GENTLE BREATH

IN an odd way, the disaster only made her more stubbornly resolute. She stood beside one of the dead dogs, and as its cop-perish blood leached away into the dirt, she felt a desperate ob-stinance swell in her heart as if the creature's heart's blood, soaking into the earth, made a transference of substance up through her feet to harden her own.

She was not going to let the king take Sanglant away from her.

Sanglant looked to see if anyone remained. It was worse even than she expected: everyone had abandoned them except for a dozen Lions and the soldiers who had escorted them from Ferse.

Now the captain of these men stepped forward. "My lord prince. We will gladly help you with the dogs. Then we must take you before the king, at his order."

"Bury them," said Sanglant. "I doubt if they'll burn." He got his arms under the injured dog, hoisted it, and lugged it to the chamber set aside for his use.

Lions fanned out to give him room to walk. The courtyard had emptied except for servants, who whispered, staring, and fluttered away. Dust spun around the corners of buildings. She smelled pork roasting over fires. A sheep bleated.

Distant thunder growled and faded.

"Eagle!" whispered one of the Lions as they halted before the door while Sanglant carried the limp dog over the threshold. She recognized her old comrade, Thiadbold; his scar stood stark white against tanned skin. "I beg your pardon!"

"Call me Liath, I beg you, friend." She was desperate for friends. That Sanglant's own loyal dogs had set upon the king . . .

"Liath," Thiadbold glanced toward the door, which still yawned open. From within she heard Sanglant grunt as he got the dog down to the floor. "We Lions have not forgotten. If there is aught we can do to aid you, we will, as long as it does not go against our oath to the king."

Tears stung at his unexpected kindness. "I thank you," she said stiffly.

"Please see that my horse is stabled, if you will." Then she remembered Ferse and the morning gift. "There is one thing. . . ." She had only finished explaining it when Sanglant called to her.

The Lion nodded gravely. "It is little enough to do for him."

She went inside.

"Have we no servants available to us?" Sanglant asked her.

"Only the soldiers set on guard."

He knelt beside the dog, which lay silent at the foot of the bed as at the approach of an expected kindness—or of death. It did not move as he ran his hands along its body to probe its injuries: a smashed paw, a slashed foreleg, a deep wound to the ribs and another to the head that had shorn off one ear. Its shallow panting, the grotesque tongue lolling out, was as quiet as a baby's breath. She had never been this close to an Eika dog before. She shuddered.

He smiled grimly. "Best that we save this one, since it's all that remains of my retinue." He drew from the collar the short chain affixed to the leather pouch, now scarred where gems had been pried off. "It guarded your book most faithfully."

Despite his disgrace, the soldiers had not deserted Sanglant. Their captain, Fulk, brought him water in a basin together with an old cloth which he tore into strips to bind up the dog's wounds. She tidied her clothing, unbelted sword and quiver and bow and laid them beside the bed with rest of her gear. She dared not approach the king wearing arms. When Sanglant finished with the dog, and she had taken a draught of wine for her parched throat and reminded him to straighten up his own tunic so he should not appear completely disreputable, the soldiers escorted them to the king's audience chamber. It was not far, because the king had given Sanglant a chamber in one wing of his own residence.

They found the king seated on a couch with his arm bandaged and his expression severe. Sapientia sat at his right hand, Theophanu at his left. He dismissed all of his attendants except for Helmut Villam, Sister Rosvita, and Hathui. Liath caught a glimpse of Hanna, face drawn tight with fear, before she vanished with the others. A half-dozen stewards remained.

Liath knelt. But her hands were steady. Sanglant hesitated, but then, slowly, he knelt also: supplicant before the king's displeasure.

"What did Hugh say to you?" Henry asked Sanglant in a perfectly collected voice.

The question surprised her, but Sanglant got a stubborn look on his face and set his mouth mulishly.

"What did he say to make you attack him in that way?" repeated the king, each word uttered so distinctly that they fell like stones.

Sanglant shut his eyes. " 'Do you cover her as a dog covers a bitch?' " He croaked out the words, his voice so harsh she could barely understand him. Then he buried his face in his hands in shame. And she burned.

An unlit candle set on the side table snapped into flame.

Henry started up in surprise, and Sapientia leaped up beside him and took hold of his elbow, to steady him. Villam murmured a prayer and drew the sign of the Circle at his breast. But Theophanu only glanced at the candle and then nodded to Rosvita, as if to answer a question. Hathui sighed softly from her station behind the king's couch.

"What is this, Sanglant?" demanded Henry. "A sign of your mother's blood at last?"

"Merely a trick, learned as a child and then forgotten," said Sanglant without looking at Liath.

"Nay," Liath said, although her voice shook. "I cannot let you shoulder the burden which is properly mine,"

"Sorcery!" hissed Sapientia. "She's bewitched Hugh. That's why he's gone mad for her. Just like she's bewitched Sanglant."

"You're a fool, sister!" retorted Theophanu. "She saved my life. It's your beloved Hugh who is the maleficus!"

"Hush," said the king. He touched Sapientia on the arm and she let him go at once so that he could walk forward. The injury to his shoulder had not wounded the dignity of his gait. Frozen, Liath dared not move as he stopped in front of her and then circled her as a man does a caged leopard he means to slay. "Have you bewitched my son?"

"Nay, Your Majesty," she stammered, dry-eyed with terror.

"How can I believe you?"

"She has not—!" Sanglant began, head flung back.

"Silence! Or I will have you thrown out while I conduct this interview in your absence. Now. Speak."

The king could crush her flat in an instant, with the merest flick of his hand command his soldiers to kill her. "It's true I know some few of the arts of sorcery, as part of the education my father gave me," she began hesitantly, "but I'm untrained."

"Hah!" said Sapientia as she paced behind Henry's couch. Sanglant shifted where he knelt, as if he, too, wanted to pace.

"Go on," said the king without looking toward his daughter. His gaze, fixed so unerringly on Liath, made her wonder if perhaps it wasn't better just to get that spear through the guts and have done with it.

"My Da protected me against magic, that's all. He told me I'd never be a sorcerer." It all sounded very foolish. And dangerous.

"Her father was a mathematicus," said Rosvita suddenly. Ai, Lady: the voice of doom.

Henry snorted. "She arrived at my progress an avowed dis-cipla of Wolfhere. It is a plot."

"Wolfhere didn't want her to leave," said Sanglant. "He argued against her leaving him, most furiously. He wanted her to stay with him."

"The better to fool you into taking her with you. And marrying her! A royal prince!"

"Nay, Father. Hear me out." Sanglant did rise now. Sapientia stopped pacing and with flushed cheeks studied her half brother. Theophanu, as cool as ever, had clasped her hands at her belt. Villam looked anxious, and Rosvita, who might be her best ally or her worst enemy, wore a grave expression indeed.

"Hear me out, I beg you."

Henry hesitated, fingered the bandage that wrapped his arm. Oddly, he glanced back toward Hathui.

"I cannot know everything that is in Wolfhere's mind," Hathui said, as if in response to a spoken question. "I have no doubt he has seen and done much that I have never—and will never— hear about. But I do not think he ever intended Liath for any path but following him—and—" She glanced toward Sapientia, who had paused beside the window to run her fingers down the ridges of the closed shutters. "—to free her from Father Hugh."

Amazingly, Sapientia said nothing, appeared not even to hear the remark except that her tracing faltered, stopped, and began again.

At last, Henry nodded to Sanglant. "You may speak."

"You wouldn't have taken Gent without her aid. She killed Bloodheart."

"She? This one?"

"You did not hear the story from Lavastine?"

"She was under his command. What story is there to tell?"

"If you cannot believe me, then let Lavastine come before you and tell the tale."

"Lavastine was ensorcelled before," began Sapientia. "Why not again—?"

"He and his retinue left this morning," said Henry, cutting her off, "So his tale must be left untold."

"Count Lavastine has gone?" Now Sanglant paced to the door, and back, like a dog caught on a chain. Liath hissed his name softly, but he worried at his knuckles until Henry brought him up short by placing an open hand on his chest and stopping him. "I must ride after him—to warn him— If the curse does not follow her—" He faltered, came back to himself, and glanced around the room.

"A messenger must be sent. You cannot begin to imagine Bloodheart's power."

"It was rumored that he was an enchanter," said Villam.

Sanglant laughed sourly. "No rumor. I myself witnessed—" He swiped at his face as if brushing away a swarm of gnats that no one else could see. "No use telling it. No use recalling it now, what he did to me."

That quickly, she saw Henry's face soften. But it was brief. He touched the bandage again, and his mouth set in a grim line. "There is much to explain."

Sanglant spun, took Liath by the elbow, and pulled her up.

She did not want to fight against that pull, but she also did not want to stand rather than kneel before the king. "Only someone with magic could have killed an enchanter as powerful as Blood-heart."

"Explain yourself."

"You know yourself he had powers of illusion, that he could make things appear in the air that had no true existence. Or perhaps you didn't see that. We saw it." He grimaced and turned to look at Liath. "She alone—Ai, Lord! Had I only listened to her at Gent, my Dragons would still be alive. But we let them in, we opened the gates, thinking they were our allies."

"Young Alain spoke of a curse," said Henry, "but I don't understand what you're trying to say."

"He had protected himself against death," Sanglant went on, not hearing the comment. "He had taken his heart out of his own body so that he could not be killed. He protected himself with some kind of grotesque creature that he kept in a chest. He spoke a curse at the end, but whether he released the creature I can't know. I didn't see it again. By all these means did Bloodheart protect himself." He turned to gesture toward her, and with that gesture everyone looked at her . "No man or woman acting alone could have killed Bloodheart. But she did."

The silence made Liath nervous. She stared at the couch, finest linen dyed a blood red and embroidered with a magnificent hunting scene in gold-and-silver thread: Henry, standing in front of her, obscured part of it, but she could see lions grappling with deer, and a stag bounding away in front of three riders while partridges flushed from cover.

"That is why a messenger must be sent to Count Lavastine," finished Sanglant. "If Bloodheart's vengeance doesn't stalk Liath, if she is somehow protected against magic by her father's spells, then it must be stalking Count Lavastine. Bloodheart's magic was powerful—"

"Bloodheart is dead," said Henry.

"Yet no harm can come," said Hathui suddenly, "in sending an Eagle to warn him, even if naught comes of it."

"It was the hound," said Sanglant. "The hound that died. It smelled of Bloodheart."

"What must we tell him?" asked Hathui. "How does one overcome such a curse?"

Sanglant looked helplessly at Liath, but she could only shrug.

In truth, like Henry, she didn't truly understand what he was talking about: Was this a madness brought on by his captivity, the months in chains he had spent at Bloodheart's feet? Or was he right? Did some terrible curse stalk her or, thwarted by Da's magic, stalk Lavastine instead?

"Send an Eagle," said Henry to Hathui, "telling everything you have learned here. Then return." She nodded and left quickly.

Henry touched his injured arm, winced—and caught Sanglant wincing at the same time, as if in sympathy, or guilt. Villam helped the king seat himself on the couch. Henry looked tired, but thoughtful.

"Others have noticed her," Henry said, studying Liath.

"Never be noticed." Da had been right all along: That way lay ruin. But it was too late now. She could have stayed with the Aoi sorcerer, but she had not.

She could have ridden on with Wolfhere, but she had not. She could not undo what had been done.

And she did not want to, not even now.

"Count Lavastine would have taken her into his retinue, and he is no fool.

Even my trusted cleric, Sister Rosvita, has taken an interest in her. No doubt others have as well." Villam coughed, then cleared his throat. "The church is right to control such powers," Henry mused, "yet they exist nevertheless. Given what you have seen, Sanglant..." He gestured, and the steward hurried forward with a cup of wine, which the king drank from and then offered, in turn, to his daughters, to Rosvita, and to Villam. "It may have seemed more advantageous to marry a woman connected with sorcery than one who shares a claim to the Aostan throne."

"Why should I care what advantage she brings me? She saved my life."

"By killing Bloodheart. You saw the worth of such power as she has."

"Nay." He flushed, a darker tone in his bronze complexion. In a low voice, he spoke quickly, as if he feared the words would condemn him. "I would have gone mad there in my chains if I hadn't had my memory of her to sustain me."

"Ah," said Villam in the tone of a man who has just seen and understood a miracle. He glanced at Liath, and she flushed, recalling the proposition he had made to her many months ago.

Henry looked pained, then rested head on hands, as if his head ached.

When he looked up, he frowned, brow furrowed. "Sanglant, folk of our station do not marry for pleasure or sentiment. That is what concubines are for. We marry for advantage. For alliance."

"How many times was it made clear to me that I was never to marry? That I could not be allowed to? Why should I have taken such a lesson to heart? She is the one I have married, and I have given my consent and sworn an oath before God. You cannot dissolve that oath."

"But I can judge whether she is free to marry at all. Father Hugh was right: As my servant, she must have my permission vo Ysrarr . S •sY>e Ya TIO TTT?

servant, 'Cnen sYie is Yiis slave, and thus his to dispose of."

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apientfa gro^ecfcrna^/l^df^^flreS^SfH^sre^ffi^r Theophanu made a movement toward her, as though to comfort her, but Sapientia thrust her away and hid her face with a hand. Quickly, Sister Rosvita hurried over to her.

"We have not yet spoken of Father Hugh," sad Theophanu in a low voice,

"and the accusations I have laid before you, Father. I have also brought with me—in writing—Mother Roth-gard's testimony."

"I, too, have a letter from Mother Rothgard," said Rosvita. Sapientia was weeping softly on her shoulder. "Is there not a holy nun in your party, Your Highness?" she asked Theophanu. "One Sister Anne, by name, who has come to investigate these matters?"

Theophanu blinked, looking confused. "Sister Anne? She came with us from St. Valeria. A very wise and ancient woman, devout, and knowledgeable.

Incorruptible. But she fell ill on the journey and had to be nursed in a cottage for several days. When she emerged, she always wore a veil because the sun hurt her eyes so. I will send for her."

"How do we know," sobbed Sapientia, "that it is not this Eagle who is the maleficus? If she has bound a spell onto Hugh—?" But her heart wasn't in it.

Even she did not believe her own words. "God have mercy! That he should betray a preference for her, a common-born woman, and in front of everyone, and humiliate me by so doing!"

"Hush, Your Highness," said Rosvita softly. "All will be set right."

"I am not yet done with these two," said Henry. "But be assured that any accusation of malevolent sorcery in my court will be dealt with harshly should it prove unfounded, and more harshly yet should it prove true. Sanglant." He gestured, and Sanglant knelt beside Liath.

"Eagle." Liath flinched. The king had so completely recovered his composure that she felt more keenly the power he held over her. What soul, struggling to free itself from the eddy surrounding the dreaded Abyss, does not fear the gentle breath of God? With one puff of air They sweep damned souls irrevocably into the pit. "Liathano, so they call you. What do you have to say for yourself?"

She choked out the words. "I am at your mercy, Your Majesty." "So you are. Why did you marry my son?" She itashei, CCftM OC>R. at no one, not e^en SatvgYairt, especially not Sanglant, because that would only recall too vividly the night they had passed so sweetly together. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the flagstone floor partly covered with a rug elaborately woven in imperial purple and pale ivory: the eight-pointed Arethousan star. "I—I swear to you, Your Majesty. I gave no thought to advantage. I just—" She faltered. "I—

"Well," said Villam with a snort of laughter, "I fear me, my good friend Henry, that I see nothing here I have not seen a hundred times before. They are young and they are handsome and they are hungry for that with which the body feeds them."

"Is it only the young who think in this way, my good friend Helmut?" asked Henry with a laugh. "So be it. If there is threat in her beyond the sorcery her father evidently taught her and that others seek to exploit by gaining control of her, I do not see it. But."

But.

The word cut like a blade.

"I will not tolerate my son's disobedience. Naked he came into the world, and I clothed him. He walked, until I gave him a horse to ride. My captains trained him, and he bore the arms I gifted him with. All that he has came from me, and in his arrogance he has forgotten that."

"I have not forgotten it." Sanglant said it hoarsely, as if the knowledge pained him—but his voice always sounded like that. "You no longer wear the iron collar set upon you by Blood-heart. Where is the gold torque that marks you as blood of my blood, descendant of the royal line of Wendar and Varre?"

"I will not wear it." At his most stubborn, with high cheekbones in relief, the un-Wendish slant of his nose, the way he held his jaw taut, he was very much the arrogant prince, one born out of an exotic line.

"You defy me." Henry's tone made the statement into a question. She heard it as a warning.

Surely Sanglant understood that it was pointless to set himself against the king? They could not win against the king, who had all the power where they had none.

"I am no longer a King's Dragon."

"Then give me the belt of honor which I myself fastened on you when you were fifteen. Give me the sword that I myself gave into your hands after Gent."

Villam gasped. Even Sapientia looked up, tears streaking her face. Liath's throat burned with the bile of defeat. But Sanglant looked grimly satisfied as he lay belt, sheath, and sword at the king's feet.

"You are what I make you." Henry's words rang like a hammer on iron.

"You will do as I tell you. I am not unsympathetic to the needs of the flesh, which are manifold. Therefore, keep this woman as your concubine, if you will, but since she, my servant, has not received my permission to wed, then her consent even before witnesses is not valid. I will equip an army, and arm you for this duty, and you will lead this army south to Aosta. When you have restored Princess Adelheid to her throne, you will marry her. I think you will find a queen's bed more satisfying than that of a magus' get—no matter how handsome she may be."

"But what about me, Father?" demanded Sapientia, whose tears had dried suddenly.

"You I will invest as Margrave of Eastfall, so that you may learn to rule yourself."

She flushed, stung as by a slap in the face, but she did not protest.

"And what of me, Father?" asked Theophanu more quietly. "What of Duke Conrad's suit?"

Henry snorted. "I do not trust Conrad, and I will not send one of my most valuable treasures into the treasure house of a man who may harbor his own ambitions."

"But, Father—"

"No." He cut her off, and she was far too cool to show any emotion, whether relief or anger or despair. "In any case, the church will rule that you are too closely related, with a common ancestor in the—" He gestured toward Rosvita.

"In the seventh degree, if we calculate by the old imperial method. In the fourth degree, if we calculate by the method outlined in an encyclical circulated under the holy rule of our Holy Mother Honoria, who reigned at the Hearth before dementia, she who is now skopos in Darre."

