Once he had to lie low as a patrol strolled past. Maybe the spell hid him, or perhaps only the shadows did. He rose as soon as they were safely away and continued on in a crouch, hurrying from the refuge of a ditch to the lee of a fallen wall, scraping his knees on ragged stone, smelling the parched odor of the earth. The ground rose steeply beneath his feet. Above, torches burned, the edges of their flaring light obliterating the nearby stars. Figures moved along the walls, but their gazes were turned farther out, across the open ground to the concealing woodland beyond.

He scrambled up through the rubble of tumbled walls that had once ringed this lower slope of the hill. In an odd way it was as though those old sharpened senses, borrowed through dreams from Stronghand, remained with him. Grass sighed under the touch of the wind. Insects burrowed. An owl passed overhead, calling a warning that no man but he could hear: "Beware! Beware!"

He hoisted himself up a chest-high embankment and rolled onto an open ledge.

A wave of scent smothered him, lavender and rosemary gone wild, rue and sage a heady aroma like a cloud around his head. The moon sank low along the horizon. He crawled on hands and knees through the overgrown garden and found the place where three walls met, two of them old ring walls and the «> third yet lower again, an ancient foundation almost consumed by the hillside.

Because it was dark, he used touch to find the sphinx with her arching wing, powerful forelegs, and hindquarters carved statant into the stone. He placed a thumb in the sphinx's mouth, a forefinger in its eye, and a little finger in a cleft carved under the wing.

A musty exhalation of cold air kissed his face. The moon touched the western horizon, sinking fast. He stumbled forward and banged his knees on stairs carved into the hill, too dark to see. He crept his way up using staff and hand, an arduous climb because of the darkness. After ninety-seven steps—he counted every one—he saw a reddish light flickering and bobbing to his right; a wall cut off his forward progress, and he had to turn right and follow a narrow passage barely wide enough to squeeze through because it was half filled with rubble.

Fifteen more measured steps brought him to an embrasure cut into the rock, a hidden alcove from which he looked down onto a broad forecourt that fronted the main gate with its twin, square towers.

Soldiers gathered, ready to march. Their torches made the courtyard flare ominously, all smoke and fire and the glitter of bronze helmets and shields. The standard of the blood-knife fluttered in their midst. A slender figure cut through the ranks of soldiers to speak to the standard-bearer. Alain recognized him at once: the prince, whom the guard had called "Seeker." The two spoke as the soldiers waited in patient silence. Then the prince hurried away, ducking inside a low doorway, lost to Alain's view.

The high priest came from farther down the forecourt, where a wall broke Alain's line of sight. His feathered headdress gleamed in the light of torches held up to either side of him. Ranks of spears bobbed alongside, a fence around their prisoner, trapped between two small wagons.

Because of her horse's body, she stood a head taller than her captives, but her proud and beautiful head was bowed and her eyes were blindfolded. Her thick hair lay tangled and dirty over her shoulders. Bruises and unhealed cuts mottled her naked torso, and she limped, unable to put her full weight on her right foreleg. Her arms were tied behind her back, resting on her withers. Ropes bound her belly and back, held taut out to two wagons, one before and one behind, so she could neither bolt nor kick. She was jerked to a halt as the wagon drivers pulled back on their reins. The gates were unbarred and men hurried to open them.

They weren't going to wait until daylight to take her away.

Her fine black coat, once glossy, was streaked with dirt and blood and coated with a dusting of ash. She shifted, favoring her injured leg. One of the drivers snapped his whip, a curling "snap" against her croup that made her lurch onto the injured foreleg and cry out in pain. Soldiers laughed to see her suffer. The heavy gates thudded against the towers. The way lay open for the high priest's party to march out.

Alain stumbled backward, almost tripping when he reached the stairs. The smoky light of torches had blinded him. He counted each step so as not to fall, but feeling with his feet and his hands into the darkness it went so slowly. Was that the jangle and clank of their movements, as the troop moved out? Could he actually hear wheels grinding against dust as the wagons rolled down the ramped gateway?

Or was that only the wind moaning through cracks in the stone?

Or the whisper of men speaking in low voices?

Ninety-seven steps brought him to the concealed entrance. His hands traced the carven wings of the sphinx, sleeping forever in stone. He paused at the juncture of the three walls, seeing a pale light gleaming on the small ledge that harbored the overgrown herb garden, and stayed hidden in the shadows.

Someone stood there, back to him, a soldier with a crested helm wearing a hip-length white cloak. Bronze greaves protected his calves. The wind caught the cloak and whipped the ends up to reveal a finely molded cuirass decorated with boiled leather lasses that reached halfway to his knees.

