Free The Hallowed Isle Book Two by Diana L. Paxson Page B

to Hæsta’s hall had hung on throughout the winter, and his frame grew as gaunt as the horsehide hung over the poles at the offering pool. Her more elaborate curing methods were useless if the patient would not admit he needed them. All she could do was to doctor his food and drink as unobtrusively as possible, and sing her charms over her pots as she prepared them.
    Eadguth had been much the same in his old age. Why, she wondered, have I spent so much of my life nursing old men? But the god she served appeared most often in an old man’s guise, so perhaps it was not so surprising.
    And to balance the old man she had the young one, although these days Oesc spent most of his time outdoors, hunting, exploring the countryside, even helping the farmers with the work of each season as it came. She supposed it was inevitable, after his dedication at the sacred spring. The goddess of the land was speaking to him in each tree and hill, and as time passed, he would learn to understand her.
    Oesc came to the wisewoman for liniment for sore muscles, and sometimes to dress a wound, but on the whole he was a healthy young animal, for which she thanked the gods.
    She stirred the broth once more, then dipped it carefully into a carved hornbeam bowl, its wooden surface smoothed to a rich patina by the years, and carried it from the cookshed across the yard to the hall. In the years since Hengest had built it in the space adjoining two of the better preserved Roman dwellings, trees had grown up on the western side, screening the weed-covered waste where half-burned houses had been pulled down to serve as building material. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the branches, glowing in the new leaves. A pattern of shadow netted the path.
    As she passed, a portion of that shadow solidified into a human shape: a tall man, wrapped in a cloak and leaning on a staff. Hæthwæge stopped, eyes narrowing. High One, she queried silently, is it you?
    As if he had felt the touch of her mind, the stranger straightened, turning toward the light. The wisewoman noted the dark eyes beneath their heavy brows, the brown beard where only a few strands of silver yet showed, and let her breath out in a long sigh. It was not the god. But neither, she thought as other senses picked up the aura that surrounded him, was this entirely a man. And knowing that, she thought she could put a name to him.
    â€œMerlin Witega, wæs hal! Be you welcome to this hall!”
    His eyes widened at the greeting, and some indefinable tension in his posture ebbed away.
    â€œA blessing on you also, woman of wisdom. I had heard there was a bean-drui in the house of the king, and I think you must be she.”
    Hæthwæge bowed her head, accepting the compliment. She should have expected that he would be able to see beyond the old shawl and apron to her own aura of power.
    â€œCome with me, then. The king has been ill, but he is well enough to speak with you. Perhaps he will be ashamed to fuss about drinking this down if you are by.”
    His broad nostrils flared, though it seemed unlikely he could pick up the scent from there. Then he began to ask if the king’s cough had lasted for long, and she realized that he had indeed recognized the herbs.
    â€œWe were not certain whether Hengest was still living.” His deep voice rumbled up from somewhere near his belly. “I knew him when I was a boy in the Vor-Tigernus’s hall.”
    â€œHe is old, but he still has his wits.” Hæthwæge answered the unspoken question.
    A swift grin of understanding split the flowing beard. “Then he will remember me. But it might be better if to the rest I were known only as a messenger.” He said, and Hæthwæge, remembering how Oesc still blamed Merlin for the magic that had caused his father’s death, had to agree. Then he pushed open the door and together they entered the hall.
    He is an old man, Merlin told himself as they made their way