"No marriage may be consummated within the fifth degree of relation,"

said Henry, with satisfaction. "Conrad will not get a bride from my house." The door opened, and Hathui returned, making her bow, but she had hardly gotten inside the door when Henry addressed her: "Eagle, tell Duke Conrad that I will hold audience with him. Now. As for Father Hugh—well—

"Send him to the skopos," hissed Sapienta. "I will see him condemned!"

Then she burst into noisy sobs.

"Well," continued Henry, "I will have the letters read to me, and I wish to speak with this Sister Anne." He caught sight of Sanglant, still kneeling with mute obstinacy, and frowned. "You will return to your chamber, and you may come before me again when you are ready to beg my forgiveness."

It was a dismissal. Liath rose. She desperately wanted to rub her aching knees, but dared not. Sanglant hesitated. Was it rebellion? Had he not heard?

Henry grunted with annoyance, and then the prince rose, glanced once at Liath, once toward his sisters—

"Come," said Vil am, not without sympathy. "It is time for you to go."

When they returned to the chamber set aside for Sanglant's use and the door shut behind them, she simply walked into his arms and stood there for a long while, not wanting to move. He was solid and strong, and she felt as if she could pour all her anger and fire and fear into the cool endless depths of him without ever filling him up. He seemed content simply to stand there, rocking slightly side to side: he was never completely at rest. But she was at rest here, with him—even in such disgrace. She had lived on the fringe of society for so long, she and Da, that she could scarcely feel she had lost something precious to her.

Yet what if he decided that a queen's bed was more satisfying than the one he shared with her?

The Eika dog whined weakly, then collapsed back to lick a paw with its dry tongue. Sanglant released her, took water from the basin, and knelt so the poor beast could lap from his palms. Someone had put up the shutters, and the corners of the room lay dim with shadows. Light shone in lines through the shutters, striping the floor and the dog and the prince and a strange creature concocted of metal that lay slumped over the back of the only chair. Standing, he wiped his hands on his leggings and said, suddenly: "What's this? It's a coat of mail!" He ran his fingers over coarse iron links. "A quilted coat. A helm. Lord Above! A good stout spear. A sword. A sheath." And a teardrop shield, without marking or color: suitable for a cavalryman. He hoisted it up and slipped his left arm through the straps, testing weight and balance. He unsheathed the sword.

"Ai, Lady!" she murmured, staring at these riches. It was far more than what she had asked Thiadbold for: she had asked only for a sword and helmet.

"But what is it?" he asked.

She found Master Hosel's belt among her gear and slid the sheath onto it, then with her own hands fastened the belt about Sanglant's hips as she swallowed tears brought on by the generosity of the Lions. "It's your morning gift." She tied off the belt and stood back, remembering what Lavastine had said.

" 'If you walk through fire, the flame shall not consume you.' "

He gave a curt laugh. "Let them declare we are not wed, if they will, but God have witnessed our oath, and God wil honor our pledge." Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her on the forehead.

There were two unlit candles in this chamber; both of them flared abruptly to life, and he laughed, swung her up and around, and they landed on the bed in a breathless heap. It was a measure of his disgrace that, even in the late afternoon with preparations for a feast underway and the palace swarming with servants and nobles and hangers-on, no one disturbed them.

Afterward, he lay beside her with a leg flung over her buttocks, head turned away as he examined the sword, good, strong iron meant for war, not show. "Where did it all come from?"

"The Lions felt they owed me a favor, but they respect you even more than they felt grateful to me. This is a tribute to you— and to your reputation."

He rolled up to sit, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "If I have not destroyed it entirely now." He drew his knees up and pounded his head against them, too restless to sit still. "Why didn't I see it before? There's no trace of Bloodheart's scent around you. There never has been. Yet it attacked Lavastine's hounds. It can't have been an adder—yet if it were only an adder, if I mistook the scent." From the floor, the dog whimpered restlessly and tried to stand, but had not the strength. Sanglant tugged at his own hair, twining it into a single thick strand so tightly that it strained at his scalp, and then shaking it out. "No Eagle can do my message justice. No Eagle knows Bloodheart's scent, or can listen for it in the bushes. I must go after him myself."

"Hush. Of course you must. But I'll ride with you."

"I wouldn't leave you here alone!" he said indignantly. Then he groaned and shut his eyes in despair. "But I have no horse except on my father's sufferance. I wish he had invested me as margrave of Eastfall and let Sapientia march to Aosta! Then we could have been left in peace!"

"If there can be peace in the marchlands, with bandits and Quman raiders."

"If there is peace in my heart, then I will be at peace no matter what troubles come my way." He buried his face against her neck.

The dog whined. She heard voices. Sanglant grabbed for her tunic, and the door slammed open to admit—

"Conrad!" exclaimed Sanglant. He jumped out of bed and stood there stark naked in the middle of the floor. "Well met, cousin. I could not greet you earlier as you deserved." She could not help but admire his insouciance—and his backside—even as she scrambled to get her clothes on under the covers.

The man who had just entered dismissed his servants. He had a deep, resonant laugh, and a voice to go with it. "Is this the greeting I deserve? I beg your pardon, cousin." But he did not seem inclined to leave. Liath was furiously embarrassed; after eight years alone with Da, she was not used to a constant audience—although Sanglant clearly was. "You have a bride hidden in here somewhere, I hear. I caught a glimpse of her when you rode in, and I confess myself eager to be introduced to her now."

Sanglant took his time getting dressed and did not move out of the other man's way. "Let there be no confusion. She is my wife."

"Did I say otherwise? Surely, cousin, you do not think I intend to steal her from you as I might if she were only your concubine. Ah, but what's this?"

She slipped out of bed, straightened her tunic, and stood. Duke Conrad, in the flesh, was rather like Sanglant made shorter and broader. He had the same kind of leashed vigor as Henry, and the powerful hands of a man who is used to gripping spear and shield. He stepped forward, took her hand, and turned it over to show the lighter palm, then held it against his own. His skin had a different tone; where hers was more golden-brown like sun burned into skin, his had a more olive-yellow tint. "Who are your kin?"

She extricated her hand from his grip. He was barely taller than she was, but she felt slight beside him. "My father's cousin is the lady of Bodfeld. I don't know my mother's kin."

He misunderstood her. "A Gyptos whore, no doubt. That would explain it.

How comes she to you, cousin?" He had an open face, quick to laughter.

"God have brought her to me," retorted Sanglant, looking annoyed.

"They whom God have joined, let no man or woman—even the regnant—

tear asunder." Quick to anger as well, that face. He boiled with it, a flush staining his neck and the tendons standing out. "Ride out with me, Sanglant. I offer you a place in Way-land."

"Ride out with you?"

Conrad spat in anger. "Henry refused my suit. He will not let me marry Theophanu." He swore colorfully, describing what Henry could in his opinion do with his horses and his hounds and whatever sheep he might come across in the course of his travels. Liath blushed. "I see no reason to stay feasting and drinking with a man who does not trust me to marry his own daughter! What do you say?"

"What kind of place? As a captain in your retinue?"

Conrad grinned, but with a subtle coating to it, cunning and sweet. "Nay, cousin. You have too fierce a reputation and I am far too respectful of your rank.

I have certain lands that came to me in a recent dispute that I can settle on someone willing to support me, even against the king's displeasure."

"I will not make war upon my father," said Sanglant stubbornly.

The door was stil open. Conrad signed to his servants to shut it. "I do not speak of war, not with Henry. Even were I tempted, I don't have enough support."

The "yet" might as well have been spoken out loud, it hung so heavily in the air.

"I will not make war upon my father," repeated Sanglant.

"Nor do I ask you to." Conrad grunted impatiently. "I ride out in the morning. You and your bride may ride with me, or not. As you wish." He looked Liath over once, in the way of a powerful man who has bedded many women and intends to bed many more, and when Sanglant growled low in his throat, he laughed. "So I heard, but I didn't believe it. Is it true that you lived for a year among dogs, my lord prince?" He raised an eyebrow, seeing Sanglant's anger.

"Yet the dogs are scarcely different than the nobles who flock 'round the throne, are they not?"

With that, he signed to his servant to open the door, and swept out. The hard glare of the afternoon sun lanced into Liath's eyes, and she had to shade herself with an arm until a Lion latched the door shut from outside.

Sanglant began to pace, then unfastened one of the shutters and took it down so they could get air into the room.

"He offered you land," said Liath as she watched him. She dared not think of it: land, an estate, a place to live in peace.

He turned away from the window to sort impatiently through the contents of his belt pouch, which had fallen to the floor in his haste to undress earlier. He found a comb and with it in his hand steered her to the chair, sat her down, and undid her braid. With a sigh of satisfaction, he began to comb out her hair, which fell to her waist. The strokes soothed her.

"I don't trust him," he said as he worked through a knot. "But you are right. He offered me land. He will not contest my marriage to you. And unlike any other soul in this land, he will not care if my father contests it."

"Will we ride out with him in the morning?"

"Do we have another choice?" But for that question, she had no answer.

"YOU'VE made a fool of yourself, Hugh."

Margrave Judith did not mince words when she was angry, and she was very angry now. Ivar huddled in a corner of the spacious chamber reserved for her use, clinging to an equally frightened Baldwin. She had already hit Baldwin once for not getting out of her way quickly enough; his cheek was still pink from the slap. She was so angry that Ivar could not even get any pleasure out of her castigation of Hugh, which she conducted in front of her entire household.

Not that any of them appeared to be enjoying it either. Her servants and courtiers admired and loved Hugh, who treated high and low alike with graciousness and perfect amiability.

Now he stood with hands clasped behind him, a bruise purpling on one cheek, and his gaze fixed not on his mother but on a gaudy spray of white-and-pink flowers outside that shielded the open window from the glare of the late afternoon sun.

"Your conduct has embarrassed me," she continued mercilessly, "and, God help me, may have lost you your influence with Princess Sapientia. Fool! And more fool I for thinking I could raise a son who would not fall prey to his male weakness! What hope does a man have if he betrays a consuming lust for a woman of unknown birth who brings no advantage to his kin and kind? By the amount you desire her, you give her that much power over you."

"But she has power," he said in a low voice, still flushed. "More power than anyone here knows or suspects. Except Wolfhere."

"Power! A handsome face is not power. Even grant you that her father was a magus, as they're all saying now, even grant that magus' blood has lent her power, then what use is it to you since you have become her prisoner by reason of this unseemly obsession?"

"She is mine," he said with such zeal that cold ran down Ivar's spine like the fingers of the Enemy, probing toward the heart for weakness.

"She is Prince Sanglant's, as is apparent to anyone with eyes not blinded by lust."

"Never his!" He reached out suddenly, broke off a spray of glorious flowers, and began shredding them into bits. Petals spun down around him.

"Has she bewitched you? Bound some kind of spell onto you? They're saying that her father was a fallen monastic who dabbled in the black arts as well as in some Jinna whore's belly, and who paid for his sins by being eaten alive by the minions of the Enemy. It would make sense that she had learned a few tricks from him before he died."

"Yes," he said hoarsely, "she has bewitched me." He clenched both hands.

Astonishingly, he began to weep with thwarted fury— just utterly lost control of himself.

Liath had done this to him.

Ivar could not help but exult at Hugh's humiliation and rage. The Holy Mother had visited this punishment upon him for his arrogance. But when he thought of Liath, a stuttering sickness gripped his heart.

She had not even noticed him! Not two days ago when she first arrived at the king's progress, not yesterday when the king had passed judgment by letting her remain his servant, and not today, when she had returned in defiance of the king's command. By what right did she ignore him, who had done everything he could to help her? Did the love they had pledged each other mean nothing to her? What on God's earth did Prince Sanglant have that he didn't—?

"Hush," said Baldwin, caressing his arm to distract him, though he hadn't realized that he was grunting and muttering out loud. "Don't draw attention to us, or she'll hit me again."

"How can she love him?" Ivar choked out.

"Of course a mother loves her son."

"I didn't mean—"

Margrave Judith stood up, and both boys instinctively flinched back, but she did not even glance their way. She picked up a fine silver basin filled with water and dashed it full in Hugh's face.

"Control yourself!" She replaced the basin with perfect composure and sat back down. "I see I am almost too late."

The shock of it brought him back. Trembling, he wiped his face dry with a sleeve.

"Kneel before me." Slowly, he did so. "Am I not first in your heart?" she asked grimly.

"You are my mother," he replied in a dull voice.

"I nurtured you within my body, bore you with great effort, and raised you with care. Is this how you repay my efforts?" He began to speak, but she cut him off. "Now you will listen to me. Three years ago I had to agree to have you sent to the North Mark after the incident in Zeitsenburg. You swore to me then there would be no more such incidents, yet I now find you entangled with a girl born of a magus' breeding. Have you gone against my wishes in this matter? Have you, Hugh?"

Stubbornly, he did not reply.

Her hiss, between gritted teeth, gave Ivar a shiver of fear.

"The court is a bad influence on you! You still bear a personal grudge against the prince, do you not? That he, a bastard, was given power in the secular world and you were not, is that not so, Hugh?"

With one hand he gripped the cloth of his tunic, folded around one knee; the other lay open, pressed against the floorboards palm down to hold himself up. His breath came ragged, and his gaze seemed fixed on something invisible to everyone else in the room. "That she should go willingly to him when she has spurned me—!"

She extended a leg, caught him under the chin with the toe of her sandal, and tipped his head back so that he had to look at her. "You have gone mad with jealousy." She stated it in the same way any noble lady might examine her cattle and see that some were afflicted with hoof-rot: calmly, but with a little disgust at her own bad luck. "Your mind has been afflicted by her spells."

She lowered her foot and stood. "Go," she said to her courtiers. "Speak of this to the folk hereabouts, what you have heard here— that the girl has bound him with her evil spells. See how she has reduced him. We all know Father Hugh's elegant manners Hi la no Mural m: HICJ sniioi away oMientij.

"Go heat a bath for him so that we may wash some of the poison out," she said, and a half dozen servants hurried into the adjoining room. Then she turned to her entourage. "Lord Atto, I haven't forgotten the matter of the king's stallion, Potentis. I

have spoken with the king myself, and if that bay mare of yours comes into season while we are on progress with the king, you may try for a foal out of Potentis. Go speak with the king's sta-blemaster, if you will, to arrange it."

Lord Atto was all effusive thanks as he retreated, but Judith had already beckoned forward one of her servingwomen. "Hemma, I have considered this matter of your daughter's betrothal, and I think it a good match for her to wed Minister Oda's son. But I have it in mind to gift her with that length of fine linen cloth we picked up in Quedlinhame. If you will see to it that it is packed and made ready, I will have it sent with the messengers who are returning east.

Then your daughter will have time to sew some clothing out of it for the wedding feast."

With one pretext or another, she sent them away until only she, Hugh, her two eldest servingwomen, and Baldwin and Ivar remained. Her pleasant manner vanished, and she spoke in a hard voice. "Now you will tell me truly what this means." She took Hugh's chin in a hand and turned his head up to look at her. "I can scarcely believe the rumors I hear. Did you try to murder Princess Theophanu? After it was forbidden you at Zeitsenburg, have you soiled your hands again with bindings and workings, this pollution that you call sorcery?"

The light from the open window dappled Hugh's face, mottling it with shadow and light and the discoloring bruise. His expression, nakedly anguished, underwent some cataclysmic change as he stared up at his mother, who had bent the full force of her will upon him. A shudder shook through his body and he collapsed at her feet.

"I beg you, Mother," he whispered. "Forgive me. I have sinned."

She grunted, but that was all the reply she made, and she seemed to be expecting more.

"Ai, God," he prayed, "protect me from temptation." His hands hid his face.

"I know now what came over me. It was a trap her father laid. As soon as I saw her, I burned for her despite my prayers day upon night offered up to Our Lady and Loifl, wnoni I ticpfl to prora m&, BUI us m& w m trapped me, and even after he died, I could not escape from her."

She appeared unmoved by this recital. Ivar could not tell whether she believed it, but it seemed to satisfy her. "You are bored as abbot," sfre said finally, "and when a man of your inL

telligence becomes bored, then the Enemy sends his minions to tempt him.

And indeed a mere abbacy is not the position due your consequence."

He looked up, strangely dry-eyed after his weeping confession. "What do you mean?"

"Be obedient to my wishes, Hugh, and you shall have more." She took hold of his ear, twisted it so that one more tweak would cause pain, and with the other hand brushed a finger affectionately over his moist lips and with that same finger touched her own lips, as if sipping off his sweetness. "I have never failed you, Hugh. I have given you everything you have asked me for."

"You have," he said softly. Hesitated, then fell silent.

She let go, stepped back, and let him stand. "You will not fail me. Do not see her again, and we can salvage your reputation."

He bowed his head humbly. "I am your obedient servant, my lady mother."

She looked at Baldwin, and Ivar knew with a nauseating wrench in his gut that this was also a message meant for her young husband: Those who lived within the circle of her power were not allowed to be disobedient.

Baldwin bent his head and abruptly launched into an impassioned prayer.

Halfway through, he nudged Ivar with a foot, and Ivar, startled and now seeing Hugh kiss his mother on either cheek and retreat to the room where his bath awaited him, clasped his hands as well and joined the whispered prayer. "Our Mother, Who art in Heaven—

Seeing them so occupied, Judith left the chamber with her two servants at her heels and a slender whippet slinking behind. No doubt she had decided it was time to venture out onto the field of battle to save her son's reputation. And what of Liath?

Ai, Lord. Liath.

"You're not concentrating," murmured Baldwin, who sounded insulted.

"What will become of her?" Ivar muttered.

This time, Baldwin understood him. "Do you desire her body, Ivar?" He rested a hand on Ivar's thigh. His sweet breath, like the breath of angels, brushed softly along his neck.

Ivar shivered convulsively. "God help me!" he prayed. It hurt too much to think of her. It was easier to drown himself in thoughts of God. He set to praying with a vengeance and, after a pause, Baldwin joined him.

t THE king did not summon them to the feast celebrating the return of Theophanu and the arrival of Duke Conrad. No royal steward saw fit to bring them platters of choice tidbits from the feast table. But soldiers brought offerings: bread, baked turnips, roast pork, and greens, such fare as milites could expect and would generously share with a captain they admired and respected and a disgraced Eagle toward whom they had cause to be grateful.

