Hild (The Hild Sequence, #1)

by Nicola Griffith

She liked time at the edges of things—the edge of the crowd, the edge of the pool, the edge of the wood—where all must pass but none quite belonged.

All they seemed to do was lie to each other; the women did it while giggling and the men while boasting. She had no idea what that had to do with strength.

there was no power like a sharp and subtle mind weaving others’ hopes and fears and hungers into a dream they wanted to hear. Always know what they want to hear—not just what everyone knew they wanted to hear but what they didn’t even dare name to themselves. Show them the pattern. Give them permission to do what they wanted all along.

She imagined Begu’s mother, Enynny, and Enynny’s mother, and her mother, and her mother before her, back into memory, sitting here by the ferns drinking the cold, minty water and talking quietly in British. So many. All gone into the mist. She felt a twist inside, a longing for a family and home that never was.

Gloomy lot, priests, no matter who they prayed to.

She could watch and weave the pattern of the world. And all she had to do to earn the gifts to turn into coin was to see clearly, to see first.

Wyrd never flowed along expected paths.

Life, death, change, they happened most at the edges of things: where forest meets clearing, air meets water. A spider has only to spin at the edge of a puddle to catch the fly that dives to drink. A shrew has only to watch in turn for the spider. For the fly must come to the edge to drink, and the spider must follow the fly. Fate goes ever as it must.

Rivalry, the disease of kings.

Righteous anger, the disease of bishops.

Being surrounded by the stink of fear, the disease of seers.

She breathed deep. She was Anglisc. She would not burn. She would endure and hold true to her oath. An oath, a bond, a boast. A truth, a guide, a promise. To three gods in one. To the pattern. For even gods were part of the pattern, even three-part gods. The pattern was in everything. Of everything. Over everything. “God the Father,” she said. God the pattern. “God the Son, God the Holy Spirit…” All around her, words took shape and rolled from their mouths, high-pitched and low, harsh and smooth, loud and soft. They spoke together, oathed together, breathed together. Her kith, her kin, her king. Her people. Her heart beat with it, her tears fell with it, her spirit soared with it. Here, now, they were building a great pattern, she could feel it, and she would trace its shape one day: that was her wyrd, and fate goes ever as it must. Today she was swearing to it, swearing here, with her people.

She was baptised to Christ—their name for the pattern, her path, her wyrd. She was still herself. Uinniau smiled at her and winked.

Ships. Fire. Bright swords. Kin and kine. Woods and wold. Hearth and home. Where was Christ in this? Christ didn’t fight. Christ didn’t farm. The totem was taller than she remembered. She walked around the base. Waves, cliffs, a ship’s prow, cut sharp and deep and clear. Cut from wood, not cold stone. Christ was a carpenter. Why did his priests build with stone?

Contempt for others, like a dog driven from the hall, always found its way back.

Sin: an oath-breaking, a straying from the path.

When you understood what made people happy, you understood them.

Control. Yes. Not of the thing itself but of the understanding of the thing. That’s what she did. Nudge. Guide. Control.