Just wait until the moon rises, she told herself, and then Miskyia will summon this Lord Bethrayal or whatever he wants to call himself. Then she’d be alone. By her side, there was a small platter of fruit. Cautiously, Iwa helped herself to an apple; somehow she didn’t think that escape would be that easy.
Chapter Twelve
Silently she crept along the walls and pressed herself into the shadows. Night had fallen quickly. Breath held, she peered through a crack in the wall and drew back in fear. Miskyia was there, at the foot of the tree, its withered branches reaching into the gloom.
With a gasp Iwa drew back. Sometimes, at the river’s edge where the trees thinned and grew alone, the wind would play amongst them and weave their branches into odd patterns. The clan would worship those trees because the Leszy would often like to live within the twisted patterns. ‘This one weeps in the wind,’ the old ones would say. ‘The Leszy who lives there must be sad.’
But she’d never seen anything like this. Years of the craft had woven about the branches, twisting them around each other like mating snakes. The bark glistened with an unnatural radiance and patterns of light glowed in eerie bands that seemed to shimmer across the smooth surface. From somewhere in the dark a drumbeat rose and brought with it a crackle of magic. Spells, ancient and wizen, slithered about the branches.
Before it Miskyia danced, her steps carefully crafted to the beat of the drum and the pulse of magic. Her hips swayed as she stood before the tree, the magic crackling about her as she reached into the branches and took down a pig’s head.
Slowly Miskyia’s lips began to move. Iwa couldn’t make out the words, but somehow she knew that this wasn’t any language that she would have understood. The speech rang out alien and cold as the stones crackled with primeval magic. The air became hot as an ancient chant took hold and Miskyia placed the pig’s head over her own. For a second it appeared nothing more than a lifeless husk. Iwa looked on in horror as the thing merged with the woman’s flesh, the pig’s neck moulding into Miskyia’s skin until the two had become one.
Iwa had expected blood – the pig’s head looked freshly slaughtered and the gore should have run freely – but there was nothing, not even a trace on Miskyia’s neck, and it was that which terrified her the most, far more than the sharpened tusks or the skin which glowed with a pale, fatty luminescence.
Still the chant continued from behind the pig’s head. A different voice took hold, brutal and arrogant, as the eyes burst into life, blood now spilling from the neck to run in tiny rivulets across Miskyia’s flesh. Yet there was something wrong about it, the way the blood oozed with an unnatural slowness, reaching down like fingers to the base of her neck. Then, very slowly, the chant subsided and above it the beat of the drum could be heard again. Breath held, Iwa couldn’t move, even as the pig face turned and began to walk towards the archway. Around it ancient spells swelled, malignant, moribund, the air grown thick so that she had to gasp for breath as she pressed further into the shadows. The thing was at the archway, so close now that she was sure she’d be seen.
With a crackle of energy the creature walked into the room, its cloak rustling with every step. And, for one awful moment, it paused as if about to turn and see her, while the air burned with power and ancient magic. Iwa put her hand to her mouth to stifle her scream; it was impossible to imagine that Miskyia, or any trace of her, lurked behind that pig’s face. But then, just as it appeared that the creature would turn, it moved on, and the air grew cold and stale behind it.
By now the drum had gathered pace. Iwa tried to force herself on, but her legs wouldn’t let her. She was too terrified to think who, or what, was playing the drums. She’d no idea how long the ceremony would last. Once it was finished, all chance of escape would be lost. Yet, still her limbs stayed rooted and refused to bend to her will. What if Miskyia could get this Lord Bethrayal to free the women? Iwa no longer had any faith in the men, or the power of the clans. The hunters have betrayed us, and they’ll leave the women to be slaves in the Arab lands, or worse.
She couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of Krol Gawel’s grim revenge. Once he finds out about Katchka’s plans he’ll set Grunmir loose on the women for sure. Until then she’d never really believed that Alia would dare to breathe a word about the mushrooms, but what if she was wrong? Alia had always been so proud of her looks; what if she wanted revenge for the scar that Katchka had given her? They’d been enemies long before the coming of the Poles. Katchka had always hated the younger woman, and not just because of her beauty.
Soon Katchka would be too old to go berry-picking and her sway amongst the women would diminish. And these bones will be fit for nothing more than to huddle round the fire. Hadn’t the old woman said that often enough? Alia was the future, always eager to show her power over the young girls who trod in her shadow. Not that Alia would take Katchka’s place just yet – there were others ready to fill that role – but her time would come. And right now, she was the hunters’ favourite and carried the knowledge around