The twilight hours in summer ran long and leisurely and, as Sanglant braided her hair, Liath listened to the sweet singing of the clerics from the hall as they entertained the king with the hymn celebrating St. Casceil's Ascension, whose feast day they observed.

"The holy St. Casceil made a pilgrimage from her home in rain-drenched Alba to the dry desert shores of Sai's the Younger. There she dwelt in blessed solitude in the east with only a tame lion as companion, and there she knelt to pray day after day under the constant hammer blow of the desert sun while angels fanned her with their wings to cool her brow and body. Yet the heat so burned away her mortal substance, and her holy praye s so i r

nflamed her soul

with purity and tru h

t that the wind made by the angels' wings, which is also the gentle breath of God, lifted her into the heavens. There she found her place among the righteous."

Braiding the hair he had earlier combed out gave Sanglant something to do with his hands, but he shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, seeming about to start talking but grunting softly instead. She had said everything she knew to say to

him. No decision had been reached: Would they ride out with Conrad, or not?

"My lord prince." Hathui stood at the door. Liath could smell the feast on her. The pungent scent of spices and sauces made Liath's mouth water.

He nodded, giving her permission to enter. "Do you bring a message from my father?"

"I come on my own, to speak with my old comrade, Liath, if you will."

"That is for her to choose, not me to choose for her!" he said as he tied off the braid and stepped away from Liath.

Liath started up when Hanna stepped into the room behind Hathui. The badge winking at the throat of her short summer cloak seemed like accusation.

Hanna had given up Kinfolk, home, and all that was familiar to her to follow Liath, and yet Liath had turned aside from that jointly-sworn oath to bind her life with Sanglant's. Hanna had been crying, and Hathui looked solemn.

"This is—this is—my comrade—" Liath stuttered, not wanting to ignore Hanna as one would a simple servant, yet not knowing if a prince and a common Eagle could have any ground on which to meet as equals. Ai, Lady! Had she never truly thought of herself as a "common Eagle" but rather as an equal to the great princes in some intangible way she had inherited from Da's manner and education? Had she never truly treated Hanna as an equal, through those years when Hanna had generously offered friendship to a friendless, foreign-born girl?

She was ashamed.

"This is the Eagle who serves Sapientia," said Sanglant into the silence made by her stumbling. "She is called Hanna. Did you not know her in Heart's Rest?" He turned his gaze on Hanna. "You called my wife 'friend' there, I believe."

"My lord prince," said Hanna, kneeling abruptly. Hathui, with a tight smile, remained standing, but she inclined her head respectfully. Then Hanna saw the Eika dog, and she recoiled, jumping back to stand beside the table.

"Fear not," said Sanglant. "It doesn't have enough strength to harm you."

"Will it live?" asked Hathui softly.

"You may tell my father that I will nurse it as I am able, since it alone of all my possessions did not come to me through his power."

Her eyes glinted. "Shall I tell him so in those exact words, my lord prince? I would humbly advise against it, while the king remains in such a humor toward you as he is this day."

"Plainly spoken, Eagle. Say what you came to say to my wife. I will not interfere."

Hathui nodded and began. "You ought to have ridden on with Wolfhere, Liath. How can you have traveled with the king's progress for so many months and not seen what a pit of intrigue it is? How will you fare, here, with the king turned against you and the prince without support? What will you say when princes and nobles come to seek your favor, to gain the attention of the prince?

There will always be supplicants at your door, and beggars and lepers and every kind of pauper and sick person, seeking healing, and noble ladies and lords who hope that your influence can give them audience with the king or his children—

or who wish to sway the prince to their cause, whether it be just or no."

Like Conrad. Liath picked up the comb that lay on the table. Such a simple thing to be so finely made. With its bone surface incised with a pair of twined dragons and trimmed with ivory and pearls set into the handle at either end, it marked Sanglant as a great prince who need not untangle his hair with sticks or a plain wood comb but only with something fashioned by a master craftsman.

Hathui went on. "Father Hugh stands accused of sorcery by Princess Theophanu, but if you are called upon to testify before the king against him, how will it fare with you when Margrave Judith's anger is turned upon you? What if you are accused in your turn of sorcery? The king will never allow you to be recognized as Prince Sanglant's wife. All that I have named above you will suffer without even the legal standing of wife but only that of concubine. Do you think an Eagle's oath and freedom— beholden to no one but the king—a fair exchange for the bed of a prince?"

"Liath," whispered Hanna, "are you sure this is wise?"

"Of course it isn't wise!" she retorted.

Sanglant stood by the window staring outside. The wind stirred his hair, and the graying light made of his profile—the arch of the nose, the high cheekbones, the set of his beardless jaw—a proud mask. He made no move to interfere.

"Of course it isn't wise," Liath repeated bitterly. "It just is.

I won't leave him. Oh, Hanna. You followed me from Heart's Rest, and now I've deserted you—" She grabbed Hanna's hands and Hanna snorted, still pale, and hugged her suddenly.

"As if I only took an Eagle's oaths to follow you! Maybe I wanted to see something more of the world. Maybe I wanted to escape young Johan."

Liath laughed unsteadily, more like a sob. Hanna's body felt familiar, and safe, caught against her. "Maybe you did. I'm sorry."

"I still think you're being a fool," whispered Hanna. "My mother would never have let any of her children marry because of...well…"

"What?"

Hanna spoke so softly that Liath, pressed against her, could barely hear her. "Lust alone. It might be said that you've gained advantage by attracting his interest, but you don't bring anything to him, that would be useful to him-—"

Sanglant laughed without turning away from the window, and Hanna blushed furiously. "More use than anyone here can know," he said as if addressing the bushes, "although I confess freely that I am not immune to the weaknesses of the flesh."

"But no one makes a marriage only for." Hanna stuttered to a halt. "My good mother always said that God made marriage as a useful tool, not as a pleasure bed."

"Ought we to be good, or useful?" asked Hathui sardonically.

"Ought we to be chattering on like the clerics?" retorted Sanglant. "We ought to be seeing that the crops are brought in, and that our borders are safe from bandits and raiders, and that our retainers are fed and their children healthy. And that we pray to God to spare us from the howling dogs who nip at our heels!"

Hanna started back from Liath as if she had been slapped. Hathui nodded curtly. "If you wish us to leave, my lord prince."

"Nay." He tossed his head impatiently and finally slewed round to look at them. "I did not mean it of you, but of the ladies and lords who flock round the court. I beg you, take no offense from my coarse way of speaking."

"You are not coarse, my lord, but blunt." Hathui grinned charmingly.

"Not as eloquent as my wife," he said, with a pride that startled Liath.

At this moment Liath had more pressing concerns. She tugged on Hanna's sleeve. "Come with me outside, Hanna, I beg you. I'm not accustomed to—with so many people about—

She was in disgrace, not in prison, and while she preferred to use the privies built up over the edge of the ramparts rather than the chamber pot, she dared not venture out alone for fear of meeting Hugh. Hanna seemed more cheerful out of the close chamber, or away from Sanglant. Servants wandering the grounds pointed and whispered.

"Do you think I'm a fool, Hanna?" The constant scrutiny made her uneasy.

Her entrance onto the stage as Sanglant's declared wife had made her a beacon, visible to everyone.

"Yes. Better to serve him as an Eagle than as his mistress. As an Eagle you are bound to the king by oaths. As his mistress, he can put you aside whenever he tires of you, and then where will you go?"

"Spoken like Wolfhere!"

"Like Wolfhere, indeed!" Hanna waited to one side while Liath used the privies, but she started up again as soon as Liath rejoined her. "Wolfhere became an Eagle during King Arnulf's reign. Everyone knows he was one of Arnulf's favorites. Then Henry took the throne, and dismissed Wolfhere from court—but he could not dismiss him from the Eagles! That is the measure of an Eagle's security."

"Such as any of us have security," murmured Liath, remembering bones scoured clean on a roadside. She scrambled up the rampart to view the surrounding countryside. Up here the evening wind blew fresh into her face.

Below the bluff, the river wound away into darkening forest. Fields patched the nearer ground in narrow strips of lush growth: beans, vetch, and barley. Small figures walked in a village that seemed only a stone's throw from her position, although she knew it lay much farther away. The morning thunderclouds had long since vanished into the northeast, and the sky was clear with the moon already risen halfway to the zenith. The sun had set, but its glow colored the western sky. Brilliant Somorhas rode low on the horizon; the sky was still too bright to see any but the brightest stars in summer's sky: the Queen's sky.

"Would I be a queen?" she murmured, and was then so appalled at the thought of presiding over a court—a pit of intrigue, indeed!—that she shuddered.

"Are you cold?" Hanna draped a companionable arm over her shoulders. A roar of laughter erupted from the great hall, i which lay hidden behind them by chapel tower and stables.

"It's only because he can't rule," said Liath suddenly. "If he'd had any ambition to be king after his father, I couldn't have endured that!"

Hanna laughed sharply. "If he'd had any ambition to be king, he'd never have married you! He'd have married a noblewoman whose kin will support him."

"I deserved that, I suppose!"

"Maybe he's right." Hanna's expression drew taut in an expression of wonder and worry. "You aren't what you seem, Liath. Maybe he's wiser than the rest of us. They say Aoi blood tunes you to magic just as a poet tunes his lyre before he sings, knowing what sounds sweetest."

"Is that what they say?"

"Some at court say that Prince Sanglant grew so strange under Eika captivity because the enchantments polluted his mind. That's why—" She broke off, then smiled apologetically. "That's why he acts like a dog. The dogs became part of him, or he of the dogs, like a spell bound into his body by the Eika chieftain."

It arrived noiselessly and settled down on a ragged outcropping of rock. At first, Hanna didn't notice it, but Liath saw the owl immediately.

She gently shook off Hanna's arm and took a cautious step forward, then knelt. "Who are you?" she asked of the owl. It blinked huge golden eyes but did not move.

"Liath," whispered Hanna. "Why are you talking to an owl?"

"It isn't an ordinary owl." She kept her gaze fixed on the bird. It had ear tufts and a coat of mottled feathers, streaked with white at the breast. It was the largest owl she had ever seen—she who had spent many a night in silent contemplation of the stars and thus with her keen night vision seen the animals that woke and fed in the night. "Who are you?"

Its hoot echoed like a warning, "Who? Who?" and then it launched itself up from the rock and glided away.

"Eagle! I did not expect you to be gone for so long." Princess Sapientia appeared with a handful of servingwomen, having just come from the privies.

"Your Highness!" Hanna's expression betrayed her surprise no less than did her voice.

"Has she bewitched you* too?" demanded Sapientia as Hanna knelt before her. Liath hesitated, then felt it prudent to kneel in her turn. "Made proud by my brother's attention!"

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, for being so long away from you,"

replied Hanna in a calm voice. "We knew each other before we became Eagles.

We are almost like kin—

"But you are not kin."

"No—"

"You are a good, honest freewoman, Hanna. What she is no one here yet knows." She beckoned to a pair of guards who had remained respectfully behind.

"Bring her."

"I must return—!" Liath began.

"You must come with me." Sapientia's eyes gleamed with triumph. "You will not have your way so easily with the rest of us, Eagle!"

"Sanglant." But the wind blew her voice out into the gulf of air beyond the ramparts, where the bluff tumbled down and down to the land below. To fight would only cause more of a scene, as well as make her life immeasurably harder, so she went, and then was sorry she had done so when Sapientia returned directly to the hall. It was swarming with as many of the court who could crowd in, and the rest of their retainers and servants sat at trestle tables outside. With Duke Conrad and Margrave Judith and various local ladies who had ridden in to offer gifts before the king and share in his generosity in return, the king's progress had blossomed into a field crowded with life, hundreds of folk crammed together all eager to enjoy the night no matter what form their entertainment took. And when Sapientia led her into the great hall, so stuffed with people that it seemed to bulge at the seams, she would have sworn that every gaze turned to scrutinize her. Nausea swept her, washed down by the brash of Hanna's arm or her elbow, her last—and briefest—reassurance.

They had all been drinking, of course; it was a feast, and wine flowed freely. But the king rose, seeing her, and she knew at once—because she had known the signs intimately in Da's face—that he had been drinking hard to drown anger in his heart.

But he was still the king in dignity and voice.

"Has my son's mistress come to pay her respects?" he asked, gesturing toward her to make sure any soul in court who had not yet noticed her would notice her now.

"Or has she simply tired of her new conquest?" drawled Margrave Judith,

"and thrown him aside as she did my son once she had polluted him with her magics?" Her glare was as frightening as that of a guivre, turning Liath to stone.

Hugh did not appear to her among the sea of faces, all of them staring, but she was sure he was behind this humiliation.

"That is not for us to judge, but rather a matter for the church." Yes, Henry was drunk, but coldly angry beneath and able to control himself in his cups far better than Da had ever been able to. But Da had been nothing but a disgraced frater. Henry was king. "Seat her beside me," he continued with that iron gaze, edged like a sword. "Let the royal mistress be given honor as she deserves, who graces my son's bed." He knew what he was doing. "But not dressed like that!

Not dressed like a common Eagle! Has my son not gifted you with clothing fit for your rank?"

He did not mean her to reply; he only meant to remind her of his power, as if she had ever forgotten it.

Theophanu rose from her seat to the left of her father. A serv-ingwoman hurried forward, and the princess whispered in her ear before turning back to the king. "Your Majesty, I have reason to be beholden to this woman. Let me clothe her in a fitting manner."

The blow came from an unexpected source. Henry hesitated, but that hesitation gave Theophanu time to gesture peremptorily. Liath slipped out from the circle of Sapientia's retainers and into the cool but not unfriendly clime of Theophanu's followers.

They led her away to a room tucked under the eaves in the hall, and here the first servingwoman arrived out of breath with her arms draped with cloth.

She shook out the bundle to display a fine linen undertunic and an indigo silk overdress embroidered with tiny gold eight-pointed stars. The cloth rippled like a glimpse of the night sky, pure and mysterious.

"I've never worn anything so fine!" Liath whispered in awe, but they dressed her ruthlessly, measured her frame—as tall as the princess but more slender—and belted the overdress with a simple chain of gold links. They announced themselves satisfied with the condition of her hair but wove a golden net of delicate knotwork studded with pearls around the crown of her head as ornament.

"Lord have mercy," they murmured, surveying her. "It's no wonder the prince took a fancy to this one."

They led her back out into the hall. If she had thought herself fallen into the pit of misery before, it was nothing to what happened now: Even Henry, caught in mid-sentence as he addressed Sapientia, fell silent when he saw her.

They all fell silent, every soul in the hall. A moment later when Theophanu rose to relinquish her own seat beside the king, they all broke into voice at once.

"No dogs set over her to guard her?" Conrad's battle-trained voice carried easily over the throng. "I'd not leave such a precious treasure unattended."

She felt a blush flow like fire through her cheeks and down all her limbs, then furiously wished it cool for fear of causing an untimely and horrible conflagration. The king had a very odd look in his eye, and he offered her his own cup to drink from. She dared not refuse. The wine hit her throat with a rich bouquet and glowed in her stomach. She had to share the king's platter—an honor of such distinction that it branded her forever among the folk present here tonight. She would never be anonymous again, not on the king's progress. And the worst of it was that his fingers kept touching and tangling with hers in the dish so that despite the wonderful aroma and flavor of the food, she could scarcely get it down her throat which stayed parched no matter how much wine she drank.

Hathui slipped into the hall and stood in disapproving attendance behind the king's chair. Hanna, trapped in Sapientia's service, could only throw her despairing glances, helpless to help her. All other faces blurred together.

Young men wrestled before the king and threw her tokens in competition for her favor, and she had to give a kiss to the winner—a brawny lad whose breath smelled of onions. Jugglers and tumblers entertained, and she had to shower them with silver sceattas brought to her by the stewards. She had to pass judgment on the poets who came forward in the hope of gaining the fancy—and the favor—of the king, and the king demurred on all counts to her judgment. He sat with heavy-lidded eyes and watched her when he was not watching his court. His limbs brushed hers at intervals, but surely that was accident because they sat so close together. The sick feeling that afflicted her heart would not go away.

"How can you honor her, Your Majesty," said Judith finally, pushed to the edge of her patience, "when my son lies in a fever in his chamber, sweating away the pollution she brought onto him?"

Henry turned in his chair to regard the margrave. "I will act as is fitting, considering the accusations brought before me this day. I have already convened a council of biscops, to be held at Matthias-mass in Autun. There your son and this woman will be brought before those most fit to judge in such matters." His gaze lit on Liath again, and he toasted her with wine. "Yet as my dear cousin Conrad has so wisely warned me, I dare not let such a treasure go unguarded.

She will remain by my side until then—"

"By you

r side, cousin?" shouted Conrad, then roared with laughter. "Will that be after the prince tires of her, or before? But I am much struck by her beauty, too. I am not ashamed to state here in front of witnesses that no matter how many royal beds she graces, I will gladly take her off your hands when you are through."

When Henry laughed, other noblemen took up the jest, took up wagers: How many months until Sanglant tired of her—or the king—or then Conrad? Who would have her next?

Ai, God. She was desperately ashamed to be made mock of in this fashion.

Better to be spinning above the Abyss waiting for God to blow her into the pit then suffer this any longer!

To her left, Princess Theophanu sat as still as stone. Beyond Theophanu, Helmut Villam frowned at the assembly and did not join in the jesting. But Henry had a grim smile of perverse satisfaction on his face even as he watched her with that terrible glint of wine-inflamed desire on his face. She recognized it now.

Hugh had looked at her so on certain winter nights in Heart's Rest; what always followed was never pleasant, at least not for her.

"You see by this spectacle, my friends," said Judith in a voice that carried to the four corners of the hall, "that she has now bewitched even our good king.

What more proof do you need that she has stained her hands with malevolent sorcery?"

Ai, Lady! At long last he appeared at the door with twilight at his back, alone, without retinue, although thank God he had taken pains to make his clothing look neat. Perhaps the soldiers had done it for him. Master Hosel's belt looked perfectly in place with his rich tunic and hose. The salamanders worked into the leather almost seemed to slide and shine in the torchlight.

He strode forward down the ranks of tables and without a word or any least gesture of acknowledgment halted with arrogant grace before the king's table. There, he held out his hand. She staggered to her feet, but the king caught her by the wrist.

"My bed, or his," the king murmured.

