Free Crimson Fire by Holly Taylor Page A

the Goddess of Peace. They are the givers of peace and plenty. Freya is the goddess of fertility, and Fro is the one who bestows dreams and visions.”
    Talorcan gestured to the last symbol, a circle cut into quar- ters, painted in gray and purple. “This is the sign of Wuotan, the God of Magic, the son of Narve. His secrets of magic are called seidr. He hung on Irminsul, the World Tree, for nine days to gain the knowledge and mastery of the seidr. He is called the Wanderer and also One-Eye, for he gave one of his eyes to the Wyrd to drink from the well of knowledge. The eagle is sacred to him. Along with the goddess, Holda, he leads the Wild Hunt.”
    Havgan lifted his hand to silence the rest as he stared at the symbol for Wuotan, not taking his eyes from the circle. He had felt something, something he could not name, as Talorcan had spoken of Wuotan. It almost seemed to him that the air grew thicker, the wind perhaps a little sharper, even the leaden sky above them seemed to have darkened. He was not afraid, for he knew Lytir would defend him against Wuotan. But he knew, somehow, that the God of Magic had power still. And he knew,
    for he had felt it many times in his life, that Wuotan had long fought Lytir for the possession of Havgan’s soul. But One-Eye had lost, for Havgan belonged wholly to Lytir. He would do Lytir’s bidding, for he knew what happened to the Heiden when they died. He knew that they were sent to Hel, where all those who did not worship Lytir were sentenced.
    He would not, he would never be, one of them.
    Without speaking, he turned away from the painted walls and began to make his way slowly through the ruins, away from the others. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He had come here because he had thought that it might be useful, that he might gain some insight into the witches of Kymru by com- ing to a place once sacred to the witches of Corania. They were different from each other only in that they lived in different parts of the world. They were both evil.
    He had been commanded to destroy the witches of Kymru, the Y Dawnus, and he would not be distracted from that pur- pose. The wyrce-jaga had already made it their life’s work to destroy the witches of Corania. While he would not actively aid them, for it would distract him from his purpose, he would not even think to hinder them. Yet it had occurred to him that the Wiccan themselves might be useful to him. It might be that he could tap into some of their power. He would use anyone and everyone to do what was necessary. He would even use Wuotan himself if it came to that.
    “That might be a problem, for he is not trustworthy, you know.”
    Havgan whirled around to face an old man. The man had a patch over his right eye, but his left eye was a bright and sparkling silvery gray. His long, gray hair was tangled and
    dusty, and he wore a nondescript cloak of gray.
    “Who are you?” Havgan asked, his hand going to his dagger. “I am sorry, lord,” the man said, cringing away. “I didn’t
    mean to startle you.”
    “Who are you? Do not make me ask again.”
    “I am called Grim, lord,” the old man said, making a clumsy bow.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I am just passing through, young lord. Just passing through.” “On your way to where?”
    “To nowhere, young sir. I am just a wanderer. I seek new places and new things. I tell stories and sing songs. I harm no one.”
    Havgan hesitated. The man did, indeed, seem harmless, but he was still wary. “What was it you said at fi rst?”
    “Why, nothing. Merely a greeting.”
    “That is not how I remember it,” Havgan said softly, his tone dangerous. “You spoke of Wuotan.”
    “Oh, I would never speak of him in a place such as this. I would be afraid to.”
    “The Old Gods do not have power anymore,” Havgan said sharply.
    “As you say sir,” the old man said, with a half bow. “As you say.” The man turned away, then turned back again. “Oh, by the way, I