the tune one I had known for years, except for the end, the final lines.
A smaller sheet of paper fell to the floor while I unraveled the right edge of the scroll, my eyes flying over those last phrases, the ones I had long dreamed to uncover. The complicated pedalwork . . . the almost-perfect harmonies . . . the registration invoking every melody that ancient pipe organs could conceivably make . . . Prince Otto’s Song of Time.
When I finally managed to speak, I said something ridiculous, for my eyes were riveted upon those last lines, the musician in my soul committing them to memory. “So that’s how it ends. I never would have thought. I guess that’s why I’m not a composer.”
My foolish snicker broke the stillness of the chamber, and a deluge of relief and amazement nigh pulled me into an insane rapture. The song was mine. Now I could escape this era apart from death!
“This . . . is quite unexpected,” Augustin remarked in a gravelly voice, staring down at the paper in my hands. I had almost forgotten about him, for I was so distracted by the beauty of the music my eyes beheld. My mind played its melody. My feet began an unconscious imitation of the pedalwork, thrusting the pains of the dying Muniche into the back of my mind. The performer inside of me had awoken at the very door of death, and she wished to fly to the stars again.
Freia came to my side, laying a small folded paper upon the score before me, breaking my concentration at last. “I think the Prince sent you this, as well,” she murmured, her countenance shining in response to my unanticipated triumph. I focused on the small paper, taking it in my left hand and carefully rolling the scroll with my right, fearing to mishandle such a precious artifact. I had noticed that the score contained no words, no explanation, just lines and notes of music. Perhaps the folded paper would shed some light onto my sudden salvation.
Augustin took the scroll from my hands as I unfolded the small note, and he stepped aside to view the score himself. It would do him no good, I knew, for he was no musician. He looked only to satisfy his traditional curiosity. Meanwhile, I read the Prince’s flowing Carolingian minuscule with shifting emotions, his handwriting not quite on par with Augustin’s but impressive nonetheless:
My Lady Swanhilde Hudson von Thaden,
It is with great and sincere regret and humility that I write you this letter, for by the time you receive it, Muniche shall likely have perished to the enemy. I have failed in my entire life, it appears, blinded by opulence and imagined safety, never truly believing that it would come to this. My shortsightedness has ruined my Lady, destroyed my people, cast my intentions to hell, and I admit now, with proper meekness, that I should have heeded your admonitions long ago.
Perhaps I should have given this song to you that very first day, for no woman ought to behold this degeneration of an epoch. You are a fine musician, and I do pray that this message reaches you before an inglorious death, for you shall certainly treat this knowledge with respect and discretion. I hope that you may split the heavens asunder in one final triumph of Teutonic sorcery before Muniche crumbles, and that the wisdom you have gained from this dreadful era may shed a more astute light upon your own destiny. As for me, I depart in disgrace, cast forever from my people and my city. I have not used my knowledge properly, and now I reap the fatal consequences. May you warn those in your era to shun the vices of pride and devilry, for the effects only serve to hurt. Forgive me.
Sincerely yours, with a broken man’s hope for the future,
Prince Otto Eduard Hildebrand von Bayern
I stared at the letter in stunned silence for a long interval, disbelieving the humbled apology I detected in the Prince’s words. It had taken the ruin of his city for him to give up his pride, to grant a woman his cherished secret. But it had happened at last, and now the responsibility of the Prince’s song had passed to me. The insane cords that had locked upon my soul in the hour before sunset throbbed in my heart, sending a mad pleasure through me.
He had written his last letter to me, his Lady, an unspoken plea for forgiveness, repenting of his mistakes, expressing his sorrow in my demise. “My Keyholder loves me still,” I whispered at length. My strength gradually returned while my dying city sang a final song of adoration.
Augustin snorted from somewhere behind me, snatching the letter from my hands with the callous assertion, “He wrote this last night, Swanhilde, look at the date. The murderer had no inkling that you were to become his Lady. He likely thought that Muniche would choose no one, after he consigned her to oblivion.”