Sanglant's nostrils flared in anger. But he did not move.

Henry's hand tightened on her arm. A whippet growled softly and was hushed. Even the jugglers and tumblers peeked out from where they sat tucked under the king's table. Everyone watched.

The king's bed.

She stood stunned for a good long time. Henry was about the age Da would have been, had he survived, but Henry wore his years with vigor and he had the fine, handsome, noble appearance that God of necessity grant to a regnant.

The king's protection.

Hugh would never dare touch her. Even the biscops, called to council, would surely be lenient with the king's mistress.

Sanglant waited with the dead calm of a man who knows the death blow is moments away.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty," she said. "But I swore an oath before God long ago."

He let her go. She cared for nothing now except getting out fast; ducking under the table, she crawled over fresh rushes, chicken bones, and the dregs of wine cups, and when she emerged on the other side Sanglant was there to hoist her up, assisted, unexpectedly, by one of the jugglers giving a hearty shove to her backside.

Everyone began talking at once.

She saw the door so far in the distance that she was sure they would never make it there, and then it gaped open before her and they stepped out under the night sky. She would have run, but he made her walk so that they would not look undignified.

He said nothing. When they got back to his chamber, he dug into her saddlebag without asking her leave and pul ed out the gold torque. She began to shake. He caught her hands and still without a word twisted the torque around her neck—and stared at her, in her fine gown ornamented with the night sky.

The torque weighed heavily, a slave collar indeed.

"Take it off, I beg you." The words choked her. "It's wrong for me to wear it."

"Nay, it's meant for you." He passed a hand over his eyes as at a vision he dared not dream of seeing. "Had it been Taille-fer's court, you still would have outshone them all."

She slid her fingers under the curve of gold braid, twisted it off, and set it down hard on the table as if the touch of it burned her skin to ice. "There must have been three hundred people in there, and all of them staring at me!"

"You'll get used to it."

"I'll never get used to it! I don't want to get used to it!"

"Hush, Liath." He tried to kiss her, to calm her, but she was too agitated to be calmed. She went to the window and leaned out. Many figures moved beyond the corner of the residence: and by their voices, and coarse jesting, and the tidal flow of the crowd, she knew the feast had ended with her departure. "He meant to shame you," said Sanglant as he came up beside her. He was careful not to touch her.

"Ai, God."

"Did you bewitch him?" he asked casually, flicking a finger along her cheek.

"I did nothing!"

"You did nothing, and yet he offered you his bed and his protection. My father is well known for his piety and his continence. In all my years at his side, I have never seen a display such as he gave us this night."

"I did nothing!" she repeated, furious now because the humiliation was still so raw. She remembered his own words of yesterday. "I will not have this conversation over and over if you in your heart doubt my intention!"

He laughed, relaxing suddenly. "No, I think you are the one who is witched somehow. Any man in that hall tonight would have taken you to his bed and given you half his estates and a third of his mother's treasure in return for your favor. The Lord and Lady know that you are beautiful, Liath." He leaned so close that his breath stirred her hair. "But not even the fair Baldwin makes all the ladies of the court go mad with desire for him. And I think God have molded him more like to the angels even than you."

"Who is the fair Baldwin?" she asked indignantly.

He bent away from her, shut his eyes as he stood silent, listening to the distant chatter of the assembly as it broke into groups and eddied away. She heard only a meaningless murmur,but she knew he could hear far more. "Nay,"

he said finally, "there is something else at work here, some spell laid on you."

"Is that the only reason you asked me to marry you, then," she asked harshly, "because of a spell? And if the biscops so choose, can they can condemn me for something I had no part in?"

He shook his head, having come to a decision. "You will not appear before the biscops. We will ride out with Conrad."

"Conrad was the worst of them!"

"We can't stay at court! Not after the king—my own holy father—tried to take you away from me!" Then he paused, made certain hesitant gestures as a prelude to speaking so that she knew what was coming next. "Were you tempted?"

Because he asked so timidly, the question made her laugh. "Of course I was tempted. The king's bed. The king's protection! I'd be a fool to cast that aside, wouldn't I? But I swore before God that I would never love any man but you."

"Ai, Lady, Liath." He embraced her, although he was unsteady. "We will make many strong children together, each one a blessing on our house." He pulled her gently toward the bed, but she slid out of his arms.

"Let me just stand here for a while," she said, going back to the window.

"I'm dizzy." She had drunk so much wine that her head still spun with it. He only smiled and went to sit on the bed, content to watch her.

She leaned out for a draught of air. She could see stars now in the vault of heaven: the Queen's Sword stood at zenith, but from this angle she could not see it. The River of Heaven poured westward, and the Guivre rose from its waters with stars streaming off its back. Like Judith's eye, turned on her with malice. So many stars, a thousand at least, as numerous as the courtiers and servants and hangers-on who followed the king.

"Da and I were always alone. Even at the court in Qurtubah where everything was rich and crowded, we stayed hidden on the fringe, mostly. We were always alone."

"Qurtubah," murmured Sanglant from the bed, a soft echo. "I saw a sword from Qurtubah once, light but strong. It had a curve to it."

Directly north she saw Kokab, the north star, and below it the Ladle, forever poised to catch the heavenly waters and bring them to the mouths of the gods should the gods thirst for such nectar. That was the story the old Dariyans told, but it was not L

the explanation which the Jinna astronomers, beholden to the great Gyptian philosopher Ptolomaia, set down in their books. ' 'The highest sphere encompasses all existing things,' " she said softly. The Book of Secrets lay so close behind her that she could feel its quiescent presence; she did not need to open its pages to quote from the text of the Jinna scholar al-Haytham whom she and Da had once met. " 'It surrounds the sphere of the fixed stars and touches it. It moves with a swift motion from east to west on two fixed poles and makes one revolution in every day and night. All the orbs which it surrounds move with its motion.' '

"Does this mean something I ought to understand?" Lounging on the bed, he yawned.

"We call Kokab the north star because it marks the north pole. There must be a south pole, too, which I haven't seen."

"Has someone seen it?"

"I don't know if any of the Jinna astronomers traveled so far. I don't know if there's any land in the south. They say it's all a desert, baked to sand under the sun's heat." Out among the palace buildings, people filtered away in ripples made of laughter and song and movement as hall and courtyard emptied. "Al-Haytham says that day and night increase the closer you are to the place where you would stand under the pole. It would be at zenith—"

He yawned the question more than spoke it.

She pointed, realized it had grown too dark for him to see her. "Zenith is straight above us. At that place, where you would stand right under the pole, the axis of the world is perpendicular. And the horizon then must coincide exactly with the circle of the celestial equator." The misery of the evening slid off of her as she stared at the stars. Their mysteries never failed to catch hold in her spirit and set her free to wonder. "But then daylight would be almost six months long.

Well, as long as the sun remains in the northern signs. Because the sun would always be above the horizon. And night would be almost six months long when the sun was in the southern signs, because the sun would always be below the horizon. So it must also be true at the southern pole, only day and night would be the opposite of that which held at the northern pole. Isn't that elegant?" Now she yawned, the spell of the night wearing even on her. "Sanglant?"

He had fallen asleep.

All at once she realized how an unnatural quiet had spread like a cloud creeping out from the horizon to blanket the sky. She yawned again, shook it off.

"Sanglant?"

He grunted softly, but only to turn over. He was still fully clothed.

She leaned farther out the window, but only wind crackled in the branches.

No sign of life stirred, not hounds sniffing after scraps, not an owl spying for mice, not even servants or rats picking clean platters left half full by drunken nobles. It was as if everyone had fallen abruptly into a profound sleep. The stars shimmered under a veil of haze, sundered from her who was trapped here in the mortal plane.

"Da?" If his soul streamed above her in the River of Heaven, pouring toward the Chamber of Light with the thousands of others released from the flesh, she could not see it.

Nervous, she crossed to the door and peeked out. Four Lions lay slumped, asleep, by the threshold. In the great courtyard, no living thing moved; dust swirled around abandoned tables.

The terror hit so hard that she could barely get the door closed, she began to shake so violently; she could barely hoist the bar and wedge it down in its place, barring them in. She turned to go to the window, but it was too late.

A shadow moved at the open window. A leg thrown over. The glint of gold hair by candlelight. His face, bruised but still beautiful. He set the candle down on the table. The Eika dog whined a warning and he kicked it as he strode past, crossing the chamber to her. He slapped her, hard, before she could even think to defend herself, then shoved her up against the door. With his body pressed against her she could feel his arousal, and, God help her, for an instant a spike of lust coursed through her only because her body was so alive to desire, made so by Sanglant's presence.

Then he hit her again.

She fought back, but he was in a frenzy; he was too far gone even to speak in that eloquent, beautiful voice. He grabbed her by the shoulders and wrestled her to the bed, flung her down beside Sanglant. Who did not wake.

Who breathed most gently, eyes closed, face peaceful and yet, even in repose, proud and strong.

"Now you will give me what you give him!"

"Won't!" The word was forced out of her by his weight as he dropped down on top of her, knee pressed against her chest and a hand on either shoulder. His face was bruised and his front teeth chipped; his beauty spoiled.

He let go of one shoulder to grope for his knife. "Or I'll kill him. I'll slit his throat while he sleeps here helplessly, and if you burn down this room around us he'll be the first to die!"

It was only a bad dream, wasn't it? She would wake up in an instant and everything would be fine.

The Eika dog whined, claws scrabbling weakly at the floor. Ai, God! Let her keep her wits about her even while terror drowned her. It was so hard not simply to slide away into the frozen tower where she had hidden all those months in Heart's Rest. But she could not. She must not.

"How can I know you won't kill him anyway, after you're done?" she asked hoarsely.

"You can't know! They're all asleep, Liath." His voice gentled. "No one can help you now, and do you dare risk burning down this place knowing the king rests next door, asleep? He'll not escape in time; he'll be the second to die. Will his death be on your head, too?" His face twisted again, and the bruise mottled in the inconstant light to become like the mark of the Enemy. "I will have what he has enjoyed! He's no better than a dog. How could you possibly prefer him to me!"

"I hate you."

He smiled with the old familiar beauty—not lost after all but merely poisoned. "Hate is only the other face of love, my beauty. You cannot hate what you cannot also love. You cannot possibly imagine how beautiful you looked seated beside the king. You looked truly to be a queen, set higher than the rest.

I can't believe you were foolish enough to turn away from the king's favor for—

this—this dog!"

"Jealousy is a sin." Just yesterday she had been able to hate him with all her passion, but, trapped by him against the bed, all that anger drained away.

Numbness oozed from his hand like poison down her arm, invaded her chest, spread with the inevitable doom of a plague brought down by angels upon those who have turned their back on God's Holy Word.

"Then I will fall forever into the Abyss—but you will be at my side! Forever.

We will ride out in the morning, back to Firse-barg. You and I—

"Vrmcess Sap'ientia—"

"What do I care for Sapientia? Ah, my beauty, how long I have waited for this. Perhaps the wait truly only makes it sweeter."

He pressed the knife against Sanglant's vulnerable throat. A line of red started up, not quite seeping.

"Ai, God," she breathed. She had nothing but fire, and fire would destroy what she loved.

"Take off your clothes, so I can see you who are dark and lovely."

Why hadn't Da's spell that protected her against all other magics protected her against Hugh's? Unless what Hugh had woven onto her during that long winter in Heart's Rest had not been any kind of spell at all but only cruelty and abuse.

Was it better to die with Sanglant?

"I told you what I wanted." He pressed the knife harder, and Sanglant actually murmured and shifted—but he did not wake. He could not wake. Hugh pressed the knife harder until blood trickled down the prince's neck.

The dog lunged, dragged itself forward, and gripped Hugh's trailing foot in its mouth; even weakened the dog had a sharp bite. Hugh jerked back and swore in pain, kicked free of the dog, and then kicked it back into the corner.

Which gave her time and chance.

She dove for her short sword.

He wrenched her back just as she got a grip on the handle. Slammed her against the wall. "I'll kill him! I promise you, I'll kill him. You're mine, damn you."

She fought him, trying to catch his hands so the blows wouldn't land; trying not to explode into a fire made manifest by terror. There Sanglant breathed, so peaceful, but so far away now that Hugh loomed everywhere. She would never be free of him. But at least if she fought, she would be dead.

"God damn you!" He took her throat in his hands. "You are mine Or no one's."

"Hush, Brother. Calm yourself. I fear you are overwrought."

Hugh did not register the voice. Over his shoulder, Liath saw the door standing open. She had barred that door. Stunned into immobility, she felt the back of her head hit the wall as Hugh shook her by the throat, but she could only stare, limp and passive, as a veiled figure crossed the threshold and glided into the room.

"Brother," it said in a woman's sorrowful yet commanding alto, "this is unseemly behavior for any soul indeed and yet how much worse in a man sworn to the church and educated in its ways. Alas, how God's children have fallen!"

Now his grip slackened. His eyes widened, and his lips parted with astonishment. He let Liath go and she slid down the wall as though she hadn't any bones left and sat hard, jolting her spine, on the floor. Beside her, the Eika dog lay under the window like a dead thing.

He raised a hand, pointed it at the hooded figure as a threat— or as prelude to a spell.

But her hand, pale and smooth, rose in response, and abruptly Hugh clapped a hand to his throat. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Such a lovely countenance, such an elegant voice, to be poisoned by such trivial weaknesses as lust and envy. I pity you, Brother." She stepped aside from the door. The opening yawned wide and as dark as the pit beyond, where nothing stirred. She might have walked into the chamber from out of thin air, and yet she had weight and substance and her footfalls made a faint noise as she moved. "You are not as powerful as you think you are, although I admit you have strength of will and a promising intelligence. Such a great talent to be wasted tormenting a helpless girl. You must scour all such base feelings from your soul and be purified by God's love. Then you will understand that the power we have on earth, the lusts that hunger in our flesh, are as nothing compared to the promise of the Chamber of Light. All is darkness, below. Above—" She gestured eloquently toward the ceiling, but by the sweep of her arm she included the high heavens in that gesture. "—there is only that light which is God's gentle breath."

Hugh could not speak, although he tried to. He tried to grasp his knife, but it kept slipping out of his fingers. He was helpless. And Liath exulted in her heart to see him so.

"Go, Brother. 'Heal thyself.' But do not trouble me or this child any longer."

He coughed out something, not words—perhaps a curse that had gotten stuck in his throat. He stumbled over to the table and fumbled for the candle and at last got the bronze handle squeezed between thumb and forefinger. Even so, he could barely stay upright; he grunted like a pig as he groped along the table.

Then,suddenly, he dropped to his knees and got his arm under the strap to the leather pouch which before the struggle had been hooked to the dog.

"The book!" Liath tried to get up, but her bones had all melted and she could not move.

He staggered out, and the veiled figure just let him go.

With the candle gone, night shuttered the chamber in layers of shadow.

Silence settled like so many owls coming to roost in the eaves.

Liath began to cry, and then to hiccup as she cried. Pain cut into her throat like a rope burn, winching tighter. Her shoulder hurt; her ribs ached; on her left hip a bruise throbbed painfully. Sanglant gave a soft sleeping snort and shifted on the bed.

"The book!" she said again, her voice made harsh by Hugh's grip.

The figure moved to the bed. "He will not find a mathe-maticus to train him in its use, unless he comes to us."

A light appeared suddenly from her upraised palm, a gently glowing globe lined with silver. She held it over the bed and its sheen of light illuminated the sleeping Sanglant—and the line of blood that traced the curve of his throat. With a casual gesture, she tipped back her cowl and veil so that the fabric draped along her shoulders rather like a small creature curled there.

She had pale hair drawn back into a braid that, curled into a bun, nestled at the back of her head. She wore no other head covering, and the shapeless robes concealed all else. From this angle, Liath could not see her face, only an ear and the suggestion of a strong profile, neither young nor old.

The woman bent forward and with the light held before her examined Sanglant with great interest. She touched his knees. She lifted each hand in turn to scrutinize palm and fingers before letting it fall limply back on the bed. She traced the swell of bone in his cheeks, parted his lips to study his teeth, and clasped his shoulders as if to gauge their strength. She pressed a hand on the old scar at the base of his throat, the visible mark of the wound that had ruined his voice, rubbed softly at the fresh raw wound only now beginning to heal, the mark of Blood-heart's iron collar, and then ran a finger along the shallow cut made by Hugh's knife to collect and taste his blood. Indeed, she behaved very like a noble lady who prefers to personally examine the fine stallion in question before she buys it to breed into her herd.

"So this is Sanglant," she said in a tone of detached curiosity.

The name, uttered so dispassionately and yet with such a sense of ancient and hoarded knowledge, startled Liath into speaking. "Do you know him?"

"No mathematicus who studies the geometry of the heavens, who is aware of that which exists beyond human ken, is unaware of him. Even the diamones of the upper air whisper of his progress from child to youth to man."

"Who are you?" Liath whispered. Her hands tingled sharply as blood flooded back into them. She tried to stand, but her knees gave out. She ached everywhere.

"Those in Duke Conrad's party know me as Sister Anne from St. Valeria Convent." She displayed a pleasant smile that by no means touched her eyes.

She had an ageless face, hair made paler by the silvery light of the globe that hovered at her fingertips, and, most astonishingly, a torque nestled around her neck, braided gold that glittered in the magelight with each end twisted off into a nub that an unknown master craftsman had formed into a face resembling nothing as much as an angel resting in beatific ecstasy.

"You aren't Sister Anne," Liath blurted out. "I saw her. She was small, and old, and had wrinkled hands covered with age spots, and different eyes, brown eyes."

"How can you have seen Sister Anne? Did you bide at St. Valeria Convent for a time?"

Liath hesitated, then realized how foolish it was to fear her. If this woman could turn aside Hugh's spells so easily, then whatever she meant to do to Liath would be done whether or not Liath fought against it. "I saw her in a vision through fire."

She smiled at this, looking truly pleased this time—no longer a mask. She lifted her arm slightly to let the globe better illuminate her face. "Don't you know who I am, Liath?"

