A Dagger in the Winds

Chapter 4 - Otylia

Chapter 4 - OtyliaVisions, a leszy, and now I’m late. Wonderful.

I WASN’T LOOKING FORWARD TO FATHER’S GLARE as I wound through the woods, heading toward the high chief’s longhouse. Avoiding the paths would make me even more tardy to the gathering of the diviners, but it was worth it to avoid the crowd for a few more minutes.

Every year at the spring equinox, Mokosz’s chosen szeptuchy met to combine our channeling strength and predict the year’s harvest, wars, and other events. I was far less skilled than the eldest ones. Father demanded I attend regardless.

But it wasn’t the future of the tribe that was on my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about that patch of frost and Mokosz’s vision. Marzanna had called a leszy to talk to Wacław, but why?

He’s hiding something.

Some men were able to persuade or intimidate their way past anyone. Wacław was not one of them. He’d trembled our entire conversation. As much as I enjoyed instilling some of that fear in him, this was different.

After the ritual, even I was worried. Marzanna should’ve been focused on survival when the spring gods were coming for her. Instead, she was courting the foolish second-born of the high chief.

Even more frightening was that Wacław might’ve been dumb enough to agree to whatever she’d asked of him. Like Jacek, he had little experience with the gods or their calls, but unlike him, Wacław wasn’t a skeptic.

The noise of the preparations flowed from the village gates to the woods. I clenched and flexed my fists as I waited at the tree line, nervously watching the people before checking my braid. They don’t care anyway.

When I finally reached the village center, Father stood at the base of Perun’s Oak with another priest. Skulls of game that he’d sacrificed hung from the tree’s branches above him. They were said to amplify the power of the thunder god, like the bones I wore and those I placed at Dziewanna’s altar in the swamps. Above Father, though, they seemed an omen.

A headband held an amulet of Swaróg’s Forgemark at Father’s brow—its hollow iron diamond wrapped by rings. It was hard to know if my disdain for the god of fire and smithing was because of Father’s loyalty to him or another reason. It didn’t matter. My job was to serve Dziewanna and Mokosz, not Father.

A jolt ran down my spine when his brown eyes snapped to me. I took a deep breath. The mysteries of Marzanna, Wacław, and my divinations would have to wait. I wrinkled my nose and joined them.

“You’re late,” Father began, running his hand through his long gray hair. It flowed down his ceremonial red robes, trimmed in a white pattern that mimicked that of a rope.

“The Great Mother sent me a vision,” I replied without offering any more of an excuse.

The other priest’s eyes lit up. “Was it of any interest to us?”

“No.” I turned to Father. “Have they started?”

He studied a group of giggling girls near the longhouse—too close to the divination ritual for his comfort. I noticed Ara’s laugh among them and smiled. With her dark skin and hair, it seemed Weles himself had crafted my only friend from the purest earth he had.

Ara was one of the Zurgowie refugees from the far east who had fled their nomadic clan’s wars in recent years. For some reason, she had quickly decided she didn’t care whether I was a channeler or just another girl. It was a rarity I had clung to since the moment we’d met.

“They have not,” Father said when he returned his gaze to me.

Unfortunate.

The second priest nodded. “We should not keep the women waiting. They have their tempers.”

I gritted my teeth to avoid snapping at him as Father gestured to the girls. “Would you mind ushering away those who might overhear the ritual? I must speak with my daughter.”

“With pleasure.”

The priest left, and Father stared into my soul with all the power of Swaróg’s fire. Despite not being a diviner, he always believed he knew exactly what I was thinking. He didn’t.

“This is an important day for you, but don’t get caught indulging temptations, Otylia,” he said.

Anger flashed through me. “I told you! I was conducting a ritual with Mokosz. I want nothing to do with the boys and their stupors.”

Only part of that was true, but I wouldn’t admit that to him. While Father had his own plans, the other girls gossiping about boys ahead of the festival had gotten to me—only a little. It was impossible to not look around and wonder.

I shuddered as the sight of Wacław in the final vision returned to my mind. After everything we’d been through, he was the last boy I wanted to be with, and the thought of divining again so soon was not appealing.

Father let out a deep sigh. “Your unwillingness to explain what that ritual showed you doesn’t ease my doubts.”

“Then take it up with Mokosz.” I pushed past him. “If they’re waiting, I need to hurry. The horses get restless.”

He grumbled, but I wasn’t going to give him another chance to demean me. There was no way I would admit to him I was talking with Wacław. Besides, whether or not I was kissing anyone in the woods should’ve been the least of his concerns. It was up to him and the other priests to convince Jacek our visions were true. With the high chief’s lack of trust in us, success was doubtful at best. But that wasn’t my problem.

I passed through the trees at the rear of the longhouse and reached Mokosz’s Grove. A wooden statue of her with open hands and a full body stood in the center of the circle. It was supposed to represent the inviting arms of a mother to her children. I found some comfort in that.

