The Story Of Odette

By Anya Howard

Odette, daughter of a Saxon chieftain and his swanmaiden bride, was banished at a young age by her vengeful half-sister, Vanda. Years later Odette is rescued by her sympathetic brother-in-law and escorted into the safe haven of Athla. In this fabled realm the law decrees that Odette must learn the sacred rites of the Great Balance, or the sensual equilibrium between men and women.

While Odette is initiated into Athla's disciplines of passion and surrender, powerful forces work beyond the borders. The vampire priests of Loki seek a swanmaiden's daughter in order to sacrifice her so that their god may be released from his ancient shackles. To obtain Odette for this rite, the vampires turn to Lady Vanda and the aid of a handsome mercenary who knows nothing about Odette's heritage or Vanda's unsated sense of revenge.

What the malevolent trickster has not revealed to his priests is his true objective - not merely to usher in Ragnarok, but more importantly, to abolish and utterly destroy love and sensuality in the world of mankind. Only one man can stand against Loki's plans and save Odette from sacrifice - the same man who has vowed to return the swanmaiden's daughter back to her unforgiving sister.

“Anya Howard’s The Story of Odette combines mythology, erotica and BDSM in grand style. It’s a lush, multi-layered tale with a strong-willed heroine and a supporting cast of supernatural beings and easy to loathe villains.” ~ Jade Blackmore, author of "Seduced And Abandoned & Other Erotic Tales"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anya Howard
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370562565

Anya Howard

Anya Howard is the pen name of a Tennessee born and bred author, columnist and screenwriter. Since childhood she has had an avid interest in the paranormal, and her stories and novels are often inspired by European folk tales and legends. Anya’s writing incorporates fantasy elements, and she describes her Romance work as “Erotic oriented, Alpha-male friendly and written with a positive emphasis on sensual M/F bondage & discipline fantasy.”   Anya makes her home in a small town in the Smokey Mountains region with her always-encouraging husband and their children. Visit her on the web at anyahoward.com.

Book preview

Prologue

Rulf lay in bed beside his wife, Inga; his nude, leanly muscular body was bathed in the moonlight through the window, and he hated the sense of doom he felt. In the front room of the chamber the lantern light was low, and he contemplated turning it up a bit, if just to clear the webs of unease in his own mind.

The night was not very old, but this feeling had been with him all day, inspired, he surmised, by dreams he’d had previously during the week. They had been disturbing visions he could not interpret, and had left him worried about his villagers and his family. As chieftain he wasn’t supposed to be so stalwart as to be stupid, and custom encouraged chieftains to have such dreams interpreted by the Seidr vitkis, the holy women. But these visions had been so troubling as to leave Rulf sensing that to even just speak of nocturnal monsters might release some inexplicable power to bring chaos to the very real world of his small Saxon tribe. They had been through enough during the past several years, after he’d had little choice but to uproot the tribe and move from their ancestral home beside the Rhine to this remote locale in the northern German wilds. It was a choice he’d never regretted—no grown man or woman had wanted to bow to the Franks or their Christian cross. Everyone had been acutely aware of the harsh measures of the crusaders going on throughout the lands west and east of the power of the grasping Frankish mayors. Many tribes had already been either conquered and forced to conversion, or worse, exterminated altogether. Rulf’s first wife had been a distant relative of Pepin Martel, and that perhaps had helped temper the mayor’s angst for the tribe escaping his acquisition. But Pepin’s son, Charles, was now the reigning force in that land. Rulf had already suspected that his firstborn daughter, twenty-year-old Vanda, secretly corresponded via the Christian priests and serving women that Rulf had indulgently allowed her to keep. Rulf was divided between his love for his daughter and the idea of sending these broody malcontents to the farthest recesses of the north. The vitkis themselves had warned him several times to do just this thing; but in the end Rulf’s pity for the motherless young woman had stayed his order. For although Rulf had been a true husband to her mother until the day she’d died, the truth was he had never loved her as he loved Inga.

He turned over on his side and his gaze fell over his wife. Even now, after several years of marriage and the birth of their own daughter eight years ago, Inga was to him the most desirous of creatures. He peeled down the coverlet gently to drown his vision in her: she was petite and blessed with a flowing mantle of ebony hair, with skin as pale and translucent as a full moon in the mist. Her lips were not boldly wide, but delicately scalloped like a child’s, and her lashes were thick and dark as her hair.

This was his swanmaiden sent to Earth by the Goddess Freyja Herself, whom Rulf had taken captive and made his love-trophy and wife. He had found her deep in the woodland in a sacred grove one day while he’d been hunting and taken her captive by claiming her swan mantle. As a daughter of Freyja she could never ask for it back. Once, after he’d realized how precious she was to him, Rulf had offered it back. But Inga had thrown it back to him, declaring herself his if he so desired her love. That had been one of the most joyous moments of his life—the first of several in their life together. After the tribe had resettled Rulf had placed the mantle in a chest, and to keep any other men from thieving it had placed a complicated lock on the chest he’d bought from a Gypsy trader. Inga was his greatest prize, but more so, his beloved. Yes, he loved his daughters and his kin, too. But Inga knew his flaws and his heart, and it was she alone he felt safe enough to voice his concerns and fears to.

And Rulf knew that soon enough he would even tell her of the dreams that had been plaguing him. But looking at her now, those nightmares drained away from his concerns. He had only one desire, to forget his discomfort entirely in the pleasures of her body.