I shook my head, still dazed by this whirlwind turn of events. “That may be, but there is yet grace in his heart, or he would not have sent me this bequest. He must flee now and wander alone until his death in 1074. Then he must pass his responsibilities to another, one who may live to see Muniche reborn. And I shall depart, return to meet the future, as he wished . . . for he is my Keyholder.”
I spoke the word in Ælte Teutonica, a whisper of devotion from my bound heart—an olden term, one used only between the Keyholder of a Teuton city and his Lady. It has no translation into English or modern German, and though I write it as Keyholder it implies much more: protector, beloved, savior . . . master.
An aggravated groan escaped Augustin’s lips. He paced the floor swiftly from the doorway to the window, his cloak flaring, his hands clutching the score and the letter. “And what is your master now?” he muttered, not looking at me. “Nothing. A pawn shoved aside by a damned city. A marriage certificate burnt in the wind, thrown to the depths of the sea.” His face was creased with suffering.
My gaze drifted to the stones beneath my feet, and Freia patted me gently on the shoulder, sending her light into my spirit to comfort my treasonous heart. Regret stabbed me at the sight of my husband’s heartache, and I approached him where he had halted his pacing at the windowsill to glare at the darkening sky.
“Augustin, forgive me. But I have no choice.” I stared up at his face, my heart yanked in opposite directions—a ravaged Muniche to her Keyholder, and a dedicated Swanhilde to her lover, her cursed husband.
“I know,” Augustin sighed, wrapping his arm around me, pulling me to his side, his fingers brushing the skin of my neck. “It may be better for you now,” he went on, sounding detached. “Once you return to the future, your tie with the city shall cause you to forget the immortal demon you left behind . . . allowing you to properly move on, to unite with your modern Keyholder.”
“No. Never,” I disagreed, kissing Augustin’s cheek several times, savoring the taste of his fiery skin. “Muniche may pull me away from you, but she can’t make me forget. I’ll always hold my love for you inside my heart, forever.”
“Ah, darling Swanie . . . time shall tell.” Augustin sighed heavily, leaning his cheek upon my head, his entire body appearing weary. “But we must cast off our sorrows and confront our situation. The Saxon legions converge upon our haven now, though they may halt their destruction at nightfall and finish with Muniche in the morning. I can see their fires blazing in a cordon around the city, and we must go if you still wish me to save Freia.”
My best friend stood beside us at the window, looking down upon the burning buildings and seething forces, swords glittering in the torchlight, moving ever closer to the town hall. “They’ve already reached the castle,” Freia said, her green eyes on its towers, breaking apart slowly with the powers of the Toteheri. “If Swanie plans to leave using the song, we’ll have to go to the cathedral.”
My gaze drifted from the crumbling palace—where Lady Maria’s corpse likely still lay—to the cathedral’s tall spire reaching to the firmament in the midst of the city, as yet untouched by the enemy. “I’ve never played the organ there,” I said, wondering what sort of stops it had. “And it might be hard to get there with the Toteheri below us.” I looked down at the main street and the heathen warriors approaching the town hall’s front entrance.
“Difficult for well-trained Teutons?” Augustin shot me a reproachful look. “I think not, my darling. We can fly there on the power of our elements; and should either of you fear that you cannot accomplish such a feat, I could carry both of you, if you would each take up one of the bundles.”
That very idea had occurred to me, but I remembered what had happened the last time I had attempted a similar display—the stinging throb in my ankles. I could not injure my feet further now, not when I needed to play the Prince’s song perfectly. “You’re going to have to carry me, Augustin, but I’ll bring your fire out to help,” I pledged, bending down to retrieve my husband’s bag.
Freia added that she would try to reinforce our vitality with her light. She placed the nearly empty wine bottle back inside her pack before shouldering it deftly, favoring me with a determined nod. A devilish look appeared on Augustin’s face, and he leapt upon the windowsill, raising his head to the sky. The atmosphere grew unbearably hot, and his robes swirled around him as he called forth the full power of his fire. His long black hair transformed into licking flames; the hands he proffered to us glowed in a scorching blue.
Freia hesitated for a moment, then allowed her skin to shine with a blinding radiance as her trembling hand met Augustin’s. My heart pulsed with flame, and I twined the fingers of my left hand with those of Augustin’s right. His fire engulfed us and he gathered us close, his very teeth shining like gas flames. “Do not leave your spirits behind, my charming ladies, for you fly tonight with death,” he said.