"You're wrong," he said as he turned to face some other person, who was hidden by the curve of the wall.” They will fall before us because our armies are stronger than theirs. They are no better than packs of wild dogs." The pale light limned his profile as it came into view: it was the prince, but he was now dressed in the. garb of a soldier, the same clothing Alain had seen him in before when he had appeared as a shade in the ruins above Lavas.

How strange, that he had changed clothing so quickly.

"Then you underestimate them," said his unseen companion.

» Their whispers made their voices sound much alike.” That is why we still fight."

The prince laughed harshly.” This war will only be over when the pale dogs and the shana-ret'zeri cease to hunt us, and that they will never do. Because they are still beasts, they cannot live peacefully, nor will they ever let us live peacefully." '

"Spoken like a soldier."

"Do not mock me, brother. You know they are our enemies."

"I know there will never be peace as long as our leaders persist in thinking they are beasts."

"Tell me you did not cry with joy when news came to the blood-knife lord that the witch who calls herself Li'at'dano was captured!"

The name made Alain slip in surprise. Pebbles fell in a spray, skittering onto the ground at his feet.

But the unseen man was already talking; neither seemed to have heard.” She is not even the most dangerous of those who oppose us. But at least once she is sacrificed, her power is lost to our enemies."

"We don't need magic to defeat them."

"If you think so, then you are a fool."

"You have been listening to the mumbling of the sky-counters again. We have spears and swords enough."

"Why will you never listen, elder brother? Spears and swords will never be enough."

"What great magic are the pale dogs hiding? How will they rise up and defeat the Feathered Cloak and her sorcerers? What are they waiting for? The witch mare will be taken to the temple of He-Who-Burns, and there she will walk the spheres. So we will be rid of her. The rest will die or surrender or flee."

How could it be that this man, who was alive and not a shade, knew of Liath?

Wasn't she already walking the spheres? Or was it Liath he was in fact speaking of? She was no "witch mare."

"That is what I am afraid of," said the other man as he stepped at last into Alain's line of sight. He carried the pale light, a simple oil lamp flaring and flickering as the night wind teased it, held away from his body to illuminate the face of the prince.” That as we march our armies out to the frontier and leave our cities unprotected, the pale dogs are hiding and hoarding their magic. That is how they will strike us. That is why the sky-counters have sent out raiding parties to the four winds."

"To be eaten by guivres, clawed by sphinxes, and smothered in sandstorms!"

The man carrying the lamp shifted, and all at once the light shone on his face.

Which was a twin to that of the soldier prince. Here was the Seeker again, dressed in simple garb and adorned by feathers.

Maybe Alain made an involuntary squeak of shock. Maybe his foot slipped. The next thing he knew, the soldier had spun around and lowered his lance, balanced to slide right into Alain's belly.

"Who's there?" he demanded, squinting into the darkness.

"Do not act rashly." The Seeker laid a restraining hand on his brother's arm.” I have smelled this one before." He lifted the lamp to shoulder height. He had a young face, handsome and proud, but not cruel. Feathers bobbed in his hair as he lifted his chin.” Come forward. You are trapped."

With his staff held in his right hand, Alain stepped forward cautiously into the light.

"I am only one man," he said quietly, "and I do not understand this long war.

Wouldn't you live more easily if you could make peace?"

The soldier hissed through his teeth. He held his lance steady, but did not lunge.

"Do you not mean to stab the pale dog through at once and have done with its barking?" asked the Seeker with some amusement. Seeing them together, side by side, Alain could now detect certain differences of stance and expression—the soldier tense and slightly thinner, as grim as death, and the Seeker with a gleam like mischief in his expression and a sardonic lift to his mouth. Otherwise they looked exactly alike except for their clothing.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the soldier as the point of his lance hovered an arm's length from Alain's abdomen.” How did you come to our walls without being seen by the sentries and patrols?"

Alain touched his own face, but the taste and feel of the oil Agalleos had given him to rub into his skin was long since wicked away by wind and night. Before he could answer, he heard the dis tant sound of barking, all at once, as though the hounds had been surprised out of sleep.

Hard on that sound, the darkness came alive as the blat of conch horns rose out of the east. A rumble like distant thunder shook the earth. Torches flared at the edge of the woods. Alarms rose from the fort's walls, and men shouted out warnings as, along the entire northern sweep of forest, lights bloomed and, in the hands of shadowy figures, swept in toward the fort.

"Now what say you, brother?" cried the soldier.” Do they walk forward offering the gold feather of peace? Do they send emissaries with tribute? No, they strike like wolves in the night." He struck. Alain dodged aside as the prince caught himself and jerked back for another try.

