"Thank you!" He would have kissed the old deacon on the cheek but he was not sure, with so many folk standing about and staring, if the gesture was one he was now allowed to make. She inclined her head with formal dignity.

He mounted. As the count and his retinue rode out of the village, children trotted at a safe distance behind them, giggling and pointing and shouting.

"What did you ask?" demanded Lavastine.

They rode past the stink of pig sties and the winter shelters for the sheep and cows. They crossed through the southern palisade gate and skirted the stream which was bounded on its eastern shore by a small tannery and the village slaughterhouse-still busy with the butchering of the animals who couldn't be wintered over. Alain held a hand over his nose and mouth until they got downwind. If the stench bothered Lavastine, he did not show it; his attention remained focused on Alain.

"I asked about my foster family," said Alain at last, lowering his hand. "I found out where they've gone to."

"They've gone somewhere?" Lavastine said without much curiosity, although for an established family to pick up and move was unheard of.

"They've taken the steward's house..." He hurried on since Lavastine clearly did not know what he meant. "It's a small manor house. It was built in Emperor Taillefer's reign for the steward who oversaw these lands then. That was before the port was established. An old man lived there. He was the grandson of the last steward, but he'd little to keep and no servants . . . the fields went fallow. And he'd no ship to send out, though there's a decent landing spot below the house."

"Make your point, son, if there is one you intend." But the road made Alain's point for him: The packed-dirt way forked ahead. The wider left fork continued south, where it would eventually veer east to join the road that took the traveler to Lavas Holding.

"The path to the right leads to the steward's house, which lies down in a sheltered vale by the bay." "And?"

But Alain knew he would never forgive himself if he did not see them. "I beg you, Father, may we go see them?" Lavastine blinked. He looked, for an instant, the way a man might who has just been told that his wife has given birth not to a child but to a puppy. But he pulled up his horse just before the fork in the road, and his soldiers, obedient, halted behind him.

Alain's breath ran shallow as he tried desperately to hold back further words, but could not. "I beg you," he burst out. "Just this one time."

Alain knew of no window into Lavastine's soul and thoughts. His curt speech, his brusque gestures, his impatience and his efficiency, all melded into a whole so seamless that Alain could only suppose, as the church taught, that the outer man mirrors the inner. Only Prater Agius had taught differently: that an outer seeming might mask the inner heart-just as pious Agius had, until the end, concealed his belief in the heretical doctrine of the flaying knife and the death and redemption of the blessed Daisan. "Very well," said Lavastine crisply. Whether he approved this course or disliked it Alain could not have said, nor did he really wish to know. He had to see Aunt Bel and Stancy and Julien and little Agnes and the baby, if it still lived. He had to speak with Henri, to be sure that he didn't- Didn't what?

Didn't condemn him as an oath breaker for not entering the church?

He took in a breath and started forward. His mare, a meek creature at the best of times, picked her way through the litter of leaves shrouding the trail. Lavastine let him lead their little cavalcade down the narrow path that wound through oak and silvery birch, maple and beech. He saw the outline of buildings past bare branches, a small estate with a house, stables, cookhouse, and outbuildings set around an open court that could also serve as corral. They passed out of the forest and into the scrub surrounding the estate, stumps not yet burned and dug out, brushy undergrowth and new seedlings struggling up toward the light, strips of field cut out of the brush, wisps of winter wheat growing in neat green rows along soil ridges.

It took him a moment to recognize the young man standing in unmown grass at one end of a long log set up on sawbucks. Stripped of bark and being planed down to an even curved round, the log had the lean supple strength necessary for a mast. At the far end of the log, scraping, stood Henri, his back to the road; Alain knew him instantly. The young man at the near end had the broad shoulders of a soldier, but when he turned to stare, Alain realized this was his cousin Julien, filled out to a man's stature now and half a head taller than he had been two winters ago.

Julien saw the cavalcade and cried out so loudly that first two children and then Aunt Bel came to the door of the house; several laborers Alain did not recognize emerged from the workshop. Henri looked up once and with a deliberate shrug went back to his work. But the others flooded out, all of them, Aunt Bel and Stancy, and little Agnes looking more like a woman than the girl Alain remembered.

Even the baby toddled out, curly fair hair wound down around thin shoulders. Stancy had a new baby in a sling at her hips. A woman in the robes of a cleric hurried forward to stand next to Aunt Bel. A small child Alain did not recognize stood, mouth open and stick upraised, forgetting the geese she had been set to watch over. The birds strayed into the woods, but only Alain noticed because everyone else was staring at him.

Aunt Bel walked forward to place herself between her family and the count's entourage. She folded her hands respectfully before her and inclined her head in the same manner, not quite as an equal but neither as a servant. "My lord count, I give you and your company greetings to this house."

"Mistress Bella," said Lavastine in acknowledgment, a fine mark of notice since Alain hadn't imagined the count remembered her name.

The cleric murmured a blessing upon them all.

The geese were wandering unnoticed back in among the trees while the child gawped at the soldiers in their blue tabards and at the banners that fluttered in the breeze.

"The geese!" Alain blurted as the first one vanished from his sight. There was a sudden flurry in the crowd. The goosegirl began to sob, frozen in place. Julien ran toward the wood, but that only startled the geese and sent some flapping every which way while the others hissed and snapped; one bit a laborer hard on the fingers.

Alain dismounted and flung his reins to a groom. "Move back," he said to the laborer and the few children who had pressed forward. "Down," he called to the hounds, who had started to bark and strain against their leashes. They stilled obediently. "Julien!" he scolded, coming up beside his cousin, "you know that's no way to bring in geese." "Yes, my lord," mumbled Julien, red in the face. Alain blushed.

Had he sounded so proud? But the geese were scattering and the goosegirl had now hunkered down on her haunches and started bawling outright. He squatted beside her. "Hush, child." He reached out to touch her dirty chin. "This will not bring them back. Now you go stand there, by the gate to the pen, and you shut it tight once they've all gone in."

His fine clothing and his clean face and hands overawed her; he saw that by her expression and the way her gaze darted from hands to face to tunic and back again. Her bawling ceased and, though tears still ran down her cheeks, she obeyed him. He went a few steps into the forest and began the onerous job of coaxing the flustered and annoyed geese back out of the trees and into the pen. But he spoke softly and moved slowly, and in time they came, suspicious and ill-tempered but not, at this moment, intent on inflicting bodily harm. Long necks arching, still hissing at the audience of family and soldiers, they followed Alain to the pen and went inside as meekly as geese were able. At the gate, one gander hissed and retreated. Alain circled him carefully, crouched, and snaked out a hand to grab the feet from behind, sweeping the bird up while he took a firm grip on its neck with his other hand. He deposited the squawking, furious bird in the pen, jumped back, and let the goosegirl slam the gate shut. The geese subsided with a hissing and flapping of wings.

He looked back in time to see Aunt Bel trying not to laugh, the soldiers and laborers staring in outright astonishment, and his father watching with his thinnest smile-the one always linked with his disapproval.

"I see you haven't forgotten everything you learned here," said a voice at his side. Alain turned to confront his father-not his father, but his foster father. Henri.

Aunt Bel raised her voice. "My lord count, I hope you and yours will take a meal with us. My own daughters will prepare it."

Lavastine nodded curtly. He could scarcely refuse. It was practically a sin to scorn hospitality.

But after he dismounted, he gestured to Alain to attend him.

"If you will allow me, my lord," Aunt Bel continued while Stancy and Agnes and the other women hurried inside and the laborers retreated to stand at a respectful distance. Julien followed Henri back to their work on the mast. "Rather than wait inside, perhaps I may show you around the manor. It was your largesse that made it possible for us to improve upon our circumstances and settle here."

"Indeed."

Aunt Bel kept a careful distance from the hounds, who growled at her while a padded handler staked them out away from the house. While the soldiers took the horses to graze and water, she conducted Lavastine and Alain on a tour; the cleric attended Aunt Bel much as if Bel were herself a noble lady. It was a fine grand house, although not of course nearly as grand as Lavastine's fortress, and included a good stretch of ground with fields, two workshops, pastureland and woodland, and a broad path leading down to a sheltered beach where the family's ship had been drawn up onto logs and covered with a thatch roof for the winter.

"My brother Henri is a merchant, my lord, and we have for some years shipped both cloth and quernstones south to Medemalacha. There is a quarry near here in the hills where we get our stone. With the generous payment we received from you, my lord, we have been able to expand our business in addition to moving to this manor. I have hired laborers to carve soapstone into vessels for cooking and storage. We will ship them to Medemalacha also. In time Henri hopes to sail north as far as Gent, although there is more risk of Eika attacks in that direction, and next year he intends to attempt his first trip northwest to Alba, to the port of Hefenfelthe on the Temes River."

Lavastine began to look interested. A good husbandman, he was wealthy in large part because of his careful stewardship of his lands and possessions. "One ship cannot sail to three places."

Aunt Bel smiled. "We are building a second ship this winter. My third son Bruno we have apprenticed to Gilles Fisher, a local man who builds most of the ships hereabouts. In return the shipbuilder will aid my brother with those parts of the ship Henri does not know the secrets of." Lavastine surveyed the work that continued on the mast. Henri, sweating even in the chill, seemed oblivious to the visit of the great lord. "But is it not also true, as my clerics have read to me from the commentaries on the Holy Verses, that 'the farmer must save some of the grain when he makes bread, else there will be nothing for sowing'?"

" 'And in the days to come not pride nor greed will fill his stomach,' " finished the cleric. She was a young woman, not much older than Alain himself, with crooked teeth, a pockmarked face, and a cheerful expression. "Your attention to the words of Our Lady and Lord marks you with favor, my lord."

"Indeed," said Lavastine. "So have They shown me Their favor." He glanced at Alain. Bel, miraculously, appeared not to notice the aside. She moved away toward the other workshop, which was attached by a covered causeway to the main house.

"Three ships we may hope for in time, my lord," she said, "but for now the seaways north are closed to us by the Eika. As you say, we must move slowly as we expand lest we overreach. In this room my daughters and I weave. In time we'll expand to four looms. In time we hope also to hire more laborers and expand the farm as well. We have betrothed my daughter Agnes to a merchant's son in Medemelacha. He's an experienced sailor. In time he'll take over the third boat, should Our Lord and Lady shower their favor upon our enterprise."

"But Agnes is too young to be married!" said Alain, shocked.

Lavastine swatted away a fly and stepped back from the door into the weaving shop, held open by the cleric so that he could look inside. "How old is this daughter?"

"She is twelve, my lord. Her betrothed will come to live with us next year, but they won't wed until she is fifteen or sixteen. If you will come this way." It began to irritate Alain that she addressed all her conversation to Count Lavastine and none to him, as if he were a stranger. Yet certain small expressions familiar to him came and went on her face like so many private signals to him alone of her thoughts and of unspoken comments too personal to share with someone who did not know her intimately, the arched eyebrow that betrayed amusement, the dimple that hid annoyance, the pursed lips with which she swallowed any sign of satisfaction she considered unseemly. "We have bought more cows and will export cheese as well. We hope, in time, to bring a blacksmith here. As you can see, we have hired the Osna smith to come in twice a week and do work for us." They crossed into the house itself, the long hall busy with women and girls setting out cups and bringing in platters of food from the cookhouse. Beside the threshold Alain saw an unpainted wooden shield, a helmet, and a spear. "We are are sending my eldest son Julien to the new duchess of Varingia as a man-at-arms, because we can afford to outfit him now."

They had promised him to the church when he had wanted nothing more than to be a soldier!

Stung with jealousy, he flushed in shame-but no one remarked on it. No one even paid attention to him.

Of course it would be different for Julien. Julien was Aunt Bel's legitimate child, her eldest son, and of course she would want to give him such an opportunity now that they had the means. They had done their best by him; it wasn't their fault they hadn't known who he really was . . . was it?

Aunt Bel went on, discussing various potential marriage alliances for her children and relations.

To Alain's consternation and utter confoundment, Count Lavastine appeared to relish these discussions; he asked questions and gave advice. Indeed, he treated Aunt Bel with the same distant familiarity as he did his own chatelaine, Dhuoda, a woman whose ability to run his household he respected enough to leave her alone to do her job.

"-and now that we have more business, we have brought in Sister Corinthia of Salia to write and read letters and do our accounts. We also hope to put Julien's daughter, Blanche, into the church with a dowry. Sister Corinthia will teach her so that she isn't unlettered when she goes."

Julien's daughter, the baby, was illegitimate, although Ju-lien and his sweetheart had proclaimed publicly their intent to marry before the young woman's death in childbed.

"You have done well," said Count Lavastine. He was- perhaps-impressed. Alain was vastly irritated. He felt used, as if his family had only wanted him for what they could get from him, the count's generous reward for his fosterage.

Aunt Bel glanced at Alain, then away. Her features were stern now. "It is nothing we looked for or expected, my lord," she said as if she had heard Alain's thoughts spoken out loud. Perhaps she had, seeing his expression. She knew him that well. He was ashamed. "But is it not said in the Holy Verses that 'you shall eat the fruit of your own labors'?"

' 'You shall be happy and you shall prosper,' " quoted the young cleric, evidently eager to show off her knowledge of the Holy Verses, " 'and your daughters shall be like the fruitful vines and your sons like the rich stands of wheat. For the hearth-holder who lights each day a candle from the hearth in memory of the Chamber of Light, this shall be the blessing in store for her: She may share the prosperity of Sai's all the days of her life and live to see her children's children!' "

"Please, my lord count." Aunt Bel gestured to the single chair at the table. Everyone else would sit on benches. "If you will be seated." Now she turned to Alain as well and made the same respectful gesture. "And you, my lord."

"Aunt Bel," he began, hating this formality.

"No, my lord." He knew better than to argue with her. "You're a count's son now and must be treated as one. 'God maketh poor and maketh rich; They bringeth low and lifteth up.''

"So said the prophet Hannah," added the cleric.

Aunt Bel turned back to Lavastine. "I will send one of my children to bring your company in to table, my lord."

"I'll go," said Alain, though it was not his place. He should not offer, not without asking his father's permission. But he knew, suddenly, that he would have no opportunity to speak to Henri, that Henri would not eat with them. None of the family would eat with them; they would serve their guests.

That was all.

The soldiers began to stamp in, a flurry of activity by the door.

Lavastine said, "Alain!"

Alain made his escape.

Outside, Julien and Henri were still working on the mast. When Henri saw Alain coming, he straightened and waved Julien away. Then he bent back to his task.

Alain halted beside the older man. Out here, outside the confines of Osna village, it smelled different. There the ever-present smell of drying fish and salted fish and smoked fish pervaded streets and common and even the Ladysday service. In the longhouse, fish and smoke and sweat and the dust of stones and wet wool and drying herbs and sour milk and rancid oil and candlewax all blended into a rich, familiar aroma. At the manor house there was no such ripe blend, for here there was room to store foodstuffs in the shed beside the cookhouse, to grind stone in a separate workshop, to weave in a room set aside for that purpose. Although perhaps thirty people lived on this farm, they were not crowded together except on winter nights when they would all sleep in the main hall.