“Oh lovely, she’s here,” Arleta said in her sweet voice from alongside the statue.

As the eldest diviner, it was her responsibility to ensure the success of the ritual. I didn’t care about upsetting Father, but Arleta was a different story. She had always claimed to see something special in me and had defended my adventures in the forest after Mother died. That was enough to make me feel guilty for delaying her.

“Sorry I’m late,” I replied, glancing at the eight diviners gathered along the rim. “I received a vision from Mokosz that I couldn’t understand, so I needed time to think.”

Most of Mokosz’s szeptuchy were far older than me, but this year, we had a twelve-year-old initiate—Adelajda. She’s so young. The skin around Mokosz’s mark on her neck was still inflamed, and I doubted she’d done much channeling. I remembered my first equinox divination three years before, scared with no clue what I was getting myself into.

Arleta placed her hand over my heart. “May the Great Mother’s gift bless you, child. Your arrival is at the perfect moment. We were about to begin.”

I took my spot in the circle next to Adelajda. The girl’s eyes were wide, and I offered her a small smile. “You’ll be okay,” I whispered as Arleta signaled for the horses to be brought.

“I’ve only divined once before,” the girl replied.

“Take my hand and breathe. We’re all here to help you.”

Her hand clenched mine as five mares charged into the circle, snorting and tossing their heads. But as Arleta chanted to Mokosz, the horses halted and stared at her. It was always shocking to see Mokosz’s power tame the wild, powerful beasts. She never failed.

With a wide smile, Arleta dipped her fingers in a bowl of blue liquid and approached the mares. It was our responsibility to summon Mokosz’s vision and then read the horses’ reactions as a signal of war or peace. For now, they bowed their heads as Arleta smeared the paint across their faces. That calm would soon fade.

Arleta whispered to the horses one last time as another bowl was passed around the circle. When it came to me, I shivered, dipping my fingers into the cold paint and drawing the Mothermark of Mokosz on my forehead. We already bare her mark, I grumbled to myself. Why is this even necessary?

Adelajda tried to follow my lead but instead created a smudge more than the four diamonds of Mokosz. I held in a snicker as she beamed up at me. “Did I do it?”

“Close enough,” I said with a grin.

As Arleta moved into the circle, we joined hands and chanted to the Great Mother. Her power flowed through our connection, growing stronger with all of us joining in the call.

Every spring since my initiation, Mokosz had shown the Solgawi slaughtering our warriors, so we’d encouraged Jacek to avoid war. He’d listened—for now. His doubts of our powers and intentions were no secret, though. If I hadn’t been a diviner, I could’ve understood his skepticism, but this was Mokosz’s ritual. Defying it meant defying her.

The darkness soon engulfed us all. Time flowed past me like in my own visions, yet with all of us calling to the goddess together, the ritual’s power would drown anyone who let go. We clung to each other as the current pulled at my face, hair, and soul.

I quickly lost track of how long we’d been in the void. Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

The ritual was different every year, and in the gap, my mind drifted to the visions she’d shown me earlier. No matter how much I hated to see Wacław’s power by my side, I couldn’t deny the vision. But what did Mokosz want me to do?

Time’s current stopped.

My breaths were shallow, my entire body on edge as the ground met my feet. We stood on an endless sea of rolling hills and short grasses. Brown and a dull orange hue covered the whole terrain as the dry air left me already wishing for water.

The Anshayman Steppe.

I’d never traveled beyond our tribe’s borders, but Father had spoken of his journeys with Jacek to negotiate beyond the Mangled Woods. A dozen nomadic warlords constantly clashed for supremacy of the Anshayman Steppe. From here, however, the lands appeared to be barren. Why would anyone want to rule a wasteland? And more importantly, why were we there? Mokosz had never shown us the east before, and an eerie feeling gripped my chest as the ground began to rumble.

Adelajda stared up at me with her mouth ajar. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know…”

Then they appeared—hundreds of riders yelling and clanking rounded swords against their thin wooden shields. They wore no armor on their dark-skinned torsos, where tattoos of battles and creatures stretched across their chests. At the rear, archers rode with their short bows in hand and quivers hanging at their sides. The ground rumbled as if Weles’s rage had reached the surface, and their shouts blanketed the valley with their calls for blood.

I clenched my jaw and studied the riders. Ara and Father had told me about the clans and their skill with archery on horseback, something few in our tribe possessed, but this was overwhelming. I’d never seen so many horses in my entire life.

A man wearing a bright red cloak bearing the insignia of a steppe vulture rode out front as they stopped at the peak of a hill. His voice thundered throughout the valley. I couldn’t understand his words, but his rage was obvious.

Ara could’ve identified them. The general’s tongue wasn’t the shared one of the Zurgowie and Simukie. I’d picked up enough bits of the language from Ara’s conversation with her family to tell this was another clan.

After the initial surge, we stood forever in the silence, waiting with the riders. Unfortunately, that gave me time to ponder what was to come.