"Hold your point!" cried the Seeker.” These are the Horse folk come for their witch. This one, he does not belong here."

"Then we shall be rid of him." The soldier struck again. Alain knocked the point aside with his staff and leaped back toward the wall as the prince pressed his attack.” Brother! Behind you!"

Two massive creatures scrambled up the lower slope. One, lithe and swift, closed faster than the other. The lamp held in the Seeker's hand flared as the leading centaur burst into the herb garden, trampling waist-high lavender. The soldier spun to meet her. Ai, God. Like the Holy One, she was beautiful. Long black hair blown back revealed full breasts, each glimmering in the pale light like a perfect moon. As with her hind legs she jumped, she raised high in her hands a club bristling with spikes. She bore down on the prince. He held his ground and thrust, catching her between those breasts. Her momentum pushed the spear point out her back as he scrambled backward to the low wall ringing the ledge.

The club came down too late across the haft of the spear, splintering it as her body collided with her killer. They both tumbled over the retaining wall, vanishing from sight.

The second centaur let loose a piercing scream as she arrived too late to do anything but avenge her companion. She charged the Seeker, who danced this way and that, at some advantage because he could dodge more swiftly than she could turn her bulky body, until at last his enemy cornered him near Alain. She hadn't the lithe beauty of her dead companion; broad shouldered and barrelyo chested, breasts almost lost in her muscular arms and chest, she reared up, fore-hooves striking and club lifted for the killing blow. Alain thrust his staff up, catching the club at the apex of its arc. She twisted, her fore-hooves knocking Alain hard to the ground, and reared again, ready to strike him, but he pushed his staff between her rear legs and with the weight of his body twisted it around.

The wood did not break. She tumbled back onto her flank. He leaped to force his weight down onto her heaving shoulder, pressing his staff against her neck.

"We must save the Holy One!" he cried.

"I am Sos'ka." She twisted her head around to catch sight of the Seeker, standing stock-still against the wall.” Bar'ha and I were sent up here to find the one called Alain. Why do you fight me, if you are that one?"

The Seeker had pulled his knife, but he did not advance. Amazingly, he hadn't lost his grip on the oil lamp. Alain eased up on his staff and rose. Sos'ka regained her club and righted herself, getting her four legs under her and with some difficulty staggering upright. When she saw the Seeker, hatred swept clean her expression. She lifted the club and danced toward him.

Alain stepped between them.” No. No more killing." She shook her head, making a noise more like a whinny than a word. Where her black hair had been bound back, her ears, pointed and tufted, showed through. She examined Alain briefly with eyes slit vertically, their color impossible to make out in the night.” Come,"

she said at last, with only a final, swift glance at the Seeker, who had not moved.

Maybe this young prince, so uncannily like the other, would not die today.

Maybe his brother had or was soon to become a shade, caught forever in the shadows of the world.

''Quickly." Sos'ka grabbed Alain with a burly arm and helped him mount awkwardly onto her back. He righted himself, clamping his staff under his arm as she turned, cleared the wall easily, then half slipped, half cantered down the slope. He had to grasp her mane, which ran all the way down her spine to her withers, to stay on her back. Although she was as surefooted as a goat, the ride was rough.

He glanced back to see the Seeker bending to pick an object from the ground. It gleamed, sweetly gold, almost as bright in the night as the oil lamp. As Alain slapped his hand over his tunic, feeling for the phoenix feather, he saw the soldier prince push himself away from the body of the dead centaur just below the ledge. At once, the Seeker jumped forward to help his brother to safety.”

Beware!" Sos'ka cried, and he held on for dear life as she jumped a ditch and landed hard on the other side.

He felt at his chest again, but the phoenix feather was gone, lost in the struggle. It was too late to go back now. The battle rose out of the darkness before them.

Alain held tight to Sos'ka as she cleared the worst of the rugged ground and galloped wide around the fighting that had erupted in the encampment. Pavilions burned, fire illuminating the scene with a sickly glow. Cursed Ones fell, and centaurs stumbled, cut down. Screams cut the air. The horrible scent of charred flesh stung at his nose and made him choke. Torches ringed the fort. Flaming arrows made arcs of light across the night sky.

"To the southeast road," he yelled, almost coughing out the words. She cried out, a whinnying call, and about four dozen centaurs split away from the attack to follow her, half of them carrying torches. They pounded onto the road, hooves striking sparks on stone, and broke into a gallop. The stonework, the fruit of the Cursed Ones' fabled engineering, made the road so even and smooth that they could move swiftly and without much fear of stumbling. Even so, he could tell from their fury that no obstacle, even night, would come between them and the one they sought, not now that they were so close.