He smelled the sea foam and heard the cries of gulls. The animal sheds stank, of course, but the smell of earth and wind and the late chill of autumn dying into winter overrode anything else, made all else into a fragrant herbal, the scent of life. The smell of land and opportunity, even though it was only an old steward's house from the time of the Emperor Taillefer.

"You've done well with the payment Count Lavastine gave you," said Alain, not meaning to say anything of the kind.

Henri smoothed the sides of the log into an even curve. "As have you," he said without looking up from the steady rhythm of his work. The words, spoken so bluntly, cut into Alain's heart.

"I didn't ask for this!"

"How then did it come about?"

"You don't think /-!" His voice gave out as he struggled with indignation.

"What am I to think? I promised the deacon at Lavas Holding to put you in the monastery when you came to your majority at sixteen, and she did not say me 'nay.' Had she known who you were, do you think she would have offered you up so easily?"

"She didn't know Count Lavastine wouldn't marry again! She couldn't have known that seventeen years ago. You think I somehow cozened him, cheated him, made up a story-! Just to get out of the church!"

"What am I to think?" asked Henri. He had not once raised his voice. "You made it clear enough you didn't want to enter the church, though the promise was made at the same time you were given into the Circle as a newborn babe."

"Made by others," retorted Alain furiously. "I couldn't even speak. I was a baby."

"And then," Henri went on as quietly, "after the monastery burned, you went to serve a year at Lavas Holding and we hear nothing more of you until this payment comes, and you are suddenly named heir to the count. I counseled Bel to send it back."

"To send the payment back!" Henri might as well slap him in the face as say such words. "You would have sent it back?" His voice broke like a stripling's.

" 'Accursed thirst for gold, to what fell crimes dost thou not force men's hearts?' The cleric, a fine educated woman I can tell you and a very Godly one as well, has been reciting to us the lay of Helen, which they call the Heleniad. Those words I took to my heart and I said them to Bel."

"You don't think Aunt Bel is greedy!"

"Nay," admitted Henri. "Nor has she acted in any way except for the family. Indeed, we will be the better for her stewardship. But we should never have accepted that which came to us through false pretenses. The Lord and Lady do not smile on those who lie to advance themselves."

Now he had said it baldly. Alain was stunned. When he spoke, all his hard loud words had vanished and he could only whisper. "You don't think I'm Lavastine's son."

"Nay," said Henri as calmly as if he had been asked to predict the next day's weather. But for the first time he stopped from his work and straightened, scraper dangling from one hand, to inspect Alain.

His quiet gaze was devastating. "And why should I?"

Rage and Sorrow barked and whined where they stood tugging at their leashes, which were staked to the ground. Furious, Alain spun and ran, too angry to think, too angry to do anything but jerk the stake out of the ground and pull the leashes free.

"Go!" he shouted, and they leaped forward, growling, toward the man who had made their master so angry.

Lavastine appeared, crossing the threshold of the house. "Alain!" he shouted.

Rage and Sorrow ran flat out and bounded over grass and shavings while Henri stood and stared them down, although Alain saw him shaking, scraper raised as if to protect himself. Nothing would protect him from the hounds. Nothing except the voice of an heir of Lavas.

"Halt!" Alain cried, and the hounds, an arm's length from Henri, stopped dead. "Heel." He whistled. They growled once, longingly, at the other man, then, obedient, they slewed their great heads round and trotted back to Alain. Shaking, his hands trembling so hard he could scarcely hold the leashes, he staked them back down.

By that time Lavastine had reached him. "What means this?" The count glanced toward Henri, who had not gone back to his work but stood slackly by the mast and who, as a tree leans under the wind, moved now to rest a hand and then his weight on the log, bent over like an old, old man.

"N-nothing," whispered Alain. He wanted to weep. He dared not.

"Indeed," said Lavastine. "If it is nothing, you must come inside. You should not have run out in that way. It is a great honor to this family that we eat at their table and allow them to serve us." He signed to one of his serv-ingmen. "Get my cup."

Alain followed him inside. He could not look to his right or left. He could not look at all, not to meet anyone's eyes. Lavastine took from the hand of his servingman his fine walnut cup which he used when he traveled. Four golden rivers had been carved into the wood, and the fine grain was polished until it gleamed. This cup he graciously gave to Aunt Bel, who had Stancy fill it with wine and returned it to him to drink first. Only after the count had drunk from it did she agree to sit at his right and take food herself, though the rest of her family served.

"This cup I hope you will accept," said Lavastine, "in memory of your hospitality toward myself and my son this day."

"You do us honor, my lord," said Aunt Bel, and she drank.

The meal was not as fancy as that served by Mistress Garia, who had, after all, had several day's notice of Lavas-tine's arrival. But there was veal and good bread and wine and apples, and several chickens had been freshly killed and cooked, spiced with coriander and mustard. Most importantly, the meal was served with dignity and pride, and there was more than enough for all.

Henri did not come inside.

To Alain, silent in the midst of his old family's newfound plenty, it all tasted like ashes and dust.

THEY sail at dawn into the fjord. Cliffs surround them, glittering with ice and snow and cold gray-black stone, the stone of the Mothers. Waves beat on the prow, spraying the rowers with bitter cold water, so cold that a human drenched in it will die. Not his kind, of course. His kind are RockChil-dren, the children of earth and fire, and the only thing they fear is the venom of the ice-wyrms. All other fates lead merely to death, and against death they are strongest of all.

Iron can kill them, if wielded with sufficient strength. They can drown. But heat and cold alike melt off their beautiful skin, for are they not marked with the rich colors of the hidden earth, melded as if in the forge from the very metals with which they adorn themselves?

He hefts his spear in his right hand as the ship slides in past islands of ice and prepares to jump as it grinds up onto the rocky beach. This valley, this tribe, is unprepared for his coming.

They will rue that. But they will bare their throats before him.

The hull scrapes on stone. He leaps out of the ship, hitting ground hard, then splashes forward through the surf while his dogs jump out after him, followed by his war band. His feet grip ice, slick on pebbles, while the dogs flounder behind him and regain their footing. He races up the shore and runs on snow. Behind, he hears the ragged panting of the dogs and the intent breathing of his warband. They believe in him, now. This is their fourth tribe this season. Winter is a good time for killing.

Too late the Watchers at water's edge raise the alarm. Too late the smoke fire rises to alert those living farther up along the paths which lead to the high slopes and the fjall. He hears the sudden bleat of the OldMother waking from her trance to danger. The SwiftDaughters run from the long hall carrying baskets, the nests of unhatched eggs. He sets the dogs on them.

SwiftDaughters are not sacred, although the OldMother is. The dogs scatter them and baskets drop and eggs fall to the cold earth, to be lost in snow or splintered by ice, claw, tooth, or wind.

Those that are strongest will survive. The others deserve to perish.

Now the warriors of Hakonin fjord gather their weapons and rush like a herd of furious goats down into the fray. He is proud of his people. He has never seen one of them turn and run.

And on this day they have his cunning as well as courage to aid them. His second and third boats have beached farther down the strand and his soldiers have raced up from behind, so that the Hakonin RockChildren are already encircled. Death already sweeps down on them, as dragons and eagles take their prey from the skies. Only they do not know it yet. But as the battle is joined and they realize their plight, they fight the harder. They are strong and fearless, and because of that he calls his soldiers off sooner than he would have otherwise, leaving perhaps half of the Hakonin warriors still in the fjall of the living rather than sending them to the cold stone pathways of the dead.

He gives them a choice.

Proud warriors, each one that is left, and properly raised. They do not throw down their weapons but neither do they fight on when all is hopeless. They do not surrender. They pledge their death, or their life, to the will of their OldMother and her knife of decision.

Now, and at last, when all is lost, she emerges from the long hall. She is stout and as gray and strong as rock, which she much resembles. Her movements are as stiff as those of trees unbent in storm. It is the peculiar beauty of the Old-Mothers that, like the mountains and the cliffs and the jutting ridges of stone that scar the fields and pastures, they are glimpses of the bones of earth that lace all land together and give strength and solidity to the world. The SwiftDaughters left to her hoist baskets and gather up those eggs, fallen among the detritus of their sisters, which remain unbroken. These they collect together to form new nests, but there are few, many fewer than a tribe needs to survive.

In the pens behind the long hall the human slaves wail and moan; their noise is appalling and irritating, but he restrains himself from killing them outright just to silence that awful mewling. He gestures. His own soldiers part, forming a path down which his human slaves can come forward. These slaves he has gathered to himself as the SwiftDaughters gather the unbroken eggs. At Valdarnin fjord he set these slaves to watch over warriors and dogs alike as humiliation, for the Valdarnin warriors fought weakly and some even surrendered before they knew their OldMother's will. But he will not humiliate the Hakonin; instead, he lets his human soldiers, such as they are and armed only with weapons of wood, stand watch over the penned slaves. They have served him well this season of fighting. He is pleased to have thought of using them, the strong ones, the ones that aren't afraid to look him in the eye, to wish to defy him, and who are yet intelligent enough to know that defiance is useless.

"Who are you?" asks Hakonin OldMother. She waits at the threshold. It is gesture enough that she has emerged into the ragged winter sunlight, torn by clouds and a few drifting curls of snow.

"I am of Rikin fjord, fifth son of the fifth Utter of Rikin OldMother. I am son of Bloodheart, and it is to his teeth you will now bare your throats."

"To what purpose?" she asks, her voice like the grinding of pebbles on the shore beneath the hull of his ship.

None of the other OldMothers have asked this question, only his own, Rikin's Mother, before he set off for the winter's hunt.

"The many can accomplish what the few cannot," he replies.

"You serve Bloodheart," she says.

"I do," he replies.

"Someday, as does all that is mixed with air and water, he will die," she says.

"He will," he replies, "for only the Mothers who are unmixed with any element save that of fire and earth may remain untouched by time for as long as the embers burn and Smolder beneath their skin."

"You arm the Soft Ones." She does not look toward the human slaves. They are beneath her notice, and like the icy waters her touch is dangerous to them.

"I use what weapons I can gather," he replies.

"You wear their sigil at your heart," she says, and now her sons and brothers murmur, seeing that it is true, noting the wooden circle that hangs by a new-forged iron chain around his neck.

"It signifies my understanding of their ways," he replies. "I can walk through their dreams."

"You are one who has spoken with the WiseMothers," she says. "I hear it in your voice and I see with their vision for they have shared this vision all along the fjalls. They have shared this vision with the bones of the earth. That you have the patience to find wisdom, and that you think strong thoughts. But you have no name. Bloodheart is a powerful enchanter. He has taken a name, as only enchanters may."

He bows his head respectfully. He knows better than to contest the old laws that govern RockChildren. He is nameless, as is fitting, and yet did Alain Henrisson not give him a name? Did the human not call him "Fifth Son," thinking this was a name? He will remain patient. Patience is the strength of the WiseMothers, as it is the strength of the earth.

From the pouch of skin at her thigh, Hakonin OldMother draws the knife of decision. "If my sons and brothers fight with you," she says, "if we let our dogs run with your army and our slaves labor for Bloodheart's purposes, what will you give me in return?"

"I have defeated you," he replies.

"With this knife I crack the eggs." OldMother lifts the knife so that sun glints off its black blade, a sliver of obsidian so smooth it is depthless and so sharp it can cut both bone and the stone-sheathing of eggs. "With this knife I winnow the weak from the strong, as do all my sisters to the north and to the south. This knife is the choosing of death or life, and you cannot defeat death, for you are mortal. What will you give me in return?"

"What do you want?" he asks, curious now.

"I have birthed my daughters," she says, "and one begins to harden now. Her ribs are stiffening and soon her time will come. These nests that are my laying you have scattered, and she will have few brothers to tend her fields and her pastures and to fight for Hakonin hall. I will lay no more eggs, but she has not yet begun. Promise me that when she has birthed her daughters and it comes time for her to breed her nests, of which she must have many in order to harvest a strong clan, I can send for you and you will perform the ritual with her. The Hakonin nests will be of your making."

"Only a male who is named may perform the ritual with a YoungMother," he replies carefully. But he feels the course of excitement in his blood. These words, this pledge, once spoken, cannot be taken away. It is dangerous to take for himself what is the prerogative of Bloodheart and the other, the very few, named males. But this OldMother knows as he knows that he intends to be one of them, in time. He must only be patient and ruthless.

"Many seasons will pass," says Hakonin WiseMother, "before I must begin my walk to the fjall and before she will take the knife from me and seat herself in my chair. Promise me this, and we will seal our bargain: your breeding for our nests, our sons and brothers for your army."

"I make this promise," he replies. "I seal it with the blood of my brother." He whistles one of the dogs to him, curses it as it snaps at his arm, and grabs its collar to wrestle it close. Its breath, weeping with the broken eggs it has feasted on, hits his face like the breath of fetid summer wind. He cuts its throat and its blood pours out onto the earth in offering. When it sags, dead, he drops it to the ground, into its own blood, some of which has spattered him, mottling his chest and the delicate faience and gold and silver links of his long metal girdle, a thousand tiny linked rings flowing like water around his hips and thighs.

The OldMother bids one of her SwiftDaughters kneel before her. Then she takes in her hand the wealth of the daughter's deep gold hair and cuts it off with a single efficient motion.

"With this token I seal our bargain. Spin this and smith this and wear it when I summon you."

He nods, accepting her bargain. Her sons and brothers lift their throats and the chill winter sun glints on smooth metal skin, copper, bronze, gold, and silver, and iron-gray. In response, he grins, baring his teeth and the jewels studded there. Tonight he will add another. For as it is said among his people, jewels are like boasts, hard to keep once they are displayed.

The SwiftDaughter carries her shorn hair across the forecourt to him, stepping carefully over her dead sisters and the broken shells of eggs, her never-to-be-born brothers. She lays the hair in his waiting arms, and he is careful not to stagger under its weight. No gold as pure exists anywhere, not even in the mines dug deep into the earth by the goblin-kin. With this gold, spun and beaten, he will fashion a new girdle, one of his own making, not one granted him by his father's strength.

"Alain!" his father said, and he woke from the web of dream and struggled to free himself of its coils.

He sat up to see light pouring in through the open shutters of the sleeping chamber he shared with his father and the hounds. Another lord might sleep with many servants in his chamber; the counts of Lavas could not.

"You were dreaming," said Lavastine, standing now and crossing back to close the shutters. It was bitter cold outside; three braziers, a sinful luxury, burned in the room. As soon as the shutters closed, darkening the chamber, Alain rubbed his arms and shook off sleep. He rose and began to dress. Rage scratched at the door, whining.

"You were dreaming," repeated Lavastine.

"I was." Alain bound his calves with linen bands and then pulled on an undertunic of wool over his shirt, and his thick winter tunic, lined with marten fur, over all.

"The Eika again." Lavastine always wanted news of the Eika.

