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going to murder? How could Ramis bless such a scourge ?
    She wondered if this was a normal child, conceived in the regular way. Tales of women raped by the malevolent river-sprites called water nixes had gone round frequently of late. The children of these horrid couplings looked human enough at first, Hertha reminded herself uneasily. Then she chided herself for believing thralls’ tales.
    “Bring her to me now,” Ramis said softly, her eyes still closed. As Fredemund held the baby before Ramis, the seeress drew forth an amulet; it seemed no more than a pouch of black leather strung from a thong. She adjusted the thong for the tiny neck.
    “Many will seek her life but this child must live. I give her the most powerful protection I can give. In this pouch is the sacred earth called the aurr, the pure soil taken from the tracks of the cart of the Nameless One when she journeys over the earth in spring. This child must be named for the Sacred Mold, for her life is a sacrifice to earth. I will that the protection of earth be always with you, Auriane.”
    She opened the pouch, took a bit of the earth within, wet it with her spittle and daubed it on the forehead of the child, tracing the form of the rune of long life. Then she bound it up again and placed the black leather amulet about the child’s neck.
    What were they to do? Hertha wondered frantically. Should a child be raised who will be “led to slaughter her own”? She thought of sending a message at once to Baldemar. But did he still live? She felt caught in a whirlpool, sucked down into the worlds below.
    “You have asked of Baldemar,” Ramis said suddenly.
    Hertha drew in a breath. She had spoken no word aloud. Instinctively she dropped her gaze, as if to conceal her thoughts from Ramis’ remorselessly searching mind.
    “Bright is his fortune and for long, all is well. Tomorrow he will scatter the Wolf-Men, and from this day he will thrive. More battle-friends will be won to him than to any other…they fling themselves into the fray like the foaming wave onto the shore.
    “He will be called the Feeder of Wolves, the great Breaker of Rings…”
    Hertha turned to smile with relief at Athelinda, but Fredemund had taken Auriane from her and the young mother was sinking quickly into sleep.
    “…and his hall will glitter like the heavens with treasure from his many victories—”
    Ramis had been speaking smoothly and easily; abruptly she stopped. Hertha looked up quickly to examine her face. Ramis’ expression was no longer peaceful; her features had delicately contracted into a look of horror.
    When Ramis spoke oracles she walked a winding path; often she was as startled as her listeners by what was suddenly visible beyond a sharp turn. And now she seemed unwilling to speak on. It was as though she wished to protect them from something and wrestled with herself because she knew she could not. A prophecy could not be held back because it was unpleasant, for this would offend the spirits who attended her. An oracle was an emanation of all nature, and in nature beauty and terror were braided together.
    “What is it?” Hertha whispered. The flames crackled angrily. Auriane started to cry.
    When Ramis spoke at last, her voice was dry as the sound of an adder in the grass; there was a faint rattle in her throat.
    “Baldemar will fall victim at the last to the greatest crime of all humanity. And she who just came forth will be the one to do the deed.”
    When Ramis was gone, Hertha roused Athelinda.
    “…not have the child,” Athelinda moaned as she fitfully awakened. “She shall not…” Life for Athelinda had been cold and hard as an iron blade. She had weathered deadly winters that halved the herds and pruned away the tribe’s aged and ill; she had braved enemy spears while accompanying the grain wagons that trailed the native army. She had endured the hatred of her mother’s kin when she wedded Baldemar because she had broken the oldest law by traveling