Guy Gavriel Kay - The Last Light of the Sun

“Drink,” she said.

No one had made him come here. He took the flask from her hand. She had rings on three fingers. He drank. The herbs were thick in the drink, hard to swallow.

“Half only,” she said quickly. He stopped. She took the flask and drained it herself. Put it down on the table. Said something in a low voice he couldn’t hear. Turned back to him.

“Undress,” she said. He stared at her. “A vest will not buy your future or the spirit world’s guidance, but a young man always has another offering to give.”

He didn’t understand at first, and then he did.

A glitter in her coldness. She had to be older than his mother, lined and seamed, her breasts sunken on her chest beneath the dark red robe. Bern closed his eyes.

“I must have your seed, Bern Thorkellson, if you wish seithr ’s power. You require more than a seer’s vision, and before daybreak, or they will find you and cut you apart before they allow you to die.” Her gaze was pitiless. “You know it to be so.”

He knew it. His mouth was dry. He looked at her.

“You hated him too?”

“Undress,” she said again.

He pulled his tunic over his head.

It ought to have been a dream, all of this. It wasn’t. He removed his boots, leaning against the table. She watched, her eyes never leaving him, very bright, very blue. His hand on the table touched the skull. It wasn’t human, he saw, belatedly. A wolf, most likely. He wasn’t reassured.

She wasn’t here to reassure. He was inside another world, or in the doorway to it: women’s world, gateway to women’s knowing. Shadows and blood. A serpent in the room. On the ship from the south … they had traded during the banned time, before the funeral rites. He didn’t think, somehow, they would be troubled by that here. They said his poison was gone . He felt whatever he had just drunk in his veins now.

“Go on,” said the seer. A woman ought not to watch like this, Bern thought, tasting his fear again. He hesitated, then took off his trousers, was naked before her. He squared his shoulders. He saw her smile, the thin mouth. He felt light-headed. What had she given him to drink? She gestured; his feet carried him across the room to her bed.

“Lie down,” she said, watching him. “On your back.”

He did what she told him. He had left the world where things were as they … ought to be. He had left it when he took the dead man’s horse. She walked about the room and pinched shut or blew out the candles and lamps, so only the firelight glowed, red on the farthest wall. In the near-dark it was easier. She came back, stood over against her bed where he lay—an outline against the fire, looking down upon him. She reached out, slowly— he saw her hand moving—and touched his manhood.

Bern closed his eyes again. He’d thought her touch would be cold, like age, like death, but it wasn’t. She moved her fingers, down and back up, and then slowly down again. He felt himself, even amid fear and a kind of horror, becoming aroused. A roaring in his blood. The drink? This wasn’t like a romp with Elli or Anrida in the stubbled fields after harvesting, in the straw of their barn by moonlight.

This wasn’t like anything.

“Good,” whispered the volur, and repeated it, her hand moving. “It needs your seed to be done, you see. You have a gift for me.”

Her voice had changed again, deepened. She withdrew her hand. Bern trembled, kept his eyes tightly closed, heard a rustling as she shed her own robe. He wondered suddenly where the serpent was; pushed that thought away. The bed shifted, he felt her hands on his shoulders, a knee by one hip, and then the other, smelled her scent— and then she mounted him from above without hesitation and sheathed him within her, hard.

Bern gasped, heard a sound torn from her. And with that, he understood—without warning or expectation— that he had a power here, after all. Even in this place of magic. She needed what was his to give. And it was that awareness, a kind of surging, that took him over, more than any other shape desire might wear, as the woman— the witch, volur, wise woman, seer, whatever she would be named—began rocking upon him, breathing harder. Crying a name then (not his), her hips moving as in a spasm. He made himself open his eyes, saw her head thrown back, her mouth wide open, her own eyes closed now upon need as she rode him wildly like a night horse of her own dark dreaming and claimed for herself— now, with his own harsh, torn spasm—the seed she said she needed to work magic in the night.

“GET DRESSED.”

She swung off his body and up from the bed. No lingering, no aftermath. The voice brittle and cold again. She put on her robe and went to the near wall of the cabin, rapped three times on it, hard. She looked back at him, her glance bleak as before, as if the woman upon him moments ago, with her closed eyes and shuddering breath, had never existed in the world. “Unless you’d prefer the others see you like this when they come in?”

Bern moved. As he hurried into clothing and boots, she crossed to the fire, took a taper, and began lighting the lamps again. Before they were all lit, before he had his overshirt on, the outside door opened and four women came in, moving quickly. He had a sense they’d been trying to catch him before he was dressed. Which meant they had …

He took a breath. He didn’t know what it meant. He was lost here, in this cabin, in the night.

One of the women carried a dark blue cloak, he saw. She took this to the volur and draped it about her, fastening it at one shoulder with a silver torque. Three of the others, none of them young, took over dealing with the lamps. The last one began preparing another mixture at the table, using a different bowl. No one said a word. Bern didn’t see the young girl who’d spoken to him outside.

After their entrance and quick glances at him, none of the women even seemed to acknowledge his presence here. A man, meaningless. He hadn’t been, just before, though, had he? A part of him wanted to say that. Bern slipped his head and arms into his shirt and stood near the rumpled bed. He felt oddly awake now, alert—something in the drink she’d given him?

The one making the new mixture poured it into a beaker and carried it to the seer, who drained it at once, making a face. She went over to the blocks of wood before the back table. A woman on each side helped her step up and then seat herself on the elevated chair. There were lights burning now, all through the room. The volur nodded.

The four women began to chant in a tongue Bern didn’t know. One of the lamps by the bed suddenly went out. Bern felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was seithr, magic, not just foretelling. The seer closed her eyes and gripped the arms of her heavy chair, as if afraid she might be carried off. One of the other women, still chanting, moved with a taper past Bern and relit the extinguished lamp. Returning, she paused by him for a moment. She squeezed his buttocks with one hand, saying nothing, not even looking at him. Then she rejoined the others in front of the elevated chair. Her gesture, casual and controlling, was exactly like a warrior’s with a serving girl passing his bench in a tavern.

Bern’s face reddened. He clenched his fists. But just then the seer spoke from her seat above them, her eyes still closed, hands clutching the chair arms, her voice high— greatly altered—but saying words he could understand.

THEY’D GIVEN HIM BACK his vest which was a blessing. The night felt even colder after the warmth inside. He walked slowly, eyes not yet adjusted to blackness, moving away from the compound lights through the trees on either side. He was concentrating: on finding his way, and on remembering exactly what the volur had told him. The instructions had been precise. Magic involved precision, it seemed. A narrow path to walk, ruin on either side, a single misstep away. He still felt the effects of the drink, a sharpening of perception. A part of him was aware that what he was doing now could be seen as mad, but it didn’t feel that way. He felt … protected.