Alain laughed suddenly, a short, sharp laugh, much like his father's. Much like Lavastine's.

The memory of his last glimpse of Henri still hurt, but not as much, not after two months. He was too busy here at Lavas Holding. Life went on at the fortress at a more sluggish pace in wintertime, but it went on nonetheless. He trained at arms, though he knew himself a coward. Next time it will be different. Next time I won't fail in battle. He sat with his father as Lavastine spoke with his chatelaine, with his stewards, with his clerics, and with those few winter travelers who lingered a day or two in the warm hall of Lavas fortress before continuing their journey. Alain learned what it meant to be a great lord, what gestures to make, what polite phrases to utter, how to judge a visitor and greet him according to his station.

"The Eika," said Alain. "Fifth Son. I think he's going to get married. But not in any way we understand."

Lavastine regarded him without answering until Alain grew uncomfortable, as if he had said something wrong or made a comment more fitting to a farmer than a count's heir.

"Father?" he asked, not liking the count's silence. Henri had been silent in that way.

But Lavastine quirked his lips finally, upward, signifying approval. "It is a portent. We have spoken of this before, but it has come time to act on it. We will send my cousin Geoffrey to the court of King Henry."

Speaking of Geoffrey, whose open dislike of Alain still crawled fresh along his skin, made the young man nervous. "Come," he said to the hounds. He tied leashes around the necks of Rage and Sorrow and old Terror and Bliss, the four favored to sleep at night in the tower chamber with their masters. He tied the ends of the leashes to a hook set into the wall and then rapped on the door with a staff. It opened at once, servants entering-not without their usual nervous glance toward the hounds-with two pitchers of steaming water scented with mint, basins and cloth for bathing his face, and a clean covered chamberpot. "It is time for you to be betrothed, Alain." "Betrothed!" He let the servants wipe his face. The water heated his face, a touch of summer, and every least curve of skin on his hands was washed until his hands smelled of the herb garden. The scent of warmth and summer made him think of Tallia, and he bent over the table to shield himself, lest he betray his feeling to anyone, even to Lavastine.

"When Geoffrey asks King Henry for a marriage alliance between you and Lady Tallia, it will remind Geoffrey of the order of things in Lavas now. As he needs reminding." Any discomforting memories of the visit to Aldegund's manor vanished with the mention of Tallia's name. "Tallia," Alain breathed. "But-she's the daughter of a duke and of Henry's own sister."

"Half sister. Alain, my son, you must understand this about marriage. Henry must marry the girl to some lordling or else put her in the convent. As long as she is in the convent, there is always the chance some lord will abduct her and marry her against Henry's will. The king does not want to marry her to a lord whose power is already too great, or to a lord or lady's son he does not trust. He needs me, and you, because the counts of Lavas bow to no duke or margrave, and yet we are not as powerful as some of the great families of Wendar and Varre. Nor as weak as others. He would be wise to grant us this alliance. Especially since we saved his army, his kingdom, and his life at Kassel. Lady Tallia is a small price to pay, I think."

"Just as the gold and silver you gave to my foster family was a small price for you to pay," said Alain, suddenly bitter again.

"For their fostering of you? A small price, indeed, Alain. Never begrudge the seed you sow in good soil, for it is the harvest that comes from that sowing that will determine whether you live or die the next spring. Think not only for this day, but for the one that is to come. In this way, Lavas has prospered and it will continue to do so under your stewardship."

"Yes," whispered Alain, promising it, determined to make it true. He did not want to fail Lavastine, now or ever. How keenly he felt, suddenly, that need to have Tallia beside him. It was more than liking, more than advantage. It was simpler than that. Perhaps it was not altogether pure. "Tallia," he said, trying her name out on his tongue. Wondering how he would speak to her once they were married, once they were alone in the intimacy of the bridal chamber. He flushed and looked up in time to see Lavastine smile, so quick he might not have glimpsed it.

"And sooner," said Lavastine casually, "rather than later." Alain's face burned. Was the sin of lust emblazoned on his face? "It is vital you secure the succession as soon as possible." The count turned to the servants and signed to them to open the door. Sorrow barked. Bliss whined, tail whipping against tapestried wall, as the door was opened and the servants braced themselves well back from the path that would be taken by the hounds.

Alain let the servants help him with his boots, and then he unhooked the hounds and led them down the curving staircase to the outside where they could run-under his supervision, of course.

He sat on a bench. The snow of last week had melted, though it was still cold. The cloudy sky had the look of porridge. He chafed his hands to warm them. A servant, seeing him, ran into the hall and emerged soon after with gloves. Soft rabbit fur caressed his hands as he slipped them on.

He had, in these moments when the hounds ran, a brief time to himself. Everyone kept well away and Lavastine was already about his business, business Alain would join as soon as he put the hounds into the kennel. He closed his eyes and drew a picture of Tallia in his mind's eye, all wheat, like the harvest, frail, bending under the weight of the wind, of her mother's ambition and her father's ancestry, and yet always whipping back. She seemed so...unreachable. So clean. So pure and holy, she who scarcely ate a crust of dry bread when riches sat on her plate.

That night when he lay down on the bed beside his father, he closed his eyes and thought of her again. She had never been far from his thoughts all day. The idea that he might actually marry her was so incredible that he might as well dream of being a fatherless bastard child raised by commoners suddenly elevated to the rank of heir to a powerful count.

God bringeth low and llfteth up.

With this comforting thought and the vision of Tallia as close as his own cloudy breath in the chill air, he slept.

Rain edged with slivers of ice batters the canvas tents of their camp. His warriors do not need the tents to sit out the storm, though it makes the wait more comfortable. But the human slaves do. Another war-leader would let the slaves sit in the freezing rain and half of them would die. So are the weak winnowed from the strong. But he is not like the others.

He touches the Circle at his breast, circles his finger around its smooth grain in memory of the gesture made by the child- seen but not forgotten- at the door of the crypt in the cathedral at Gent. That child he had let go free, because she had reminded him of Alain.

The slaves sit in the warm billow of smoke and heat from the fire he has allowed them to start, up against a rock face beneath the canvas tent. One man stares at him, then looks quickly away when he realizes he has attracted his master's attention.

"Why do you stare?" he asks. In his dreams he has learned the language of the Soft Ones.

The slave does not reply. The other slaves look away quickly, hunching their shoulders, their way of trying to avoid notice, of pretending to be invisible as the spirits of air and wind and fire are invisible to all but enchanters.

"Tell me," he commands. Wind stings his neck and tines of ice shatter on his back where he crouches at the open end of the shelter.

"I beg your pardon, master," says the slave without looking up again, but even so he cannot keep the hate out of his voice.

"You saw something." The long winter's night shrouds them, blanketed by the ice storm and serenaded by the howling wind. By the red sullen light of fire he watches the slaves stare at their knees and their hands, even this one, the one who spoke. The one whom he caught looking.

"I will know."

"You wear the Circle of Unity, master," says the slave at last, knowing that to disobey is to die. "But you do not worship God."

He touches the Circle, drawing his finger round its curve with that same remembered gesture. "I do not hide the Circle."

"It is the way you touch it, master." The man's voice gains strength, of a kind. "It reminded me of. . . someone I once knew."

Someone this man does not wish to speak of. Bored by the storm, irritated by the delay, since no ship can brave the seas in such conditions, he forces the slave to go on. "Do you have a family as, I think, is common among your kind?"

"No, master." Here, finally, the slave lost his fear and let his hate take wing. "Your people murdered them, all of my kin: my wife, my sisters, even my poor innocent children."

"Yet you serve me." This human interests him. He has fire, perhaps even some stubborn strength of earth in him. The penned slaves who have lived among the RockChildren for many generations are more like dogs than people, but these new slaves to whom he has given sticks for weapons, better food, and decent clothing all come from the southern lands, and they think before they bark. That is why he believes they will be useful.

"I have no choice but to serve you," replies the slave.

"You have the choice to die."

The slave shakes his head. "You wear the Circle, but you do not know God. The Lady weaves and the Lord cuts the thread when our time has come. It is not for us to choose to die.

Death comes to us by Their will."

He examines the other slaves, who hunker down. One, at the limit of the canvas, shaking in the raw wind, turns and turns about until another slave, closer in, sees her plight and changes places with her, there at the edge of the shelter where the fire's warmth scarcely reaches and the wind's breath bites with killing cold. After a bit, yet a third slave takes the worst place. They help each other live. Is this the mercy that Alain Henrisson spoke of?

"Do you have a name?" he asks.

The slave hesitates. He does not want to offer his name. The other slaves stare, watching, surprised out of their pretense of mute stupidity. None of these, to whom he has given favor, are mute or stupid; he has studied his slaves carefully, just as he studies his livestock.

Still the slave does not speak.

He lifts a hand and unsheathes his claws.

"My name is Otto," the slave says at last and reluctantly.

The others whisper and then silence themselves. He can smell their nervousness beneath the hot pitch smoke of the fire and the cold blast of the storm.

"Do you all have names?" he asks.

To his surprise, they do all have names. They speak them, one by one, a sound drawn out of each one as an arrow is pulled from a wound, carefully, with respect.

Are they all enchanters, then? No, he reminds himself, they are merely different. They are not RockChildren. They are weak, and yet, in their weakness, they survive by helping each other.

He sheathes his claws and shifts backward far enough that he can stand outside the shelter of the canvas awning roped down and angled to give them shelter at the cliff face. The canvas flaps and moans in the tearing wind.

He steps out from its sheltering angle into the full fury of the storm. The icy wind drives into his face, its touch like that of thousands upon thousands of knives flung from the wind's hand into the wild air.

He listens as the wind pounds him and the ice stings his face. Dimly he can see the ships drawn up on a rocky beach, five ships now, since two new ships came with him out of Hakonin's fleet. He sees his soldiers hunkered down, waiting out the storm with the patience of stone, and the dogs lying in jumbled heaps like fallen boulders.

He listens. It is said among his people that on this far western shore in the wintertide, when storm wracks sea and land, one can hear the keening of dragons- the FirstMoth-ers- who in ancient days bred with the living spirits of earth and gave birth to his kind.

But all he hears is the wind.

PART THREE THE ORNAMENT OF WISDOM IX THE WINTER SKY ON bitterly clear nights he saw stars through certain sections of unpainted glass window whose patterns themselves formed the shapes of stars, some with five and some with six points. On this night he watched the moon's light ease across the gulf of darkness that was night in the cathedral, its glow a wavering dim light as illusive as a will-o'-the-wisp.

There came to him in an instant the searing memory of Count Hildegard and her retinue fleeing to the gates. It had all been a trick, an illusion. He had seen what he wanted to see, what Bloodheart wanted them all to see, the count and her ragged army in flight, when in fact Bloodheart had cast a glamour over his own Eika troops to make them appear human. In that way the Eika had gained entry into the city, and stalemate had turned to slaughter.

Only Liath had been clear-sighted enough to see through the illusion. If only he had such sight as that, he could make out a way to escape his captivity. But his gifts from his mother did not include sight beyond that common to humankind. And in any case the chains, and the dogs, were no illusion.

Here in the bitter cold of the winter cathedral, tears stung at his eyes, but he blinked them back, fighting them. Only men were allowed to weep, but never dogs. Men might weep honorably in grief, in anger, or in joy. He no longer deserved such distinction.

With the tears came the cloud, a gray haze covering his vision, a roaring in his ears as clamorous as a thousand Eika howling, as maddening as a swarm of bees, as seductive as the din of battle to one confined. But that cloud was madness. He must fight the madness.

Slowly, struggling with each breath, he formed an image in his mind like to the images he saw on the windows, painted scenes from the Life of the blessed Daisan to uplift and illuminate the worshipers.

He formed no holy image but rather a common one, a scene he had been struggling to build for days now, or weeks, or months; he didn't know how long it had been, only that it was winter and once, long ago, when he was a free man and captain of the King's Dragons, it had been spring.

He built in his mind's eye a manor house such as his Dragons often lodged at as they rode here and there in the kingdom, defending King Henry and his sovereignty. In this season, in winter, fields would be stripped clean of their harvest, some few budding with winter wheat. The vines and orchards would be bare; barrels of apples would line the cellars; cider would be brewed. The extra animals would have already been killed and their meat smoked or salted away against winter's barrenness and the quiet hunger of spring.

This manor house he built was no lodging place. He constructed it, in his mind, as his own, his refuge- his land, not another's. He had nothing of his own save his status as the king's son, his sword and spear, his shield and armor, his clothing and tent and, over the course of years, a number of horses. All else he received because of obligations owed to the king or, now and again, certain gifts from certain women. But he was careful in his affairs as in all else, obedient to his father's wish that he choose wisely and discreetly and never ever indulge himself where his interest might cause trouble farther down the road.

None of this he had now, of course, not even the gold torque he had once worn around his neck, symbol of his royal lineage. That torque now adorned Bloodheart's arm, symbol of his victory, and Sanglant wore an iron collar such as all of Bloodheart's dogs wore.

He must not think of his humiliation. He must think of other things or else he would fall into madness. He walked, in his mind, across fields and forest and pastureland. His lands. Through these lands he would walk, no longer outfitted for war, no longer dressed in a Dragon's tabard and armor, no longer wearing the Dragon helm that marked him as captain.

No longer a Dragon.

In this place, he was outfitted like any other noble lord, with a retinue, with servants and field hands. The outbuildings would include a stable, of course, for his horses, a byre, beehives, a forge, a weaving house.

Like any other noble lord, he would be married. This was more difficult to imagine. All his life he had been told, repeatedly, that the king's bastard son could not marry. Only legitimate children married.

For an illegitimate one to do so might set in motion endless intrigues whose fruit would be as sour as discord. Indeed, no one had expected him to live long enough to chafe against the prohibition; he had already served as captain of the King's Dragons longer than any other man before him except wily old Conrad the Dragon.

But the lord of a manor must wed, and must beget children to inherit from him and his lady. He had always been an obedient son. Now, among the dogs, wreathed by iron and no longer by gold, he need not be.

What woman in Henry's progress, what daughter of a noble lady, might be suitable? Whom would he choose? Who would choose him?

But when he skirted the kitchens where servants prepared the evening's feast, when he passed through the broad-beamed hall, striped with afternoon's light through the narrow windows, when he crossed under the threshold and out into the garden where a lord might find his ladywife picking herbs for healing simples or dictating a letter to her dene, he saw no noblewoman from the king's pro? ress waiting for him. No count's or duchess' daughter smiled up at him, greeting him with affection When he opened the door that led into the bedchamber Seeare dmhavnhWh° Waited insid£' half SurPrfsed but SSSJ

pleased by his appearance, was the young Eagle. Liath.

TIP II was bitter cold, and out here by the dying fire the wind cut and burned Liath until she shuddered under its bite. But she dared not go inside where the nobles sat at table, carousing long into the night in observance of the Feast of Saint Edana of the Bonfires, whose saint's day was celebrated with much drink and good cheer. Hathui had returned from Quedlinhame, and she could attend the king.

