Free The Uncrowned Queen by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

mouth was stiff as she tried to frame speech. The flame, concentrate on the flame. “By the four winds and the seven seas, hear us. By the sun, by the moon, by the stars, hear us. We are your children and we cannot see in the dark. We ask you to bring us light, so that we may know what is needful, understand what is permitted. Mother of All, Mother of All…”
    Nothing. There was nothing. Anne had stopped shivering but was still and cold as stone. Closing her eyes, she saw the red image of the flame behind her lids. Perhaps she was becoming stone herself, would turn to a rock and be left here for evermore? That was sad. As a little girl, she’d always felt so sorry for statues in winter. Worried about them in the dark sleet of winter, the snow and the frost…
    Now it was black. Deep and dense. There was nothing to see,no flame, not even the ghost of its image. But she was comfortable in the velvet darkness. Perhaps she was no longer cold? Yes, her hands, her fingers, even her face, were all warmer, just as if she were beside a fire. It was odd, though, if that was so, because her back was cozy also. Anne giggled. Astonishing! Normally in winter, if you warmed the front of your body at a fire, you had to keep turning or the side away from the warmth of the flames froze.
    Lady Anne? It was a man’s voice. And that was strange, for they’d called on the Mother, hadn’t they?
    Lady Anne? The voice was anguished.
    â€œYes. I’m here. Who are you?”
    I am nameless now, though I am Thor’s servant, first and last. But once I was the messenger of a king .
    Anne was suddenly frightened. “Thor’s servant? But… you died.”
    There are things to be said. I have come to say them. Question me. It is your duty .
    Blindly, in the blurred, soft dark, Anne turned toward the sound of the voice. There was a shape, black on black, and a buttery thread of light was creeping, growing, outlining a head, a shoulder, an arm… Dread crawled toward her out of the dark like a living thing. Anne knew that if the thread became brighter, spread faster, she would see the man’s face, see his gaping death wound.
    â€œWhat was your message from the king?”
    To ask for help .
    â€œI have said I will give all I can.”
    That is not enough. You must give without hope, without count of cost, without thought of reward. Eyes where he has none, ears for what he cannot hear, a tongue to speak when all he knows is silence and betrayal .
    â€œBut I was right to turn away from him. That was the greater good.”
    You must turn again. You cannot see the pattern, or the measure of the dance, but you dance just the same. You must take my place .
    Cold bit at her, working its way upward from her feet, toward her heart, as the light grew brighter. Thor’s servant, dressed in red ringmail, was glowing so brightly, with such heat, that the billets ofiron he held in his hands began to melt. And the thought came to her: this was a waste, for the iron could be forged into… what? A sword?
    â€œAm I stone, that I can withstand what is asked of me?”
    There was something beyond words here; something she understood but was frightened even to think about.
    You must accept all that is. Acquiesce .
    The cold reached her heart and, with the last of her breath, Anne screamed. But no sound disturbed the still air. She lay on the frozen ground of the oak grove, wrapped once more in her fur-lined cloak, her eyes glued shut.
    Deborah chafed her hands, held her, shook her, called out: “Child! Hear me!”
    Anne sensed words, but there was no sound, no sight. Just pain. And fear.
    â€œAnne!”
    Deborah’s voice burst in her ear with the percussive force of a bombard. The girl jerked upright, nauseated. Vomit hit the leaves on the floor of the grove. She retched so loudly that sleeping birds startled on the branches and flew up into the changing light, protesting.
    Deborah was crying