With a fingertip Rulf traced the small nipple of her left breast. It hardened, and he cupped the breast and suckled the small orb. Inga sighed in her sleep and moved a little. Rulf draped himself over her and suckled the other breast. Her lithe hips arched beneath him, and he treasured the aroused murmur that rose to her throat.

Master?

Her voice lulled Rulf’s demons. He drew one of her wrists over her head and kissed both her hands. Then he reached for the long ends of the silken cord tied to the headboard above the cushion. With one of the loose ends he bound her left wrist. Inga watched, the little frown on her brow telling him she was nervous, but she did not argue. Rulf then tied her right wrist. The knots he’d made were snug but not tight. Satisfied, Rulf cupped her breasts and suckled the nipples until they were little stones between his lips. His eager mouth ascended her breastbone and he nibbled the side of her throat with teasing kisses. His hand dipped between her thighs, and his fingers sifted through the hair there. He touched the folds of her sex. Moist and plump they were, and her legs parted under his massaging fingers. He stroked the silky hot flesh and felt a little telltale squirt of fluid between her lips. Her little clit he pinched and rolled between his forefinger and thumb, making Inga’s hips undulate. Her helpless moan made his cock stiff with desire. Rulf knelt on the bed now and lifted Inga’s legs. He spread them and peered lustfully at her hungry sex. It was moist and shimmering pink in the moonlight.

Oh, Master! Fuck me, please?

All these years, and you are still mine, he said. He imparted loving kisses over the insides of her legs. Every time you call me Master, I still feel so honored.

Rulf laid her legs down. He would make her wait just a little while first he wanted a feel of her skilled, lovely mouth. Gently he crawled up beside her and straddled her waist. He caressed the head of his cock over the contours of her damp lips.

Inga snatched a few licks of the flesh, but he teased her with it, not letting her take it just yet.

Ooh, let me suck you, Master, she begged.

Rulf stroked her face lovingly. Ah, my sweet love and slave. Take me.

He allowed her then, letting her draw the length of him through her taut lips. Gingerly, his rocked to meet her nursing mouth. She knew just the way he liked it, giving firmness to the head, teasing it with her tongue before drawing the length back. It was wonderful, but he was very soon near climaxing, and wanted to taste her other delicious mouth.

Rulf moved down and, separating her thighs again, scooped up Inga’s little firm ass. He smelled the musky impatience of her frustration now, and as the head of his cock nestled at the folds of her pussy he felt the slick lips pulsate. He entered her, and took delight in pummeling the tightness he’d so come to treasure. No maiden from Freyja’s Palace could be so carnally sweet as his Inga! His pleasure ascended quickly, so he slowed a bit to enjoy it longer. Inga climaxed with a sudden feral cry and clamping of her nether muscles.

Yes, yes, Master!

Her ecstatic moans compelled Rulf to thrust harder, deeper, and he felt the ripples of another orgasm wind through her. He was lost in sensation now and his hips drove faster. Just when the pleasure reached an almost painful plateau he came. It was a delirious, carnal rapture.

As had happened sometimes when they made love, his orgasm lifted his soul from the mortal realm. Rulf glimpsed through the very veil between the world of mankind and the eternal steads of the gods. The face of Freyja he beheld . . . beautiful beyond compare, seated among her handmaidens in the gardens of Vanaheim. Her expression acknowledged his presence, and Rulf felt Her satisfaction with him as a husband to her child and respect for him as a worthy man and warrior. And yet, for one disquieting moment, Rulf saw a troubled crease come to Freyja’s fair brow, and he felt a deep sadness within Her great countenance. Rulf felt his ethereal body kneel, and without even wondering if it was proper ceremony, heard himself address Her.

Great Freyja, tell me what troubles thee?

But then the glimpse of Her vanished and Rulf felt his soul descend with a rush into his mortal form. He knelt between Inga’s legs, his head bowed over her soft knee. She was looking at him curiously.

My love?

Rulf raised his eyes to her and dismissed the image of her mother.

You please me so completely, he whispered. He crawled up beside her and lay down. He stroked her breasts and the still-hardened nipples, and savored her throat with long, impassioned kisses. She was stirred again, moaning deeply, and he sought her sodden sex and teased her with slow massages. Inga’s arms were fraught in the bonds, and Rulf took pleasure in seeing her writhe under his touch. He caressed her aroused clit with his thumb, circling it hard and now soft, until she climaxed again. He claimed her mouth again then and with a fierce kiss, inhaled her sweet, agonized moan.

A little while later Rulf released Inga from the cords, and they held each other in the dark, tasting one another’s mouths and reciting those precious, private things shared only betwixt themselves. Rulf was revitalized in his happiness, and had forgotten the image of Freyja and was utterly exorcized of the nightmares. He wanted more of Inga, too, and his cock was growing hard again. But just as Inga began to stroke the length of it with her hands a knock sounded at the door.

The chieftain grunted, but he knew it must be important for one of his men to come. Rulf got out of the bed and picked up his night robe from the bench where he’d left it. As he cinched his rawhide belt the knock came again, but it was a light knock, he realized, almost too mild for a guard with consequential tidings.

With a perplexed frown he stepped into the front room. On the little table here he turned up the lantern so that the light provided better illumination, and then he proceeded to the door and lifted the bolt.