Better for Liath to remain outside, as far away as possible, even shivering in the breath of coming winter.

Out here the stars shone with brilliant clarity. The waning crescent moon had not yet risen. This sky was perhaps her favorite, winter's sky. The Child and the Sisters, second and third Houses of the zodiac, rode high in the heavens; the Crown of Stars, just outside the grasp of the Child, stood almost at zenith. Below, the Hunter guarded them from the Gulvre, whose yellowish eye gleamed directly overhead. But it was not the Hunter who was fated to vanquish the dreadful Guivre but rather his unseen companion, the Huntress, valiant Arteme. In Andalla one could just see her where she rested among the southern stars, and Liath had even once glimpsed her golden boot, known to the Jinna as the star Suhel, the handsome one. Here in the north only her Bow and its fire-tipped Arrow star, blue-white Seirios, could be seen above the horizon.

She searched for the planets and found three. Wise Aturna, eldest and slowest of the wandering stars, moved through the Sisters, the third House, and stately Mok through the Lion. Red Jedu, the Angel of War, shone in sullen grandeur in the Penitent. A baleful influence, according to the astrologi. But Da scorned the astrologi. He called them street merchants and ignorant tinkerers and claimed they knew nothing of the true knowledge of the heavens. That knowledge hadn't saved him.

She shivered again in the wind's chill and put more sticks on the fire, building it until flame licked and popped up a lattice of branches. Smoke stung her nose and eyes. She chafed her hands to warm them and tugged her cloak more tightly about herself, prepared to wait out the night. The stables were close by, but even there among the horses and servants she could not feel safe. In any enclosed place he might corner her. Only out here, under the winter sky, did she have room to run.

The debate entertained Rosvita and to some extent surprised her. The subject was well worn, of course: s it better to be useful or to be good? From his earliest days as sovereign, King Henry had encouraged such debates; his younger sister Constance, now Biscop of Autun, had excelled at them during her time at court.

No, indeed, this time it was the participants who surprised her. For once, Princess Sapientia showed wisdom and kept her mouth shut, letting others argue while she sat in the chair of honor at her father's right side and basked in the attention of the courtiers. Her younger sister Theo-phanu sat beside Rosvita in silence, her expression as smooth as cream; she, too, kept quiet, although she never spoke recklessly under any circumstances. Henry's youngest child, Ekkehard, actually listened to the debate, mouth half open. Like his elder sister Sapientia, he stared wide-eyed and worshipfully at the younger of the two debaters. Ekkehard had been seized with one of his admirations and this time Rosvita could not deplore his choice.

Three years ago she would have, had Ekkehard stared in this way at this particular man. But Hugh, abbot of Firse-barg and the bastard son of Margrave Judith, had altered so greatly in the five years he had been absent from the king's progress that it was only by his lineaments, his actual face and hair, that she knew him.

"The Rule of Saint Benedicta commands abbot and abbess to do good rather than to govern,"

said Hugh in response to Cleric Monica-she had for many years now taught all the young folk in the king's schola, where he had once been a pupil.

"But if our stewardship is given us for the profit of many, then must we not learn to govern in order to benefit our subjects most usefully?" A vigorous elderly woman who had disliked Hugh when he was her student, Monica was softening as the debate wore on. Rosvita recognized the gleam in her eye and the quirk of her lips with which she favored only her most exemplary students. Hugh had been brilliant, but he had also known he was brilliant and wished others to acknowledge it, and that sort of arrogance had never been tolerated by a teacher such as Monica.

Now, however, Hugh smiled gently. "But of course," he said mildly, "I must bow before the wisdom of my preceptor. Is it not true that the teacher is an artist who molds her students as clay is fashioned into vessels of glory? A good student will imitate his teacher's example and strive to become her image in excellent and sublime qualities. We learn to govern, and the first person we learn to govern is ourselves. Then virtue without creates virtue within, and thus we become both good and useful."

How had Hugh, as brilliant and handsome and arrogant as he had once been, become so gracious, witty, and charming, if no less beautiful in form? His voice was moderate, his gestures composed, his manners amiable and elegant. Only this morning, when the king's progress had left the manor house at which the king had rested overnight, Hugh had distributed bread with his own hands to a family of beggars standing alongside the road. By no sign did he betray that he had any interest in Princess Sapientia except that of a well-mannered courtier privileged to ride with the king's progress.

" 'Virtues alone make one blessed.' " Monica smiled sweetly on him and began to quote at length from the Commentary on the Dream of Cornelia by Eustacia.

"Good and useful, indeed," whispered Theophanu suddenly to Rosvita. "I observe that my sister is now pregnant by him, so we must presume he has learned both lessons well enough."

"Theophanu!" breathed Rosvita, shocked. Belatedly, she added, "Your Highness."

Theophanu said nothing else.

Monica declaimed at length on the virtues as written in the Commentary. " 'Thus do the virtues come in tour types, and these types are distinguished each from the other in regard to the passions. For the passions are these, Fears and Desires, Griefs and Joys, Anger, and Envy. The political virtues of prudence, temperance, courage, and justice mitigate the passions. The cleansing virtues put the passions aside. The purified and serene mind has forgotten the passions, and to the divine Mind whose virtues are exemplary, the passions are anathema.' "

Torches and candles flickered; the hearth fire burned steadily, stoked by servants. King Henry smiled softly on the two debaters, although these past months at odd moments he could be found staring off into nothing, attention lost to the matters at hand. Now he yawned, finally, and signed to his servants that his bed should be made ready. Rosvita, finishing her wine, toyed with' the cup. The others made ready for sleep; Theophanu did not move.

"You do not like him," said Rosvita at last.

"You did not, before he left."

"I did not," agreed Rosvita. "But he is much changed." She watched as Father Hugh retired discreetly to the back of the hall while Sapientia waited for her camp bed to be set up behind a screen next to her father. Hugh's move-irients were decorous and graceful, and if it were true that virtue radiated more brightly in beauty of form, then he was virtuous, indeed. "Ai, Lady," she murmured to herself, catching herself looking at him. She had thought herself long past such half-formed yearnings, but perhaps her mind was not as serene as she hoped.

"He's very handsome," said Theophanu suddenly, standing. "Does the Psalm not say, 'The Lady desireth your beauty'?" Then she walked away to her own camp bed, modestly placed behind a curtain away from her sister.

"This bodes ill, I fear," said Rosvita to herself as she set down her winecup. She rose. Did clever Theophanu dislike Father Hugh, or was she envious at her sister's good fortune in finding such a courtier?

In finding, to be blunt, such a lover? Indeed, how could Sapientia have resisted him, even though she knew he was a churchman and that it was wrong of her to desire him and wrong of him to accede to such a seduction? She was a royal princess, after all, and it was necessary for her to get with child in order to prove she was worthy of the throne. One might say, as had Theophanu, that he was only doing his duty and being useful.

One by one, torches were extinguished as nobles and servants found sleeping space in the hall of the hunting lodge where they had arrived this afternoon.

Tomorrow, the king would ride out after deer.

Tonight, some slept more restfully than others.

Liath pulled off her gloves and, her fingers clumsy with cold, found the gold feather in her pouch.

Instinct had warned her not to pick up the white feather she had found beside Da's body the night he was murdered. Now she had seen what manner of creature shed such feathers. But this gold feather, plucked from the ashes of a dying fire through which she had seen a vision of the old Aoi sorcerer, had a different texture, one of promise, not pain or fear.

Drawing the feather gently through her fingers, she stared into the fire, thinking of Hanna, forming Hanna's face and expression in her mind's eye, the curve of her shoulders, the twist of her braided hair, the seal ring of the Eagles on her right middle finger. On one other occasion this past summer she had formed Hanna so in her mind, and within the gateway made by fire she had seen shadows of a narrow pass winding through mountains whipped by storm, of a landslide that had obliterated a road. Was it only her fear, imagining such a scene, or had she truly visioned Hanna in the mountains, threatened by an unseasonable storm?

Where was Hanna now? As she concentrated, spinning the feather through her fingers, she saw movement within the flames, images seen through a veil of fire.

A standing stone in the midst of a clearing burns with a fire born of no natural kindling, for it burns without fuel and gives off no heat. No one sits on the flat rock where once the old Aoi sorcerer sat and spoke to her. Sinewy plant stalks lie in a heap at the foot of the rock, awaiting his return. A rope the length of her arm lies draped over the rock. Where did he go? When will he return?

But the burning stone is itself a window, shutters opening through which she can look onto another place.

Hanna rides with three ragged Lions at her side across a plain populated more by grass than by trees. The rising sun glints off her brass Eagle's badge. They are leaving a village, a cluster of sod huts thatched with grass; some of the roofs are scorched. The wooden palisade is also scored with fire and the scars of battle. Fresh graves lie outside the palisade and beyond them stretch empty fields dusted with fresh snow.

Ice rimes Hanna's eyebrows. In her gloved left hand she holds a broken arrow tipped with an iron point and fletched with iron-gray feathers that resemble those of no bird Liath has seen or heard tell of. The Lions, grim of face, sing as they walk; Liath cannot hear the words, but it is not a happy song. Villagers cluster at the palisade gate to call out farewells. One lad breaks away, bundle thrown across his back, and hurries after them. His mother weeps, but she lets him go. The Lions make room for him among their number. Hanna stares straight ahead, eyes to the west, where their path leads.

Why is Wolfhere not with Hanna? The feather brushes Liath's palm, and fire snaps and wavers. Now she sees a lofty hall illuminated by the winter sky seen through huge glass windows and by what seem a thousand candles burning in imitation of the stars. A man steps humbly forward in the way of a person brought before a regnant, and as he bows before an unseen figure, Liath recognizes him: It is Wolfhere. On the walls behind him she sees bold frescoes depicting the martyrdoms of the seven disciplas: Thecla, Peter, Matthias, Mark, Johanna, Lucia, and Marian. Is this the audience chamber of the skopos in Darre?

He straightens up, and his eyes lift to take in a dimly-seen person sitting in great state on a gilded chair. His nostrils flare in surprise. He murmurs a name under his breath.

"Liath."

Liath started back, remembering all at once that there was also danger within the vision made by fire. They were looking for her, and they could see her when she wandered in the flames.

But it was too late.

Their touch came, fingers laid lightly on her shoulders.

Ai, Lady. Not their fingers.

His.

"Liath, my beauty." His hand closed over her shoulder and with that grip he forced her to rise and turn away from the fire to face him. The wind was not more cold than his expression. "So at last I find you alone." He smiled.

She jerked away, but he held on to her, not letting go. She caught back a whimper. Ai, Lady, she dared not let him know how scared she was. Clutching the feather behind her back, she stared at the fine brocade on his tunic and willed herself to become as hard as stone.

"You look well, my beauty. And perhaps it is best I have looked but little upon you these past six days since I came to the king's progress, or I should have been dreadfully tempted."

She said nothing, but she knew he was still smiling. She felt, though his left hand did not touch her, that hand close and then open, flexing. His right hand burned her shoulder as if ice pressed against her skin.

"Do you have nothing to say to me, Liath?"

She said nothing. She moved not at all. She was stone, heavy, insensible.

"I am not happy that you left me," he said in his most gentle voice. "Indeed, I am disappointed.

But I forgive you. You didn't know what you were doing. And it matters not. What happened that day means nothing to us. You are still my precious slave."

"No!" She wrenched away from him, almost falling into the fire as her heel scattered coals and burning brands. Heedless, she stooped to grab the end of a burning stick and held it out like a sword. "I am free of you. Wolfhere set me free!"

He laughed, delighted. "This is the Liath I remember and the one that the court will see beside me, in the fullness of time, when I can display you as you are meant to be displayed. But no one can see us now." He touched a finger to his lips to enjoin her to silence. His handsome face looked no less beautiful in the firelight, adorned by shifting light and shadow. "Look you, Liath." He lifted his left hand, two fingers raised, and murmured a word. The burning stick extinguished as if a sudden gust of wind had blown it out.

Her voice caught in her, and all that came out was a fragile whisper of sound, more breath than word.

"A child's trick," he said modestly, "but we must all begin somewhere." He carefully drew the stick out of her hand and tossed it away. "Wolfhere did not set you free. He stole you from me. I have not yet laid my grievance against Wolfhere before King Henry, who will pass judgment. Be assured I will-although, alas, I must wait until Sapientia has the child and it lives and is healthy. After that blessed event my position at court will be unassailable. But until then, Liath, do not think you have escaped me.

We will ride together and speak together, sing together and feast together, and you shall be near me every hour of every day."

"I am not your slave," she repeated stubbornly, hand smarting from the sting of the brand.

"Wolfhere freed me." He shook his head as a wise father considers his child's foolishness. "Wolfhere?

Wolfhere wants you for his own reasons. Don't think Wolfhere took you except to use you himself."

"Not in that way." Then, horrified she had spoken of such a thing when they were alone, she tried again to bolt. He was too fast for her, and his grip was strong as he took hold of her arms and pulled her against him. "In what way, Liath? No, not in that way. He and his kind have other plans for you, no doubt."

"What do you know of Wolfhere and his kind?" Ai, Lady, what if Hugh truly knew something and could tell her? How much would she be willing to give him in return? But he only sighed deeply and kissed her on the forehead. She shuddered, paralyzed by the sick, helpless fear in her belly. He did not let go of her. "I will be honest with you, Liath, as I have always been honest with you. I only suspect Wolfhere works in league with other unknown people. He was thrown out of court for something, some act, some opinion, and it is well known he has mastered the art of seeing through fire and stone. Surely he must have other skills, or be in league with those who do. I know your father was murdered, and I know he was trying to hide you, his most precious treasure. Therefore, someone else must be looking for you.

Does that not follow? If they are willing to murder your father, how can you expect kindness from them?

You will wish most devoutly, my beauty, that you were back in my bed if they get hold of you, as they will, if you don't come back to me. I can protect you." "I don't want your protection." Twisting, she tried to spin out of his grasp, but he was too strong. And she was too weak.

"You are bound to me," he whispered. "You will always be bound to me. No matter where you run, I will always find you. You will always come back to me."

She glimpsed a figure in the gloom, a servingman out in the night, perhaps walking to the privies.

"I beg you, friend!" she called out to him, her voice ragged with fear.

Hugh wrenched her arm tightly up against her back, trapping her. The servingman turned, his face indistinguishable in the darkness-but her position was silhouetted plainly by the fire.

"How fare you, friend?" the man asked. "Need you help?"

"Please-" Liath began, but Hugh pressed his free hand to her throat and suddenly she could not speak.

"Nay, brother," answered Hugh sternly. "We need no help here. You may move on."

Whether because he recognized the voice of a nobleman, the robes of a churchman, or was simply obedient to a tone in Hugh's voice which he could not resist, the man turned away and vanished on his errand, abandoning her.

"No," she whispered, finding her voice again when Hugh lowered his hand.

"Yes." Hugh smiled. "You are mine, Liath. You will love me in the end."

