“Every year the North Star and Cerdic’s abodes cross but do not meet, at the time of Yule, called the Dance of the Gods. And every year on Midsummer’s Eve the stars converge, and Cerdic mates with Cwen, on the night of power.
“Woden also walked in Miðgarðir. There he found Dana, more beautiful than her mother. Dana wandered alone, for her father died and left her unwed. As a swan Woden ran to her, and she took him to her care. He lay with her while she slept and conceived a child of the gods.
“The heavens raged, but the words of Heimdall calmed them. For the child of Woden and Dana would not be cursed as Heimdall’s children half-mortal children, and she would grow with the power of gods and the knowledge of men. She would hold the power of magic and thought. At last the gods could count one born in the world of men who would rule as the gods saw fit, for always would her line be one of their number.
“For few but the descendants of Woden know Miðgarðir and the heavens began in winter, and so will be reborn in the coming of Y Erianrod.”
Caer looked up from the drawings of the constellations and stars Headred made in the snow. It sounded like the tales Beoreth told her, but more beautiful, more poignant, with the addition of the star-lore.
Headred pointed to the realms of the gods, the north stars of Cwen and Cerdic, the moon of Frigg and the rising sun of Woden.
“The truth you now know, Caer, my love. On the night of the dance the gods showed Beren her child would save her people, the child of your mother Beren and your father, Gareth Warhammer, and as Cerdic lay with Cwen in the heavens, your mother bore you into the world.”
Caer and Headred watched the dawn, far from Ull and Glasheim. They stood at the cave’s mouth, alone in the wilderness.
“Where are we?” Headred asked as he looked at the endless forest, the path nowhere in sight, as the realization stunned Caer.
There was no road, only endless forest.
*****
“Beoreth,” Caer nudged the old wise woman. “Please awake.”
“Go away, child,” Beoreth muttered, engulfed in dreams of far away and long ago, of the man she once loved. “I dream of youth.”
“Beoreth, please!” Caer said, exasperated. “We are lost.”
Beoreth’s eyes opened so fast Caer jumped. “Lost?” Beoreth asked, taking Caer’s outstretched arm and heaving herself off the cold stone. “We are on the road to the door, child, but lost, I do not think so.” The wise woman hobbled to the door and gasped. “We are lost,” she whispered.
Headred caught her as she slumped into a dead faint.
“Huma!” Caer called to the goat-man, who slept in a drunken stupor. “Get up!” She heard a muffled curse and a moan beneath the wrappings the others threw on him moments before.
“Aw, me head’s killin’ me,” he muttered, pushing the covers aside. His eyes looked bloodshot and his ears droopy. Even his horns seemed to have lost their health and turned a deeper brown.
“We’re lost,” Caer informed him.
“Course,” he replied. “Never met no one who could follow a road in a storm. Not even,” he added, “a prophet.”
Caer thought Headred would be annoyed with the wayward, dimwitted centaur; being half-goat, half-centaur did nothing to increase his intelligence. But she saw instead a grin play across Headred’s face.
“Huma,” Headred put an arm around the centaur’s shoulders. “You and I are the men here, and so the women need our protection.”
An audible guffaw sounded from Caer, and from Beoreth who came out of her faint. They exchanged a gaze bordering on pity for brainless men who thought women needed their protection.
Undaunted, Headred continued. “You see, my good centaur, I need to go and scout for the road we seem to have lost. It will be up to you to watch over your charges while I am gone.”
Headred appeared pleased with the outcome and he ignored Caer’s withering gaze. Huma seemed surprised, and very proud of himself. And on the floor Beoreth rolled her eyes as she studied the lot of them.
Headred started for the mouth of the cave.
“I’m going with you,” Caer caught up to him. “You won’t leave me here. I am not some helpless woman you need to defend.”
“Aye, you’re not. But I need you to stay and help Beoreth, and to come after me if I get lost.”
Before he left, Headred restarted the fire, though Caer told him she would be quite capable of tending to it herself. Her fury burned with his retort.