The high priest's party had made good time and, truly, looked to be making better time still, since the men had all broken into a steady soldier's trot. Their rear guard shouted the warning, and half the troop—perhaps three dozen—

stopped to meet the threat. They fanned out into a line, spears lowered, as the rest of the troop hastened on. The blood-knife banner bobbed away into the night shadows, a pair of torches casting light onto the sigil. The two wagons, with the Holy One tied between them, lumbered on.

The centaur charge hit the line of spearmen like a storm surge, flattening them.

Four centaurs fell, but the rest poured past even as those soldiers who weren't writhing on the ground cast their spears after them. One centaur lurched forward, wounded in the thigh, io

and collapsed. Alain had to look away as a group of soldiers leaped on her, stabbing.

Seeing that their pursuit hadn't slowed, the rest of the troop pulled up to face the centaurs. Sos'ka's coat was slick with sweat. Froth bubbled at her mouth as she shrieked in battle frenzy and charged for this new line. Alain tightened his knees along her withers, desperate to stay on, and couched his staff like a lance.

The Cursed Ones formed their final line, spears ready, swords poised.

As they broke over the line Alain slapped a spear's thrust away and struck the soldier across the face, knocking him hard to the ground. Sos'ka's club swiped close by Alain's head as she swung it down onto the helmet of a Cursed One.

The force of the blow shuddered through her body as her club crushed the man's skull. The dying soldier's sword drew a shallow cut across her shoulder and down Alain's thigh as the man fell beneath her hooves.

They broke past the line and, with some effort, she slowed, danced sideways, and turned to meet a new press of soldiers. Her club struck wildly in grand arcs from side to side. Half the time Alain had to duck her swings, but he thrust his staff toward one face, then another, hitting them hard to keep them off-balance.

She reared as a soldier cut at her legs, and Alain slid from her back. Amazingly he landed on his feet and had enough balance to jump forward, catching the soldier's sword against his staff. With the sword still embedded in the wood, he shoved the flat of the blade into the face of its owner, stunning the soldier.

Wrenching his staff free, he struck a blow that sent the man to the ground.

The wagons had lurched to a stop as the drivers fought to control their panicking horses. The high priest, with his rainbow headdress thrown carelessly to one side, leaped out of the back of the lead wagon and, ugly obsidian knife in hand, ran forward to Li'at'-dano. The.centaur shaman was still trussed, trapped and helpless as she threw back her head and neighed. The Cursed Ones fought furiously to keep her rescuers away. Al they had to do was hold long enough for the priest to murder her. No matter how hard Alain pushed, for every one he knocked aside, another leaped forward to take that one's place.

The priest cried out.” May He-Who-Burns take this offering!" He struck.

The centaurs cried out in fear and helpless fury.

Light ripped down from the heavens. The burning flash was followed by an explosive clap that threw every person to the ground.

Then it was silent, for the space of two breaths, or two hundred breaths, impossible to tell because his skin tingled so sharply that the sensation obliterated all his other senses. Blood trickled from one ear as his sight returned, and he pushed up to his knees. His hair had come alive, twisting like the living hair of the merfolk.

Only the Holy One still stood upright, unable to collapse because of the ropes binding her. Her flesh was burned and her black hair, mane, and coat singed.

The priest had been thrown twenty paces away, his burned and contorted corpse smoking. Fire danced along the hem of his cloak and died. The obsidian knife lay at the centaur shaman's feet, melted into a puddle of steaming glass.

Alain staggered to his feet just as the drivers fell from the wagons, clothes burned off their bodies, and stumbled away toward the safety of the woods. One of the horses, caught in the traces, tried to rise, but could not. Alain kicked down a nearby soldier who tried to stand. He made it, barely, to Li'at'dano. As he cut the ropes, she collapsed gracefully to the ground. Centaurs struggled up, their manes and hair standing straight up like that of frightened cats. Sos'ka was not among the standing.

The Cursed Ones were slower to rise. Some crawled away. Other were killed by those centaurs who recovered first, but Alain could do nothing to help them, any of them. All he could do was help the shaman to rise. This close, he saw the horrible bruises across her torso, the marks of a whip, and the mangled stump of one ear, its tip cut clean off.

At last, Sos'ka appeared at his side, singed but living.” In the wagon," she said.

It was not easy to get Li'at'dano in, and a tight fit besides to place a centaur's body in a bed meant for carrying two-legged creatures and their cargo. When they had done, other centaurs had already unfastened the stunned horses and harnessed themselves in their place.

"What did she do?" Alain asked, leaning on the wagon to catch his breath. His hair was finally beginning to settle. A huge scar marked the center of the road.