"I love someone else," she said hoarsely. The feather, still hidden, burned like a hot coal against her free hand. "I love another man."

She only knew how gentle he had been before because he now went white with rage and shook her viciously. "Who? Who is it?"

Unable to help herself, she began to weep. "Ai, Lady, he's dead."

"Any man you love will die, for I proclaim it so. I will make it so. Love no one, love only me, and you will be safe."

"I will never love you. I hate you."

"Hate is only the other face of love, my beauty. You cannot hate what you cannot also love. My beautiful Liath. How I love the sound of your name on my lips."

She believed him. That was the worst of it. He spoke so persuasively, and his voice was so soft-except she knew what he was, she had seen that glimpse of it when she made him angry.

"I will always treat you well," he said as if he had heard her thoughts, "as long as you obey me."

She began again to cry. Seeing her reduced to weeping in front of him, her fear and weakness revealed utterly, he let go of her. Like a rabbit miraculously released from the clutches of a hawk, she ran.

"Where will you go?" he called after her, mocking her as she ran. "You will never escape me, Liath. Never."

She ran to the stables where so many animals and sta-blehands crammed in together that breath and sweat made the air almost warm. But she would never be warm again.

AJNiNA shivered as wind wailed through the trees. Snowflakes spun down; a thin dusting made the ground bright, and the wind shuddered branches of trees and shook snow from them in sudden waterfalls of white.

It was so cold.

Here in the shelter of a fir tree, she had at least some respite from the constant cut of wind. But there was never any respite from fear or from the pit of hunger that yawned in her belly like the dreaded Abyss. Two horses also sheltered under the cave made by the fir's branches; with reins wrapped loosely around a crook in one thick branch, they snuffled at the forest litter, trying to graze. "Watch the horses,"

two of Lord Wichman's soldiers had ordered her after finding her foraging in the woods. "Pull the reins free and flee if the Eika approach."

She hadn't known she was so close to Eika. She stayed within the cover of trees on her daily foraging expeditions into the forest, but every day she had to search farther away from the battered holding of Steleshame to find any pittance to add to the shared pot. In this way, with the young lord growing bored of Master Helvidius' poetry and Mistress Gisela eager to exclude anyone who didn't "earn their keep," Anna staved off the cold knife of starvation. It would not have been like this if Matthias hadn't died.

She shuddered. She could not bear to think about Matthias. Maybe it would have been better to have died with him, it hurt so much to be without him. But the old poet and the child relied on her as well; she had to go on.

She rubbed her hands and listened. She had been told to stay on the lee of the hill, to save the horses should things go awry. Yet, there was grass atop the hill, yellowed and dry under the winter sky and high enough to hide her. If she could watch the raid, wouldn't she be better able to protect herself and the horses she had been put in charge of? What if the soldiers' blades couldn't penetrate Eika hides?

What if Lord Wichman and his men were all killed and the Eika came searching for her and she didn't know they were coming? What if she were unable to flee, or the reins wouldn't unwrap from the tree limb? What if she fell from the horse? She didn't know how to ride.

Maybe it would be better to wait here by the horses, to wait for the soldiers to return, driving captured cattle before them, but she couldn't bear to wait as if she were blind and crippled.

And anyway, there was nothing she could see on this day that would be worse than what she had already seen in this past year.

She crept up the slope on hands and knees. Grass rustled under her weight and she froze, then slowly crawled to the crest, checking always to assure herself that the foxtails waved above her head. At the top of the hill lay a large gray rock with dry orange lichen clinging to it as if to a scaly hide. From behind this screen she dared to peer down into the vale.

A single ragged byre stood at the far end of the vale. Cattle grazed in their dull fashion, watched over by three slaves dressed in far less than what Anna wore. They leaned heavily on staves.

Occasionally a cow lifted its head from the grass to low nervously. Goats strayed over one rise beyond which Anna could see copses of trees and the suggestion of floodplain; if she moved just enough she might be able to see the towers of Gent in the distance. A woman so weak that she frequently stumbled hurried after the straying goats and herded them back. Anna could not count very high, but there were plenty of cattle and goats just in this one sheltered vale where grass still covered the hillside. No doubt these livestock had been stolen from Steleshame or some other unfortunate village. According to the reports brought in by the mounted soldiers, many such herds grazed the lands around Gent now, good cropland which had gone to seed under the stewardship of the Eika.

Lord Wichman and his soldiers weren't raiding, not really; they were just getting back what the Eika had stolen.

A few trees stood in this pasture, which by the patchwork of grass, some long and dying, some short and new, had perhaps once been a series of long, narrow fields. But cattle, grass, and slaves did not hold her attention for long. Other objects stood in the vale, and these she could not help but stare at with a grim, hungry fear pulling at her gut.

Rising above the grass, occasionally under a tree yet most often atop a gentle rise, stood a number of standing stones the same hue as the stone she lay beside but tall and monolithic rather than low and rugged. No Eika with gleaming skin and ice-white hair, with jewel-studded teeth and fierce spear point, stood guard over the slaves and the precious livestock. Nothing stood here except those dozen stones, yet the slaves did not run in the face of such freedom.

Of Lord Wichman and his soldiers she saw no sign.

She knew these stones, they were somehow familiar to her, each alike, each...a threat.

The stone nearest to her stood at the base of the slope at whose height she knelt. Its pitted surface lay a bit more than a long bow-shot away. Hadn't it been farther away when she first peeked out? Why would stones stand out here in the middle of this vale, in no discernible pattern? Why did they look different from the boulder she hid behind? Why did no lichen grow on them?

She stared at the stone, frightened. Something was not right here. What was it Master Helvidius had said about illusion?

But it was only a stone.

Her pouch dug into her thigh, the scant reward for her hours of foraging. She had found a few handfuls of acorns which could be leached and ground up into gruel, withered nettle and parsley to flavor soup, and a dead squirrel.

Her thoughts wandered to those happy days when Matthias had labored in the tannery and Helvidius had sung for the lordling every night, when she had begged scraps of food from the soldiers and they had eaten every day. Now they were always so terribly hungry, and little Helen had barely strength to cry. Maybe it would have been more merciful to have left her to die with her mother and infant sibling.

Slowly, while she stared without truly seeing, the stone took shape as illusion toys with the form of things: a spear point, a head, eyes peering up at her, seeing her...it was not a standing stone at all but an Eika soldier creeping one cautious step at a time toward her, easing up the low rise.

Terror seized her heart. Goose prickles rose on her arms and neck. She wanted to scream, yet no sound rose out of her throat.

"They find you if you scream," Matthias had said when they lay in the stinking tanning pit while Eika and their dogs prowled the deserted tanning grounds. "Lie still without a noise."

Yet would a scream turn it back into stone? Would a scream wake her up and free her from this nightmare? Would the two soldiers come running to save her? They were still out there somewhere, hiding, searching for the Eika guards...

Or had the Eika already slain them?

Did the soldiers see only stones and fail to strike? Had they been cut down unaware that they already faced their foe in the guise of unmoving rock?

Movement stirred in the dark entrance to the byre, a figure ducking out from under the low roof.

Smaller than the others, this one had a bad limp and a familiar tilt to his head.

At last the scream rose out of her throat, loud and piercing.

"Matthias!" She could not help herself. She leaped to her feet. "Matthias!"

His name carried upon the breeze and across the vale. Most of the cattle lifted their heads, dull wits responding at last to this unknown sound.

The Eika stalking her froze in its tracks, as if trying to turn itself again to stone, but it was too late.

The waning rays of the sun silhouetted every detail of form-no dream at all, but illusion shrouding it: the obsidian leaf-shaped spear; the jut of its lips and the gleam of teeth beneath; the smooth sheen of gold-tinted scales that were its skin. All showed plainly now, illusion banished. A dozen Eika stood frozen in the vale, like statues, and not until the first of the soldiers sprang from his hiding place in the grass and struck a fierce blow did the Eika realize their illusion was shattered.

They moved, dashing to fight, but the trick had worked against them. As a half dozen soldiers rushed in and the pound of hooves alerted Anna to the arrival of Lord Wichman, the Eika ran here and there, almost at random as if, separated, they were confused.

The Eika below her took two great strides up the hill, then, hesitating, turned back toward the vale. From the far slope ten horsemen crested the hill, Lord Wichman at their head, and raced down the gentle slope at a full gallop. Swords held high, they bore down in pairs upon their scattered foes. Another six soldiers appeared from the grass with spears.

An Eika with a large stone ax rushed a spearman. The huge form of the Eika eclipsed the warrior so Anna could see only the Eika as the two met. The point of the spear pushed through the Eika's back; the two fighters twisted around, both now visible. As he was forced to the ground, the spearman's spear shaft bowed as the man attempted to shift the Eika aside to avoid a blow from the creature's ax. The haft snapped and the ax fell hard upon the warrior's leg. A sound reached Anna; she did not know whether it was that of the broken spear or of splintering bone. Still from the ground, first with the splintered shaft of wood and then with a dagger the man rained thrusts and blows upon the face and neck of the Eika until it at last lay still. All over the field Eika fell, most in silence, some in flight.

Matthias dashed back into the shelter of the byre. Of the other slaves, one followed him into the ragged shelter while the other two ran for freedom.

"Matthias!" she shrieked. He had to run now. What if the others retreated and some of the Eika were left alive?

The Eika at the base of her hill turned at the sound of her voice and raced up the hill-whether to flee the fight or to catch her she did not know. But it made no difference. A knife in the hand of a starving girl was no match for a spear wielded by an Eika warrior.

Anna bolted. She scrambled, half sliding, half leaping, down the slope, back to the safety of the tree where she should have remained all along. Distantly, she heard the shouts of Lord Wichman and his men.

If she could only reach the horses, she would have the safety promised her by his soldiers.

But the Eika was far swifter, and quickly he closed to within a few paces. She heard his breath behind her, felt his presence; his long shadow reached out to encompass, to blot out, her slight shadow that danced across the ground as she ran. But though it was useless, she could not stop running.

Another sound drowned out the heavy stamp of the Eika feet-the pound of hooves. A taller shadow, a man upon a horse, overtook them both and a trilling war cry shattered the air. She dove and rolled. The long thin line of a sword leaped ahead of the mesh of shadows upon the grass and then it cut down into the darkness. There was a thud behind her. The horseman passed her, slowing and then bringing his mount around. She stuck out her hands and knees and stopped herself, rose up, hands and face scratched and just beginning to bleed softly. Her breath came in such gulping gasps that she thought she couldn't get any air in. She twisted around.

The Eika lay behind her sprawled on its belly, cleaved from shoulder to spine. Its ugly head was twisted up to the left, almost all of the way around. Life drained rapidly from its eyes. It wore no wooden Circle on a thong around its neck. It had sworn no allegiance to the kin of humankind. Ai, Lady, it-and its brothers-had killed so many of her people and probably Papa Otto, too. It would have killed Matthias, given the chance.

She stood, bent, and spit in its face, but it was already dead.

"Ai, there, child!" The horseman reined up beside her. He unhooked his helm and pulled it off.

She stared up, astonished, at Lord Wichman himself. He had a crazed look in his eyes and a wild grin on his lips. "You're the one my men found foraging in the woods. Why didn't you go with the refugees we sent off months ago, to the marchlands? You're a cursed nuisance, almost ruining our raid like that."

He had the full cheeks of a man who doesn't want for food, even in hard times. Terrified, she did not know how to address him. No lord had ever even noticed her before.

At last, stammering, she found her voice. "Master Hel-vidius is my grandfather, my lord." The lie came conveniently to her lips. "I had to stay with him, and he was too ill to walk so far when the others left."

He grunted, sheathing his sword. "He'll have a victorious tale to sing tonight. A good sixty cattle and as many goats we've claimed back today." His grin was fierce and sure, and he looked ready to ride out this minute on another raid. "Go on, then." He gestured to the west. Snow blew and skittered round him, white flakes spinning in the wind. "It's a long walk back to Steleshame."

Then he turned and rode away to meet a half dozen of his mounted soldiers. They headed east.

Anna ran for the top of the hill and there-

All the breath slammed out of her as if she had been struck in the stomach. There! At last she found breath to shout.

"Matthias!"

With the other slaves, rescued now, he had formed up to help the remaining soldiers herd cattle and goats back to Steleshame. Hearing her voice, he started away, cast about, then saw her and limped up the slope.

She burst into tears and ran down to meet him. Ai, Lady, he was all bone with only a layer of skin holding him together.

"You're so thin," he said, hugging her tightly. "Oh, Anna! I thought I'd never see you again."

She couldn't speak she was sobbing so hard.

"Hush, now," he said. "It's over and done with."

"It's not done with! It's never done with! They'll never go away. They'll always be here, hunting us, won't they?"

"Hush, Anna," he said more sternly. Because she had learned to obey him, she choked down her sobs and quieted. "I just thought of Papa Otto," he continued. "I thought if Papa Otto could survive even after he lost everyone in his family, then I could, too, knowing you still lived."

"But you didn't know I still lived-you saw them attack-"

"I had to believe it!"

That silenced her.

"Come now." He took her hand. The herd had begun to creep sluggishly westward. "Other Eika will come when this group don't report back to the main camp. We've got to be long gone. Lord Above, Anna, why were you with them? Are there so few of you left at Steleshame that they're taking children out to fight?"

Like the Eika made by illusion into stone, he appeared to her different than what she had known before. Still familiar, he was no longer the same Matthias. He was not a boy any longer.

"There aren't any dogs here," she said softly, to say something, finally beginning to tremble with reaction. Her feet hurt, and her nose was cold.

They fell in line with the others. Matthias used his stave to nudge back a straying goat. "The dogs kill the cows, and the Eika would have to spend more time guarding the cows against the dogs than the cows against-well-a raid like this. Out here with the livestock we don't see many dogs."

"What's wrong with your leg?" she asked.

But he only shook his head and would not answer.

It took them the rest of the day to walk back to Steles-hame. Matthias' limp got progressively worse, and finally one of the soldiers took pity on him and let him ride behind him.

Mistress Gisela fell into ecstasies, seeing what a great number of livestock had been rescued from the Eika. At once, she ordered her servants to prepare a thanksgiving feast.

Anna led Matthias out to a hovel in the courtyard where she, Helvidius, and Helen made their home, such as it was. Stuck cheek by jowl with a number of other hovels constructed after the attack, the tiny hut had at least the benefit of lying within the newly reconstructed palisade wall. No one slept outside the palisade now; of course, Steleshame was no longer as crowded as it had once been.

Master Helvidius sent Anna to sit with Helen while he tended to Matthias' leg, grumbling all the while about Mistress Gisela and her airs of nobility: "Feasting when there isn't enough to feed the weakest! The biscop of Gent would have fed the poor, bless her memory!"

Matthias was feverish, too restless to sleep, too nauseated to eat much more than a sip of ale and a crust of bread, but at last he fell asleep on their single pallet, little Helen curled up at his chest. Anna heaped all three blankets over him and resigned herself to shivering out the night.