The globe pulsed with light. Liath struggled to her feet. She had a terrible bruise forming in her right thigh where Hugh had jammed his knee into it, and her shins throbbed where he had kicked her. The silvery gleam grew stronger, the globe spit white sparks, and suddenly the sparks blossomed into butterflies, flitting everywhere, winged light like glass flying off all around the room so that every corner became a field of splintering,swooping light. As with a breath breathed onto them from an unseen source, each white spark bloomed into color: ruby, car-nelian, amber, citrine, emerald, lapis lazuli, and amethyst, stars fallen to earth and caught within this chamber, and each one engaged in a dance of such peculiar beauty that she could only stare in awe.

Then she knew, of course. But she could not at first speak, not because of magic but simply because she could not remember how to speak.

Ai, God. Memory flooded, surfacing, as she turned back to face the one who held the globe of light. "Muh—Mother?"

She had a headache from the pounding her head had taken against the wall. Sparks swirled around her eyes, and then everything vanished, leaving her with a steady gleam of magelight and a cool, pale woman of vast power and middling height who regarded her with a thoughtful gaze unsullied by emotion.

"You have grown up, of course. Your beauty is unexpected and has caused you trouble, I see."

"Why have you come?" Liath asked stupidly.

She released the globe and it bobbed to the ceiling, sank, and drifted to a balance just below the eaves. "I have come for you, of course. I have been looking for you and Bernard for a long time. And now, at last, I have found you."

DURING her reign as Queen of Wendar and Varre, Sophia of Arethousa had been accused by certain clerics of the sin of living in luxury beyond what was seemly for humankind, and some had muttered that God had punished her for the excessive luxury of her habits by striking her down with a festering sore: as inside, so outside.

But Sanglant recalled her fondly. She had always in her cool way suffered Sanglant to roam in chambers made opulent by the extravagant display of the many fine possessions she had brought with her from Arethousa. As a child he had loved to explore those chambers: the bold tapestries, the rich fragrance of incense smothering the air, the bright reliquaries and crosses set on elaborately-carved Hearths inlaid with ivory and gems, the plush carpets on which a young boy could lie for hours while tracing their intricacies with a finger, the sumptuous silks that he would run his hands through just to feel their softness. Once he had accidentally broken a crystal chessman, one of the handsome horsemen he loved to play with as he imagined himself among their number, and although the piece was irreplaceable, she had merely ordered a matching piece carved out of wood and had said no more about the incident. His freedom in her chambers had ended when he turned nine and was sent off to learn to fight—to his fate, as he thought of it then.

But he had never forgotten the feel of that cloth. Around Queen Sophia's bed had hung a gauzy veil that seemed to dissolve like mist when he clenched it in his small fist.

Now he clawed at a substance as filmy, struggling to free himself from a tangle of gauzelike sleep that had wrapped around • him: The dogs would kill him if he couldn't wake up.

Never let it be said that he did not fight until his last breath.

Dreams fluttered at the edge of his vision: Hugh of Austra, his handsome face poisoned by jealousy, setting a knife to his throat; people and animals dead asleep throughout the palace grounds like so many corpses left strewn on the field after a battle; an owl skimming east; depthless waters roiled suddenly by the movement of creatures more man than fish; the Aoi woman whose blood had healed him loping at a steady pace over interminable grasslands with a filthy servant riding at her heels on a pony decked out in Quman style.

She stops to scent the air, brushes her hand through the wind as if reading a message. The servant watches her almost wor-shipfully; he has no beard, and wears a torn and dirty robe that might once have belonged to a frater as well as a Circle of Unity at his neck. He waits as she lifts her stone-tipped spear and rattles it in the wind. The bells attached to its base tinkle, shattering the silence around him—

"And now, at last, I have found you."

He bolted up, growling, and was on his feet with arms raised to strike before he came entirely awake. In Bloodheart's hall, speed had been his only defense. Speed—and a stubborn refusal to die. From under the window the Eika dog growled weakly but did not otherwise stir.

"Sanglant!" Liath crossed to him and pulled his arms down, then stood there with one hand on his wrist. An uncanny light gleamed in the chamber, sorcerer's fire: heatless and fuelless. He steadied himself on her shoulder, and she winced—not from his touch, but from pain.

"What has happened?" He moved to stand in front of Liath, to protect her from the intruder, but she stopped him.

"This is my mother."

The gauze still entangled his mind. Her mother. He could see no trace of Liath in this woman's face, except that the unconscious pride with which Liath carried herself was made manifest in this noblewoman's carriage and expression: That she wore a gold torque did not astonish him, although it surprised him. Was she of Salian descent? She watched him without speaking and indeed without any apparent emotion except a touch of curiosity.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly. "We are wed, she and I."

"So I have heard, as well as a great deal else. It is time Liath left this place."

"For where?" asked Liath.

"And with whom?" added Sanglant.

"It is time for Liath to fulfill that charge which is rightfully hers by birth. She will come with me to my villa at Verna where she will study the arts of the mathematici."

Sanglant smiled softly. Liath tensed, but whether with worry— or excitement—at the prospect he could not tell. And in truth, how well did he know her? The image he had made of her in his mind had little to do with her: In the brief days since she had returned, he had seen her to be both more—and less—

than the imagined woman he had built his life around during those months of captivity. But he was willing to be patient.

"You speak of forbidden sorcery," he observed. "One that the church has condemned."

"The church does not condemn what is needful," Anne replied. "Thus I am assured that God approve our work."

"Our work?" he murmured.

Liath dropped his wrist and stepped forward. "Why did you abandon Da and me? Why did you let us think you were dead for all those years?"

"I did not abandon you, child. You had already fled, and we could not find you."

"You must have known Da couldn't take care of us!"

She had a puzzling face, one that didn't show her years, yet neither did she appear young. "Bernard loved the world too much," she said sadly, although her expression never varied from that face that reminded him most of Sister Rosvita when she was soothing Henry: the mask of affability that all successful courtiers wear. "It was his great weakness. He could not turn away from the things of the flesh—all that is transient and mortal. He delighted in the spring plants, in the little fawns running among the trees, in your first steps and first words, but these delights are also a trap for the unwary, for by these means the Enemy wraps-his tendrils around those of good heart who are seduced by the beauty of the world." She sighed in the way of a teacher who regards a well-loved if exasperating pupil. "I see his mark on you, Daughter. But his alone. No other hand has worked in your soul to corrupt you. To change you."

"To change me?"

"From what you are meant to be."

"Which is?" asked Sanglant.

"A mathematicus," said Anne firmly. "Gather your things, Liath. We will leave now and be gone long before day breaks."

"With what retinue do we travel?" asked Sanglant.

She regarded him with that unfathomable gaze, and for an instant the chamber dimmed, and his skin trembled as if snakes crawled up his arms and legs, and he was shaken by a fear like nothing he had ever felt before: what an ant might feel in that shadowed moment before a hand reaches down to crush it.

Then the moment passed, and he merely stood in an ordinary chamber fitted out with the usual luxuries due to a fighting man of noble birth: two carpets thrown over the plank floor; a chest filled with clothing and linens; a table and, with it, a chair rather than a common bench; an engraved copper basin and pitcher for washing his face and hands as well an enamel tray, several wooden platters, two bone spoons, two silver goblets and one bowl fashioned out of gold; a plush feather bed covered by a spread magnificently embroidered with the figure of a black dragon, sigil of his triumphs as a soldier. The globe of magelight illuminated every corner of the room and all that it held: every piece of it come to him out of his father's treasury and his father's favor, which was itself a kind of prison. His armor and weapons—his morning gift—gleamed under the light as if they had been enchanted with unknown powers. And perhaps they were: They had come to him through his own efforts.

"You propose to travel with us?" Anne asked finally.

"I am a king's son, and whatever your lineage, my lady, you cannot look down upon my kin and my noble birth."

"It is the sins of the world and the weaknesses of the flesh that I look down upon. Shall I subject my daughter to them further? Or save her from them by taking her away from all that tempts her?"

"The blessed Daisan said that within marriage we may find purification.

Salvation arises out of creation."

She folded her hands before her like a saint readying for prayer. "You are a learned man, Prince Sanglant."

"Not at all. But I listen when the clerics read from the Holy Verses." He allowed himself a smile, half lost on his lips and quickly passing away. He knew a battle joined when he met one; and, as always, he intended to win.

"What have you to offer me?" she asked.

"The protection I can bring you as we travel, in exchange for which you will agree to feed and clothe me, and supply me with a suitable mount."

"I do not need that kind of brute protection. In addition, I have only two mounts suitable for riding. You have nothing but service to offer me, Prince Sanglant. Will you bind yourself to me as a servant, one who walks at my side?"

The first blow that lands always comes as a surprise. But he knew better than to flail.

Liath did not. Her anger fairly sparked off her. "I have something you want," she cried furiously.

Her anger had no effect on the depthless calm worn by her mother. "What is that?"

"Myself!"

"Earthly ties can only interfere with the concentration and detachment required of any person who wishes to learn the arts of the mind."

"I have a horse, and I will only go with you if Sanglant comes with us. He will ride beside us on my horse not as a servant but as a soldier. As a captain."

"As he was once captain of the King's Dragons." Anne studied him. He recognized the measuring gaze of one whose course of action is not yet fixed.

But he chose to wait. Perhaps Liath's flanking action would serve the purpose, and the truth was that he did not care how the victory was won. He simply would not leave her.

"His name is famous among the people of Wendar and Varre, and among their enemies," Liath continued. "He is worth more than you know."

Anne lifted a hand to capture the magelit globe and turn its light directly upon him. He had to blink at first because the light was so strong, but he did not shrink from her scrutiny. "Nay, Liathano, I am not unaware of his worth, the child of human and Aoi blood. Not at all."

Like a warning finger run up his back, his spine tingled.

"It is not what I expected," she said, still studying him in the way an eagle gliding above the earth surveys the landscape below and all that runs there. "But still. We can learn more than we have known up until now."

"Then it's agreed?" Liath stuck stubbornly to the issue at hand.

"It is agreed."

"Ai, Lady!" Liath embraced him, shedding a few tears. "I pray God that we find the peace you long for when we reach Verna."

He kept his arms around her but his gaze on her mother, who watched them without approval and yet without any obvious censorious d/sapproval. Her gaze had its own disconcerting backwash. He did not trust her. Yet neither did he feel in his gut that Liath's choice to go with her was the wrong one. This contradiction he could not explain to himself.

Liath sighed with satisfaction and raised her head to get a kiss, and of course he complied.

But that did not mean he stopped listening.

"This, too, is unexpected," Anne murmured, too softly for Liath to hear, but he heard very well, as well as a dog. "But not without advantage for our cause."

The palace slept as they made their way through the upper enclosure, but it was a natural sleep; he recognized its rustlings and murmurings. As they packed their few possessions, Liath had haltingly told him the entire story of Hugh's attack, and while at first he had certainly wanted nothing more than to get his hands around Hugh's throat and throttle him, he knew enough to let the feeling swell and then burst. They were in enough trouble. Henry would refuse to let them leave; all three of them knew that unsavory fact, and they worked more quickly, and in such silence as they could, because of it, although it was a tricky business getting the gelding out of the stable.

When at last they arrived at the gate where three mules and one horse waited, he began to doubt Anne's princely appearance because she had no retinue. An instant later, he knew himself mistaken when he heard whispering on the air. They spoke in a language he did not recognize, more wind than voice, and he could not see them, but he heard the breath of their movement and the rustling of that portion of their invisible bodies which gave them substance.

"Who is there?" murmured Liath, as if afraid her whisper would wake the palace. The magelight seemed now to Sanglant merely a particularly bright lantern—although its glow had too steady a flame to be natural.

"My servants," said Anne softly.

He shuddered as fingers trailed over his back, searching, then vanished.

Breath tickled an ear, and his hair stirred, blown into his eyes. By the time he brushed it away, he was alone again. He threw his armor—muffled in the dragon-sigil-bedspread— over the back of one of the pack mules and tied it on securely, then handed the spear to Liath. "I must get the dog,"

"The dog!" He had surprised Anne.

"My retinue," he said sardonically. "If I leave it here, they will kill it. It saved my life more than once."

"Ghastly creature!" she muttered, but then that flicker of emotion fled and she merely nodded, as if the exchange—and the presence of the dog—were too trivial for her to notice.

He had to go quietly. In the chapel, clerics sang Vigils. Their voices rose and fell so sinuously that he almost lost step and forgot to walk, caught in their melodious prayer. Lions snored lustily at his door; none had woken from their magicked sleep. He crossed the threshold, hoisted the dog, and hauled it back to the gates. He threw it like a sack of grain over the back of one of the pack mules and fastened it there with rope, then calmed the mule, who did not take well to the smell of Eika on its back. But even working quickly, he did not finish in time.

Soldiers came out of the gloom, twenty or thirty of them, all of them leading horses burdened with a soldier's kit.

"My lord prince!"

Yet they spoke in whispers, not in a shout that would wake the palace and the gate guards who still slept at their posts.

"Who are these?" asked Anne mildly.

"My lady Sister!" Well trained to a man, they knelt respectfully as such milites would before any noble cleric. Surprised, Sanglant glanced at her. She had pulled a golden strip of cloth over her hair to cover it; no gold gleamed at her throat to betray her exalted rank. "I beg your pardon, my lord prince,"

continued their spokesman, the same Captain Fulk, "but when your recent trouble came upon you, we met together and pledged an oath all as one: That we would follow you if you left the king. We beg you, Prince Sanglant. Let us ride with you. We will follow you even into death if only you will give us your pledge to lead us faithfully."

"Ai, God." How could he answer them? Yet such a thrill of joy throbbed through him at the thought of men he could lead, comrades to live and fight beside, that he was at once stricken to tears at the memory of his brave Dragons.

Anne answered before he could find his voice. "Nobly offered. But where we go, they cannot follow. We cannot support so many in idleness, and in idleness they would grow bored and difficult. Nay, the contemplative life is not for such as these."

The men muttered at her words, but they waited for his answer. So many faces turned up to him: all of them young and newly come to soldiering except for two weathered-looking men, one of whom was Captain Fulk. Sanglant met each man's gaze and nodded at him, and each in turn responded in his own way: with an answering nod, a cocky grin, a serious frown, a bob of excitement, a tightening of the jaw as resolve set in.

"Sister Anne's words ring true enough," he said finally. His heart ached for what had been offered but was not his to take. Not now. Not yet. "I mean to go into seclusion...until my father's anger toward me cools. I would gladly lead you, my comrades, but it would be no fit life for you, and it is true you would only grow bored and contentious, and you would fight among yourselves."

"Then what are we to do, my lord prince?" asked Captain Fulk, almost pleading.

He owed them consideration. They had offered him everything that mattered to a soldier: to stand beside him. He could not simply dismiss them.

"Go to Princess Theophanu. I tender you into her care. She keeps her own counsel, and she will watch over you. She rides south to Aosta soon enough, where you will see plenty of fighting. When I have need of you, then I will know where to find you. I will fight no battle without you at my side."

"We will do as you wish, my lord prince. But we will be waiting for your call."

He walked in among them, then, took each man's hand between his own as a sign of their fidelity. He recalled the names of those who had been at Ferse, and asked the names of the others. All twenty-seven had strong shoulders and an iron glint in their eyes: Men who dared defy the king to ride with him. He admired them, and he knew their worth.

Anne and Liath had already mounted, Anne upon one,of the mules like a good churchwoman and Liath on the smaller horse, leaving Resuelto for his greater weight. They waited for him, and in the end he had already made his choice. It was time to go.

But God knew how hard it was to leave behind his life as prince, lord, and captain, made doubly hard by the oaths just freely offered to him.

"We will wait for you, Prince Sanglant," repeated Captain Fulk, and the men murmured those same words and by speaking them made them binding.

Then, as if Fulk understood that their presence was a chain binding the prince, he directed the soldiers to disperse, which they did with dispatch and admirable efficiency. They had even muffled their horses' hooves in cloth to cover the sound of so many riding out.

Sanglant mounted Resuelto and hurried to catch Anne and Liath, who had already vanished through the gate and now rode down the road through the lower enclosure. The pack mules plodded behind them, burdens swaying in a steady rhythm. Of Anne's servants he saw no sign. An owl hooted but remained hidden in the darkness. The waning gibbous moon rode low in the west, and its light made the road gleam as though an en

J

chanter's hand had laid that light down before them to make their way easy—and safe from anything that might harm them. Anne did not even look back as they crossed out of the lower enclosure and picked their way down through the ramparts. Liath glanced back once at the palace grounds now high above them, walls washed a pale gray under the moon, and she looked relieved more than anything. But he wept softly, in grief for the estrangement from his father and in regret for the brave men he had left behind.

TONE TIME

HJE gathers stones, none larger than his fist, none smaller than a hen's egg, and collects them in a leather pouch. The stones must not be too large, all together, for him to carry, but they must not be too small to serve his purpose—

and there must not be too few of them. Here in the northlands, stone offers a rich harvest, and although his specifications are strict, he has no trouble finding what he seeks.

He hears footsteps, but it is only one of his slaves, come to report. He sends the slave on her way. Armed with this intelligence, for he has made of his slaves a net of listening posts to seek out his rivals, he makes his way up along the vale to the spot where his last two rivals face off.

He finds a vantage point between two boulders. With interest he watches the duel: First Son of the First Litter, calm, canny, and strong, waits as Seventh Son of the Second Litter circles in aggressively. Too aggressively. He watches dispassionately as the two brothers meet, clash, rip, and leap back. Seventh Son is quick and ruthless. First Son has greater strength, but he wastes it not, for the duel is still young. He lets Seventh Son fein and

t

circle, lunge, parry, and retreat, and hoards his own strength meanwhile.

Another lunge, another blow. Blood flows, eases. First Son wears a gash in his left shoulder. Seventh Son limps. They begin again.

In the end it is simply a matter of time. Seventh Son is fierce, but fierceness does not count for everything. First Son did not escape from the ruin of Gent with a large portion of his war-band intact by being foolish. Nor is he foolish here.

n

I the end, it is Seventh Son who lies bloody and torn upon the earth. Fifth Son-does not wait for First Son to cut the braid that wil mark his victo y r , but

retreats from his hiding place and cuts through trees to the path that leads up to the fjall, to the nest of the WiseMothers. He passes the newest WiseMother, still on her slow journey to the fjall, but he does not stop to speak to her. He must have time if he is to defeat First Son.

At this elevation all vegetation has been scoured away by the unceasing wind and the unforgiving chill, all but moss, moss everywhere except on those slopes where there is a recent fall of scree. Snowmelt streams flow downslope, as clear as air and bitterly cold. Everywhere rock lies, tumbled in the streambeds, smothered in moss, blanketing the slopes; rock is the mantle that shrouds the deep earth and the hidden fire.