"Li'at'dano wields the weather magic," said Sos'ka.” She called lightning."

A new herd of centaurs galloped up, wielding torches like clubs as they scattered or killed the rest of the Cursed Ones. Only now could Alain hear the distant clash of battle by the fort, fading as wind rose up out the dark, a rushing in the nearby trees. He heard barking, coming closer.

Sos'ka whistled, and a centaur with burnt-butter-colored skin and a glossy gray coat trotted up. She carried a bow, with a quiver of arrows slung over her back.”

He'll need to ride if he's to come with us," said Sos'ka.

"He is not," said Gray Coat.” His companions come now, on the backs of Ni'at's foals. They must return to their own herd with this news."

"Let him come before me." The Holy One's voice was soft, labored, yet it still sang sweetly. He turned to look. The shaman lifted her head, seeking; she seemed blind, although her eyes were open.

"Here I am," he said, reaching out to touch her questing hand.

"Yes." She caught hold of his fingers, her grip uncomfortably strong.” You are here. What is it that you wish to ask me?"

How did she know? "Are you the one called Liathano?" He stumbled over the pronunciation, trying it again.” Li'at'dano."

"I am called Li'at'dano." A thin smile teased her swollen lips.” But there is one who will be given my name in the time yet to come."

"Ai, God." Her words shuddered through him like the tolling of a bell. He glanced around at the centaurs looming and pacing, impatient to go, to get their rescued shaman to a place of safety where she could heal. But he still had so many questions.” Where am I, truly?"

"You are here."

"Where was I before? Where was I when I was alive?"

"You are alive now."

"Alive where?" The words caught on his tongue, all tangled and heavy. He could barely speak.” Alive when?"

A dozen centaurs pounded up, Agalleos and Maklos clinging to the backs of two roan, mare women. Agalleos looked grim. Maklos seemed, as he dismounted, to be flirting with the pretty creature he had just ridden in on. Torches shifted and bobbed in the darkness as more gathered, retreating from the battle at the fort.

And he remembered: the soldier prince hadn't died. He wasn't a shade. He remained as alive, at this moment, as Alain was.” Ai, God. I'm not in the afterlife, am I?"

"No," she said sadly, "you are not. I found you only because the one you call Liathano dragged you off the path that leads to the Other Side."

"You mean I was truly dying." Bitterness took hold of him as he blurted out his next words.” I served the Lady of Battles as she bid me. I died on that battlefield."

"You did not die only because the fire's child dragged you off the path. I saw you in the crossroads between worlds and lives, in the place where all that was and that is and that will be touches. There I got hold of you, and I brought you here. To this time. To Adica." Pain creased her features, but she managed to speak.” Who needs you."

Ai, God. Adica!

Rage and Sorrow swarmed him then, bounding up fearlessly through the herd of gathering centaurs, leaping over the corpses of the dead, and jumping up to lick his face.

"Down! Down!" he said, almost laughing. Almost crying.

Gray Coat lifted a conch shell to her lips and blew. She bent forward to touch, respectfully, one of the hooves of the shaman.” We must go. Our rear guard cannot hold off the Cursed Ones forever. You must be well away before they march out in force."

"Yes," agreed Li'at'dano.” I fell for their traps once. Not again." She laid her head down and, with a ragged breath, closed her eyes.

Alain lifted his hands from the wagon's side just as it lurched forward, pulled by two strong centaur women. Torches lined the roads, and an eerie whistling rose from the assembled centaurs as the wagon passed through their ranks.

"Come," said Agalleos, taking Alain by the arm.” We must go with them."

"But we have to go back to get Adica!"

"The road back is closed to us now. The Cursed Ones will roam everywhere because of this. It isn't safe."

"But—"

Sos'ka trotted up.” Here is my cousin," she said, indicating a husky centaur who bore a remarkable resemblance to Sos'ka: shoulders the width of Beor's and muscular arms. Like all the oth J

ers, she went naked, not aTcrap of clothing.” She will carry you for the first part of the road."

"Come," said Agalleos.

Rage and Sorrow nosed against him, licking his hands. In the distance, a shout raised from Spider's Fort. Already the mass of centaurs had fallen in to follow the wagon, torches fading into the distance as they picked up speed.

Alone, he could not make his way back to Shu-Sha's camp through unknown country now surely buzzing with agitated soldiers on the lookout for creeping enemies. In a way, it seemed like losing the phoenix feather was a terrible omen. Anger and fear warred within him, until he remembered the Holy One's whispered words about Adica: "Who needs you."

No matter what came next, he would find a way back to her.