"Nay," said Helvidius. "You'll come with me into the hall. No use your getting sick when you have both of them to tend for. And there'll be roasted cow, I'll wager. You can grab a bone before the dogs get to it." Thus coaxed, Anna reluctantly left Matthias and the little girl.

But later that night as Anna sat half-dozing by the hearth, after Lord Wichman had returned from his scouting expedition, after he and his men had feasted and the fortunate servants been allowed to wolf down their scraps, after Helvidius had serenaded the young lord endlessly with his exploits, a sudden cold undercurrent chilled the girl like a wordless cry for help.

Quite drunk now, soldiers sang a bawdy tune as Mistress Gisela retired to the shadowy end of the hall. Anna heard angry words hushed as though under a blanket. But at last the householder returned bearing the prize which Lord Wichman had so far not obtained.

Gisela's niece, as pretty a woman as Anna had ever seen, was led forward, decked out in whatever fine garb had survived unscathed from the autumn attack on the holding. The young woman's expression wore no emotion at all; she seemed, like the Eika, more statue than living being. But Lord Wichman smiled broadly and toasted her beauty with one more cup of wine. Then he took her hand and she went, unresisting, to his curtained bed while his soldiers cheered and laughed.

A servant went outside with a bucket of slops for the pigs. As the door opened, the night's wind cast a sudden cold glamour over the hall like the breath of the winter sky, turning the ground to frost.

Then the door shut and, as with a collective breath, the soldiers began to drink and sing again.

Much later, when even the most stalwart fellow snored and Helvidius slept with his head pillowed on his arm, she heard the sound of a woman weeping softly.

was a symptom of the remarkable persistence of lust-fulness in humankind that no matter how cold and dreary the weather outside and how cramped the conditions inside, folk did find ways to carry on more-or less-discreet affairs. Certain of Rosvita's younger clerics had the habit, both annoying and amusing, of keeping track of who was sleeping with whom.

-and Villam has a new concubine, which I grant you is nothing unusual, but I swear to you I saw her sharing her favors, such as they are, with Lord Amalfred." Brother Fortunatus was one of the many sons of the robust and prolific Countess of Hesbaye as well as by far the worst gossip among the clerics.

"Perhaps when Lord Amalfred returns to Salia, he will take the concubine with him and spare poor Villam the pain of her duplicity," said Sister Amabilia.

"Ah, well, Villam no doubt has his eye on more succulent prey. I swear I saw him eyeing the young Eagle."

"Our friend the hawk?" asked quiet Sister Odila, astonished.

"Of course not! The dark one. But you know how Eagles are and the code they swear to. Eagles don't indulge themselves in such a way, except among their own number. But I have observed some new developments in other places- hands meeting and petting in the bowl at table, if you take my meaning.

Sister Amabilia sighed profoundly, and Brother Fortunatus looked downcast that his hint provoked no greater reaction than this. "Even so," Amabilia said in a weary voice, "it isn't half as interesting now as when Prince Sanglant was alive."

"I beg you," said Rosvita sternly. "Do not speak disrespectfully of the dead."

Brother Constantine looked up from his muller where he ground vermilion to form the base of red ink. "I never saw Prince Sanglant. He was gone before I arrived here."

"Ai, well," said Sister Amabilia. "Court was much livelier when Prince Sanglant graced it."

"I will thank you," said Rosvita, setting down her quill pen, "not to mention his name within the king's hearing." She tested the point of the pen on her finger, sighed, and picked up her penknife to recut the tip of the quill.

"But he was only a fighter," said Brother Constantine. "Surely he could not have cut such a fine figure, so elegant and charming in manners, so affable and benevolent, so even-tempered, so learned, as Father Hugh."

Amabilia sniffed. "Father Hugh ought to be tending to his monastery rather than playing the courtier. But I have been with the king's progress for eight years, Constantine-"

"As you are ever reminding me," muttered the young cleric.

"-and I recall Frater Hugh when he was at the schola here. A bird's feathers may change in color, but it's the same duck inside!"

"And you will be at your task another eight years, Sister," Rosvita said gently, "if you do not set yourself to work."

For all of Amabilia's tart character, she had a remarkably sweet smile, which she used now to good effect. She had also the finest hand Rosvita had ever seen, master of the Litteras Gallica and Tulay-tilah as well as knowing the antique Scripta Actuaria. For this reason, though she was not of the highest nobility, she had become a fixture in the king's chapel; she also taught writing to the most promising students in the king's schola. "I beg your pardon, Sister Rosvita. You are right to reproach me for my unseemly attachment to the amusements the world affords."

"To the amusements people afford," said Constantine reprovingly. He really was too serious given how very young he was, not above fifteen.

"God gave us eyes so that we could observe and a tongue with which to speak our minds!"

"And humility teaches us to cast our eyes to the ground and to keep silence!"

"My children," said Rosvita without raising her voice. "Attend to your tasks."

Constantine flushed and bent back to the muller, now mixing white of egg and a bit of gum arabic into the vermilion powder. Amabilia did not look chastened; for all that she had a wicked eye for human foibles, she was at peace with herself. She sharpened her quill and returned to her work: making a copy of the precious Vita of Saint Rade-gundis for the library at Quedlinhame. The other clerics, some listening, some not, worked on in pleasant silence. Rosvita bent back to her History.

She read over what she had most recently accomplished: the crowning of the first Henry, Duke of Saony, as King of Wendar and of his wife, Lucienna, Count of Attomar, as queen; his speech before the nobles and their acclamation of his rule; certain small rebellions and battles as well as armed struggle with the Varren queen, Gisela. With red ink she wrote in the initial line to a new chapter, then changed to black.

"To Henry and his most renowned wife Lucienna were born these children, the first called Arnulf, beloved by all the world, the second, brave and industrious, called Otto, while the third, Kunigunde, Mother of Quedlinhame Convent, was a woman of singular wisdom and authority.

Henry had also another daughter, named Haduidis, who married Immed, Margrave of East/all.

Lucienna had another child, a son named Reginbern. This son rode as captain of the Dragons. He fought against the Eika who were at the time laying waste to Saony, and so ruthlessly waged war against them that they were driven away and feared even to sail within sight of the Wendish coast for many years.

"When all these wars ceased, there came into the east country of Saony an army of Quman horsemen, burning cities and towns and monasteries. They worked such slaughter that it is better to pass over this destruction in silence rather than set it all down again in words. However, it happened that one of the Quman princes was captured. Margrave Immed brought him to the king, but he was so esteemed by his kin that the Quman offered to King Henry as much gold and silver as ten wagons could carry for the prince's ransom. But the king despised their gold and demanded peace, which they gave him in return for the prisoner and certain other gifts."

From outside she heard the return of the hunters and the clamor of horses, hounds, and voices in the forecourt. She rose, needing an excuse to stretch her back, and crossed to the door. In the yard beyond, King Henry laughed at a comment by his trusted companion, Margrave Helmut Villam, while Father Hugh dismounted and turned to help Princess Sapientia dismount. Behind, courtiers crowded around; farther back, servants carried in a number of deer, several brace of partridge, an auroch, and a boar.

Sapientia hurried away toward the necessarium and, as smoothly as a silk robe slips down over a body, Hugh turned to assist Princess Theophanu in dismounting- though, as good a horseman as she was and with a servant already prepared to take her foot in his hands, she scarcely needed such aid. But Hugh offered kindnesses to every person, regardless of rank. Did Theophanu's hand linger longer in his than was necessary? Was that blush in her cheeks from the wind, or his touch? Turning away from the door, moving back to make room for the king's entrance, Rosvita wondered what Brother Fortunatus might say had he witnessed that little scene and was then irritated with herself for even thinking such a thing.

The courtfolk flooded into the hall, brash with their success at the hunt. Ekkehard followed at Hugh's heels like a love-smitten puppy. King Henry seated himself in his chair. Servants brought water and linen and wiped his hands clean of dirt and blood. Luckily, this hall-the third at which they had stopped-was the largest of the royal hunting lodges in Thurin Forest; though the crowd of people entering was large, it did not overwhelm the gabled hall. Sapientia entered and shed her cloak, then seated herself in the place of honor beside her father. Now poor folk who had walked a half day from the forest's edge were let in to receive alms from the king. As they left through a side door, Hugh assisted Ekkehard in dispensing bread to them while Sapientia, from across the hall, watched with greedy eyes.

Theophanu came, as she always did, to sit beside Rosvita. Her cheeks were still flushed.

"I hope you have not taken a fever," said Rosvita, setting aside her work.

Theophanu flashed her a startled glance, then, as quickly, composed herself. "I trust I have caught no fever from which I cannot recover." She played with the fabric of her riding tunic, rolling the cloth up between thumb and forefinger.

Amabilia looked up from her copying on the other side of the long table but, mercifully, did not speak.

"Where is my most valued cleric?" asked the king after all the alms seekers had been led back outside. "Rosvita." She rose obediently. "Read to us, I pray you. Something eloquent and pleasant to the ear that may yet educate us."

Rosvita signed to Amabilia and the younger woman set aside her pen so that Rosvita could take up the Vita. "Shall I continue to read from the Life of Saint Radegundis, Your Majesty?" she asked.

He nodded.

Ekkehard, settling himself at his father's feet, piped up. "Let Father Hugh read. He has such a fine voice. I am sure I learn more than I might otherwise just from listening to his cadences as he reads."

Theophanu's cheeks burned. The king looked startled. Sapientia gloated.

Hugh stood over by the door next to the young Eagle, Liath; he was wiping crumbs from his hands but he looked up and smiled gently, giving the cloth into the care of a servant before walking forward. "Your notice would natter any man, Your Highness," he said to Ekkehard, "but I am unworthy of such praise. Our esteemed Sister Rosvita has by so far outshone me in every branch of knowledge and in good manners that I know only too well how poorly I compare to her. 'To one desiring to know by what path blessedness is reached, the reply is, "Know thyself." ' " He bowed respectfully toward Cleric Monica, who was seated on a bench near a shuttered window, close by the hearth and yet out of the worst of the smoke. But Rosvita thought for one instant that his gaze skipped to and halted on the figure of the young Eagle, Liath, hovering by the door as if she wanted to escape outside.

Interestingly, the Eagle's expression seemed composed of equal parts loathing, fear, and humiliation, though she struggled to maintain a blank facade. No one else was looking at her, and by now Hugh's gaze had traveled on. Only Rosvita kept half an eye on her, still curious about that book- Had she stolen it?-and her ability to read.

"Your humility is a good example for the others, Father Hugh," said Cleric Monica.

"Do please read to us," said Ekkehard.

Rosvita was too wise to protest. She presented the book to Hugh. "I, too, hope that you will read to us, Father Hugh."

"You are too generous," he said, but he took the book.

"Indeed," muttered Sister Amabilia.

Rosvita sat down again. Theophanu, restless, was still playing with her gown, her gaze fixed on her elder sister's face.

Henry gestured to the seat beside him, opposite Sapientia. If he was taken aback at this change, he showed no sign on his face; he seemed as pleased by Hugh's presence as he would have been at Rosvita's-which unpleasant thought she berated herself for immediately.

Hugh opened the book, cleared his throat softly, and began to read.

"Here begins the Life. The most blessed Radegundis was bom into a family of the highest earthly rank. She came of the royal bloodline in the barbarian nation of the Athamanni, youngest daughter of King Bassir and niece of Queen Hermingard, for it was the custom of that country to set brother and sister to rule together. But the Enemy works as cunningly as any burglar who wishes to divine the treasures most worth stealing out of a house, yet work in utter darkness. This the burglar accomplishes by tossing a fine sand into each corner of the room so that she may deduce the value of the object by the sound the sand makes when it strikes that object. So, too, do the creatures of the Enemy toss a fine sand of evil suggestion among the treasures of the human heart and by this means divine what they may steal.

"In this way Queen Hermingard suddenly lost her natural feeling of kinship for her brother. Inviting him and his guests to a banquet, she had them all murdered. It happened that among his guests were several Salian lords, and when news of this treachery got back to Salia, their kin were so outraged that they gathered together a host and descended upon the Athamanni and wiped them out. Only some few of the children survived, among them the saintly Radegundis.

It was her lot to be quarreled over by certain lords as part of the plunder, each of them desiring her to come into his grasp. When news of her terrible plight reached the great emperor Taillefer, he had her removed from their keeping and placed under the care of guardians at his royal villa in Baralcha.

"Here she was taught her letters and became familiar with the treatises on agriculture by Palladius and Columel-lina, and learned to maintain inventories, and other things suitable to a lady who will manage an estate. She would often converse with other children being raised at the villa about her desire to become a martyr. She herself brought the scraps left from table to the poor assembled outside, and with her own hands she washed the head and hands of each poor beggar child. Often she would polish the pavement by the Hearth with her own dress, and the dust that drifts around the altar she would collect in a napkin and place reverently outside the door rather than sweep it away."

Abruptly Sapientia choked down a giggle, then blurted out, "God help us. She sounds much like Lady Tallia. Do you suppose Radegundis is Tallia's great-great-grandmother?"

Henry, frowning, turned to his daughter. "Do not speak so lightly of a blessed saint, Sapientia.

No child came of the marriage between her and the emperor, and after his death she cloistered herself in the convent for full fifty years. It is unseemly to suggest she might have lapsed from her vows."

There was a sudden profound silence while everyone in the hall attempted not to look at Father Hugh, whose lapse so prominently showed in the swell of Sapientia's belly. Brother Fortunatus squeaked and snorted, stifling a laugh.

Theophanu stood up and went forward. "I will read now, if you will," she said, and for this rescue was rewarded with a charming smile from Hugh.

"Showing off your accomplishments?" said Sapientia.

The book had not yet touched Theophanu's hand, but her cheeks flushed as if her sister had slapped her. "At least I have some!"

"Children," said Henry sharply. He took the book from Hugh, closed it with gentle care for the binding, and beckoned to Rosvita. "If you will, Sister, read to us."

"I don't want to hear any more of that story." Sapientia smoothed a hand over her abdomen, then rose restlessly and wandered over to the fire. Lords and ladies parted to let her through; a few of the wiser souls had slipped out the door, escaping the heat, but most remained. A public quarrel between the royal sisters would enliven any long winter's evening.

A plague on all of them, thought Rosvita grimly as she went forward to take the book, and then berated herself for her ill temper. But as winter chilled the air outside, so did it chill the mind and heart, and quarrels always surfaced under the winter sky that had been lulled to sleep by summer's warmth and cheer. Yet, in almost nineteen years Rosvita had never seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. What had caused her to do so now, and at such small provocation?

"I have nothing to do here," said Sapientia, striding back to her father's chair. "If you made me Margrave of Eastfall, as you promised, then I would have lands of my own to administer until-" She broke off, had the grace to flush.

"Sit," said Henry. He did not glance at his courtiers, but he knew they were all listening. "I do not wish you to leave my side until you are safely brought to childbed."