As he opened the door he was shocked to see his elder daughter standing on the other side of the threshold. He could not read much in her expression as Vanda’s face was shadowed in the soft torch light of the corridor. But Rulf was immediately concerned; rare was it for him to even see his elder daughter out of the self-imposed isolation of her own apartments, and just as rare to wander without the company of her dour serving women and ascetic confessors, those leftovers from her mother’s retinue that Rulf had indulged the girl to keep.

And never had Rulf hoped so high that Vanda would come on her own to the chamber he shared with Inga.

Vanda, come in. He moved aside and expected the girl to hesitate. Instead Vanda peered in and stepped in. Rulf closed the door and noticed the wicker basket she carried, its contents covered with a lace cloth. Is something amiss, my dear?

Nothing amiss, Father. Vanda inhaled deeply and lifted her face. She smiled faintly, but it was an expression Rulf hadn’t seen her give in many years, and his heart surged with affection. So many years they had resided in the same home, but separated by the slights she had imagined he’d committed against the memory of her mother, Dauhredei. Vanda was his child still, and he loved her; and yes, it was a love shadowed by guilt. He had been faithful to Dauhredei, this much even Vanda could not deny. The truth was that Rulf had been faithful to his first wife. Theirs had been a marriage of politics in those days—Rulf had only been fourteen and Dauhredei some years older than he. Rulf had known his father had wanted an alliance with Dauhredei’s Burgundian clan; and as the only son left living, Rulf volunteered. Besides, for an inexperienced boy the maidenly Dauhredei had seemed a safe choice for a wife. But soon after the wedding she had gone mad in her religious fervors, and had resented Rulf and his tribe for not accepting the Christian faith as their own. In the end the poor, mad Dauhredei had purposely starved herself.

Yet these truths had not restrained Vanda from blaming Inga for coming into their lives. It was some time after Dauhredei’s death that Rulf had found Inga in the woodland and claimed her. But Vanda—perhaps, on some level spurred on by her mother’s retinue—had always hated Inga. In Vanda’s eyes the swanmaiden was a reminder of what she perceived as an affront to her mother’s religious convictions.

But Rulf felt hope rise in his chest. Nothing would give him more happiness than to know Vanda was ready to put away the misconceptions of a grieving child. She was here, and this was a great step.

What brings you here, sweeting? he asked, wanting to embrace her, but afraid such an act would frighten her. Not that this isn’t the most of welcome visits.

Father, she said, and he felt, with much pity, the unease in her voice. Your birthday was last week. I know that it has been some years, in fact, since I have helped celebrate your birthday. And I hope you can forgive me, and accept this small gift now.

Vanda raised the basket toward him, and Rulf felt tears well in his eyes. Vanda, he said. This is very—unexpected.

She shrugged. I cannot apologize or make up for the past. But I do hope you will enjoy it.

Rulf blinked the tears away and took the basket. It was rather heavy, and he heard a soft tinkling inside. But his emotions were almost suffocating. It is enough that you are here!

She shrugged again, but gave a little laugh and her blue eyes flashed with a playful light. It was indeed the first time that Rulf had noticed what a petite but perfectly proportioned woman Vanda had become. She had inherited her mother’s features: the blue eyes, the color of a wolf’s; the brunette hair with its soft waves and subtle brass highlights; the small hands and rosy complexion. Only Vanda’s beauty was sublime, truly transfixing, as if her features had been sculpted by the magic of the Rhine dwarves. Open it, Father!

I will! He grinned and pulled back the lace cloth. In the basket was a large corked jar of facet-cut glass like was made by the Burgundians. It was filled with a red liquid. Also in the basket were two drinking cups fashioned of smooth, marbled stone.

Wine? he guessed with a smile. I haven’t drunk wine in many ages.

Vanda’s demeanor was almost girlishly shy as she said, It is woodruff wine that my women and I made last year. The best of the batch. I know Inga likes wine, and I’ve always heard that among my mother’s people wine is the drink of kings.

Rulf was impressed. Yes, that is true. And you remembered Inga likes it. I am so honored, Vanda. Thank you, my daughter.

Gently, he stooped and kissed her cheek. She did not flinch, which relieved him, and when he rose she was smiling. Happy birthday, Father.

Rulf felt another wave of emotion. Does this mean you will share a cup with me?

I only drink water, she said in the most timid of voices. You can forgive me?

Certainly, he replied, and heard a soft movement behind him. Turning, he saw Inga standing in the shadows of the antechamber. She had slipped a sheet about herself and was staring at Vanda. But she was smiling in her surprise, and she did not try to hide the tears that spilt from her own eyes.

Vanda, you brought your father a gift?

Forgive me, Vanda said, her voice now shaking. I did not mean to interrupt—

No, Inga said calmly and came to stand beside Rulf. We are so happy you have come!

Vanda addressed Rulf. I will go now and leave you two to enjoy the wine. But I am sure to see both of you come morn.

Hope soared inside Rulf. You will leave your retinue to come dine with us in the morning, dearest?

My time alone with the retinue is over. There is only one priest whose counsel I keep these days. But you will not be harassed by his presence, Father.

And which priest is this, Vanda?

You remember the traveler from the north you welcomed last month?

Ah, Rulf answered. He recalled the traveler, an old gentleman with few words but a refined geniality despite his haggard robes. Yes, he’d told Rulf he was a priest when the chieftain had welcomed him in from the harsh weather outside. Not that it concerned Rulf; it was the decent practice to give hospitality to strangers in need of shelter. Rulf had not known, however, that Vanda had been in consultation with him. But it was a good thing, Rulf assessed; the man evidently had made her realize the fallacies of shutting herself away from her family, like her other priests and priggish serving women preferred.

