The Hallowed Isle Book Two Read Free Page B

that whisper from within, “but the Norns will force the choice upon you, my son, and soon.”
    â€œI have chosen you, High One, since I was young—” Hæthwæge said then.
    â€œ It is so, nor have I ever been far away .”
    If there was more, it was not meant for Oesc’s ears. He sank down at the woman’s feet, and only afterward, when the god and those he led had passed, did he realize that his face was wet, not with rain, but with tears.
    The wood seemed very silent. Oesc stood up, wiping his eyes. Then he stiffened, hearing once more the sounds of hoofbeats and horns.
    But this was no spectral hunt—he could tell the difference now. Those were mortal horses whose hoofbeats he heard ringing on the wet logs, and mortal lungs behind those plaintive horns.
    â€œThere are riders, Hæthwæge! Riders on the causeway!” he exclaimed. “Hurry, we must get back to the hall.”
    She nodded, shrouding the spearhead once more, and he saw her face still luminous with memory. But as she turned her awareness back to the human world the lines deepened in her skin and she became merely mortal once more.
    â€œSo, it has begun. . . .”
    Oesc peered through the door to the great hall, which only this morning had seemed so huge and empty. Now it was filled with men clad in well-worn war-gear and battered finery, with a liberal splashing of mud over all. The folk who served the hall were bustling around them, taking wet cloaks away and bringing beakers of heated ale.
    â€œMay Freo bring you blessings,” said their leader, accepting a horn of mead from Æbbe, the king’s widowed sister, who had ruled his household as long as Oesc could remember. He must have been handsome once, thought the boy, but now one eyelid drooped and the left side of his face was stiffened by a long scar.
    â€œBut where is your neice, Æbbe? Should it not be she who gives the welcome?”
    â€œThere is no other Lady in this hall,” said the woman, taking a step backward. “And what unholy wight has taught you my name?”
    The stranger frowned. “Did Hildeguth remarry, then? I suppose she thought I was dead—I’ve thought I was dead a few times myself, these past years!” His hand moved to touch his scar. “Have I changed so much, Æbbe, that even you don’t know me?”
    â€œIt is my daughter who is dead,” came a harsh voice from the far end of the hall, “killed by the seed you planted in her belly, and if you had not already claimed guest-right I would drive you from my door!” Leaning on his staff, Eadguth limped forward to his high seat and took his place there.
    Oesc stared from one to the other, aware of every heartbeat that shook his chest, understanding without quite believing who the newcomer must be.
    Octha, son of Hengest . . . his father.
    Octha straightened, the muscles of his face stiffening into a battle-mask. “And the child?” he asked in a still voice. “Did it die too?”
    â€œShall I tell you it died in the womb?” Eadguth spat, “or that I set it out upon the heath for the wolves?”
    â€œYou shall tell him the truth, old man,” said Hæthwæge, gripping Oesc by the shoulder and pushing him before her into the light of the fire. “Sore though it grieved you, you have reared up his son!”
    For a moment longer the warrior’s glance clashed with that of the king. Then Octha turned, his face changing as he looked at the boy.
    â€œCome here—”
    With feet that did not seem his own Oesc stepped forward. Octha knelt and gripped the boy’s face between callused hands. After a moment he swallowed.
    â€œYou have your mother’s eyes . . .”
    Oesc nodded. Hæthwæge had told him so.
    â€œBut I see Hengest in your brow . . . What do they call you?”
    â€œI am Oesc, son of Octha—” His voice wavered only a