Tribal politics meant little to me, but this vision had me curious. Was this our next war? Was Jacek foolish enough to send our warriors to die on the distant Anshayman Steppe? The other diviners whispered among themselves in confusion, but no one dared to break the circle.

My legs were stiff by the time the second army arrived across the valley. The air grew deathly still as the stampede approached, their advance louder than rolling thunder.

A horde of over a thousand men charged the first clan on the blackest horses I’d ever seen. Their own mounted archers led the way, holding oddly curved bows and bone-tipped arrows. Behind them, riders wielded long bone spears and cavalry swords that they held high as they shouted. None wore armor except for leather helmets with flaps that covered the back and side of their necks.

Fear filled the eyes of the vulture clan as the wave of black split. The horde archers moved to encircle the clan at full gallop, leaving a single horseman ahead of the wedge that the remaining men had formed.

The lead rider wore the simple brown tunic of the rest of his warriors, but he rode a pure white horse that was blinding in Dadźbóg’s harsh light. From a thousand strides away, I sensed the power flowing from him—neither demon nor channeler.

The white rider raised his spear and loosed a yell that pierced through the noise.

As I clutched the weeping Adelajda into my chest, the bone archers fired from every side. The arrows filled the sky, casting a shadow over the earth before they even struck. And when they did, I winced at the screams.

“Shut your eyes!” I ordered the little girl as I shook in horror.

Blood carpeted the grasses and sands as the remaining vulture clan riders surged forward in an unruly charge. Horses and men alike cried out with each volley of arrows that fell upon them. Their own archers attempted to return fire, but it was sparse and slow. Before the clan’s cavalry had even reached the horde’s, they were surrounded.

The horde leader seemed to laugh as he stared down the red-cloaked general. His men swept forward alongside him, engulfing the clansmen in a tide of darkness as he plunged his spear through the general’s chest. The clan’s warriors cried out, but it was too late. Less than a minute later, none of them remained.

The horde circled the battlefield, cheering and chanting as their leader dismounted. Each of his massive strides brought him toward the clan’s fallen general, who lay dead alongside his horse, the spear holding his bleeding torso off the ground like a gruesome trophy.

My blood curled as the horde leader pulled a blade of bone from his side and gripped the general’s hair.

I can’t watch.

I turned away, and though I couldn’t see it, the noise of him slicing at his victim’s head over and over cut through my mind. When I looked back moments later, he held the general’s scalp high for all his men to witness.

The chants surrounded me as darkness faded into my vision again. It took everything I had not to vomit as the torrent of time pulled me away.

Who was that? When I closed my eyes, I saw the horde leader’s black gaze, his hand gripping the bloodied scalp. We’d seen war in our visions. But this was far worse. There was something dark about that horde, beyond even the bone weapons and savage brutality. I couldn’t shake the power that had flooded from him. Is he a god?

I was ready for the ritual to end. For once, I wished szeptuchy were allowed to drink and forget. We couldn’t. And it wasn’t over.

The darkness cut away to a burning village in the black of night. The new moon provided no light in the cloudless sky, but everywhere I looked, snow covered the tree-tops, illuminated by the houses and fields ablaze.

Corpses lay scattered around a smoldering bonfire. Smoke burned my eyes and nose, and I cried as rage boiled within me. These bodies weren’t warriors. They were women and little children—our women and children—clutching amulets of Mokosz, Perun, and Jaryło in their lifeless hands.

This isn’t winter.

Despite the snow, this had to be Noc Kupały, the summer fertility celebration of the sixth moon—Czerwiec. The dead boys wore our tribe’s white and red-trimmed ceremonial garb. Some donned flower wreaths upon their heads—a sign they’d been favored by a girl during the festival.

Beyond the burning buildings, the crops were little more than kindling, barely peeking above the snow. It was supposed to be the summer solstice. Only Marzanna could be responsible for the frost. But how?

Arleta’s voice broke through the crackling of the fires, tearing us from the vision as quickly as we’d entered. I welcomed the chill of the grove’s air as I dropped to my knees, drained.

Sorcery always came at a price. The more we channeled, the more žityje the ritual took from our life force, and this time was the worst yet. Sweat coated my skin. Everything seemed cold and distant as I cradled myself in the dirt.

Next to me, Adelajda wasn’t doing any better. I forced myself to reach out to her. The little girl came from Chief Serwacy’s village of Klist in the north, far from our past wars with the Solgawi. She’d probably never seen bloodshed—vision or not. I pitied her.

All around the circle, the other diviners were just as shaken as me. Even Arleta quivered, and she’d experienced these visions for at least forty years. The mares bucked and squealed—the sign of an imminent, destructive war—but we’d witnessed enough without studying them. Mokosz’s message was obvious.

The horde is coming.

Arleta eventually steadied herself with the help of two other diviners. Her lost eyes fell on me as she shuffled toward the statue of Mokosz.

“Find Dariusz and tell him to bring the chiefs,” she said. “They must know what we’ve seen.”