Father Hrowthe has helped me realize that I do not wish to remain hidden away any longer, but to take my rightful place in this household.

This is the most welcome of news, child, Inga said. And when she touched Vanda’s arm, Rulf was overjoyed that Vanda did not recoil. The last time Inga had tried to show some affection to the girl had been just after the birth of little Odette. At that time Vanda had done more than recoil; she had fled to her serving women, leaving only the echo of her spiteful condemnations resounding on the walls.

It certainly is, Rulf remarked. He felt a knot in his throat, and silently thanked the gods for helping bring Vanda’s change of heart.

I will leave you to the wine and wish you both a long rest, Vanda said. She gave Rulf a last demure smile that made her blue eyes sparkle like polished cobalt. Good night, Father.

Rulf touched her cheek. Good night, Vanda. And thank you.

He opened the door and let her out, and watched as she passed into the soft hazy darkness of the torch-lit corridor. He did not realize he was weeping until he felt Inga pat his cheek with her hair.

Thank the gods! she murmured happily. This is such a joyful hour!

Rulf turned and swept her into his embrace. Ah, yes, my love! I feared I might go to the grave with Vanda hating us. Thank the gods, thank the gods! And gods bless my Vanda!

Chapter One

Prompted by a nightmare, Odette ran to the bedchamber where her mother and father slept. Try as she might to wake them, they did not stir, and when at last she held her own breath and saw that their chests neither rose nor fell she knew they would never awaken again.

Her mother’s handmaidens tried to soothe her, and the manservants respectfully carried the bodies to a funeral pallet in the Great Hall as the first rays of dawn yawned over the eastern mountains. It illuminated the forest paths before the invading Franks. No warning had come from the boundary sentries and the sleeping village was taken by utter surprise. Flaming arrows hailed into rooftops and through windows and bars, igniting the homes and the keeps and the stalls of the livestock. The waking Saxon men, with little time to draw their weapons, let alone properly gear for battle, tried to disperse their women and children into the sanctuary of the groves as the hooves of the Frankish horses thundered onto the streets.

Warriors and innocents alike were cut down, and those who reached the woodland found the brambles torched by an envoy of the crusaders at the priest Boniface’s bidding. Fifteen guardsmen stayed to defend the chieftain’s household while twenty others charged out into the fray.

Only then did Odette’s older sister, Vanda, emerge from her rooms, her dour spinster women following at her heels. The confessor their father had allowed her wandered out of his dirty chamber and, told of the siege outside and the bodies on the pallet, lifted his arms heavenward and shouted an exultation to his god for answering his prayers.

Odette stood beside the pallet, curling a lock of her mother’s black hair about her fingers. She looked up dully and saw one of her father’s men butt the priest’s temple with the handle of his war ax. The priest crumpled to his knees, laughing despite the blood that flowed down his face and throat. The guard who had struck him turned to the women and ordered them to go with the children to the shelter of the cellar beneath the pantry. His words seemed a world away to Odette, and it took the concerted effort of two women to pry her hands from Inga’s hair.

One of them picked Odette up and ran with her out of the Hall and through the longhouse to the pantry. The darkness of the cellar was total, so she could not see who it was that had taken her, but she could feel the heat of the massed humanity all about them and hear the choking cries of the other children. The arms of the woman holding her were like two steel bands, pressing Odette protectively against a pair of naked breasts.

Odette, subdued by the heat and the stifling fear, closed her eyes and imagined it was Inga who held her and they were simply waiting for her father to return from one of his hunting parties. Soon enough, however, the sound of battle carried into the longhouse, and the Franks stormed in, challenging the Saxon defenders with bestial, blood-lusty growls and whoops. An eternity seemed to pass as iron and brass clashed throughout the rooms above and the smoke of fires drifted through the lattice of the cellar’s only window. As Rulf’s men fell they cursed the invaders, and the exhaled curses of the dying seemed to seep through the floorboards and suffuse the humid air.

At length the fury outside subsided so that all Odette could hear were the shouts of the victorious and the desolate screams of women. At last heavy footfalls tramped into the pantry, and the woman holding Odette shuddered when someone kicked back the bearskin placed over the cellar door; she clutched the child so tightly she could hardly breathe. The door was drawn open and the light of day washed down the stairs to reveal the cringing hidden.

Odette felt the woman make an uncertain sound. Turning her face, she looked up and saw not the face of a cruel warrior peering down on them all, but that of her own sister.

A hand pulled Vanda back and a crowing voice, thick with the invaders’ accent, ordered them upstairs. The other Saxon women were draped in heavy furs and led away to Boniface’s encampment, but only the fatal thrust of a Frankish blade through the ribs extracted Odette from the diligent arms that had held her so long. The woman swayed and brushed Odette’s brow with a kiss, and as she fell to the floor her killer ripped the child from her faltering grasp.

Odette only then saw her face—one of Inga’s handmaidens, a blithe, guileless young woman who had faithfully pleasured the chieftain’s unmarried warriors. She had taught Odette how to braid her hair and to weave flowers into intricate garlands and to make flutes out of the reeds that grew by the wilderness streams.

Odette’s terror and shock vanished, replaced by wrath. She turned on the towering killer, screaming, kicking and striking at him with her small fists. Her vision was shrouded by tears, so that she did not see his reaction, though she heard his derisive laugh. Her mind was blank but for the anger and grief that compelled her, and the unspeakably horrible thought that some murderous coward might hurt Vanda and the other women as this one had her protector.