Sapientia fidgeted, glanced toward the other end of the hall where servants prepared tables for the night's feast, and set her mouth in a sulky frown.

"I will ask our clerics," said Henry, setting a hand on her arm placatingly, "what copies we have of these agricultural treatises, perhaps even the ones mentioned in the Life of Saint Radegundis. You may have them read to you."

Sapientia considered this. She sighed. "It's a fair idea, Father. But I want an Eagle or two for myself as well, so that I may have people to send at my own beck and call. It is only what is due my new consequence, isn't it?"

"It would be fitting," he agreed, aware, as he always was, that every soul in the hall waited on his judgment. He glanced toward Hathui, newly returned from her errand to Quedlinhame, then around the room. Four Eagles were in attendance on him right now, many more out on some errand or another, such as Wolfhere and his young compan ion who had journeyed south to Aosta with the renegade biscop, Antonia.

Theophanu had retreated in silence and during the exchange had gotten all the way to the door unremarked. Now, looking about, Henry saw her just as she stepped outside into a soft rain. Liath still stood, obedient, beside the door.

"There is one I would be willing to part with," said Henry. Hathui looked up sharply. Hugh did not look at all. "She is young and strong, and she has proved herself at Gent. I have also heard it said that she is very accomplished for a common Eagle. My clerics say she can read."

Sapientia grimaced. "I don't want one who can read so that everyone will remember that I can't and Theophanu can. And anyway, she's too pretty. I don't like her. What about this one, Father?" She gestured toward Hathui.

Reading the simple upward quirk of an eyebrow, Rosvita deduced that Henry had had enough-either of Sapientia betraying her lack of wisdom and patience before the assembled court or of himself for allowing it to go on. "You may take the one offered you, daughter-or none at all."

"Princess Sapientia," interposed Hugh gently, "is it not true that one Eagle is as like to another as are the field mice to our eyes?"

"But she's educated. They all say so. It was all the clerics were talking about when we arrived.

Don't you remember?"

"Do they really speak so much about a common Eagle?" he asked, and his tone was the very model of a reproof disguised as quiet amazement.

She shrugged, recalling her dignity and position.

"Let me discover if it is true that she is educated," said Hugh. "I will question her." He inclined his head toward the king. "With your permission, Your Majesty."

Henry signed, and the young Eagle came and knelt before him. She looked to Rosvita rather like a field mouse forced into the clutches of an owl. The prospect of such entertainment excited the interest of the court almost as much as did the quarrel-now denied them-between the royal sisters. Those who had slipped away to warm themselves by the other hearth or to try to claim beds for the night in one of the sidechambers now returned.

"Let me see." Hugh tapped fingers together as he considered. Liath kept her gaze fixed on the king's boots. "You can read Dariyan, can you not, child?" he asked kindly.

"Y-yes," she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered.

"Yes?"

"Yes, Father Hugh."

"Do you consider yourself well educated?"

Now she hesitated.

"Come now," said the king. "You need not fear any word you speak plainly and honestly in front of me."

"So my da told me," she said finally, still staring at the king's boots.

"Is that a yes?" asked Hugh, evidently puzzled by this answer-or wanting her to state it plainly.

"Yes." And though she said it softly, Rosvita detected- perhaps-no small amount of pride.

"Ah. Well. To what work of the ancients might I be referring? 'As had been noted, there are roots and shrubs that have many powers affecting not only living bodies but also bodies without life.''

Again she hesitated. Courtiers leaned forward. Was there something of reluctance in her expression? Was she afraid to reveal her knowledge? Where had she gotten that book, and what did it contain?

"You would not wish to lie before the king, I hope," said Hugh mildly.

"It is from the Inquiry Into Plants by Theophrastus," she replied finally, her voice scarcely audible.

A murmur rose from the crowd, and there passed among them a certain amount of nudging and winking and a few sly glances toward Helmut Villam. Rosvita wondered if it was true that Villam had propositioned the handsome young Eagle. Indeed, the old margrave was gazing with rapt attention at the young woman.

"From whence does this come? 'To one desiring to know by what path blessedness is reached the reply is, "Know thyself." '?"

Startled, she looked up. "I don't know," she admitted.

He nodded, expecting this answer. "So writes Eustacia, repeating the words of the oracle at Talfi:

'Gnosi seaton.' But of course you do not know Arethousan, do you?"

"The one who taught me knows how much Arethousan I know," she said with such an odd inflection that Rosvita wondered who had taught her Arethousan-and why.

Hugh lifted a hand in a graceful gesture that suggested there was more like this to come. "You have some knowledge of Dariyan. Does the word 'Ciconia' mean anything to you?"

"It means 'stork,' " she said instantly as if, bested once, she meant to defeat him now.

"Nay, child, I refer to Tullia Marcia Ciconia, the great orator of ancient Dariya. Which works of hers have you read?"

"Which works of hers?"

"De officiis? De amlcltia? Can you speak to me some of the wisdom contained in her words?"

"I-I don't know those works. I mean to say, I've heard of them, but-" She faltered.

He nodded gently and glanced toward Sapientia as if to say, 'Shall we stop this now?' but he went on. "Surely you have instructed yourself in the writings of the church mothers?"

"I know the Acts of Saint Thecla," she said defiantly.

"That is proper. Your Highness," he nodded toward Sapientia, "you are familiar with the Acts as well, are you not?"

"Isn't every child?" demanded Sapientia, looking affronted.

"The Acts, like The Shepherd of Hermas, is a work both noble and common folk may hear for their edification. But what of the writings with which the educated cleric instructs herself? Macrina of Nyssa's The Catechetical Orations and her Life of Gregory? These fine works you have read, of course?"

She shook her head. A few of the courtfolk whispered among themselves. Some snickered.

"The City of God by Saint Augustina? Or her De Doc-trina Daisanitia? Jerome's Life of Saint Paulina the Hermit? Justin Martyr's Dialogue with Zurhai the Jinna?"

Numbly, she shook her head and, just as King Henry raised a hand, growing bored with this display of ignorance, Hugh stood up. His audience quieted expectantly. The poor Eagle ducked her head, as any shamed creature would, to stare at the floor.

"Is it not said," Hugh asked of Sapientia and the assembled clerics and layfolk together, as a teacher addresses his students, "that the emperor of all Jinna keeps a bird which he has taught to speak human words? Have you ever seen entertainers make dogs to walk upon two legs? Such learning makes neither bird nor dog educated, however. A child trained early enough can learn the meanings of words written upon a page, and speak them out loud, but that does not mean her understanding is equally trained. I believe we have before us a curiosity." He smiled wryly but with a touch of gentle amusement such as an adult shows before an incredulous child's outrageous claims. "Not a prodigy. Is it not so, Your Highness? How do you judge this case?"

Thus appealed to, Sapientia nodded sternly. "Of course what you say must be true, Father Hugh.

It might be a mercy, then, to take this poor creature under my wing."

Henry rose, and quickly any seated man or woman rose as well, young Brother Constantine almost spilling his red ink in his haste not to show discourtesy toward the king. "Let that be a lesson, daughter, that we are well served by wise counselors."

"And some more than others," murmured Villam so softly that only Rosvita and the king could hear.

Henry's lips quirked, and he signed to his servants. There was a sudden flurry of activity at the other end of the hall. Two servants picked up his chair and carried it over to the central place. "I think we may now sit down to table," Henry observed. He led the way.

Rosvita lingered, bitten by curiosity. The young Eagle remained kneeling. A few tears streaked her cheeks, but she made no sound, moved not at all even to wipe them away. She simply stared fixedly at the cold stone floor.

"Eagle!" called Sapientia from her seat at the central table. "Attend me!"

She rose and, silent, attended her new mistress.

A DEER IN THE I still don't like her," said Sapientia to her companion, Lady Brigida, whose status as Sapientia's current favorite gave her the privilege of combing the princess' hair in the evening before bed. "That skin of hers. It's so...so..."

"Dirty? She might wash more."

"It isn't dirt. It doesn't come off. I rubbed at it yesterday." The princess giggled. "Perhaps she's the lost sister of Conrad the Black, or his by-blow."

"Hmm. She's too old to be his by-blow . . . but perhaps not, if he bedded some girl when he was young Brother Constantine's age. Perhaps she's a Jinna slave girl who escaped her master."

"Then how would she know how to speak our language?" demanded Sapientia.

"Duke Conrad's mother didn't enter the convent after the elder Conrad died, did she? Perhaps this is her second child by another man." Lady Brigida had the unfortunate habit of snorting when she giggled, and she giggled a great deal, possessing ample inheritance in lands but little in wit or sense. "You wouldn't think she would have had to hide the child unless there was something wrong with the lover she had taken."

"I believe she lives quite retired. Still, there's something in what you say, Brigida, that she must have Jinna blood in her, for they're all brown like that. But I still say she must have some Wendish blood in her, or she'd not be able to speak our language."

"Didn't Father Hugh say any bird can be taught human speech?"

Liath endured this without flinching. Their idiocy and arrogance bothered her not one whit. At this moment, Hugh was not in the room, and after three days as Sapientia's Eagle that was the only mercy she lived for.

"Keep brushing," said Sapientia. "Whom should I marry, Brigida?"

"Lord Amalfred," said Brigida instantly. "He's very handsome and he killed a bear last week with his own hand, as you saw, as well as a dozen deer or more. I should like a husband like that. When I inherit from my mother, I'll expand her lands eastward, and I'll need a strong fighting man at my side."

"He's only the son of a Salian duchess. I must marry a man with royal connections."

"Isn't King Henry going to send for an Arethousan prince for you to marry, since your mother was an eastern princess?"

Sapientia sighed sharply and tossed her head, disturbing the smooth flow of black hair that Lady Brigida had been stroking with the comb. "Even my Eagle knows better than that, Brigida. Isn't that so, Eagle? Why can I not marry an Arethousan prince?"

In three days Liath had learned that Sapientia liked her to be stupid. "I don't know, Your Highness."

Although, in this case, she did know. But the humiliation at Hugh's hands still stung bitterly, not least because he had been right as well as wrong. It was true she read well and that Da had taught her a great deal-but when Hugh had paraded her ignorance publicly, to torture her, she had suddenly realized that Da had taught her narrowly. She knew far more than Hugh and probably any person at court of the knowledge hoarded by the mathematici, and yet how could she judge how much Da had truly known?

She was young, and she had been educated on the run and in the way of arrowshots toward a hidden foe-scattered far and wide and toward no set target. There was so much she did not know that any person educated in the king's schola or a cathedral school, in the convents and monasteries, would know and would be expected to know in order to be considered educated. Yet, if truth be told, she had no interest in Macrina's The Catechetical Orations or in the Lives of the early saints. The wisdom of the ancients drew her-as long as it concerned the heavens, sorcery, or natural history and the workings of the physical world. That Da had taught her to construct her city of memory, and thus she had many facts available to her stored away in that city-such as Arethousan inheritance practices-did not mean she was educated as anyone else understood the term.

"Poor thing," said the princess. "The Arethousan princes are never allowed to leave the palace, you see, my dear Brigida, because they are such barbarians that only a male can become emperor among them, and only one among the sons and nephews and cousins of the reigning emperor can become emperor after him. So if any of them get away, then they might have a claim to the throne and come back to the palace with their own army and cause a civil war. That is why there are never any civil wars in Arethousa, because once the new emperor is chosen, all of the royal princes of his generation are poisoned by his mother."

The temptation washed over Liath to correct Princess Sapientia, for if partly correct her account was so jumbled as to be absurd: The Arethousans did indeed only allow a male to be titled "Emperor,"

but it was the infidel Jinna khshayathiya who had his mother poison all those relatives who might contest his claim to the throne.

"Is that what you mean to do to Theophanu?" asked Brigida lightly.

The chill hit Liath's throat and spine at the same instant, and her hands tightened on her belt. She could not help but look toward the door, which stood half open; smoke leaked in from torches stuck in sconces in the corridor beyond. He came with his attendants. The torchlight made a halo around him, gilding his fine golden hair. He wore long hose, an azure tunic embroidered with sunbursts, and a cloak thrown back over one shoulder, clasped by a handsome gold-and-jeweled brooch in the shape of a panther. He looked like a noble lord just in from the hunt; only by his shaven chin could one tell he was a churchman.

Both noblewomen and all the other attendants in the chamber looked up at the same instant.

Sapientia glowed. Brigida simpered.

"I beg your pardon," said Hugh smoothly. "I did not mean to interrupt you." Sapientia gestured at once and a chair was unfolded for him so he could sit beside her. Servants brought linen and water for him to refresh himself. He did not look at Liath. He didn't need to.

"We were speaking of nothing important," said Sapientia too quickly.

"No, indeed, Father Hugh," said Lady Brigida. "I heard that next we go to my uncle Duke Burchard's palace in Augensburg, and then to the royal palace at Echstatt. There's lots of good hunting."

"And a host of soldiers," added Sapientia, who always grew excited speaking of battle, "to be gathered for the attack on Gent."

"I am glad to hear it," said Hugh.

In this way they readied themselves for bed. In this guest room there were four actual beds and four additional camp beds. In every room at this time, Liath knew, an elaborate dance went on, just as it did when it came time to seat for dinner, testing rank against rank, establishing the order for who would sleep where and next to what person, so that all might know who was most privileged and who less so.

Sapientia took the bed that held pride of place, centered in the room, and Hugh the one next to her. His proximity to her caused no comment-not any more. Brigida slept on the other side of Sapientia, lesser ladies by degrees farther away on the other beds and the favored and most noble of the clerics on the remaining camp beds. Liath retreated to the door, hoping for the chance to escape out to sleep in the stables or at least, as she had the last two nights, in the corridor.

"It is a bitter chill night," said Hugh, "and some few of my attendants have gone out to help warm the stables. All of your people may sleep herein with us, Your Highness, so that none must suffer the cold."

"Of course!" said Sapientia, always wishing to appear magnanimous, and disposition was made.

"Here, Eagle," he continued casually, "there is a place here." Hugh indicated an open space on the floor beside his bed.

She dared not object. She wrapped herself tightly in her cloak and lay down. Soon the torches were extinguished and in blackness she lay, catching now and again the wink of a gold buckle where belts or ornaments had been hung from the bed frames to wait until morning. She could not sleep, not even after the restless settling down of the twelve or fourteen people in the room had ceased and most every breath gentled into soft snoring or the long cadences of sleep. His presence and the faint murmur of his voice in a prayerlike monotone wore on her as painfully as if she lay on a thousand prickling needles.

Her chest felt tight, but she could not resist peeking up at him. The shadow that was his form sat upright in bed, curved over his hands- and threads gleamed between his fingers. He seemed to be weaving.

As if he sensed her scrutiny, he moved, hiding his hands. "Your Highness," he whispered. "You are not yet asleep."

Sapientia yawned. "There are so many things that trouble my mind, my love. Whom shall I marry? Why can it not be you?"

"You know that is impossible, though it is my fondest wish. Were I not illegitimate-"

"Not in my heart!"

