S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

Maude stood beside Delia, laughing too.

“And free the Maidens and Squires that they may chase one another through the bowers!”

From the cocoon of ribbons Raghnall began to saw at the tangle of tough smooth fabric with the flint blade tucked into his breechclout, the cloth parting to the touch of the keen stone. By custom he should have taken the May Queen by the hand and led her to the Queen’s Bower. Instead he caught her up in his arms and dashed headlong away, flourishing his antlers and giving a startlingly realistic bull-elk call, while Fiorbhinn laughed and threw up her arms in a theatrical gesture of helplessness. Maude paused thunderstruck. Out at the edge of darkness Juniper thumped her staff on the ground and laughed as well.

Órlaith was falling back when a feather touch on her shoulder brought her head around and her lips into a kiss.

“Diarmuid!” she gasped and then her hand darted forward, grasping and pulling at the wreath that encircled the gilded spikes of his antlers.

It broke and came away in her hand. By the law of the rite he must follow now; she darted away, hearing his sudden laugh, and knew him to be behind her. She ran, darting through the many people who cheered as she passed, calling luck-bringing-and bawdy-encouragement. Her legs kicked high, the skirts of the robe flying. As she ran, sweet heat gathered in her chest, and curled out, like a leaf uncurling in May indeed.

Diarmuid sprang ahead, spread his arms and she fled down another path, doubled back.

“By Flidais!” she invoked, trying to dodge under his arms and back to the main path. He caught her by the waist, spinning her around and up, and up and up, his horns falling off, her flower wreaths disintegrating into showers of petals. His lips sought hers, questing at first and then as her body took fire, becoming more insistent, more demanding. She gasped as he lifted his face and looked around.

“Where. .” he asked, distractedly. Órlaith blinked and cast a quick glance at the woods.

“Here!” she said. “I was with the crew that prepared this stretch.”

“A pity,” murmured Diarmuid, “a pity. I set up a bower I hoped to bring you to.”

Órlaith giggled, “But so did I! It’s a little farther up!”

There was another bower, just behind them, with an oiled tarp, strewn with petals, a hay mattress, two quilts, one old, one new, one blue, one green, pillows and at the far end, a small box that would have wine and nibblements for later.

“They do say that it’s bad luck to use the one you set up.”

Órlaith hiked her skirts to get at the boots and squeaked when Diarmuid let himself fall like a tree next to her on the hay tick.

She yanked them off and he laughed. .

“Something borrowed!” he said holding up a pair of socks.

She was laughing, but it seemed to catch in her throat as Diarmuid leaned over her. “Shall I put them on you?”

She blushed furiously. “Not, not, not now. Diarmuid!”

He was bending for another kiss, but pulled back: “Yes, Golden Girl?”

“Bah!” she said, her embarrassed mood breaking, “You would tease on that! Diarmuid, have you? I mean, I, ah. .”

He sat up abruptly. “Haven’t,” he said shortly.

Órlaith opened her mouth, looked at the tense back and flopped back. “Oh, thank goodness.”

He turned swiftly, “Thank goodness?”

“Thank Goddess. It seems right to learn with somebody. All my tutors teach me, but this, this should be different and special.”

His dark blue eyes lightened and he stroked a hand down her cheek. “Can I kiss every inch of your body?”

“Well, you can, but from all I’ve heard, it’s not going to last very long.”

“Yes, that’s what Da told me, and all the older boys say the same.”

“And the girls to me!”

“So if we can’t make one time last, let’s see how many times we can do! And that will take us to the dawn!”

County of Napa, Crown Province of Westria

(Formerly California)

High Kingdom of Montival

(Formerly western North America)

April 29th, Change Year 46/2044 AD

“Speak to me, they speak to me

Of sky and wind, of sea and stone

Of moss and fern and cedar tree

Of cliffs where wild arbutus grow!”

Hooves beat through the mild spring warmth beneath the song as the Royal party and its escort of lancers and longbowmen and train of pack-beasts and varlets made their way south. It was as small a group as the High King of Montival and his heir could get away with on such a long trip to the wild frontier and not have Lord Chancellor Ignatius make yet another attempt to retire to his monastery in protest. The air was thick with birdsong, and swirls of Tortoiseshell butterflies rose before the hooves of the mounted party.

“Speak to me, they speak to me

Of orcas gliding through the deep

Of eagles balancing the wind

Above the waves where salmon leap. .”

Threescore voices and a troubadour’s mandolin across Heuradys d’Ath’s saddlebow carried the swooping melody, everybody in the party who could sing and wasn’t too self-conscious to do so in the High King’s presence. Crown Princess Órlaith Arminger Mackenzie carried the tune effortlessly; she had a fine and well-trained contralto. There was the slightest tinge of envy in her enjoyment of the song; it was one of her Aunt Fiorbhinn’s, her father’s youngest half-sister and commonly thought to be the finest Mackenzie bard of her generation, if not the best in all Montival.

Órlaith had tried her own hand at composing songs and decided she was never going to be better than middling at it. That there were people who’d praise anything she did made it worse. Fiorbhinn was the daughter of one Mackenzie chieftain and the sister of another, but those weren’t positions that made you the target of would-be flatterers.

“Speak to me, they speak to me

Of deer that browse the twilight fields

Of stony heron keeping watch

For what the silver sea might yield.”

She couldn’t even feel very envious; she’d always regarded Fiorbhinn as more of an elder sister-something she didn’t have, being the oldest of five herself. John was the closest to her in age, and they were close in other ways, shared a lot of interests. . he actually was a talented troubadour. . but he was male. And a Christian at that. There were things you just didn’t discuss with a brother, or a sister in her early teens. And having the said sisters confide in you just wasn’t quite the same, glad though she usually was to serve as sounding board and wailing wall.

Thank the Lord and Lady for Herry, she thought, not for the first time. We’re near enough the same age-two years don’t matter anymore-and we’re both of the Old Religion, but she’s an Associate not a Mackenzie. She really understands.

“Speak to me, they speak to me

Of what has been and what endures

Of summer’s bloom and autumn’s fade

In the circling of the years.”

The valley was a flattish plain on either side of the south-flowing river, bounded by low mountains to the west and lower ones to the east, opening out irregularly like a funnel southward towards the great Bay. She looked about as she sang, their voices startling flights of birds out of the brush and long grass, sometimes dense enough that they looked like climbing, twining skeins of air and smoke.

“Speak to me, they speak to me

In voices humming in my bone

In whispers rising on my breath