Suddenly, she turned and fled from the pantry and ran through the kitchen. Down the softly shadowed hallway she continued, hurdling the two hacked bodies lying beside their fallen war axes. Into the Great Hall she dashed, breathless and her heart twinging with dread.

A cluster of women turned toward her. She looked them over expectantly, but they were strangers, these black-gowned women who served Vanda. They had remained so well cloistered in her sister’s rooms that Odette knew them only by their gowns and pale complexions. One of them spoke her name in a soft, surprised way that only exacerbated Odette’s sense of urgency.

Frankish warriors busied themselves pilfering the weapons of the dead, oblivious to the seven-year-old walking around the somber serving women to approach the pallet. It remained on the rowanwood table, but the bodies of her mother and father were gone. The white roses were scattered to the floor, their petals squashed into the pooling gore.

Odette felt the blood drain from her head and she caught the pallet as she fell. A gasp rose from the serving women, and one of them walked to her and helped her sit down. The woman made a soothing sound and spoke words Odette could not understand as she gently pulled free the errant golden strands of hair matted to Odette’s tearstained cheeks and pressed the cross of iron to her lips.

* * *

The following day Charles Martel took residence in the longhouse in the fecund valley beside the Teutoburger Wald, where the renegade chieftain Rulf had led his tribe after leaving their conquered homeland beside the Mosel. With the aid of her women, Vanda prepared a feast in his honor, and in that of the priest Boniface, who had worked throughout the night without sleep or rest to oversee the thorough burning of the sacred groves and the search for Inga’s swanmaiden’s mantle. Somehow they had known that Rulf had buried the mantle somewhere in the groves, an act of homage to the Goddess Freyja in gratitude for his beloved bride.

But the labors of the missionaries had failed to unearth the mantle, though Boniface declared they had succeeded in their quest by the act of denying the thing’s existence save in the heretical fantasies of the pagans.

Odette sat beside her older sister during the meal, staring at the silver plates and golden drinking vessels spread out on the banquet table—all the finery her father had had smithed in gift to her mother upon the celebration of their marriage. It mattered not to her what this priest harped on or what the cold-eyed Frankish leader insinuated. Theirs had been a marriage true and sacred before the eyes of the gods.

But as they explained to Vanda the rights their Church assumed over the land, Odette was comforted at least by the understanding they had no intention of harming her sister. By the end of the meal Charles had proposed even that Vanda wed his own brother. Odette felt her stiffen and, glancing down, saw her sister’s fingernails gouge the wood of the bench. But Vanda smiled and nodded compliantly, asking only if this brother were a Christian.

Martel blinked dully, and the smile that crimped the corners of his mouth seemed a little too animated.

But, of course, dear kinswoman, he replied with a sheepish glance at Boniface. To raise a pagan to the position of vassal lord would little behoove our recent enterprise. And Thierry is young and gentle to the fairer sex, and I have no doubt you possess the talents to subdue any hint of youthful intractability in him that may have eluded my discernment. Why, he was the same young man you met this morning in my camp—perhaps you noticed his smitten face?

The priest made an ugly sound, but Martel dispelled his disapproval with good humor. ’Tis good in the eyes of God, my friend, Thierry is enamored. Marriage may be repellent to those avowed to chastity, but the politics of the Church can only benefit by mutual interest of the parties whose unions cement the loyalty of the respective tribes.

The priest grunted and sipped the water in his goblet. His eyes swept across the table, over the vapid, staring faces of Vanda’s women and Martel’s men stuffing their stomachs. But at length his glare settled, heavy and contemptuous, on Odette.

What say you of that one, vassal of Christ? The whore’s spawn?

Martel regarded Odette only briefly, his smile benign and faraway. The child is nothing. I think you put too much care in what the pagans contemplate. They have just been conquered and their numbers will be dispersed as you have requested. No one shall look to a girl child for any claim.

A second time Odette heard Vanda’s nails scrape on the bench.

The woman looked at her suddenly and the smile that met Odette’s eyes was warm, mesmerizing. Vanda touched Odette’s chin and smoothed her hair. Odette flinched and almost drew back, for never in the seven years of her life had Vanda graced her with more than a passing glance in the halls or the reproof to go away those times Odette found the courage to knock on her door.

I shall see to it, good father, Vanda said, her voice husky and assured, that my sister is raised to know God and His commandments. Never again shall paganism or harlotry taint these halls.

The promise must have satisfied Boniface, for he raised his hand in blessing. After he had departed Martel asked Vanda for her permission to send for his brother the next day.

You are lord of this house, good sir, she responded.

Then, with his permission, Vanda rose to go say her evening prayers, taking Odette by the hand and leading her down the hallways to her private rooms.

At the door they stopped, and Vanda inhaled slowly and patted the little white cap she’d had Odette wear since the morning. Odette gazed at her, feeling the grief rise up within her again, and took cheer in the sisterly embrace she was pulled into.

Vanda exhaled slowly and the iron in her arms tightened like bodice cords about Odette’s ribs. Keep your heart open to all you shall be soon instructed, sweeting sister, and embrace, willingly, desperately, all the Godly virtues of which you have thus far been ignorant. I see the avarice in your eyes; it blazes as undeniably as your sordid pedigree! But God does accommodate those whose hearts are steadfast in His demands, and my piety shall be rewarded, just as my father’s apostasy was in its own . . . fashion.

