Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (21 page)

Seraina shook her head quickly. Too quickly, it
seemed to Thomas. “No, you should stay here and help Urs finish
crafting the rest of the halberds. I will only be gone a few
days.”

Now Thomas was sure something was wrong. When
Seraina first heard about his plan to melt down the swords of her
ancestors, she was furious and had threatened to throw them all
back in the lake. It had taken Thomas a long time to explain how
the swords were not being destroyed, but just reshaped into weapons
the men could actually use. After a while, she had accepted his
explanation, but was never truly happy about it.

Thomas looked at her, but she avoided his eyes and
busied herself adjusting the strap on her pack.

“Seraina.”

“Hmm?” She leaned down and retied one of the laces
on her boot.

“Look at me. Please.”

Her hands stopped moving and she slowly straightened
up. She lifted her head. Her green eyes lacked their usual
brilliance, and the skin around them was puffy from recent
tears.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Is it because of your visions?”

She nodded. The movement of her head almost
imperceptible. “I cannot remember ever having gone so long without
one.”

“I wish I could fully understand why they mean so
much to you,” Thomas said.

She shrugged. “They are as much a part of me as any
of my other senses. And without them, I feel like I have hidden a
piece of myself, but I cannot remember where.”

“Perhaps it is a good omen that you have not had any
all winter.”

Seraina looked at him and her face turned pale. She
shook her head. “No, Thomas. To lose one’s sense of the Weave is
most definitely not a good sign.”

“And how will running away help solve any of
this?”

Seraina was quiet for a moment, like she was
considering her next words carefully. She placed her hand on
Thomas’s arm.

“I know this is difficult for you, but please try to
understand. Never before have I spent so much time in one place,
with so many people I truly care about. I think their voices have
played a part in drowning out my visions. If, for a time, I could
put some distance—”

Thomas felt a lump form in his throat. “You mean me.
I am the cause.”

She shook her head and Thomas saw regret flicker
behind her eyes. “No, that is not what I meant. Not at all.”

“Then stay here. With me.”

Thomas held his breath and waited for her answer.
But Seraina was not the only one who could see things, and he knew
what she would say before the words passed her lips.

“I cannot,” she said.

***

Seraina walked all day, setting a furious pace that
left her exhausted with the approach of dusk. She built a fire near
a small chattering stream and brewed a pot of tea to have with her
evening meal. Later, she spread her bedroll in a clearing filled
with lillies of the valley. She lay there for some time breathing
in the sweet smell of the bell-shaped flowers and listening to the
sounds of the forest before sleep came for her.

And with it, finally, a glimpse into the patterns of
the Weave.

A mist came and went, leaving her standing in a
lightly treed forest. The ground was flat, with warm summer
sunlight breaking through the canopy of leaves far overhead. The
soil smelled of midsummer, and the leaves rustling against one
another in the wind were thick and green. And nestled amongst the
sound of wind and leaves, were children’s voices.

Screeching with glee, a small boy burst out of a
thicket and ran toward Seraina. He had light brown hair and eyes so
dark they could have been black. He was no older than four, but his
legs seemed long, his little feet uncannily sure-footed as he
tottered along the forest floor. A few steps behind, came a girl a
couple years older laughing herself breathless. As she ran, her
long, light-colored hair flashed in the dappled sunlight and she
looked toward Seraina with emerald eyes.

Seraina’s heart ached and she felt a cross between
pure joy and pride bubble within as she stared at the children
running toward her. And then she saw Thomas, and her heart lurched
once more. He was older, his hair more gray than brown, but his
face was somehow younger, and unlined. The years even seemed to
have faded his scar. As he chased the children,
his
children, he wore a smile so beautiful, so filled with happiness,
Seraina wanted to cry.

With her vision beginning to cloud with tears,
Seraina knelt down and opened her arms to the children. The boy ran
past without even glancing at her. The girl too passed her by, but
unlike her brother, she gave Seraina a curious look that seemed to
ask
Who are you?