AFTER twenty days marching west, the armies moving in parallel columns under separate commanders, they began to get sporadic and possibly exaggerated reports of a large Quman force moving north along the Veser River, closing in on Osterburg. Just as they were. The thought of facing Bulkezu again made Zacharias so sick that he could scarcely bring himself to eat.

Rumors flew violently among the troops, often accompanied by fistfights. Who would command, when the battle came that everyone was hoping for? Henry had said that he meant Princess Sapi-entia to be his heir, her soldiers argued; but he never anointed her, Sanglant's loyal followers retorted. They had heard the king offer Aosta and its crown to Sanglant. Didn't that count for anything?

Not if he'd refused it, the answer went. He was still a bastard, after all, even if he was a great fighter and leader.

No one could answer that objection satisfactorily: he was still a bastard, after all.

It was rumored that Princess Sapientia was pregnant. When at last the call came down through the ranks that there would be a trial by combat to determine who had the right to command, evi

eryone knew that she would therefore choose her husband as her champion.

The church sometimes used such trials to determine which person God ordained as victor when an irreconcilable dispute was brought before a biscop. Only one could win, and that one would win the right to command the combined armies, now almost three thousand mounted warriors, a huge force with more lordly and monastic retinues joining up every day as they marched west, gathering strength and resolve.

The road in this region of Saony was more a wagon track, but at least the local residents at the villages and estates had heard rumors of the atrocities committed by the Quman army to the south and were, for that reason, only somewhat reluctant to give over stores of their newly harvested grain to the army.

They set camp early that night where three grassy meadows cut a swath of open ground through woodland. Sheep and cattle grazed, watched over by shepherds. The commanders ordered half the beasts taken from the herds to feed the army and sent the rest on their way to discourage hungry soldiers from stealing what they wished under cover of night.

The two armies gathered just before twilight in the central meadow, where a slope ran down to a stream. Grass grew abundantly. The soldiers took their places on the slope while servants set up a pavilion by the stream's edge for those nobles privileged enough to attend Princess Sapientia: Bayan's Ungrian retainers, Lord Wichman, the Polenie duke Boleslas, Hrodik and Druthmar, Brigida with her levies from Avaria, a lady from Fesse, and several nobles from the marchlands who had joined to avenge the damage done to their lands by the Quman.

Prince Bayan's mother had been brought forward in her palanquin, but of course, with all the veils drawn and curtains closed, no one could see her nor ever would. She had a new slave, one of the ones she'd bought at Machteburg: a well-built Quman youth standing beside one of the carrying poles. Like the other three, he watched without expression as the proceedings unfolded, as though he was both deaf and mute. Had the old woman ensorcelled all those who served her? Had she cast a love spell over Sapientia to make the princess besotted with her husband?

"It does seem odd to me, said Zacharias to Heribert, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, "that Prince Bayan commands her army in all but name." They stood behind the chair, placed to the left of Sapientia's, set aside for Blessing.

"Does it? That's not what puzzles me. King Henry must have guessed that whatever man married Sapientia would be likely to rule as her equal, not her consort. Bayan's a good man, but he isn't Wendish and he's scarcely a Daisanite.

How can Henry think the Wendish nobles, much less a duke as proud as Conrad, would accept a foreign king reigning over them?"

Behind them, Blessing shrieked. She was crouching on the edge of the stream, half lost in the rushes that crowded the shore, tossing stones into the water while Anna, Mattq, and Lord Thiemo hovered next to her to make sure she didn't fall in.

Zacharias smiled derisively.” Do not ask me, Brother. I am only a common-born frater."

"So you are," agreed Heribert amiably.” But much cleaner than you were when we first met you. As outside, so inside. I still value your insight."

"I have nothing insightful to say on this subject. Of the king's progress and its intrigues I remain ignorant, as befits my station."

A shout rose from the assembled armies. Blessing leaped up, tottered unbalanced on the edge of the stream, and was caught by Thiemo, who escorted her back to the pavilion. She climbed up to stand on the seat of her chair.

"Here, now, Your Highness," Heribert said reprovingly as she clung to his shoulders, trying to get a good look out along the meadow.” Remember your dignity."

"Look!" Lord Thiemo's words were echoed by those nobles clustered under the shade of the pavilion.” Here they come." He pointed toward the two riders approaching the pavilion through the grass, one from the north and one from the south. Both horses were being led, giving their approach a dignified pace suitable to the gravity of the occasion.

"Why Wolfhere?" Zacharias demanded, feeling the familiar gnaw of envy at his gut as he watched the old Eagle leading Prince Sanglant's horse.

Heribert's answering smile was bittersweet.” This isn't easy for him, you know.