Here an arm of the fjord has sliced in o

t the high fjall, and a stream spills

over a cliff that plunges straight down like a knife cut. The falling water booms down to the tongue of fjord. The cliff he stands on is mirrored in the still water far below. For a moment, he sees his own shape, indistinct and tiny, a transitory blot upon the ancient land, and then the wind moving over the water obliterates him—as will his own mortality, in time. But not this day.

A dog howls in the distance. A hawk soars above the opposite cliff face, joined by a second hawk, then a third.

Wind stirs on his shoulders, and he turns away from the edge and makes his way to the ring of WiseMothers. He watches the ground with care, because here on the fjall the silvery nets of the ice wyrms change from season to season as their paths change, snaking lines of glimmering sand, each grain a crystal shard of venom: Their trail.

It is a peculiarly still day, wearing away to what passes for night at this season. Here on the fjall the wind usually cuts unceasingly, sawing and grinding away at the rock. Today it rests quiescent, stirring only occasionally as if it, too, awaits the decision soon to be reached on the nesting ground of the WiseMothers.

The land dips to make a hollow, where the Rikin WiseMothers congregate and whisper. Their thoughts reverberate into the heavens, and touch OldMan, the moon, the priest who in ancient days was banished to the fjall of the heavens as punishment for his transgressions. That is why the moon alone among all the heavenly creatures fades and dies, and is born again out of darkness. Such is the fate of all sons of the RockChildren.

The WiseMothers stand hunched in a rough circle, huge bodies ossifying, too heavy now to move. Each one stands with her toes just grazing on the expanse of silver sand. The sand lies smooth; no trace of the ever-present wind touches it; no debris lies scattered from recent storms; no scallops ripple its surface, for the nest of the WiseMothers is impervious to wind and guarded by the ice-wyrms.

Only the WiseMothers know what they are incubating here.

For a long while he watches the glimmering hollow. Nothing stirs. Nothing.

But that is illusion.

Even the small creatures that haunt the fjall know to avoid the nesting grounds.

He takes a rock from the pouch and tosses it. Where it hits the sand with a thunk, a shudder ripples out from it actually visible in the surface just as a tossed stone ripples still water. As the vibrations stir the sand away on the other side, where the rock fell, he slides one foot onto the hard surface and follows with the second.

The stone tilts, rocks. A gleaming claw, translucent like ice, surfaces to hook the stone. That fast, stone and claw vanish. He stops dead still. The sand where the stone hit eddies, smooths over, and lies still again.

He waits.

He dares not move.

He does not fear the claws of the ice-wyrms. They are fragile creatures, sightless, as thin as rope, at home only when they burrow deep in their nests of crystallized venom. Even starlight burns them.

But there is no creature the RockChildren fear as much as the ice-wyrms.

No death compares to the wretched fate that awaits one who is stung. The venom of the ice-wyrms nourishes the WiseMothers, who nurse the roots of the earth. They alone are strong enough to take succor from it.

To all o h

t er creatures, it b in

r gs that which is worse than death. In this way

Bloodheart protected himself, with a dead nestbrother animated by magic and fueled with venom. That is the mark of an e

nchanter: Even after death his hand

can strike down the one who killed him.

He reaches into the pouch, draws out ano h

t er stone, and tosses it. One

stone at a time, he slides out across the nesting ground toward a small hummock that emerges from the silver sands in the center. As hard as iron, the surface of the hummock is polished to a pearlescent gleam.

It takes him half the short summer's night to get there, but when he reaches the hummock and takes that last step onto its slick surface, he can shake out his tense limbs. The rounded dome warms his feet, and it smells faintly of sulfur. He is safe.

Safe, that is, until he has to cross back.

He has made this journey before. Only here, in the center of the nesting ground, can mortal ears hear the whispering of the WiseMothers. No creature enslaved to the earth lives long enough to hear even one of their thoughts in its entirety. But the youngest of the WiseMothers can still speak, if only one has the patience to listen. He has listened to them before. He has brashly asked their advice.

Yet it is not their advice he seeks this day.

Night fades to morning. He waits. First Son does not come.

He waits, and listens.

"They. Will. Pass. The. Bridge. And. The. Cataract."

"They. Will. Part. The. Waters. The. Fire. Rivers. Will. Change. In. Their.

Course."

"Make. Room. Make. Room."

A sigh passes through them, wind groaning down from the northern fjalls, murmuring out of the eastern fjalls, and whispering in the faint voices of those few scattered to the south where the land has been worn away one stone at a time by tide and curren , wh

t

ere sea and ocean meld and mingle to breathe the

vapor of their dispara e perfum

t

es into the salt-strewn air.

What the WiseMothers speak of is mystery to him. The sun passes its noonday height and begins to sink before he hears a stealthy footfall, followed by the f u

r strated roar of First Son o th

f e First Litter as he springs out from the

rocks and stands on the brink of the nesting ground.

"Coward!" he cries. "Do you think to hide from me there? Weakling! You must have water and food in time, or you will wither away and return to dust.

Come and fight."

"Come and get my braids," says Fifth Son. He displays the three braids he has tied around his arm. "I I die out here, you will f

still have to come and get

these to prove your worthiness before OldMother."

For a moment only First Son gapes, taken by surprise. He, strongest and canniest among them all, wears only a single braid wound round one arm. But he will not ask how his rival gained so much while he was gaining so little; he controls his surprise quickly. He is not foolish.

He gathers stones from the verge of the nesting ground, and when he has gathered enough, he tosses the first one to the opposite side of the sandy surface. The surface ripples as he slides a foot out onto the sand, then freezes. A claw spikes into the air and curls around the distant stone. Stone and claw vanish. First Son tosses another.

Fifth Son waits as the sun sinks and First Son slowly crosses the glimmering sand. He waits until First Son has come about half the distance between him and the rock. Then, casually, as soon as First Son has gone still and the last stone thrown by him has vanished under the surface, he takes a stone from his pouch, measures the distance, and tosses it to land at First Son's feet.

There is a moment of stil ness. Wind whispers at his back. The long afternoon shadows of the WiseMothers stripe the nesting ground, cloudy, bright, cloudy, brigh .t

First Son springs, dashing for the safety of the central hummock. But no creature can run faster than the ice wyrms.

Three claws pierce the sand, engulfing the stone, and then the thick shaft of a tail th u

r sts through, whipping back and forth, seeking. The creature's skin is so clear, like ice, that Fifth Son sees the venom curdling beneath. It strikes. The spiked tail recoils faste th

r an the eye can see. Three times it strikes, for First Son is nimble and desperate enough that his luck holds twice as he dodges; but on the third it stings. And vanishes beneath the sand.

First Son howls in pain, in fury. In fear.

n

I his convulsions, he drops all the stones he has gathered for the return trip. They rain down a ound

r

him like so much fist-sized hail. Tiny claws seek,

find, and gather them into their grave, where they will lie for aeons in the clutches of the ice-wyrms. What use do the ice wyrms have for stones?

Who can know?

As First Son shakes and jerks, as spittle and frothy copper-ish blood foam from his mouth and nostrils and ears and eyes, Fifth Son cautiously slides of the f

hummock and circles it. First Son's thrashing and spasms certainly will disorder the filaments that carry sound and motion to the burrowing ice-wyrms. But he still has to get the braids off First Son before he vanishes beneath the sands and thus those two trophies become lost to him. This is the most dangerous part, because it must be timed just right so that he reaches First Son after he can no longer struggle but before the ice wyrms drag him beneath.

Slowly Fifth Son circles. Slowly his rival stiffens or really, mo e r precisely,

solidifies.

His convulsions slow, stall, and the tiny claw stalks, the tendrils of the ice-wyrms, twine like vines up his legs and begin to haul him down, an ungainly process with something this large. First Son's eyes are frantic with fear, the only fear one of the RockChildren is ever allowed to express without losing all honor and position. Fifth Son tosses a stone to the opposite side of the nesting ground and as the movement ripples out, attracting attention over there, he slides in toward his rival, who can see him but no longer resist.

He cuts off his brother's braid. He takes for himsel the braid of Sevent f

h

Son, gained only yesterday. The day grows dim, as dim as it will get at this time of year. Only the brightest stars in the fjall of the heavens can pierce midsummer's cloak.

He tosses a stone and slide-steps away, far enough to watch safely, and then he waits, still and silent with his feet on the venomous sands.

He watches as First Son is swallowed under the sands. He is helpless, and will remain so for a very, very long time. The priests say that the ice-wyrms digest that which they drag down into their nest, or that the thing which incubates there and which they protect digests it.

Who can know? Who has ever returned to speak of such a thing ?

The WiseMothers do not answer that particular question. According to the priest, who may or may not know the truth of these matters, for it is in their interest to claim knowledge that they might not actually possess, i can t

take up

to a thousand years for the living rock—that which First Son has now become—

to be digested in the belly of the nesting ground. A thousand years is the life span of twenty-five RockChildren, each one measured from the ending of the last. That is a long time to take to die, and every moment of it—so the priests say— awake, aware, and in agony.

But a thousand years is nothing to the sea. A thousand years is nothing to the wind. And to the bones of the earth laid bare at the surface as rock, a thousand years might encompass the merest shifting of one finger of a WiseMother's hand. To the stars that lie above in the fjall of the heavens, a thousand years does not even encompass a thought.

One stone at a time he moves out of the hollow, and he reaches safe ground as dawn brightens the short summer's gloom that passes as night.

From far below he dreams he hears the singing of Swift-Daughters and the stamp and scrape of their feet on the dancing ground. He counts his braids: one, two, three, four, five. And the sixth his own, still attached to his head.

Triumphant, he descends from the fjall to proclaim his victory.

When Alain woke, finding himself tangled in the bedclothes and alone in the bed, he heard Tallia praying. She spoke the words in a rush, as if she feared she would not have time to say them all. It was near dawn. She knelt by the unshuttered window, modestly clothed in a shift, with her head bent and her slight shoulders curled as under a great weight.

Even this sight stirred him. He flushed and rolled onto his stomach, but it was no good. Sorrow stirred and rose to follow him as he heaved himself off the bed, stumbled against the sleeping Rage, and hurried outside. Tallia paid him no mind, or perhaps she truly did not notice him because she was too caught up in her prayers. Because she insisted on such modesty, he, too, slept in a shift. Now, in the gray dawn rising, he was glad

of the covering. A stream ran by the monastery guesthouse where ' they had sheltered for the night. The shock of it on his legs | calmed him. He splashed his face, shuddering, and then climbed out to the opposite side to relieve himself in the bushes. Sor- | row growled softly, sniffing through the bracken, nosing up forest litter. The hound had a fondness for beetles, and he snapped one up now. Wind sighed through leaves. A drizzle began to fall. | With his feet muddy and his hands chilled, Alain staggered back j inside. He had recovered his equanimity enough to sit on the i bed, although he dared not kneel beside her. She could go on j for hours like this. i As soon as it was light, the servants came, washed his feet, j took away the chamber pot and brought out his clothing. Tallia ', had to cease praying so that they could make ready to leave. Count Lavastine, riding home triumphant, did not intend to waste time on a leisurely journey. j Outside, Lavastine greeted him with that brief smile which j in him signaled his deepest approval. He greeted Alain in this fashion every morning, and occasionally in a most uncharacter- istic manner made labored and mercifully brief jests about be- | coming a grandfather. It made Alain sick at heart to hear him speak so. Surely the servants, who slept on pallets or on the floor beside the bed of their master and mistress, suspected that the marriage went unconsummated. Yet Tallia had twice now rebuked him for tossing and turning so on the bed when he was deep in sleep, dreaming, no doubt, of Fifth Son. Servants might assume anything from such small noises. Why should they believe anything else? God in Unity had made female and male in Their image, to live in harmony together, and had conferred immortality upon them in this way: that through their congress they could make children, and their children make children in their turn. In this way humankind had prospered, as had all the creatures of earth, air, and water.

In this way the county of Lavas would prosper.

He tried not to think about it too much. When he was near Tallia, his body had an unfortunate tendency to react in ways that embarrassed him. Was she so much holier than he was? Was it a sign of her worthiness in God's eyes that she could pray half the night to God's glory while he slept soundly? That she cleansed herself with fasting while he wolfed down his meals as eagerly as his hounds? That she begged him for a marriage of two pure souls unsullied by earthly lust while he knew in his heart—and elsewhere—that his soul was already stained by desiring her so fiercely?

"You are quiet, Son," said Lavastine. "This is a fine morning. The rain is a blessing from God, for the crops will grow greener because of it."

"And all our fortunes prosper," said Lord Geoffrey, who rode at the count's left hand. Alain glanced at him. Was his tone sour, or was that only Alain's imagination? Geoffrey was usually scrupulously polite. "You would have been better served, cousin," continued Geoffrey, "to tend the gardens at court more assiduously. There are many factions to be watered."

"I see no point in gardening where I have no skills. The king supports me.

That is all I need to know."

"The king, God's blessing on him, will not live forever. There was a rumor at court that the king means to name his bastard son as heir after him. But Princess Sapientia has her own adherents, and they will not stand by and do nothing if that comes to pass."

"The king has favored me with the reward I most wished for. Now I will toil in those fields that God cherishes most: to make sure my fields and my folk prosper."

"Is that what God most cherishes?" asked Tallia. "God wishes us to cleanse ourselves of the stain of darkness that has corrupted all earthly creatures, all save the blessed Daisan."

"Even the blessed Daisan labored in the fields of earth, my lady Tallia. Is He not also known as the shepherd who brought us all into the fold? What if there were no women spinning and weaving, no men smithing or toiling to grow crops, and no lady and lord watching over them as God have ordained each to her own station? Then what would become of those good church-folk who pray for our souls and for their prayers are given wax and wheat and cloth as their tithe?"

"Why, then, they would shed their earthly clothing—which is nothing but a burden—and ascend to the Chamber of Light!" she replied, looking surprised.

That twitch of the mouth signaled irritation. Alain recognized it, but not even the count of Lavas dared criticize a woman who, although now his daughter-in-law, outranked him. "So they would," he agreed curtly.

Lavastine had sent most of his men home before him, after Gent, but Tallia had brought an impressive retinue of her own, one provided for by the king's generosity. They rode home like a victorious army.

"Do not be seduced by the pleasures of the court, Alain," Lavastine added.

"What use to fly about in the train of the king? For his pleasure? His favor?"

"The favor of the regnant is nothing to sneer at," retorted Geoffrey, stung.

"It is no sin to enjoy hunting and the pleasures of court."

"So I have observed," said Lavastine in his quietest and most scathing voice, "that you have acquainted yourself well with hunting, hounds, horses, and hawks, but rather less with fabric-making, blacksmithing, agriculture, commerce, and medicine."

"I have a wife, and she has a chatelaine and a steward.'

"So you do, and so she has. I also have a chatelaine. But what captain can expect to win a war when he makes merry in his tent while battles are fought outside? No matter how sweet his songs. Nay, cousin, we gain greater favor by pleasing God as I have described."

"We gain God's favor by prayer!" said Tallia stubbornly.

"So we do." He always agreed with her. Then he smiled. "And I pray God that my house is blessed soon with the fruit of your marriage to my son."

"Indeed," said Alain with feeling. "May God so bless this house."

Tallia blushed scarlet, glancing at him and then away. A few of their attendants chuckled. Lord Geoffrey smiled thinly.

The road crossed into forest, and for a while they rode in silence, making good time on the smooth dirt path that cut through the trees. Even the wagons rolled swiftly, unjarred by ruts. Now and again the woodland opened into a meadow where flowers bloomed. A doe bounded away, followed by a half-grown fawn. A buzzard soared above the trees.

They came to a village at midday, and children ran up to watch them ride by, only to scatter at the sight of the black hounds. At the village well they stopped to water their horses at the trough. Once Alain had secured the hounds, the village householders came forward to pay their respects. One old woman had a wickedly sharp cider that brought tears to Alain's eyes and made him a little giddy, and he thanked her, amused by her laughter at his reaction.

Yet it wasn't just the cider. The sight of Tallia, in such sunlight, made his head spin. She had covered her hair with a shawl, neatly folded and tucked, but even so wheat-colored strands of hair curled free. She had a way of standing, hands lax and mouth slightly parted, that made his heart ache to comfort her.

Offered a cup, she took it—to refuse was unworthy of a noblewoman of her consequence—and sipped at the cider. Alain envied the humble wooden cup, whose plain surface in this way met her lips. When she had finished, she gave the cup to her attendants to drink from, and when it was refilled, they handed it to the servants. After this, Tallia waited by the well while the householders brought loaves, cakes fried of flour and honey, and a pungent cheese. These offerings were modest, but they seemed to please her more than any feast.

"Will the young lord take an egg?"

It was a rich gift for such a village, offered by a young woman no older than Tallia. She had dirty blonde hair pulled back in a braid, a face hastily washed with dirt still smearing her neck and patching one ear, and an appetizing shape that her clothing did little to disguise. She had a pretty smile, and she opened his hand so she could roll the egg onto his palm. It was warm, roasted, and her fingers were warm as well. Alain was suddenly terribly glad that their party wasn't spending the night here. He flushed, she thanked him, and abruptly Tallia came over to stand beside him.

Someone laughed. The village girl retreated, not without a backward look.

Tallia had a high stain of color in her cheeks, and, daringly, she took hold of his hand right out there in public.

It was a tiny victory. He squeezed her fingers, feeling triumphant—truly hopeful—again.

"God will only favor our sacrifice as long as we both remain pure," she murmured.

His reply stuck in his throat. He felt like he'd been kicked. She let go of his hand and went over to her horse as soon as Lavastine's steward called the servants to order, leaving him standing there. He didn't have the heart to eat the egg himself. He peeled it, broke it in half, and fed it surreptitiously to Sorrow and Rage.

They had ridden not an hour out from the village when an outrider clattered up to tell the count that an Eagle had been sighted, riding after them. Lavastine obligingly pulled the party aside and soon after a weary-looking Eagle rode into view. He had a remount on a lead behind him, rings of dust around his eyes, and hair that would have been red if it hadn't been so dusty from riding.