And we jumped from the spire in a fiery storm, the wind and darkness uniting somehow with my husband’s element as we soared across the sky. His death heightened his mastery of the realm of nature, holding Freia and me in a vise of shadow. I might have heard a few shocked yells from beneath us, but not even the heathens could slow our flight. Before I knew it, we had crashed through a pane of stained glass, falling to a landing of the cathedral’s steeple in a smoldering heap.
Augustin snickered, calming his fire, and the steeple returned to its gloom as his glow confined itself to his glimmering eyes. “I suppose I could have achieved that with greater finesse,” he noted, sounding amused.
I lifted myself from the planks that had served as my landing platform, a bit surprised that I had not broken them with my weight. My ice reclaimed my spirit and I stretched my limbs, brushing shards of glass off of my skirt, scarring my already-wounded hands. “You shouldn’t have broken that window,” I rebuked Augustin, looking up at its ruined portrait of creation.
“Tomorrow it shall fall to the earth,” he rejoined, dusting off his cloak and pulling the scroll from his belt, handing it to me. I accepted it with a knowing smile, and a moment later I heard Freia cry out softly, her element also dimming. When Augustin and I turned our attention to her, we found that she had cut herself rather horribly upon the glass, for her light lacked the shielding power of our scorching fires. Her green skirt was torn, and both of her legs dripped blood from deep gashes. Thinner scrapes tainted her pale neck.
I immediately focused my mind on the severed veins in her legs, imagining their blood flow slowing, the wounds healing swiftly with a Teuton’s power. While I worked on repairing her legs, Augustin placed his hands upon Freia’s neck, easing her head into his lap.
“Darling Freia,” he observed, “I must admit that your blood tempts me . . . for it smells very strongly Teutonic . . . Rhenisch maiden.” His eyes glittered, and he stared fixedly at the seeping wounds on Freia’s neck.
“Don’t be foolish, Augustin,” I ordered him as the lesions on Freia’s legs gradually healed. “I don’t think she’d appreciate you biting her neck, not while Heinrich is still alive.” I smiled slyly at my best friend, glancing at the marriage scar that still adorned her left wrist. I hoped that with Augustin’s help, both she and Heinrich would reunite with their children at Eisenwald.
Augustin eyed me distrustfully, but he closed the cuts in Freia’s neck more swiftly than I could. “Are you all right, my lady?” he inquired. “I could carry you to the ground floor, should you need assistance.”
Freia assured him that she could manage. But before she could straighten her scabbed legs in an attempt to rise, Augustin’s arms wrapped around her torso, pinning her in his lap. He bent over her face and spoke softly, seductively, “Forgive me, my lady . . . but your blood yet taints your beautiful skin . . . threatening to stain your bodice. Allow me to rescue your clothing from blemish.” I watched in a mixture of horror and amusement as he pressed his mouth to her neck, his tongue carefully cleaning her wounds.
I raised an eyebrow at Augustin when he lifted his head, his eyes glowing with an odd satisfaction. Freia clutched my right hand tightly, her whole body quivering. “Ninety-seven percent. Delectable Teutonic life.”
Augustin grinned wickedly at me, and I pouted at him, recognizing his stab at my “low” blood. Freia had reached Heinrich’s level after years of sharing his bed, but mine would remain ninety-six percent indefinitely, it seemed.
When we graced the nave shortly afterward, we found the entire cathedral draped in darkness, no candles lit, not a sound of human life on the main level. My husband said that he detected the presence of the sick down in the basement, and that he may offer them an easy death before vacating the city for good. I rolled my eyes and said that he seemed preoccupied with the high of physician-assisted suicide.
He winked at me while he lit several candles, brightening the nave just enough for me to properly read the Prince’s score. “I would predict that the Saxons shall not raid this house of God until dawn,” Augustin said with a nod.
Then he eyed Freia and me rather enticingly. “Therefore, if the Lady Freia would forgive my impropriety, I wish to take you one final time, my darling wife . . . here and now.” I, of course, could not refuse.