Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

'There!' Breathless from laughter, he set her down gently. 'That made my brother's eyes pop.'

Pop was an overstatement, but even from here the catkins could be seen glinting, and there was a set line to Mazares's jaw. No doubt it was the effect of night turned into day, but it seemed to Claudia that the torque round his neck, the one fashioned in such a complex design, flashed in the firelight with menace, and the embroidered creatures on his pants writhed with hatred. She had a sudden urge to throw her arms round the Sun God and kiss him long and hard on the lips, but decided that it was better the focus remain on Kazan.

If the extra wine had affected His Majesty's general, it didn't show, but (dear heart that he was!) the Moon God was swaying at a most alarming angle and Rosmerta's eyes had glazed over as Drilo the Priest, who had become decidedly lofty in his cups, asserted loudly that the Zeltana, the play in which Summer triumphed over Winter, ought to be performed tonight instead of tomorrow, and so what if he was the one who'd interpreted the various omens to lay down the schedule; an omen is entitled to a change of heart, is it not? Marek and Mir were growing more and more malicious with each goblet that was tossed down their gullets, taking pleasure not only in drenching the revellers with their own wine, but tipping food over them as well. Psychopaths in the making? Or brothers who had already made the transition…?

Fired by dancing and singing, feasting and laughter, the islanders rejoiced in their history, praising Perun for bestowing peace upon his people, for bringing them victory in war (well, they were drunk), for a King who showed justice and wisdom. Drums rolled, horns blew, rattles hissed, trumpets blared, and, in the quieter corners, men plucked strings stretched over huge beech soundboxes. This was the moment Claudia had been waiting for. The moment when the party had reached its peak. So much coming, so much going, such a fusion of colour, that one little rainbow wouldn't be noticed. Gliding between one balefire and another, she followed in the women's ritual of consigning coloured ribbons to the flames until she reached the outer edge of the plaza. The woodpecker was waiting. In the blackness of the shadows, she could almost feel the heat from his blushes as the object of his illicit tryst approached.

'To us.' Her voice was husky as she handed him the goblet.

'Th-thanks.' His was, too. Nerves do that. Though it was hard to say whose hand was shaking the most. 'Gosh, I… I-'

The goblet fell from his hands and he slithered to the floor in a heap of feathers. One more hangover among hundreds, and Claudia was already out of her rainbow gown and climbing into his pantaloons and shirt before the first snort emanated from his comatose lips. Grabbing his red felt hat, she pulled the beak low over her face and wrapped the feathered cloak tight about her shoulders. No one gave a second thought to another woodpecker snaking its way through the banquet.

The quay was quiet. Naturally. Who in their right mind would be out here, when the festivities were in full swing in the square? Maybe later a lover or two might escape to its solitude, but not before the feast was finished, and Claudia ran on light feet towards a small rowing boat moored at a ring. Relief swept over her. Whether the governor in Pula believed her story any more than she'd believed Raspor's didn't matter. What mattered was that the conspiracy would be aired. There could be no further 'accidents' now. The King, praise Juno, was safe!

With a gentle splash, the rope disappeared into the water and Claudia sent a brief prayer to Neptune to keep the breeze in her favour. She approached the ladder leading down to the boat. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, precious little light was cast over the quay, so she was surprised when a shadow fell over the cobbles.

'You wouldn't be thinking of leaving us, would you?'

The voice was barely audible through the mask, but there was no mistaking the deer-skin boots as the Moon God stepped in front, blocking her way.

Nosferatu had never had so much fun.

The old man made his way slowly down the hillside, the torch casting unearthly shadows in his palsied hand, and every now and again his arthritic bones jolted painfully thanks to an unseen stone on the path, or maybe a tree root sticking up, or perhaps a fallen branch. He paused for breath. Every Zeltane he made this pilgrimage to the small spring in the valley, but with each passing year the task grew that much harder and took longer to accomplish. The old man was resigned to this, and on he pressed, his wooden clogs making little sound on the springy forest floor.

Once a huntsman with as keen an eye as any true-born Histrian, now it was left to his sons, his grandsons and his great-grandsons to bring home the venison and boar. The most his rheumy eyes could manage was the odd pheasant or hare, but more often than not these days his shot missed, and the leather jerkin that kept out the winter winds and summer rains when he was younger afforded scant protection to frozen bones and parchment-thin skin.

High in the canopy, a blackbird began to sing, always the first line of the chorus, its cadences quickly followed by a woodlark, then a wren. By the time he'd reached the bottom, the valley was a choir of songbirds, finches, tits and warblers, and the Sun God's youngest wife was already rising from her crimson bed. The old man cursed. He must set out earlier next Zeltane. He could not afford to miss the dawn. Dawn was why he came here.

Picking his way across to where a thin trickle of water seeped from the hillside, he laid down the chaplet of flowers he'd taken such care to carry down, and found comfort on the seat of a soft, mossy rock. This tiny spring was where he and his wife had first plighted their troth. A holy place that was theirs and theirs alone, and for the twelve years since her death he had made this journey to leave flowers in her memory, and here he would sit and he would talk to her, telling her the news of their children, reminding her how much he was missing her, and this year he was able to add that it would not be too many years before he was joining her in the Blessed Realm of the West.

An hour passed, maybe two, until, stiff, he stood up and cast around for a stick to ease his return up the hill.

He recognized it for what it was at once.

His eyesight might be fading and his hands less than steady, but a huntsman still recognizes a kill when he encounters one, even though the kill might be a week or two old and the scavengers of the forest had taken their fill. He could also tell what animal it was, although in this case the kill was human.

Accidents were more common than people imagined. It wasn't just travellers — bead sellers, fortune-tellers, itinerant tradesmen — who lost their footing on a slippery path and fell to their deaths. Native-born Histri perhaps in too much of a hurry, perhaps drunk, fell victim to carelessness and quite often their mount would be found with them. Although not today.

Picking over the scattered remains, the old man searched for the amulet that all Histrians wore. Unique to the wearer, this would provide identification and allow the unburied soul to be claimed by their family and interred as was their right, but the huntsman wasn't prepared for the engravings on this amulet that still encircled the half-eaten bone. Burnishing the metal band with his shirt, his first surprise was that it was gold, and he held it close to his eyes to make certain. The second was the engraving. There was no disguising the woodpecker, or the rainbow that surrounded the bird, and on either side of the totem, two snakes coiled round a staff — the unmistakable emblems of a healer.

The old man was looking at the corpse of the royal physician.