“There are a good many things you are capable of tending to,” Headred whispered low. “Perhaps we could discuss the semantics later.”
And as though he needed to press the issue, he kissed her, on the lips, open and unabashed. Even more, she hated she liked it.
Caer saw the reason in staying behind, and would have said so, but Huma hooked a long arm around her shoulders and managed to steer her away from Headred.
“Now, now,” Huma told her amid grunts from Beoreth, “The little lady mustn’t keep her man from leaving.”
“Shut up you great woolen idiot.” Caer threw his arm off and turned to the entrance to say goodbye. Her heart fell, and her eyes misted.
Headred vanished.
*****
“Wolves and golems take the path of light for themselves,” Beoreth muttered some time later. “The world goes mad.”
Caer paced in the shallow cave, warm, but only a few feet deep.
It felt strange to know the woman she still wanted to call Grandmother stood in for her mother all these years, a caretaker and nothing more. Caer’s heart panged with when she looked at the old wise woman, when she opened her mouth to speak and wanted to use an affectionate term. Beoreth left everything to raise her. In Ull her grandchildren, and maybe great-grandchildren, awaited her return. Her family moved on, all so Beoreth could raise Caer in the wilderness.
So much Beoreth lost. How many children did her caretaker have? How could Beoreth leave behind so many to care for a child who bore no blood of hers? And would they know Beoreth when she returned to them, with the child she abandoned them for?
Nearby Beoreth sipped her brew and rubbed her hands. The cold made her rheumatism worse, Caer thought with more guilt. And now Beoreth wandered with her through the cold winter to fulfill the wise woman’s task.
Yet perhaps it would not be a bad thing. They would return to Ull, and Beoreth’s task would be finished. She would see all those whom she loved and lost, who Beren and Caer took away from her during Beoreth’s long absence.
And Caer would see the home she never knew, and be expected to love it anyway.
She longed for the quiet, peaceful paths of Fensalir. She ached to return there, and for a moment, she wished Headred never found her, and lived there still.
Guilt welled inside for her selfish thoughts. She stole Beoreth’s life. And without the knowledge of Caer’s hidden past, the man she loved would not be hers.
Caer sank down beside Beoreth at the fire. Beoreth offered her a steaming cup of a relaxing brew she brought with them. The wise woman tore off a hunk of bread and passed it to Caer.
“Do not feed me,” Caer said.
Beoreth sighed and set the bread down. “I have three sons and four daughters. Do you think, child, I have raised you and do not know every fretful expression you have? You are the twenty and sixth child I have helped to birth, and the eighth I have raised.”
“How much I stole from you,” Caer whispered, her gaze on at the floor. “How much my mother asked of you. I do not know how you have stood it.”
Beoreth sighed again. “At first, I thought, one day at a time. I feared the demon would discover us, and all would be lost. I feared for my children and their children so far away, for if you did not live, neither would they.” The old woman smiled and her eyes became misty with remembrance. “And, my child,” Beoreth put a comforting hand on Caer’s back, “there came a day when I looked at you and did not see my charge. I saw my daughter, as much mine as your mother’s. You
are my child, Caer, and now you know why I do not regret what I have done.”
She paused. “I have waited to see my seven children, and ten grandchildren. Yet I rue the day when I do, the day my eighth child will no longer be mine to care for.”
Caer smiled and laid her head on Beoreth’s bosom. Beoreth’s ample middle shook with a chuckle, her squat five and half feet of height rumbling as she hugged Caer. Beoreth’s silver hair, under normal circumstances drawn into a bun and framing the hundreds of lines on her face, hung loose to the center of her back.
A shout bellowed from the woods. Caer bolted upright and whirled to the cave mouth at the sound of Headred’s voice. Something happened to him. Without thinking, without wrapping herself, Caer ran from the cave before the others could stop her, into the snow to find her love.
The world went by in a whirl of glass, spears of ice, of dead trees and white snow. Her hands, arms, and fingers grew numb. Her heart raced and her lungs ached, but she ran toward the sound, deep into the wild wood. And when she could run no longer, Caer stopped and doubled over, catching her breath and feeling her eyes well with tears.
