The Sacred Curte, Atmanta Teucer thinks of many things on the long ride back to his home. Relief that he and Tetia have not been discovered for what they are. Murderers. Even greater relief that they are not to be subjected to the brutality of Larth. And of course he thinks about what he must do to satisfy Magistrate Pesna. Most of all, though, he is thinking about Tetia.
He is worried about their relationship, and about their unborn child. A gap is opening between them. He can feel the distance. Day by day, degree by degree, it grows. He knows it's foolish, but he blames the baby. The stronger the child gets, the weaker the love between him and his wife. Almost as though it's draining affection from her.
Teucer wishes that fateful day eight moons ago in the woods had never happened. It has changed so much. Tetia hasn't let him near her since. She changes and bathes out of his sight. No longer looks at him in a way that stirs his blood and unchains his desires. The rape has traumatised her. Made her feel dirty. Used. Unclean. Any effort of his to get close to her only seems to bring back those painful memories.
The seer suffers a mental flash of the man in the grass bent over his beloved wife, thrusting at her, his face contorted by pleasure. He'd stab him again. Gladly. He'd hack him into even smaller pieces than Tetia had done and feed him to his pigs.
And then there's the child.
The baby they'd both longed for. The final piece to make their family complete.
But whose is it?
His?
Or the rapist's?
Teucer thinks he knows the answer. He suspects Tetia does too. The very fact she will not discuss the matter with him tells him so. More than that, there are signs, clear signs that he has the power to understand. Tetia gets excited when it kicks. Begs him to feel it moving. But when he puts his hand there, the child stays still, like it's afraid to move. A guilty thought hits him: What if she lost it? If the gods decided in their wisdom it were to be stillborn? Would this not be a blessing?
Teucer rests his old horse in the sagging hammock of the valley and tries to clear his head of bad thoughts. The autumn day is already drawing to a rosy close and the air is cool like a mountain stream. He feels guilty as he walks the animal up the hillside towards his hut and imagines Tetia tending the golden fire that forever glows in their hearth. It was before that same hearth, that they had married several honey moons ago, just after the Solstice, when the honey had fermented into fine ceremonial mead blessed by Fufluns, the god of wine. Tetia had looked so wonderful as her father accompanied her from his hearth to Teucer's. So perfect.
He tethers the horse and walks inside. 'Tetia, I'm back.'
She is speechless. Sitting by the hearth. The fire out.
Teucer falls to his knees. Blows hard into the ash. Silver flakes fly from the dry twigs. They both know the fire must never be allowed to die – the deity that lives there has prohibited it.
She puts a hand on his back. 'I don't know what happened. I'm sorry.'
Teucer removes the fresh wood that has failed to burn. He puts his hand to the ash. It is cold. Several hours have passed since it felt the comfort of flames.
The fire is dead.
It is an omen – a dark one. Such disrespect and neglect for a deity inside the home will be punished, they can be sure of it.