As Vanda’s arms slowly released, tiny black dots swam before Odette’s eyes. And as her vision cleared and she sought for a reply to this hard thing Vanda had declared, she heard something—or, rather, felt it—approach in the hallway. A chill without force of breeze or substance sighed over them both. Odette’s flesh tingled, and her nostrils were seized by the smell of decay and tempered madness. Vanda stood and turned and a look of indescribable relief faded the crimson from her angry face.

Hrowthe, she whispered, and then Odette noticed the shadows prancing on the walls. Before her eyes they resolved and formed a man. He wore robes the color of soot much like Boniface, yet the fabric was as clean as his porcelain skin. His face appeared ancient, and yet something glinted under his hollowed features, something discernible and vital though dimmer than any ordinary aura that bordered the human body. A countenance of vitality and youth Odette witnessed there beneath the furrows and hardened skin, a youth—and more so a humanity—refuted by the semblance he had decidedly assumed.

Instinct promised in its disturbing manner that no adult mortal was in danger of seeing this figure as anything but human. But the trust and affection in Vanda’s face as he drew near told they were no recent acquaintances.

His encrusted eyes studied Odette’s face; and if he suspected her knowledge he did not say. Instead, he gave Vanda a gentle reproof.

Is it piety you truly want from this child of Inga? You cannot have it both ways, my dear one.

Vanda’s cheeks flared again and her cobalt eyes glowered, but her mouth twitched as the flood of hostility cooled. Very true, Hrowthe. I am weary of this ordeal, that is all.

She looked down at Odette and, bending down, pressed her cheek against Odette’s head. But Odette could not forget those threatening words spoken moments before, nor that this was her sister, sired from the same loins from whence she had been created. She felt violated in a way that paled even the murderous actions of the Franks. Death, however violent, possessed only measurable suffering, a thing that could not torment after the deliverance.

And to feel the sweetened breath upon her temple and heated lips press upon her brow while her sister’s every limb quaked with hatred . . . this was torment.

Odette’s heart quickened and she bolted free of the small, fiery palms. Down the hallway she fled and through a door that led outside. There, in the moonlight, she looked for the comforting sight of her mother’s walled garden, but the air was thick still with smoke and the wails of children bereft of family as well as home.

Chapter Two

Ten years later . . .

Thighs, long and voluptuous and silken, wrapped about Cu’lugh’s hips; and the lips he knew so well pressed against his mouth, breathing moist and warm into his mouth. Only a vision, but it stirred the blood within him, delaying freezing death. He tried to focus on her face, her green eyes that were always just beyond meeting his own; but the drowsiness eclipsed them.

Still he knew she was there, in some form or another, as she’d been since he was but a small boy. A vision—a demon, his mother would have said; his father, too, though Pepin of Herstal had kept at least a dozen concubines. Unlike some created sensual vision, though, the dimensions of the golden-haired girl were defined, solid, and her fragrance, her touch lingered. Even when he had other concerns her pliant, breathless moans remained with Cu’lugh as tangibly as the voices of his companions and friends.

Besides his younger brother Thierry and Thierry’s mother Angla, the girl was the only other creature who had never failed or used him; if that were demonic, so be it. A thousand times had he stroked her quivering flesh and suckled her pert breasts, and just the memory of these mental rendezvous had quieted the pain of his legitimate brother’s mockery. The fragrance of her he had carried with him to the distant lands where he’d traveled in search of adventure, other lands where he’d offered his military talents to leaders more appreciative than his father. He had taken delight in many women yet known only quick boredom or disappointment, and he knew these disappointed affairs had been affected, too, by a hauntingly sweet moan that would not release its possession of his soul.

The purpose of this latest adventure was to confirm Thierry’s death for the younger man’s mother, but it had been the haunting emptiness never filled that had spurred him into the wilds of Germany, to the land of the twice-quelled Saxon tribe. She was there, somewhere, in this lonesome world; perhaps not in the semblance he’d dreamed all his life, but she was there . . . waiting, summoning with her mischievous smile and eager kisses.

Now he was going to die; and he knew he’d been a fool, that there was nothing else to blame for his predicament than his spurious pursuit to make real a vision.

The cold crept deeper into his body, congealing his blood and lulling his brain into a sleep from which he would never awaken. He grieved for Angla, waiting so anxiously to know the fate of her only son and that of Thierry’s young wife, Vanda, who was alone despite Charles’s vow of protection from any and all who might question her claims to the fief.

It was nearly Beltane, springtime, and in Frankland the trees were budding and the green returning to the grass of the fields. But not here, not in this wilderness so far from home; and for all Cu’lugh’s experience as a mercenary soldier his best preparations were futile against the insidious snowstorm. He had known he was near the fief when it struck, and he took shelter in the forest, though all instinct told him to skirt this strangely denuded forest, so silent as he entered not even the sound of a single bird stirred within the boughs. His horse fell not long after he’d goaded it in, and he tried to warm it with his bedding and his own cape.

But a venomous blast swept through the terrain, sucking the horse’s breath away and permeating the frigid air with a thick, foul perfume, compelling him to draw the cape about himself again just as a howling wind swept through the barren palisades like a pack of spectral mist wolves, blinding him, unbalancing his sense of direction. He wandered, stumbling, until he felt a small opening in the wall of a deep stone ravine; and therein he hid as the screaming wind shook the ground outside. In the mercilessly bitter air, his limbs had begun to grow numb and his thoughts to ramble when first he felt the presence staring at him from the entrance.