“Let me find him,” she prayed.
Something brushed her back.
Whooshilaya ssataname tsashowotu…
For a moment Caer thought the very wind carried voices. Caer thought she heard words, and not the rustling of leaves. Even more frightening, she thought she understood them.
Why have you come into this woodland place, mortal girl?
A great arm of the tree nearest her lashed out and grabbed her, as thin, frail fingers of branches wrapped around her and lifted her into the air, shaking her as she tried to get free. All the while snow fell.
Whassatanai Krunst Velebataia…
We suffer not mortals to walk our paths.
The words seemed clearer this time. They sounded as if the wind itself possessed a voice or the trees and caught the wind and formed words. Some words seemed to be the sound of the roots moving, or the scattering of leaves on the ground.
It did not matter. Caer screamed as the iron grip of the oak tree tightened.
“Gheris!” came a shout from the ground.
The tree released his grip, and Caer landed in a large snowdrift, coming up sputtering to see long feet beneath the hem of a rough dress, and a pale, willowy woman standing before her.
“Caer!” Headred shouted, running up behind her.
“What happened?” she asked, peering at the face of the woman, framed in long tresses of brown hair streaked with green, her willowy form and the fire burning in her eyes.
“Wood nymphs,” he whispered, helping her up and holding her close. “We have wandered into their dance.”
“I am Whista,” the woman explained in the voice of the wind and the trees. “But you need no introduction, dearest daughter of Miðgarðir. You are Caer, daughter of Queen Beren, Y Erianrod of all people.”
The towering oak tree moved a little and went still. Whista led them, with Caer supported by Headred, feeling very cold and very foolish.
“Forgive Gheris,” Whista begged. “He grows old, and his roots are deep, but his heart becomes rotted within him. He hates all things, moreso those things not rooted in the earth, which he cannot poison.”
Beoreth appeared with Huma, the wise woman riding her horse as Huma led the other. Relief flooded over Beoreth’s face. Huma appeared hurt and worried at the same time.
“I heard the scream,” Beoreth said. “What happened?”
“Dear mother,” Whista smiled at her.
Beoreth bowed her head.
“Harm does not come to your charge. Safety flees this place. I will lead you to the road, and there you must go to the mountains of mist, where protection will be afforded to you.”
“Aye,” Beoreth agreed.
Headred lifted himself onto the horse and pulled Caer before him. Beoreth leaned over the shivering form of Caer and wrapped her in furs as Whista led them through the trees.
“I must leave you here,” Whista said. “My people already wait at Glasheim, but many do not want to leave their place. Here we will remain. Y Erianrod at last returns to drive back Belial and her winter.”
Whista kissed Caer on the cheek. “Return to us when you defeat Belial,” Whista instructed. “When the spring comes, and the nymphs walk free on the forest path. You may see the nymphs dance with fairies in the moonlight.”
Whista sang as she departed a whistling of wind. Her hair moved in the breezes, like branches of a tree, brown as bark. She stopped far away, turned, and raised her hand.
Caer waved back, to watch in wonder as the woman became a tall, beautiful willow, frozen in the ice and snow, her dress the trunk, her face hidden in the long, sinewy tresses moving with lethargy, until ice and snow covered them again.
Headred took the reins, holding her close. He whispered a word she could not hear, sending the horses into a walk on the road, which led to the door under the mountain, and the heart of Miðgarðir.
*****
The path of light became shrouded with new snow, covering the blood of the slain men who hung on either side. But Fenrir, Lord of the Wolves, could smell their blood, and he could still taste their flesh.
Fenrir walked on the path of light and hunted Beren’s daughter.
The lingering wolves gathered around him, awaiting orders. Fenrir met their cold, red, glowing eyes in disgust.
“The child passed this way,” he growled.
Fenrir’s legions retreated. “No.” Those who did not answer cowered in the shadows.