"Hush. Do not wake the others."

"What do I care if they hear me? They know my heart as well as you do, and so shall all the court, even my husband, whatever poor sorry fool he may be. I love you more than anyone-"

"Your Highness." He broke in gently. "It is your fate as Heir to marry, and mine as bastard and churchman to remain unwed. What God has granted us, we must endure gladly. You shall find affection and good will toward your husband in time-"

"Never!"

"-for it is the will of Our Lady and Lord that woman cleave to man, and man to woman, all but those who cleave instead to God and turn away from the vanities and temptations and empty pleasures of the world."

"Is that all I am to you-!"

"Your Highness. I pray you, speak no harsh word to me, for I could not bear it. Now, what else troubles you?"

Liath dared not move, though a stone pinched her thigh. All the others breathed the even breaths of sweet dreaming.

"Theophanu."

"You need not fear Theophanu."

"That is all very well for you to say, but--

"Your Highness. You need not fear Theophanu."

Something in his tone made Liath shiver, and as if the . slight shift of her wool cloak on the hard stone floor alerted the princess, her voice changed.

"Are you sure all of them sleep?" she hissed.

"No one can hear us whom you need fear, Your Highness." He shifted on the bed, and Liath heard the muffled sighing sound of two people kissing passionately.

"Ah," gasped Sapientia at last, "how I long for the day when I am rid of this burden-live and healthy, God grant-so that we may again-"

"Hush." He moved away from her and again, hidden from all but Liath, began to wind the gleaming threads, as faint as spider's silk, between his fingers. "Sleep now, Your Highness."

Her breathing gentled and slowed, and she slept. Liath lay as still as stone, but he shifted on the bed, rolling back until he lay above her as a boulder poised on the edge of a cliff shades the delicate plants beneath in its shadow. She held her breath.

"I know you are not asleep, Liath. Have you forgotten that I had many nights to study you, where you lay beside me, to study your face in repose, or when you were only pretending to sleep? I know when you sleep, and when you do not. And you are not sleeping now, my beauty. All the others sleep, but not you. And not me."

He could only speak in this way if he was sure everyone else slept, and how could he know that?

Or perhaps he did not care. Why should he? He was the abbot of a large institution, the son of a powerful margrave, an educated churchman out of the king's schola. She was nothing compared to that, a King's Eagle, a kinless fugitive whose parents had both been murdered.

"Tell me, Liath," he continued in that same soft, persuasive, beautiful voice, "why do you torment me so? It is wrong of you to do so. I cannot understand what power lies in you that eats at me so constantly. You must be doing it on purpose, you must have some scheme, some end, in mind. What is it? Is it this?"

He shifted. She would have screamed, but she could not, she could only lie in mute dread, and then his fingers brushed her cheek, probing for her lips, explored them softly before tracing down over her chin to her vulnerable throat. Bile rose, burning her tongue.

"Come up here," he whispered, fingers drawing a pattern on her throat.

If she went to him now, perhaps he would stop tormenting her. If she only made him happy, if she obeyed him, he would be kind to her.

As quickly, the thought washed off her as water slides down a roof. She rolled away from him, bumping up against a sleeping servant. Sapientia murmured, half waking, and a man laughed in the corridor outside.

"Damn," muttered Hugh. She cringed, waiting for the blow, but he only shifted away from her and at last she heard his breathing slow and deepen. All the others slept on, so gently, so peacefully. Only she did not sleep.

rVlORNINGr came none too soon, and she crept out as soon as there was any least graying of darkness toward light through the cracks in the shutters. A few torches burned by the entrance to the kitchens as servants began to prepare for the afternoon's feast. Mist wreathed the palisade and twined around corners, covering the courtyard in a dense blanket of cold. Drops of icy rain stung her cheeks.

The gates were already propped open, but no one had yet ventured out to the privies beyond.

Most servants were not yet up, and any of the noble folk would use their chamberpots rather than venture out so early. But Liath could see perfectly well in the morning gloom, and she wanted a moment of freedom. She relieved herself and started back, but when the gates loomed before her out of the trailing mist, she was seized with such horror that she could not move except to sink down to her knees.

The ground was bitter cold; wet soaked up through the fabric of her leggings.

They did not see her, but she saw them: concealed from the sight of any in the courtyard within, Hugh paused in the lee of the gate to meet Princess Theophanu. The princess was hesitant, drawn but reluctant, as a half wild but starving creature shies forward, then away, then forward again to sniff at food laid out by alien hands, suspicious of a trap but desperate to slake its hunger.

He touched her hand in an intimate manner, twining fingers through hers but in no other way touching her. He spoke. She replied. Then he slipped something into her hands. It winked as sun cut through a gap in the trees, dispelling an arm of mist that shadowed the gate: his panther brooch.

Furtively, Theophanu hurried back inside. He lingered, looking about, looking for her, but she was still hidden by mist and the flash of the rising sun. He turned and walked out toward the privies.

Liath jumped up and bolted inside the gates-and ran into Helmut Villam. He caught her in a strong grasp as she jerked back and stumbled. The sleeve hung empty below the elbow of his other arm, the wound he had received at the Battle of Kassel when he had defended King Henry against the false claims of Henry's half sister, Sabella.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Villam," Liath gasped.

"You are well, I trust, or in a hurry about the princess' business?"

"I was only out-I beg your pardon, my lord."

"No need to beg anything of me," he said without releasing her, a certain spark in his eyes as he looked her over. He was at least fifteen years older than King Henry but still robust in every way, as everyone on the progress continually joked. "It is I who should beg comfort of you, for it is cold these nights and I have been, alas, abandoned to shiver alone."

At any moment Hugh would come back through the gates and find her. "I beg you, my lord, you are too kind, but I wear the badge of an Eagle."

He sighed. "An Eagle. It is true, is it not?" He released her and clapped his hand to his chest. "My heart is broken. If ever you choose to heal it . . ."

"I am sensible to the honor you do me, my lord," she said quickly, retreating, "but I am sworn."

"And I am sorry!" He laughed. "You are well spoken as well as beautiful. You are wasted as an Eagle, I swear to you!" But he let her go.

She could not bring herself to return to the confinement of Sapientia's supervision. And she had one other thing to check on. She went in search of her comrade.

She found Hathui sitting on a log bench outside the stables, polishing harness for the day's hunt.

Her gear lay at her feet, and she looked up, smiled wryly at Liath, and beckoned for her to sit down beside her. "There is plenty for you to do." She gestured toward a pile of mud-splattered harness. The light had changed, spare and silver now although the sun had not yet cleared the surrounding trees.

Hathui's hands, gloveless, were chapped red with cold.

"I must return," said Liath. "Her Highness will be looking for me when she wakes. I just wanted to-'

"I know." Hathui glanced to her right where saddlebags lay heaped. "Still in my possession."

"You are a good comrade," said Liath.

"I am your comrade in the Eagles!" Hathui snorted. "And I will expect no less of you, Liath, when I must ask for your aid. Here, now. Will you trim my hair again?" Her hair, shorn short, had gotten ragged at the ends.

Liath took out her knife, tested it on a strand of hair, and then began carefully to trim the ends.

"Your hair is so fine, Hathui," she said. "Not coarse, like mine. It's so soft, like the touch of a beautiful cloth."

"So my mother always said." Hathui spit into a cloth and used it to rub a shine into her bridle.

"That is one reason I dedicated my hair to St. Perpetua when I swore myself to her blessed service."

"Should I cut my hair?" Liath asked suddenly, remembering Villam.

"What does that mean?"

"I only . . . it's just...oh, Hathui, on my way back from the privies the margrave asked me if...if, you know-"

"Did he tell you the sad story of how his paramour has gone over to Lord Amalfred and he is most cold at night?"

Liath snorted and then, unable to stop herself, laughed. "Did he proposition you, too, Hathui?"

"No, indeed, for I wear my hair shorn, as you say. But he did once, some years ago when I first came to the Eagles and spent time at court. Wolfhere told me that Villam is one of those men afflicted with lust or perhaps certain tiny fire daimones have taken up residence in his loins and dance there night and day. He is notorious for having a taste for very young women and a new one frequently. It is no surprise to me that he has gone through four wives, or is he on his fifth now?"

"But if he has so many concubines and lovers-?"

"I don't mean he wears his wives out with his physical attentions, but with grief, for he's always straying, and though he is a good man, a cunning general, and a wise counselor in other matters, King Henry at least knows better than to emulate him in this."

"How can I avoid him?"

"It is impossible to avoid anyone on the king's progress. But Villam is a good man, more so than most, and if you are modest and respectful when you are around him, so that he knows you mean to keep to your Eagle's vows, he won't bother you again. What do you have in the bag, Liath?"

She almost nicked the other Eagle's neck. "Nothing. Something. It's a book."

"I know it's a book. We saw it at Heart's Rest. What sort of book is it that you hide as if you'd stolen some of the king's treasure and mean to keep it hidden for fear of losing your life if you were found out?"

"It's mine! It was Da's. I can't tell you, Hathui, you or anyone. Some words aren't meant to be spoken out loud or they attract-some words must be kept in silence."

"Sorcery," said Hathui, and then, "ouch!"

"I beg your pardon." Liath staunched the wound with the end of her tunic. "It isn't bleeding much."

"Was that to punish me for my curiosity?" But Hathui sounded more like she was about to laugh than to get angry.

"You just startled me."

"Liath." Hathui sighed, set down her bridle, and turned 'round. Over her shoulder Liath could see the walls of the hunting lodge still wreathed in mist. Servants led horses out from the stable doors. Men and woman came and went from the privies. Smoke boiled up from the kitchens as the roasting for the afternoon's feast was begun, and servants grimy with smoke and soot hauled buckets and kettles up from the river beyond the palisade gates. "Every village in the marchlands has its wisewoman or conjureman.

We listen to what they say, because it's always wise to hear the words of the elder folk, what few of them there are. Some of them only tell stories from the old days, before the Circle of Unity came to the outlanders and the Wendish tribes. Aye, those tales are so dreadful and exciting that I fear for my soul when I hear them. Sometimes I still dream of those tales, though their heroes and fighting women are all heathens. Ha!" She clapped her hands to chase off a thin little dog that had sidled over to sniff at her gear. "Anyway, certain of the old ones have powers no one speaks of out loud. But anyone who lives on the edge of the wilderness knows that if you call out the true name of the creatures that live beyond the walls and fields, you might attract their notice and then they would come. Where I come from, we call that sorcery."

"Ai, Lady," said Liath, not needing to turn round to know who was approaching her.

"Ai, Lady, indeed." Hathui's eyes narrowed as she looked past Liath. She rose, inclining her head. "Father Hugh."

"Princess Sapientia requires the services of her Eagle," he said crisply. He said nothing else but did not move until Liath put away her knife and turned to follow him.

"Does she have the book?" he asked in a low voice as they crossed the courtyard. "Eagles are notoriously faithful each to the other. One would scarcely think common folk capable of such loyalty. But how can you trust her, a mere freewoman, and not trust me, Liath?"

She did not need to answer because Sapientia was already waiting, impatient to be out on the hunt. She busied herself with duties beneath an Eagle, for Sapientia had servants aplenty, but keeping busy kept her away from Hugh. At last they rode out, a great cavalcade of noble riders, their servants on foot, the hounds and their handlers, and the king's foresters who lived year round in the tiny village beside the royal lodge. Amid the noise and shouting and hubbub, Liath noticed a sudden and disturbing detail: Theophanu had clasped her hip-length riding cloak with a gold panther brooch. No one else appeared to notice, not even Sapientia.

.A first, the forest around the lodge lay fairly open. Trees grew back at shoulder height where they had been cut for firewood for the king's hearth; half-wild pigs raced away into the shelter of brush and young trees. But soon the foresters led them into the older, deeper, uncut woods. The hounds were released, and the hunt was on.

Their course led them down a ravine and up a steep slope where half the riders had to dismount and lead their horses. Burrs caught on their cloaks. A gap formed between a forward group of the hardiest-and most reckless-riders, and a more cautious group. The unmounted servants lagged behind.

Liath could barely keep up with Sapientia, who even halfway through her pregnancy was determined to ride at the head of the host.

Oak and beech had lost most of their leaves, though a scattering of pale gold and dull red leaves still clung to the branches of the trees. Here and there evergreens stood in clumps, shafts of dense green.

Ghosts of morning mist wove around the boles of trees and settled in hollows or near pools of standing water. A light rain fell intermittently.

The progress of the hunters sounded a steady din through the litter and deadwood on the forest floor. Breaking through a dense growth of bracken, they flushed a covey of partridges. The king's huntsmen laid about themselves and clubbed some down, dragging the dogs still with the company out of reach of the birds. Ahead, braches belled.

"Deer!" cried a forester. The chase was on.

Now the forward group itself split into two groups, King Henry and the older nobles falling behind to leave pride of chase to the younger adults. Sapientia rode to the fore, Liath laboring after her on a gelding more hardy than agile. Lord Amalfred, Lady Brigida, young lords and ladies shouting and whooping in their excitement, all pressed forward. Theophanu came up beside Liath, face intent. The panther clasp sparked in a flash of sunlight through the branches. She glanced back over her shoulder and, reflexively, Liath did as well. Hugh was behind them, but his presence was curiously lost to Liath as if for once he was not aware of her at all. His head was bent over his saddle and his lips moved soundlessly. With his left hand he clasped a tiny gold reliquary hung on a golden chain around his neck.

Sapientia disappeared into bracken. Lord Amalfred's horse shied back, refusing to cross through the heavy growth of fern, and he kicked it forward, angry.

"Your Highness!" A forester called out to Theophanu. "A path! This way!"

Faced with a wall of bracken or a clear, if narrow, path, Liath chose to ride after Theophanu, but the princess' horse was superior to hers in these woods, fearless and surefooted. Theophanu forged ahead as if she meant to catch up and pass her royal sister. As if she meant to have for herself what her sister wanted to possess.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" cried a man behind her, and Liath just got her gelding aside before a group of some dozen young nobles including Lord Amalfred pounded past on the track. "I see the deer!"

"A deer! A deer!" The others took up the cry.

Liath saw it, too, a handsome doe springing away before them, bolting through the trees.

Amalfred and the others pulled up, taking aim.

Except it wasn't a deer. It was Theophanu, riding farther ahead of them into trees still wreathed with morning mist. It was an illusion. The memory of Gent hit her so like a blow that her hands went lax on the reins and she gasped aloud. An illusion that only she could see through. Even Sanglant, who wanted to believe, had not dared to.

She screamed. "Halt! Don't shoot!" She yelled as loudly as she was able. "Your Highness! Say something! Pull up your horse!"

Did her warning reach that far?

Theophanu slowed her horse and began to turn, as if she had heard...

"Ai, Lady!" cried one of the noblemen. "It's slowed. Now's your chance!" He turned to wave a new rider forward. "Princess Sapientia. Come forward."

But Lord Amalfred had already drawn down. "This one is mine!"