Seraina realized then that the girl’s eyes were not
emerald green, but a deep blue.

Confused, Seraina whirled in time to see the
children jump into the arms of a woman Seraina had never seen
before. She was blonde-haired and beautiful. Thomas joined them a
second later, and encircled them all in a hug. The children
shrieked, Thomas laughed, and the woman smiled.

Seraina had never seen Thomas look so happy. And she
had never felt so much pain.

She turned away from the sight, but something forced
her to look back. When she did, the woman and children were gone.
Only Thomas remained.

He now wore a tunic that looked like it was knitted
together from drops of blood. He stared at Seraina and his face
creased over with anger. And then he spoke.

“
You mean me. I am the cause.”

Seraina sat upright in the darkness. The sound of
her heart pounding in her ears drowned out the stream and the
surrounding forest. She took in a long, deep, shuddering
breath.

It was Thomas.

It had always been him. He was the one around which
all others pivoted.

He was the Catalyst.

The Weave was reforming around his actions, his
decisions. Not Noll’s. The changes in the Weave all began when
Thomas arrived. Seraina had misread the signs.

Noll
was
special—he was an
Adept
. That
is what Seraina had sensed. He could have been a druid, with the
proper training, but he was discovered too late in life. However,
he was no Catalyst.

How could I have been so blind?

Noll had been locked in a back-and-forth struggle
against the Habsburgs for years, with no one able to gain the upper
hand. Then Thomas appeared, and within the short span of less than
a year, they had driven the Austrians out of Altdorf, seized
control of their fortress, and raised an army. When Noll was in
charge, men had trickled in to join his cause, but the moment
Thomas took control of the Confederate forces, men flocked to his
banner. Just as Vercingetorix had united the tribes against the
invading armies of Julius Caesar over thirteen hundred years ago.
Vercingetorix had seemingly come out of nowhere to terrorize the
Roman forces. So too had Thomas.

Though much smaller in scale, the timing was right;
the parallels unmistakable. The Weave had returned to them a
wayward son of the Helvetii destined to unite the people against an
unjust foreign occupation.

Looking back it all made perfect sense. But Seraina
had become too close to see it. She had become blind to the Weave’s
pattern because she stood in its center and was unable to view it
in its entirety. She had done the one thing an Eye of the Weave
must never do: she had fallen in love with the very Catalyst she
had been put in this world to guide. Even worse, she had allowed
him to fall in love with her, thereby putting the future of all her
people at risk.

Who knew what choices Thomas would make for her
alone, with no thought toward the greater pattern? His concern for
her would make him deaf to the subtle calls of the Weave and he
could miss his one chance to lead his people successfully through a
period of great change. Perhaps he already had. Seraina could not
know for sure.

Seraina had gained a lover. But in doing so, she may
have robbed the Helvetii of their last chance for survival.

Vercingetorix.

Seraina tried to put the name out of her mind, but
she could not. Some say it was the Druids who had failed him, as
well. After a series of brilliant victories against the Romans, he
was ultimately defeated and imprisoned by Caesar. For five long
years he was kept in chains and tortured. Once he had been reduced
to an empty husk of a man, the greatest general the Celts had ever
known was paraded through the streets of Rome and then slowly
strangled.

Seraina hugged her knees and dropped her forehead to
her arms. The lillies of the valley flooded her nostrils; so
wonderful to smell, but deadly poisonous if eaten.

By Ardwynna’s Grace, what have I done?

Franco Roemer attempted to blink away the sweat in
his eyes but only succeeded in making them burn. His arms were
stretched back over his head and his fingers clutched a net stuffed
with hay. His farm was located near Landeck, a small Austrian
village located on a lush valley floor and squeezed between scenic
mountain ranges.