"Count Lavastine. I am sent by order of His Majesty, King Henry. This tale came to his ears through the agency of Prince Sanglant." He paused. Alain knew the look of Eagles recalling a message memorized days or weeks ago. " 'Count Lavastine must beware. The one whose arrow killed Bloodheart is protected against magic, and if Bloodheart's curse still stalks the land, then it seeks another.'"

"A curse," muttered Lord Geoffrey.

"Prince Sanglant spoke of a curse before," said Alain. "The Eika, at least, believed it could affect them."

"Yet Bloodheart is dead." Lavastine smiled grimly. "Nevertheless, I value my life as much as any man, and in particular the life of my son. Let men march in a square around the riders, each one a spear's length apart, and let them keep their eyes to the ground and look for any creature that might fit the description Prince Sanglant gave us. Let my clerics pray, and cast such charms as God allow.

We must trust in God to see that no harm comes to those who have been faithful to Their commands." He gestured to signify that this was his will on the matter.

Terror barked once, and Fear answered. Steadfast and Bliss sat, panting, on the verge. Sorrow sniffed in the brush growing in the ditch that lined the road, and Rage had flopped down on the track in the shade of a wagon.

Lavastine turned back to the Eagle. "Return to the king. Tell Prince Sanglant that I am beholden to him for his warning. I will do what I can should he ever have need of my aid."

Geoffrey hissed out a breath. "If the court divides on the issue of succession, then you have as good as declared yourself for the prince."

"God enjoin us to honor our debts," retorted Alain.

Lavastine nodded. "Eagle, have you understood the whole?"

The Eagle looked uncomfortable. "Matters are troubled between king and prince," he said, choosing his words with care. "There was an altercation at court, and when I left Werlida the prince had retired to his rooms in disgrace. His own dogs attacked the king, he struck a holy frater in front of the entire court, and he has gone against the king's will and claims to have wed a woman of minor family who has in addition had accusations of foul sorcery laid against her." Then, noticing that his voice had risen, he coughed and finished in a more temperate tone: "But he may be bewitched."

"Liath!" breathed Alain. Tallia turned in the saddle to stare at him with a frown.

"The Eagle," said Lavastine.

"An Eagle no longer," said the Eagle before them. "Stripped of her cloak and badge. She is now the prince's concubine. Or was, when I left Werlida."

"She would have done better to come with us. The displeasure of the king is a hard path to walk." Lavastine considered the road in silence. His milites were already moving into their new positions around the riders, and two of his clerics had lit censers to purify the road before and behind with incense. "Tell King Henry that if this disgraced woman has no other place to go, the count of Lavas will take her in."

"Are you sure that is wise, cousin?" demanded Geoffrey.

"I am sure it is prudent, and farsighted. I know danger when I see it, and she is no danger to us. There is something there..." He trailed off, drawn away down an unknowable path; a moment later, blinking, he shook himself. "Who holds her holds a strong playing piece."

But as the Eagle rode off and their retinue lurched forward again into their new marching order, the words Tallia had spoken on their wedding night rang in Alain's ears as though she had only spoken them moments before: "/ am merely a pawn, nothing more than that. As are you, only you do not see it."

L

AT the palace of Werlida, Queen Sophia had commissioned a garden to be built in the Arethousan style. Shaped as an octagon, it had eight walls, eight benches, eight neatly tended garden plots that bloomed with brilliant colors in spring and summer, and eight radial pathways leading in to the center where stood a monumental fountain formed in the shape of a domed tower surrounded by eight tiers of angels, cavorting and blowing trumpets. According to legend, the fountain had ceased flowing on the very day Queen Sophia died.

In fact, the fountain had ceased flowing years before that because the Arethousan craftsman who had devised the cunning inner workings had died of a lung fever one winter and no one else knew how to repair it.

But the story persisted, as such stories do.

Now Rosvita made a leisurely circuit of the fountain together with half a dozen of Theophanu's young companions, noble girls who had gravitated around the princess as part of her entourage. Theophanu stood on the lowest tier with her feet on the stone wings of one angel and a hand clutching a trumpet on the third tier for balance. Standing thus, she could get a better view over the retaining wall out to where the road branched at the base of the lower enclosure.

From the garden a magnificent vista opened before them. The land spread out as fields and villages, pastureland and scrub brush and woodland, and finally the distant march of forest. The river wound south, a ribbon vanishing into the haze of trees.

From the gravel path, Rosvita watched as Duke Conrad's entourage reached the branching road and his banners turned south. From this distance, she could only guess which figure was his.

Was Conrad thinking about Theophanu? Did he truly regret that Henry had forbidden the match, or was his anger for the insult implicit in Henry's refusal?

Did Theophanu regret the lost chance for a betrothal, or was she relieved?

Rosvita could not tell. Another person might rage, or sulk, or weep. Theophanu either did not have the heart for it, or concealed her heart too well.

"Theophanu!"

Prince Ekkehard marched down a path at the head of a gaggle of boys. The schola had only arrived in Werlida yesterday.

"Are you happy to see Conrad go?" demanded Ekkehard as he scrambled onto the stonework beside Theophanu. "I wanted to go with him to Wayland, but Father says I'm to go to Gent and become abbot of the monastery he means to establish there dedicated to St. Perpetua in thanks for Sanglant's rescue. But I don't want to go to Gent and certainly not just because Father is so mad that Sanglant ran away with that woman. I don't know why he's punishing me for what Sanglant did." Ekkehard talked more than he thought. But perhaps he had stumbled on the heart of the matter nevertheless: the change in Henry's behavior that had come about since the morning they had all risen to discover Sanglant and Liath gone.

Theophanu's inscrutable smile did not change as she answered. "He isn't punishing you, Ekkehard. He's giving you authority of your own. Remember that we are royal children. Father will use us as he sees fit, to strengthen the kingdom."

Was there a trace of irony in her voice? Even sarcasm? Rosvita could not be sure.

The gates into the garden opened again, and their quiet contemplation was completely overset as the king and his courtiers entered in the wake of Ekkehard. The chatter of the mob irritated Rosvita. What had happened to unbalance her equilibrium? Didn't she always pride herself on her cleric's amiability and even temper? Hadn't she gained the love and trust of king and court, not to further her own ambition but because it was her duty as one of God's servants? She had not felt so much disturbance in her mind for many years. Like Henry, she desperately wanted to know what had happened to Sanglant and Liath, but until Henry mentioned the subject, no one else dared to.

Courtiers fluttered around the king, chief among them the Salian and Ungrian ambassadors. Sapientia clearly preferred the elegant Salian lord who had journeyed here on behalf of Prince Guillaime, but Henry hid his leanings and let himself be courted. As he reached the fountain, he turned away from the Ungrian

ambassador to help Theophanu down from her perch. Ekkehard leaped down after her.

"Will I get to ride out to hunt with you tomorrow. Father?" he demanded.

"Of course." But Henry was distracted by the sight of Conrad's entourage crossing into the forest. Was he thinking of Sanglant as he watched them go? He drew Theophanu to him, and a moment later he and Villam and several other lords began to discuss the situation in Aosta, leaving Ekkehard to stand helplessly at the edge of their discussion.

"My lord prince. I hope I don't intrude." Judith's young husband Baldwin slid into the vacant space beside Ekkehard. "Perhaps you'll recall that we met last night."

"You're Lord Baldwin, Margrave Judith's husband."

"So I am," agreed Baldwin guilelessly.

For an instant a smirk hovered on the young prince's lips, but Ekkehard had learned manners in a hard school, and he recovered himself. "Of course I remember you."

"I've heard nothing but praise for your singing, my lord prince. Perhaps in the days to come you might honor us with some songs." Baldwin was, truly, an exceptionally handsome young man, and Rosvita watched with some amusement as Ekkehard melted under the combined flame of prettiness and flattery.

"I see no reason to wait! We'll go now. And perhaps you'll ride out to hunt with me tomorrow."

"Of course, my lord prince. I am yours to command."

They strolled away together. Was that Ivar in their wake, looking as sullen as a dried-up frog? She had not been allowed to speak to Ivar, who was under a novice's vows, but perhaps that was for the best. When Judith and her retinue returned east, he would be safely confined to a monastery, where labor, study, and prayer would circumscribe his day and leave him little time to dwell on that which was forbidden him.

Rosvita shivered, thinking of the silence of the convent. No, indeed, she had not truly been at peace since the day the Vita of St. Radegundis had come into her hands. The mouse's hunger gnawed at her, unceasing and implacable.

She had so many ques tions, and too few answers.

Where had Sanglant gone? What had happened to The Book of Secrets?

Had Liath bewitched him with magic, or had the prince overwhelmed the poor young woman with his attentions?

Did Henry's seeming calm only cover a furious heart that would fester and, in time, erupt in some other form?

"Sister." Brother Fortunatus had sidled into the garden behind the king's retinue. She bent close to hear his whisper, "I stood at the lower gate and observed every rider and every wagon. There was no sign of Sister Anne of St.

Valeria Convent in Conrad's retinue."

"Sister Amabilia has found no sign of her in the lower enclosure either?"

"No, Sister." She had never before seen him so grim. "She has vanished."

"It is a mystery," agreed Rosvita. "Draft a letter, Brother. We must inform Mother Rothgard as soon as possible."

He nodded obediently and retreated, and his white-robed figure was soon swallowed in the milling mob of courtiers, who had expanded onto all the paths to exclaim over the beauty of the flowers and the grave little sculptures, mostly saints and angels, that populated the garden or waited with the patience of stone in niches carved into the walls.

Judith and the Ungrian ambassador had walked over to the outer wall to watch the last of Conrad's impressive retinue pass from sight. Rosvita moved closer to listen.

The man spoke with the aid of an interpreter. "This daughter he has taken away, she is the granddaughter of the Alban queen, is she not? How does Duke Conrad gain for his wife a daughter of the Alban queen, when he is no king himself?"

Judith had a smile that softened her mouth and made her gaze quite hard.

"If you wish your suit to succeed, I would not ask that question of the king."

"So I did not do so," he said, laughing. Cousin to the Ungrian king, he had a jovial face, long, dark mustaches that he greased with oil, and a wispy beard no thicker than that of a sixteen-year-old boy although his own hair had white streaking it. "But it is said that men work as slaves in Alba while women rest as queens, and that no daughter of their ruling house before this one left her mother's side. So I wonder."

"Many have wondered," replied Judith, looking faintly amused. "Duke Conrad traveled to Alba when he was young. Some say he charmed the Alban queen into agreeing to the betrothal. Some say he charmed the daughter and ran off with her when her mother refused his suit."

"But he do not run off with the Princess Theophanu, although the king refuse his suit."

"Alba is an island. Henry will not need a fleet of ships to pursue Conrad, should Conrad displease him."

"Ah, I see much truth in your words." The Ungrian ambassador wore a fine silk tunic of Arethousan design but spoiled the elegance of his dress by draping a heavy fur cape over his shoulders despite the summer heat. He stank of a sickly sweet perfume that gave Rosvita a headache. "Will the king bless this wedding, or will he prefer the Salian prince?"

Judith only smiled coolly. "I, too, wish the Quman raids to end. My lands have been hit hard these last two years, as have yours, and if Wendish and Ungrian armies join together, then perhaps we can strike into the heart of Quman lands and put an end to their plundering. But of course there is the problem of worship, my friend. The Arethousan deacons you keep in your retinue do not adhere to the church practices observed by the skopos in Darre. A Wendish princess cannot marry an Ungrian prince who does not worship according to the correct manner. King Geza must recognize the primacy of the skopos in Darre rather than the illegitimate patriarch in Arethousa if he desires this alliance with King Henry."

"Henry's blessed wife was an Arethousan."

"Blessed by the skopos in Darre."

"As King Geza is willing to be, if Henry offers him this alliance."

Judith shrugged to show that she was helpless in this matter. "Then you have done all you can. The king will speak when the king makes up his mind."

The king did not speak that day, but the next night at the feast in honor of the birth of Sts. Iskander and Dawud, the holy twins, he rose to toast Sapientia and to announce her betrothal. Rosvita's fingers were sticky with honey; it was traditional at the feast of the twins to drink honey mead and eat honey cakes because of the famous miracle of the bees. She licked her fingers hastily and grabbed the cup she shared this night with Princess Theophanu. Henry had not asked her advice as he usually did, but since the debacle with Sanglant four days ago Henry had spent his days and evenings carousing with no apparent thought for serious matters.

There was a pause while the king watched his court hoist their cups in anticipation.

Brother Fortunatus, behind her, muttered to Amabilia. "Have you laid a wager yet? Which worthy prince will the king choose? The civilized Salian or the half-barbarian Ungrian?"

"It is sinful to lay wagers," announced Brother Constantine in a low voice,

"and more sinful for clerics to do so than ordinary folk, for God have forbidden us to take on ourselves what only the angels may know."

"I say he will favor the Salian prince," murmured Sister Amabilia, ignoring Constantine as usual. "That will give him an alliance with the Salian king in case the Varren lords rebel again."

"With Sabella in prison? Nay, my dear Sister, he will choose the Ungrian, and if I am right, then I think you will give me those last two honey cakes you have on your platter."

"Gluttony is a sin," interposed Constantine primly.

"You think he will favor the Ungrians? But King Geza didn't even offer his own son but only his younger brother as bridegroom!"

"A younger brother who is an experienced war leader, and who has fought the Quman and other barbarian tribes. With success. Whom better to ally with Sapientia, if she becomes Margrave of Eastfall? Someone who understands the situation there."

"I accept the wager," said Amabilia, "but what will you give me if I am right?"

"I've already eaten all my honey cakes. What else could you possibly want?"

"Your owl quill, Brother. That is the only thing that will content me."

Hush, my friends," said Rosvita, but with a smile. Princess Theophanu's expression remained as bland as those on the sculptures from the Octagon Garden. Her gaze was fixed on her father, who extended a hand to Sapientia and bid her rise.

Sapientia was flushed. Somehow she managed to keep silent while her father spoke. His voice carried effortlessly to the four corners of the hall and even outside where servants and hangers-on thronged at the doors to listen.

"Let the Salian ambassador ride west with one of our Eagles and bring presents to our brother, Lothair, as a sign of our good will and our mutual love.

Let the Ungrian ambassador ride east with one of our Eagles, and let him give this message to King Geza: Let your brother, Prince Bayan, meet my daughter at the city of Handelburg not before Matthiasmass and not after the Feast of St.

Valentinus. Let them be wed in the presence of Bis-cop Alberada, who rules over the souls of the marchlanders and those of the pagans who still live in darkness.

After a three-day feast in celebration, let them then proceed to the Eastfall, there to protect and defend the people of Eastfall against the depredations of the Quman raiders. Such is my will."

Theophanu hissed a word, but it was lost in the hubbub that arose, cups lifted, a shout rising from the lips of every person there. Sapientia was still flushed. She glanced toward the Salian ambassador, then the Ungrian one. She did not look displeased. She looked happy.

"Betrothed at last," said Theophanu, taking the cup from Rosvita and draining it. She called for a servant, who filled it again. "Will you drink to my sister's good fortune, Sister?"

"Assuredly." Rosvita drank gratefully. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, and she wished suddenly to be walking alone in the Octagon Garden, where she could hear herself think. But she had no time to think. Theophanu had not done speaking, her voice pitched so low that only Rosvita could hear.

"If Henry means her to rule after him, then why did he betroth her to a foreign husband who cannot expect to receive much support from Wendish courtiers? They say the Ungrians still sacrifice horses at the winter solstice, even if they pray to God the rest of the year. Is that the man my father means to be the next king consort?"

"We know little about Prince Bayan except that he is a renowned fighter who has won many battles," replied Rosvita reflexively.

The Ungrian ambassador called for another toast. He had cast aside his fur cloak and now, with his odd mustaches and thin beard, looked incongruous in his elegant yellow silk tunic. The Ungrians had been raiders like the Quman not two generations ago. They had not lost their barbarian look, not quite, even if they mimicked the sophisticated Arethousan way of dressing.

"They are all blind," said Theophanu sharply.

"Who is blind?" asked Rosvita, taken aback by the unusual passion in Theophanu's voice. "What is it they are not seeing?"

"It matters not." She smoothed her expression and took the cup from Rosvita, but she only sipped at it. "Not if you don't already know."

"You're thinking of Sanglant."

"My father has thought of nothing but Sanglant these last four days. Can you not tell by his manner, and by the way he never mentions him? I am not blind."

"Blindness comes in many guises." Rosvita watched Sapientia drink in triumph and kiss her father, the king, on either cheek as the assembly roared with approval.

Blindness comes in many guises and a furious heart overflows down unexpected channels. Rosvita had cause the next morning to reflect bitterly on this theme. The king sent for her early.

He sat in the forecourt watching his stewards oversee the loading of wagons, such provisions and in particular gifts of treasure and fine stuffs that Sapientia would present to her bridegroom as the seal of their alliance. Now and again he raised a hand to show that a certain item should not be loaded; now and again, he gestured, and a certain item, held aside, was placed in one of the chests being filled for the dowry.

Courtiers attended him, among them Helmut Villam and Judith.

All three of his children stood behind him. Sapientia looked smug, Theophanu calm. Ekkehard shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, looking for someone in the throng of nobles. He would have been a handsomer boy had he not frowned so much.

"Ah, my faithful counselor." She knelt before Henry and was allowed to kiss his hand. He had a glint in his eye that made her uncomfortable.

"There will be more partings on the morrow." Henry beckoned to Theophanu. "You, Daughter, will ride to Aosta as my representative. Aid Queen Adelheid as you can and if you must."

"Gladly. But surely, Father, I will ride south only after the council at Autun."

"Nay, Daughter. You must ride now if you mean to cross the Alfar Mountains before the passes close. Our cause will be lost if we wait too long.

You will start south tomorrow."

"But you know I must testify at Autun at the trial of Father Hugh!"

"I have spoken," said Henry without raising his voice.

"But if I am not there to testify at Autun—!" Red stained her cheeks and she broke off, glancing toward Judith.

Rosvita recognized the look of a campaigner who knows that both her flanks are protected and that her center will hold: Judith wore it now.

"You will ride to Aosta, Theophanu. It is the place of the biscops to judge one of their own, not yours."

"But my testimony—!"

"You may dictate what you wish to the clerics. That way your voice will still be heard at the council."