Best to remind everyone from the outset how far outside the king's approval he stands."

i

It took Zacharias a moment to realize that Heribert was not speaking of Wolfhere.

Bayan and Sanglant were both outfitted in their armor, although they weren't wearing their helmets. Sanglant wore his sword slung over his back, in the manner of a traveler, while Bayan's sword was belted at his hip. Bayan wore a tabard of snow-white linen with a two-headed eagle embroidered in red, the sigil of Ungria, and dagged ends in alternating red and white that flowed past his knees. Sanglant wore a plain gold tabard, without any identifying sigil, his only ornament the magnificent dragon helm, which he carried under one arm.

Sapientia moved forward with a trio of ladies, one holding a tray set with two silver cups and a second carrying a pitcher. The third, a cleric, stood slightly to one side.

"She doesn't look pregnant," muttered Lord Thiemo.

"Hush, my lord," said Anna sharply, the way one would to a wayward brother.”

A woman may be waxing without being full. It's said she hasn't burned holy rags for three months. If a woman isn't bleeding, then she must be pregnant. That's what they always said in Gent."

"I've seen cases where women weren't bleeding but nevertheless were not—"

began Zacharias, but Thiemo cut him off.

"Nay, Anna is right. I was wrong to speak so." He looked at her, and she at him; an odd alliance, when you thought of it: the young lordling and the nut-brown common girl, almost a woman. Zacharias could not shake the feeling that there was something more to it than their devotion to Blessing. Even Matto, standing behind them, had been drawn in although he had at first been jealous of Thiemo. They formed a tight circle that ringed the little girl.

The two combatants came to a halt about ten paces apart. Sanglant took the reins from Wolfhere and handed the Eagle his helm. Bayan exchanged helm for reins with his Ungrian groom. Then the riders moved around so they sat side by side as though poised for a race. They did not look at each other.

The cleric raised her arms.” Let the trial begin."

Sapientia poured ale into the two cups. Three noble witnesses from each army examined them and proclaimed themselves satisfied that they held an equal amount. Carefully, the cups were handed up, one to Bayan and one to Sanglant.

All this time, Blessing clung to Heribert's shoulders and did not speak one word, only stared, wide-eyed.

Those on foot stepped back, to leave the field clear for the duelists. Captain Thiadbold of the Lions stepped forward and raised a horn to his lips.

He blew.

The two armies erupted in cheers and whistles as the two riders urged their horses forward, each man holding the reins in one hand and the full cup in the other. Neck and neck, they raced across the meadow, reached the woodland fringe, turned their horses neatly and rode back at a canter. They passed the cleric side by side, neck and neck, and pulled up. The crowd fell silent as they handed their cups to the cleric and she compared the level of ale remaining.

She raised a cup.” Prince Bayan, the winner!"

Shouting and laughter drowned out everything else as Bayan, laughing, demanded a full cup of ale. Sanglant, too, took a freshly poured cup; he downed it in one gulp and asked for a second. Although he had a smile on his face, his expression was grim.

Blessing began to cry.” He lost," she said, and then, in a lower and more furious voice, "he lost on purpose."

"Nay, sweetling," said Heribert sternly, "he didn't lose. He did what he had to do for the kingdom, and don't ever think otherwise. Defeating the Quman matters more than anything right now."

She was not to be consoled, but she kept her sorrow quiet, as her father had ordered her earlier that day, and buried her head in Heribert's shoulder. Such a big girl, she was getting to be. So quick to understand the twists and turns of intrigue that plagued the nobly born.

Zacharias glanced back at Thiemo and Anna, fallen to whispering as the celebration continued on the field beyond and the armies began to disperse back to their tents. He knew they weren't lovers. Anna was not really old enough, in truth; she couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen. Anyway, Prince Sanglant would never have allowed it—a little piece of hypocrisy that rather cheered Zacharias. It was good to know that even the most admirable of men might succumb to weakness now and again. It made Zacharias feel better, since his own weaknesses seemed so bold and starkly drawn in contrast. He had so very many of them.

Blessing wiped her face on Heribert's sleeve and wriggled out of his grasp, jumping down to the ground. Heribert was frowning, fingering a leather cord he had recently begun to wear around his neck.

"You don't like it," said Zacharias softly, seeing the other man's gaze on the mob out in the field, surrounding the two contestants. Sanglant had downed his fourth cup of ale.

"It's what the captain of the Dragons would have done," replied Heribert, "but he isn't captain of the King's Dragons any longer."

"Nay, Brother, you know yourself that the greatest threat isn't even the Quman.

Or so you've told me."

