39
Anomia’s heart quickened as she watched Atretes walk down the street. He had been in a dark, unsettled mood when he left her this afternoon. He had been afflicted with the doubts she had planted. Now, barely a few hours later, he returned smiling, his arm draped around that Ionian witch who held their son in her arms!
His laughter set her nerves on edge. Envy poured hot poison through her blood. When he leaned down to kiss the foreigner lightly on the temple, she seethed.
Closing her eyes, she strove for control over the storm rising within her. Her body trembled, cold with jealousy.
Tiwaz, god of darkness! Why do you permit this abomination of a marriage to exist? Atretes should belong to me, not her! The child should have been mine. She watched them again through hooded eyes. He was so beautiful, so powerful, so virile. He should be hers.
Atretes brushed a hand lightly over the Ionian’s dark hair and put his arm around her.
Let the woman be racked by disease! Let me rip her heart out and place it on your altar! Atretes belongs to me!
No man she had ever met, among the Chatti or any other tribe, had Atretes’ beauty, strength, or personal aura. Her stomach fluttered, her heart pounding a sickening rhythm of lust for something she craved but was yet beyond her grasp.
Give him to me, Tiwaz! Give me my due!
YOU WILL HAVE WHAT YOU DESERVE.
Tell me what you want me to do and I will do it. Anything. Anything!
They stopped to talk with Marta and were joined by Derek and Elsa. Baby Luisa toddled out of the longhouse and headed straight for Rizpah. Anomia waited smugly for Marta to stop her. When she didn’t, she drew in a harsh breath of fury. The weakling fool said nothing. She just sat at her loom and watched as her child tugged at the Ionian’s skirt. She had warned her!
Laughing, Rizpah stooped and talked to little Luisa. The child clearly had no fear of her. She touched her, and still Marta said nothing. Rizpah kissed Luisa’s cheek and then let the little girl stroke Atretes’ son’s hair as he slept.
Now, Marta spoke. Not to her daughter, but to the Ionian. She even smiled!
Anomia drew back into the shadows of her house. A low growl rose from her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to kill! Grinding her teeth, she tore the white linen robe she wore.
“She’ll be sorry she didn’t obey me. She’ll be sorry.” She ripped her garment. “She’ll be sorry. I will make her sorry. I’ll make them all sorry!”
Yanking the tattered robe off her shoulders, she flung it aside. Kicking the outer garment aside, she went to the dark corner and knelt at the altar where she prayed to Tiwaz.
Rocking back and forth, she beseeched her dark lord. “Reveal the incantation I need to accomplish my aim. Give me your power so that I can make Marta suffer for her disobedience.”
And knowledge was given her. It entered her mind with a whirring sound like the wings of a thousand locusts. It rose higher like the keening of hungry bats.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes! Give me more. More!”
Charged with the black potency of Tiwaz’s instruction, Anomia trembled. She breathed out an exultant laugh and rose quickly to do her master’s bidding. She knew exactly how to mix the potion and cast the spell.
She went to her shelf, removing ingredients one by one: nightshade, vervain, baneberries, snakeroot, camas, slips of a yew tree, and finally, a small box. Opening it, she took out a cloth pouch. Inside it was the precious mandrake for which she had traded all her amber. She shook the man-shaped root into the palm of her hand where it glowed softly there in the darkness. She held it possessively, stroking it with her thumb. Mandrake had many uses. It protected against battle wounds, cured diseases, brought luck in love, and promoted fertility.
And it could kill.
She placed it carefully on her small worktable and murmured an incantation as she cut off a small portion, and then replaced the mandrake in its hiding place.
All she lacked was fresh blood, but that was easily obtained.
Taking up a razor-sharp knife, she winced as she made a small incision on her right arm. Her blood dripped into a bowl. She put white thyme on the wound before binding it tightly with a strip of clean linen.
She cut and ground the elements and mixed them with her blood. When the potion was ready, she set it in a pot over her small cook fire. She chanted softly until it began to bubble and then removed it, setting the potion aside.
With a sigh of malicious satisfaction, she sat and waited for her hour of darkness to come.
When the moon and stars appeared and the village slept, Anomia took the poisonous brew and crept to Marta’s home. With her fingers she dabbed the potion along the southern base of the dwelling. She whispered the incantation that would give it power. Finishing the task, she hurried back to her own house.