The load was not heavy, balanced as it was over his
broad shoulders, but it was awkward. The heat of the midday sun
combined with the prickling spear-ends of the dry hay made for an
uncomfortable task. But it was the last trip of the day. That
thought brought a grin to his bearded face, and the knowledge that
his wife was making meat pies for dinner added a bounce to his
step.

His destination, a small hay shed on the other side
of the road, was within sight. Franco tilted his head and did his
best to wipe his brow on his shoulder without upsetting his load.
He stepped over the ditch and stumbled onto the road, almost losing
everything. He swayed back and forth, lurched forward a few steps,
one back, and forward again, all the while talking to himself.

”Whoa now, easy does it. Hang onto her Roemer… there
we go.” Just when he thought he had it under control, the bottom
half slid off his back and the entire thing slipped out of his
fingers onto the road.

“
Merde!
”

He grinned at his sudden exclamation and shook his
head. He was not French. But his wife was, and the use of her word
told him something that he already knew. She was on his mind, and
the sooner he got this task over and done with, the sooner he could
be sitting at his table with her and the children.

He rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his
neck with one hand while he looked down at the net of hay; its
golden strands splayed across the road like a maiden’s hair removed
from the coif. He thought of what his wife would say and laughed
out loud, thankful she had not been present to witness his
clumsiness. When he had brought her back from Neuchatel six years
ago, his family and neighbors had been delighted. To them, all born
in the German-speaking Alps surrounding Landeck, she was a foreign
exotic. They chatted about her like she was a countess from Paris,
even though everyone knew she was merely the daughter of a dairy
farmer a few valleys over.

Still, in many ways, she would always be considered
an outsider in the close-knit community of Landeck. Franco knew it
was sometimes difficult for her, but she was a resilient woman who
knew how to stand up for herself. Although the locals soon learned
to fear her sharp tongue, Franco knew it could be just as sweet.
They had three fine children together, and if Franco had his way he
would soon make it four.

He knelt and began re-stuffing hay back into the
net. A familiar tremor beneath his feet gave him pause, and he
stopped to look up the road. Three horsemen, riding fast, rounded a
bend in the road. He shaded his eyes.

Soldiers. The King’s Eagles, no less.

Franco stood. As he considered diving off the road,
one of the men pointed in his direction. It was too late. They had
seen him.

Within seconds they pulled up in front of him, their
horses slick with sweat. The animals snorted and their nostrils
flared as they took advantage of the break in their pace to refill
their lungs. Even before their sergeant spoke, Franco had a bad
feeling come over him.

“You there. Tell me of the nearest stream, or
trough, where we can water our animals.”

Franco wiped his hands on his work-stained breeches.
His damp tunic clung to his chest. He looked at the hardened, sour
faces of each man in turn and decided he did not want any of them
near his home. Or his family. He raised an arm and pointed down the
road toward the town of Landeck.

“Landeck is only a few miles ahead,” he said.

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Our animals are
thirsty. Where do you get your water?”

Franco avoided the man’s gaze and looked over the
horses. They were tall, fine mounts. “They are thirsty, all right.
But they will easily make it to the Inn River before they have need
to drink. If you rested them, they would even make Salzburg if need
be.”

“Will they now?”

He nudged his horse forward, forcing Franco to take
a step back. The soldier let go of his reins and allowed his horse
to graze on the hay at its feet.

“Where is your home, man? These are the King’s
animals. They have more right to your land, and everything on it,
than you do.”

Franco made no attempt to answer. He kept his eyes
down and focused on the sergeant’s horse as it tugged at a few
strands of hay caught in the netting.

“I ask again. Where is your farm? And do not lie to
me or I will come back and pull out your tongue. And cut that
twine, damn you, so my animal can feed properly.”

Franco looked up. “Cut it yourself,” he said.

A silence settled over the men like a wet blanket.
Franco thought even the horse stopped chewing. The sergeant looked
at his two men and laughed, but it sounded more like he had a
pheasant bone caught in his throat.