His goosefleshed skin felt as if flayed by ice shards beneath the unseen scrutiny; and even as the drowsiness drained his life away he was aware there was more than one. They bickered in whispers, agitated and suspicious. He knew their craving to pounce and tear his limbs from his body and feast on his organs and blood—for the satisfaction of it as well as to end the jeopardy of allowing him to live. Yet they hesitated in this virulent desire and waited, shuffling in the snow on feet that perceived not the cold or the roughness of the forest floor or cared that from their malignant bodies the smell of decay arose. Their heavy, ravenous eyes never left him and he could feel their bloodless tongues lolling thirstily over their parched lips.

And though death was all that waited to answer the loyalty and selflessness that had brought him to this wretched land, more than ever before the golden-haired vision gave him solace.

* * *

The Blodsauker priests heard the wind die down and the rustle of wings coming toward them through the drifted canopy. They turned their heads as one and watched the raven light down on the snowy ground and bristle her wings. Although to them she was a living woman like any other, she was under Hrowthe’s protection and, indeed, had given them this forest to inhabit as well as the building supplies and hands necessary to build their temple in the city. They met her yellow eyes with solemn nods and one of them pointed to the mouth of the grotto. She squawked and lifted her wings again and turned her hard glare into the recesses. For several moments she contemplated the freezing warrior.

At length she fluttered her wings again and screamed, and they watched, not certain what to do, if anything, as her avian body spasmed and thrashed on the ground. Moments later the raven semblance began to break, recede, and her form grew and elongated, a grotesque mass of twisting sinew and flesh and blood. The feathers disappeared and the skin grew light, the wings transformed to elegant arms and the taloned legs turned softly curved. She screamed, and the Blodsaukers flinched, fearful of her, for in their subconscious they remembered the Berserker priests, their avowed enemies, who had searched down so many of their kind and destroyed them.

But Vanda was patron, not enemy, and had been chosen by God Himself to build a temple for the brotherhood and provide the sacrifice for the Great Rite of Fealty. So had Hrowthe, their wisest and most erudite, proclaimed; and so they had come, at his request, to this kingdom in the wilds of Germany to wipe away the vestiges of Freyja’s sacrilege. By abstaining from sating the appetite of their sacred position the priests had empowered their goal, and the steadfastness of their conviction was revealed by the ruin of the forest, once sacred to pagan gods. Now they guarded it against trespassers, for Hrowthe’s gift of farseeing had told of possible interference from tribes jealous of Vanda’s wealth. Not even was Charles Martel to be trusted, he who had given her title to rule the land upon the death of her husband.

For who was to know when the problems with the Moorish heretics would end and the Church fathers turn their attention again to the German lands? It was not in the interest of the ignorant Catholics to allow a woman, no matter how pious, to rule. They did not understand it was the utter rejection of the sins inherent to the female sex that Vanda had embraced, and that rejection was what made her worthy to serve God personally.

She stood before them, naked but unarousing, her body a temple consecrated by the power of abstinence and the controlling force of her objectives. One of the priests removed his shabby tunic and offered it to her. Wrapping it about her shoulders, she went to the mouth of the grotto and knelt. An uncertain smile graced her lips, and with her fingertips she brushed the warrior’s frosted face. She whispered to the priests to fetch two of her guards, who waited at the edge of the forest for her command.

The power of her maternal heritage glowed in her rosy countenance—the strength and unforgiving temper of the ancient Burgundian queens, the resilience and zeal of her more recent Christian ancestresses. Like Gundrun, the Volsung princess, she realized she was different from other mortal women, and that the difference necessitated she maintain a strong hand in governing her inferiors and her aides. She kept only enough Saxons to maintain the fief’s crops and livestock. The others had long ago been bartered into servitude of Boniface’s brothers, who had been assigned by the Pope to build cities in the domains wrested from pagan tribes.

She had recruited Lombards and other foreigners to manufacture those goods required, to run the smithies and other trades of her land; and she possessed the deft talent of dangling marriage before noblemen so lusty for her land and the chance to call themselves lord of it they thought nothing of sending her cart upon cart of gold and silver and exotic spices and fabrics.

Nor did Lady Vanda squander her wealth. But for the maintenance of her private apartments, her city was managed on a frugal budget. With her stern ordinances in place, few of her mercenaries or traders would risk life or wealth to be caught committing the sins of the flesh with the handful of women that dwelt in the female section of the serfs’ quarters. Hrowthe had told the brethren Vanda was the epitome of the female perfected, and it was true. They doubted not she would receive the treasure of the Nibelung for her part in the Rite—and that she would use the treasure just as she claimed, to bolster her army and keep her kingdom a safe haven for those seeking shelter from the corruption of the old pagan misconceptions.

So had the respectful Blodsaukers vowed that when the Rite was completed they would take turns guarding her kingdom until her death—or that blessed day for which they had each gorged their veins upon human blood and knowledge for the sake of humanity’s deliverance from the falsehoods of mortal existence. If that day came while she still lived, surely at God’s side would Lady Vanda hold a special place.

Now, as the warrior gasped for breath, they bowed their heads, though not one could imagine why she would allow this brother of Lord Thierry to live.