There was nothing Theophanu could do unless she meant to defy her father—as Sanglant had done. But Theophanu was nothing like Sanglant. She recovered herself, murmured cool words of agreement, and retreated. But the look she shot Rosvita was anything but mild.

"Promise me," she whispered, stopping beside Rosvita, "that you will yourself read my words aloud at the trial. The biscops will listen to you "

!

"Sister Rosvita." Henry's mild voice wrenched her attention away from Theophanu. "So that my daughter need not negotiate the treacherous paths in Aosta alone, I would send you along with her to advise and counsel her."

"Y-your Majesty." She was too shocked to stammer out more than that.

"Is there something wrong, Sister?" he asked gently.

It took no educated cleric to envision the scene: with both Theophanu and Liath gone, and Rosvita not there to argue their case, the accusations against Father Hugh would carry little weight. Especially not if Judith brought her own witnesses to argue for Hugh's innocence.

Who suspected her? What did Henry intend by this sudden change of plans?

"I have never seen the holy city of Darre," Rosvita said, stumbling, all eloquence lost. She could only register Theophanu's eyes, bright and fevered, and a look on her face that made Rosvita think the princess was about to shriek in frustration. But there was nothing she could do.

Rosvita took Theophanu's testimony herself that afternoon, wrote it down in her careful hand, and sealed the parchment. Then she wrote a letter and took Sister Amabilia aside.

"Amabilia, I wish you to personally deliver this letter to Mother Rothgard at St. Valeria Convent. Fortunatus and Con-stantine will come with me to Aosta, and I regret you will not set foot with us in the skopos' palace, as you deserve.

But you must serve me in this way. If Mother Rothgard will not heed the words I have written, then beg her yourself to come to the council at Autun. She can give testimony of what she observed when Theophanu lay sick at the convent."

"Surely she will think it strange that Sister Anne has vanished." Amabilia frowned at the letter. "According to Princess Theophanu, Sister Anne witnessed the whole as well, the fever and the ligatura they found. Where do you suppose Sister Anne could have gone?"

"I do not know," said Rosvita, but in her heart she feared the worst.

THEY came upon the first signs of habitation in midmorn-ing: a hunter's trap, a lean-to built of branches with a roof woven out of vines, and a ten-day-old campfire. At midday they found the first dead body at the edge of a clearing newly hacked from beech forest. It was a male dressed in Wendish clothing. His head was cut off at the neck.

"Quman raiders." Zacharias knelt beside the bloody corpse, touched his wooden Circle, and began reflexively to speak the prayer for the dead. But he broke off. They were just words, weren't they? They didn't mean anything. "We should bury it," he added, looking up in time to see his companion pick up the ax that had fallen from the dead man's hands. She studied it, grunted, and tied it to the horse, then strode on. He scrambled up, grabbed the horse's reins, and hurried after her. "Shouldn't we bury it?" he demanded, panting, as he came up beside her.

She shrugged. "His people will find him."

"But his spirit will roam if we don't lay it to rest properly. That's what my grandmother always said." Yet she had been a pagan, and the church of the Unities had put an end to the old ways.

"Human spirits haven't the strength to harm me. How can we bury them all?"

"All?"

"Don't you smell the smoke?" she asked, surprised.

He smelled nothing. Not then. Not yet. They walked on through beech forest, following a trail. A day ago they had reached hill country, leaving the grasslands behind, and although he had felt the anger of his Quman master like a spear point pressing against his shoulder blades, they had seen no sign of Quman. He began to believe he had truly escaped them.

When they came to the village, he knew that, again, he was mistaken.

The stench of burning hung over the tiny village like a shroud. The half-built palisade had given little protection to the brave souls who had sought to cut farmland out of the eastern wilderness. The huts still smoldered. A dog lay covered with flies. Some of the corpses had heads. The rest did not.

"They're riding before us." Fear curdled in his gut.

She merely shook her spear. The jingling bell died away into the silence but not before he heard a scuff from the shell of one of the scorched longhouses.

"Some remain."

"Quman?" His voice caught on the word and splintered. He knew in an instant he would start to weep.

"Nay, the horsefolk are gone. We go as well."

"Shouldn't we give them a decent burial?"

"It will take too long. Stay if you must. They belong to your kin, not mine."

But she didn't leave immediately. A row of open-sided sheds had been left untouched. Their roofs sheltered craftsmen's tools and paraphernalia: a woodworker and a stone knapper had once worked here, together with a leatherworker. Cured skins lay draped over crude sawhorses next to a dozen or more skins strung on frames to cure. She hefted tools, tested their balance, took a few, but it was the leather she found most interesting. She rolled it in her fingers, spat on it, tested its strength over her knee. Finally she took three skins and rolled them up, then scavenged in the half-burned bakehouse and returned with several blackened loaves and two leather bottles filled with cider. He stared, as stunned as an idiot. Wasn't it wrong to take what wasn't theirs? Yet the dead had no need of food. She tied skins, tools, and provisions on behind the horse's saddle without a word, then turned and raised her spear as her gaze fastened on something behind him.

That noise wasn't the wind. It was whispering.

He turned.

"Prater!" Four women, two adolescent boys, and an old man crowded together at the door of the burned longhouse. About a half dozen children huddled behind them. One woman held a baby in her arms. "Ai, God! Good frater! God have sent you to us in our time of need!" A woman stepped forward, arms outstretched as for a blessing. "We thought you was the raiders, come back. That woman with you—" She broke off as her gaze took in the terrible scene, a dozen men of various ages, one young and one very old woman lying dead on bloody ground. "She wears their coat."

"She's not Quman." He was amazed at how hoarse his voice sounded. The words still did not come easily, and this village woman spoke with a thick dialect, a migrant from a different region than his own kinfolk.

"Thank God you are come to us, frater," she went on, taking another step closer. "You can pray with us. You can tell us what to do." The youngest of the women had begun to sob, and half the children followed suit. "We ran with the children, but the others had to stand behind to stop the raiders from coming after us. Ai, God! What did we do to bring God's wrath down on us in this way?"

"Come," said the Aoi woman. "We go." She pulled the reins out of his hand and started walking.

The old man fell to his knees. "You have come in answer to our prayer!" he wheezed. "It has been many seasons since a holy deacon sang prayers in our presence. We begged for God to give us a sign, when we hid from the raiders in the forest."

"Did they come today?" asked Zacharias nervously.

"Nay," replied the woman. "It were yesterday afternoon, late. We didn't dare come back till this morning."

"Then they're not too close, surely," said Zacharias, but the Aoi woman did not look back or wait for him. He gripped his walking staff higher, took a step.

The younger women began wailing like ghosts cursed to wander aimlessly after death. He hesitated even as the sorceress crossed behind the palisade and vanished from his sight, moving ever westward. "I can't help you," he said at last.

"But you're a churchman," cried the woman. "Surely you will stay long enough to say the blessing over these brave dead ones so their souls can ascend to God!"

"God have forsaken us." How he hated them at that moment for their weeping and for the way they looked at him for salvation. He couldn't even save himself. "Pray to the old ones, as your grandmothers did. Maybe then your luck will return."

He turned his back on them and followed his mistress. Their cries and weeping followed him for a long time in the quiet forest, even after he could no longer hear them.

THREE days after the Eagle had delivered his message, Lavas-tine's party reached the convent of St. Genovefa. Some playful soul had carved the gates into the shape of two great dogs, and this same spirit pervaded the guesthouses as well where every mantle and beam seemed to hold its share of dog faces or dogs cavorting or at the hunt or resting quietly as if in expectation of the martyred saint's imminent return to care for her beloved comrades. The abbess sent her own servants to wait on the count and his heir and cousin, and after they were settled invited them to dine.

The abbess was startlingly young, scarcely older than Tallia. Second daughter of an ancient and noble house, Mother Ar-mentaria had been invested into the church as abbess at age twelve. Her mother's great-aunt had founded the convent and been its first Mother, and a woman of that family had always served as abbess. She had the habit of command, and the institution over which she reigned was a prosperous one. In sweet, haunting voices, her nuns sang praises to the Lady which the young abbess had herself composed in praise of God in Unity.

"Holy Mother, you who have b ou

r ght life,Blessed Thecla, you who have

witnessed death,In this female form God have brought us the highest blessing,Let us praise you and rejoice in you."

But she was still eager for news of the world.

"I heard that the king of Salia has offered one of his sons as consort and husband for Princess Sapientia. Will King Henry take this alliance? Some of the lands under my rule lie in the borderlands between Varre and Salia, and there has been trouble there, with Salian lords claiming the rights to those lands although I have charters that prove them mine. Such a marriage might bring these troubles to an end."

"It is possible that the king will look east for such an alliance," said Lavastine. "Report has it that the barbarians have increased their raids in the marchlands."

"He has two daughters," observed the abbess. "And two sons, even if one is a bastard. He may make as many alliances as he wishes, up to four, to benefit those of us who serve him."

"Do you not serve God?" Tallia asked sharply.

Mother Armentaria's reply was sharper still. "Will you not pray with us this night at Vigils, my lady Tallia? Then you may judge for yourself how we honor God."

"I will pray gladly, and with a full heart, and for the entire night. And there is more, that you may wish to hear."

Lavastine looked at her in surprise, but he could not object. Nor could Alain. When they left the table, Tallia escaped him, again, as she always seemed to be escaping him: into prayer. He could not follow her into the cloister reserved for women.

Lavastine took him into the garden out of earshot of Lord Geoffrey and the rest. The hounds followed meekly. Under the shade of an apple tree, he set a hand on Alain's shoulder and regarded him sternly. "Is she pregnant yet? I fear that only a child will cure her of these ravings."

"N-nay, Father. Not yet. She is so—" He stammered out syllables that even he could not understand.

"A stubborn nut to crack, so the wits would have it. But fruitful within that hard shell."

Alain began to stammer out an apology.

"Nay, Son, you have done as well as any man. She only begins to trust you, and I fear that she takes after her noble mother in having a stubborn nature and after her noble father in being simple in the mind."

Alain didn't know how to reply. "Surely it's her holiness, not her simplicity, that makes her what she is." Fear padded away from them down a lush row of greens, turnips, and radishes not yet harvested. A bee wandered among roses.

Sorrow and Rage had gone over to sniff at comfrey. Steadfast licked Alain's hand. The bell rang to summon the nuns to Vespers.

"If it were holiness, then why would she cling to this heresy?" objected Lavastine. "And if her words held any danger to those of the faith, then Mother Scholastica would not have released her out into the world. Or they would have threatened her with excommunication. But they do not fear these delirious speeches she gives. Therefore we have no reason to fear them either."

"But she is so set on it. I don't know what to do!"

"She clings to it because it gives her comfort. As she comes to rely on you, she will come to you for comfort. You must win her trust as a mason builds a keep: one stone at a time. The more careful your work, the stronger the foundation and walls. A few months more will make little difference except to harm your alliance with her if you move too hastily and set her against you. You can breed many children whether you start having them in ten months or twenty."

In the field beyond the garden, geese began squabbling. Bliss stood suddenly, watchful, and padded over to the archway that opened onto the field.

The geese had foraged so diligently before; now they hissed and honked—as Aunt Bel would say—as if they meant to frighten off the Enemy. "But what of the curse that Prince Sanglant sent warning of?"

Lavastine whistled Terror over and stroked his ears. "Blood-heart is dead. If his dead hand still holds a weapon, then we must be ready to meet it." He smiled grimly. "And we must trust in God's mercy."

The hounds went mad. Fear bolted toward the archway, barking furiously.

Bliss had already vanished out onto the field. Geese scattered. Sorrow and Rage bounded away through the garden, leaves flattening under their heavy stride.

Steadfast gripped Alain's hand in her mouth and dragged him after her. Only Terror stood his ground, hackles up, growling fiercely as he stuck beside the count.

Alain ran to the arch. Out in the field the hounds converged,then Rage split off, cutting sideways, and Sorrow leaped the other way. Their barking came fast and furious. Was that a flash of white along the ground? Sunset bled fire along clouds that had streamed out to cover the western sky. In the east, a few stars winked into view between a patchwork of clouds. From the church, he heard the first high voices raised to God. Vespers had begun.

"Lay down beside me, O Lord, sleep beside me.

Protect me from all harm.

Let my Mother watch over me and sing me to my sweet rest as You watch over Your children.

Lord, have mercy. Lady, have mercy."

Bliss bowled over, tumbling, righted himself, and began to dig. Dirt sprayed out behind his forepaws. Steadfast, Fear, Sorrow, and Rage converged on him and soon they dug furiously and with a hellish cacophony of barking.

"What means this?" asked Lavastine, coming up behind Alain, but Terror was already there, biting down on the count's wrist and trying to tug him back into the garden.

A shuddering thrill ran through Alain. He touched his chest, where hung the tiny pouch that concealed his rose. It seared his fingers with cold through the linen of his summer tunic.

"Let me go," he said. By then others had come out to investigate.

Reluctantly, Lavastine let Terror pull him back into the garden into the circle of his attendants.

Alain ran forward into a blizzard of dirt.

"Peace!" he cried, but they gave him no peace. Dirt stung his eyes and coated his tongue and lips. They were in a frenzy, barking so frenetically that he could no longer hear the nuns' singing over their deafening noise. A tiny body, white against the earth, darted, spun, and leaped.

Bliss' jaws snapped shut over it.

The other four hounds stopped barking instantaneously and formed a circle around Bliss, who swallowed. Then he slewed his great black head up to look at Alain. He pressed a dry nose into Alain's hand, snuffled there for one moment, and as suddenly turned away and broke into a ground-eating lope toward the woodland that lay beyond the fields.

Alain chased him, but the other hounds got in his way, mobbing him. Their weight threw him to the ground, and there he lay with Sorrow draped over on his chest, and Fear and Rage sitting on his legs. Steadfast trotted after Bliss but stopped at the wood's edge, like a watchman. The geese had clustered at the distant end of the field and, settling now, they waggled off to glean between rows of barley and spelt.

"What is going on, Alain?" Lavastine arrived, sword in hand. Four men-at-arms bearing torches and armed with spears attended him.

But when Alain tried to describe what he had seen, none of it made sense.

"Come," said Lavastine to the men-at-arms. "I've had enough of curses and superstition. Get a dozen more of your fellows and we'll search for the hound."

"But, Father—

"Peace!" snapped Lavastine. Alain knew better than to protest.

He walked with Lavastine into the forest, never leaving his side. The good sisters of St. Genovefa Convent had long since cleared out most of the underbrush and dead wood for kindling and charcoal. The open woodland gave sparse cover. There was enough of a moon to guide their feet, and the torches gave Alain heart, as if he could thrust the flame into any curse that tried to fly at him out of the darkness.

But the five hounds padded quietly along, content to let them search, which they did for half the night at least. They found no sign of Bliss.

When he stumbled at last into the chamber set aside for himself, Tallia, and their servants, he had to pick his way carefully over their sleeping attendants. It was black in the chamber, and he was too tired to undress, so he simply lay down in his clothes. With a hand, he searched the bed, careful not to wake her. But, like Bliss, she was gone.

Faintly, he heard voices singing Vigils, the night office. She had hidden herself away beyond the cloister walls. If only he could heave himself up off this bed and go in search of her, who was everything and the only thing he had ever wanted.

He slept.

He weaves his standard himself. From two spear hafts bound into a cross-shaft he strings up the bones of his dead brothers— those that can be recovered—and when the wind blows, they make a pleasant sound: the music of victory. Certain items—five hand bells, an ivory-hafted knife made of bronze, needles, a gold cup, iron fishhooks, and a thin rod of iron—he laces in among the bones to give variety to their song. He binds the five braids of his dead rivals at the top, ties strips of silk and linen torn from the bodies of Bloodheart's enemies below them to make streamers, and weights each dangling line of bone and metal with a pierced round of baked clay.

The entire tribe has assembled to watch this ceremony on the dancing ground of the SwiftDaughters. He stands facing the long slope that leads down to the beach where the ships are drawn up. Behind him stand the dwellings of his brothers and uncles, inarching up the long valley toward the fjall. On his left lie the storehouses held in common by the tribe, and on his right the longhal that belongs to OldMother, built entirely of stone and thatched with sod. The doorway gapes open, but he sees no h

t ing stirring within its depths.

SwiftDaughters stand in a semicircle in front of OldMother's hall. They have finished the long dance whose measures tell the story of Rikin's tribe all the way back to the dawning of the world.

That song has been sung, and his victory acknowledged: Fifth Son of the Fifth Litter will become chieftain of Rikin tribe.

He binds off the last strand of his standard and jams its sharpened base into the dirt so that it stands upright. From the g o r und he picks up a stone

scraper and with it scrapes the residue of paint off his chest—the paint that marked his kinship to Blood-heart, who is now dead. With his fingers, dabbing in tiny pots of ocher and woad, he paints a new pattern on this chest, his pattern: a circle with two lines crossed inside so that they touch four points on the circle, one for each of the winds; north, west, east, and south.

"On these winds my ships will sail," he cries. They all listen. They are his tribe now, his to mold and use as a weapon. "On four winds to the far sho es o r

f

the world, all the regions of the earth that are known to the WiseMothers."

A murmur arises among the soldiers, who kneel with that particular combination of patience and tension that mark them as wary of his reign. He has yet to prove himself before them. But they also do not truly understand—not yet—what he intends.

The chieftain's chair—which he alone had the foresight to salvage from the disaster at Gent—is brought forward, and he seats himself in it. "Come forward, each one, and bare your throat before me."

He extends his claws, and they come forward one by one. First the soldiers who followed him even through his disgrace stride up, confident, proud, ready to serve his will. They believe in his strength. After them the others come forward, some with reluctance, some with curiosity. A few he smells fear on, and those he kills at once. But Rikin's tribe is a strong one, and few among his uncles, cousins, and brothers have survived Blood-heart's campaigns by showing weakness.

It takes most of the day for each soldier to submit, bu he m t

inds it not; this

is not a ceremony which should be hurried.

The sun sinks in preparation for a longer night than last night, each night waxing, each day waning, toward the midpoint that Alain Henrisson calls the autumn equinox and the Wise-Mothers call The-Dragon-Has-Turned-Her-Back-On-The-Sun. From the shore he hears the lap of waters stirred by creatures out in the depths. Have the merfolk come to witness? Have they come to pledge themselves to his rule?

He cannot yet leave his chair. There is other business to transact.