Fenrir let loose a howl. The wolves seemed wary of his vengeance, worrying if they failed him, their lives would be forfeit.
“Fools,” Fenrir said in a growl. “Do you think I would kill you now, when the one we seek walks free? Do you think I will find her by myself?”
They shook their heads and waited.
“They have come. I smell the stench of humans and centaurs here. What have you lazed about doing you could not take them?”
They did not answer, but he knew. They feasted on the flesh of a nearby farmer’s family and paid no attention to the travelers.
“They have taken the other path,” he growled. “Not the black path, no, they would think it too dangerous. They have taken the road to the door.”
The wolves around him howled in fear. He felt it himself, but he pushed it under again with the fury welling inside him.
“Cowards and imbeciles,” he taunted. “Follow me. We go to the road to hunt the witch’s child.”
The wolves howled again and followed him to the road to the door, as the Demon Lord watched from her towers and wondered what her punishment for them would be when the world belonged to her.
*****
“Do you see her?” Belial’s words echoed in the fortress.
In the firelight Waermund cowered. “I do not, my master.” He waited for her to punish him. A heavy object hit him in the head and knocked him to the floor before rolling away.
The rolling sapphire globe glittered. The golems stood nearby, their hideous faces hidden behind steel masks, holding their sword hilts.
“Find her,” the Dark Lord ordered, slamming her fist onto the stone table. A goblet tipped, spilling griffin blood.
Waermund, his eyes on her and the golems, took the remaining blood and drank. He held the globe before him.
“Master,” the golems interrupted and bowed their heads.
“What news do you bring me?” Belial demanded.
The golems glanced at one another. “The armies are gathered, my Lord,” their commander said. “Are we to loose them on your enemies?”
Belial stared at the sorcerer in disgust as he peered into the mysteries of the globe, and back to her more worthy servants. “No. The Black Gates are closed until the we find and destroy the child of light, and Sul and all of Miðgarðir will be for the taking.”
“Yes, my Lord.” They lumbered away.
Belial glanced back a
s the sorcerer sweated, peering into the azure globe. Images passed through it. She saw her wolves and the White City. The Ice Queen walked in spirit through her lands. Its people gathered at the sacred place. But the child of light could not be found.
And in the tower of Eliudnir Belial screamed in rage.
*****
Cold wind blew as the wolves approached. Fenrir snarled at the magic on the air.
“You cannot have her,” Beren told the wolves. Her spirit walked from the trees where she hid and watched.
Fenrir growled and leapt, right through the specter, landing in the snow.
“Neither,” she said, “can you kill me.”
Fenrir barked, and walked to the road to the door. At the first touch of his paw on the snowy road, the world shimmered and rippled. The wind rose to a gale, and an unseen hand grasped his fur and threw him back.
“You cannot pass that way,” Beren reiterated, and walked through the wolves. They shivered at her cold. “The one who walks there awaits Belial alone. Go back to your master.”
“I do not take orders from you.” Fenrir retorted.
The Ice Queen laughed. “Perhaps not. But I do not give orders to creatures who follow evil.”
Fenrir snarled. More wolves tried to step onto the road, to no avail.
“I closed the way,” she whispered. “Go back to your master.” In a flash, as if the snow leapt up and covered her form, the Ice Queen vanished.
Fenrir howled, and bounded into the forest, followed by his servants. They would hunt and find Beren’s heir, and damn the Ice Queen and her daughter. In the Dark Towers, Belial watched through the blue glass and raged.
*****
The snow shone, blinding, as they rode down the path to the door, through the Dance of the Nymphs. Clouds hid the mountain peaks as they drew closer.
Caer thanked the gods when the sun began to set over the Black Mountains, and eerie shadows overtook the lands. Her eyes burned from the white of the snow, a white she never before noticed.
This white seemed pure, unchanged, as if never been touched by shadow. Perhaps the winter made by the cold heart of the demon seemed unable to spoil the lands of beauty and light.
They did not stop and rest, though the path grew dark. The wind blew ever more frigid as they trudged along the road to the door, where the wind blew coldest.