* * *

While still in the semblance of the raven Vanda had pored over the warrior’s thoughts, investigating for sign of treachery and for confirmation that he was, indeed, her dead husband’s brother. She’d pulled away with a hoard of information and was satisfied, though his pagan sentiments and love for her husband were unsettling. It was the warrior’s own greed for power and relentless need to prove his worth to a long-dead father and pious mother, however, that made him a ripe instrument to remedy the very problem that Thierry had wrought.

Vanda could not believe her good fortune. Her own mercenaries were either too frightened of the unknown or unchaste by pagan standards to even hope to find the boundaries of the unearthly realm of Athla. That Thierry had entered was proof enough he was unworthy to rule, even in but name, a Christian land; that he’d taken Odette there was unforgivable. But now had fate brought one whose very sins would allow him into Athla.

Vanda laid her mouth on Cu’lugh’s and blew her warm breath into his throat. He stirred again, his eyelids working until he broke the ice that matted his lashes together. He stared at her as if confused, but as a human she could not read his thoughts. She smiled and saw a tiny reaction, as if he struggled against the freezing death. She flattened herself over his shivering form.

She remembered the images she’d gleaned while yet in her raven’s guise—of Thierry, and of Thierry’s mother, whom this knight loved more than his own. There was a flitting image so bright it had nearly blinded, but that she’d put away without concern for its nature and returned to her true form.

She would have to give this man the comfort he’d sought by coming here, to show him Thierry’s grave. That single thought caused her some pain, for never would she forget that once Thierry had adored her and taken pains to please her for the chance of being permitted a second entry into her bed. Then his tender conscience began to question her over the running of the fief he’d entrusted her with and the fate of the girl, whom he had himself taken into Burgundy. Such a shame that her husband had not understood that for his sake alone had she graciously put the bastard out to fosterage instead of killing her as Charles had proposed.

For all Cu’lugh’s misconceptions, his faults too many to count, his greed made him malleable as much as Thierry’s conscience had made him, in the end, unbearable.

Vanda felt Cu’lugh’s body shudder and he said something in her ear. When she gazed down at him she could see that consciousness had returned.

Welcome, brother Cu’lugh, she said. We feared you lost to death’s embrace, but I see my arms proved more determined.

Chapter Three

In Odette’s dream her mother was as vital and close as if she’d never died. Inga was all white, flawless skin and black hair, her dark eyes patient; but her voice was urgent as she told Odette to fetch a certain egg from a certain nest by a certain brook. Odette watched herself flit through a grove outside the city, the lush grass cool under her bare feet, until she came to a clearing and a gurgling brook. At the edge stood an apple tree laden with fruit and at its roots was a nest. Three large eggs lay cradled within: two of dull amber, the third green and speckled with pink. This was the one she sought and gingerly she picked it up and folded it carefully in her apron.

But when she turned a man stood before her, dressed in hunter-green breeches and a tunic of beaten leather. Dark of eyes and hair and mustached, he was unlike any Saxon man, but she knew him somehow and relaxed when he smiled.

Your egg is broken. It was all he said, but it was enough to make her blush and grow hot with embarrassment; and when she unrolled the fabric of her apron she saw that, indeed, the egg had broken and a small serpent with scales of gossamer rainbow hues lifted its tiny head to her. It hissed at her in such a way she wanted to stroke it, but as she lifted her fingers to touch the glossy head the clearing suddenly darkened and a wind swept down, so fierce it roiled the surface of the water.

Odette sheltered the serpent between the apron and her belly and looked up. The man was gone, and where he had been there stood an ancient crone. The wind whipped her grey-streaked black hair about her face and her raspy cackle broke through the tumult; and as she raised her twisted and swollen hands Odette saw long, long, sharp nails.

You chose poorly, Odette.

The next moment she descended and her claws wrapped about Odette’s throat. Odette could not breathe or move, and despite the sense of impending doom she knew that, but for the darkness, the crone held no power.

Sunlight suddenly struck Odette’s face. The crone’s fingers slipped away and her cackle dwindled and Odette awoke, safe in the bright-walled room she had grown to love. Beside her bed was a tray laden with fresh fruit and soft bread drizzled with honey. The handmaiden who had drawn back the curtains apologized but said it was as well, for Queen Honi was coming shortly with important tidings.

The kings of Athla were bound by sacred law to consult the judgment of the leading vitkis, the priestesses of Freyja, before making any decision that affected women and children. In Athla, the role of men was twofold—masters and protectors—and any abusive perversion of this privilege was subject to the gravest of penalties. Evolved from the ancient principles of seith, the practices set forth by the Goddess Freyja and Her lordly consort Od, the culture of Athla was based on the fundamental belief in the balance of the opposing yet complementary elements of femininity and masculinity.

Odette had known since the first day Thierry had brought her to the household of King Larsarian and Queen Honi that the time would arrive when she would have to say good-bye to the carefree childhood that Athlans promoted for their children. She would leave the court and her friends and be schooled under the experienced hand of a vitki specialized in training the young women to please men. She could not know the date when this was to befall, for it was deemed by custom such precise knowledge would ruin the happiness of childhood. But she’d been warned of what would come, and she had accepted it, though she feared this education, shrouded in mystery, almost as much as returning to Burgundy. Again and again she told herself Thierry would return for her before the time arrived for her education, that Thierry would succeed in convincing Vanda it was best for all involved for Odette to return to her homeland, even if she were declared a bastard and could expect no more privilege than a position as one of Vanda’s handmaidens.

Although much time had passed and King Larsarian had assured Odette she was just as