"True enough." Heribert saw Wolfhere cutting his way through the crowd toward them.” Sister Anne is the greatest threat. So be it." He moved forward to meet Wolfhere.

Heribert and Wolfhere had gotten thick as thieves lately, plotting and scheming with Sanglant while, as always, Zacharias was left out in the cold, as ignorant as a beggar's starving brat. Envy made him dizzy as he watched the two men—

elegant cleric and elderly commoner—meet and exchange words. Did they not trust him? Did Wolfhere speak against him? Was Zacharias somehow deemed less loyal than the turncoat Eagle? Little use in continuing his feud with Wolfhere, but he could not help himself; that was yet another of his weaknesses, that he held grudges as tightly as a drowning man clutches a spar and would not let them go even when they no longer did him any good. He wasn't even as good a man as any one of that ragtag group which had remained behind in the ruined fortress that day months ago outside Walburg. Not one of them had betrayed Zacharias' shameful behavior to the prince. Not one had mentioned it, even though they had all seen him bolt and run, ready to abandon the child they were fighting for.

No wonder no one trusted him.

In his nightmares, and they were plentiful, he still saw those two Quman soldiers pulling around and making ready to shoot him. Sometimes he wished that they had.

Behind, Blessing grabbed.hold of Anna's hand and led her back to the stream's edge while she chattered on in her piercing voice.” Tell me again about the phoenix!"

Wolfhere and Heribert bent heads together, speaking intently as Heribert's frown deepened. Zacharias crept closer, but their voices were so low that he couldn't make out more than phrases and words, nothing to make sense of. After a bit, the prince himself strode up, none the worse for his heavy drinking until you saw the way his eyes tightened with anger despite the pleasant expression masking his face. He took hold of Wolfhere by the shoulder.

"Tell me truly, Wolfhere, is this Eagle's sight illusion or real?"

"Alas, my lord prince, it has never lied to me in all my days."

"Then your sight is more truthful than your tongue, Eagle. Anne made skopos with my father's blessing!" He glanced toward Bayan. The Ungrian prince, as jovial as ever, was accepting the congratulations of various nobles from among Sapientia's train. No one begrudged him his victory; he had proved himself worthy, even if he was a foreigner.” Pray to God, Heribert," he looked around and saw Zacharias, "and you, too, Zacharias, no matter what you believe now.

Pray to God to grant me patience to endure what I must for the sake of the kingdom, and the wits to learn intrigue." He laughed harshly, drawing his little retinue away from the crowd, seeking his daughter where she splashed merrily in the stream, pretending to be a bird rising from the water.” Bloodheart taught me well, although he never meant to do me any favors. If his dogs couldn't tear out my throat in Gent, then these dogs surely will not do so now. Ai, God, to think that my father offered me the kingdom and I turned it down!"

"Your Highness!" said Wolfhere, surprised.” What do you mean?"

"No matter." Sanglant lengthened his stride, moving out through the grass away from the rest of them as he called to his daughter. He wore a leather cord around his neck and now, restless, he pulled it out to cup his hand over a round leaf of silver engraved with various signs.” My father would not have named Anne as skopos and fallen victim to her lies if / had been at his side, advising him. She would never have gained such influence if it had been me who had ridden to Aosta with Adelheid as my queen."

He stopped dead as his daughter crowed in triumph, having escaped Thiemo's efforts to catch her, and turned on Wolfhere.” Or you could be telling Anne everything that you've learned while riding with me. You could be hiding from me what she tells you."

"So I could, Your Highness. And I could kil your daughter while she sleeps. Lord Thiemo is a good boy, but not my match."

"The old wolf; is wise and subtle. Tell me, Wolfhere, how does one learn intrigue?"

"What sort of intrigue do you wish to learn?"

"The intrigue of the king's court. It's said that you were my grandfather Arnulf's favorite. You, a common-born man. Folk must have hated you because he listened to you above all others."

"So they did. And your father most of all."

"Nay, truly? I thought he hated you because you tried to drown me."

"Well, that didn't help. But Henry hated me long before that. He envied me my place at King Arnulf's side. Young men are prone to jealousies, my lord prince, and strange fancies. Yet Arnulf always knew Henry's worth. There was never any doubt in his mind which of his children had been born with the luck of the king."

"What of Henry's children?" Sanglant glanced back toward the crowd of nobles gathered to celebrate Bayan's victory. Sapientia stood beside her husband, bright and happy, handsome and shining, yet beside the Ungrian prince she looked as light as a feather, ready to float away at the least puff of wind. She hadn't any weight.

"Ah." Wolfhere smiled, baring his teeth as a wolf might when it snarls.” What o/Henry's children? Don't forget that he has another child now, the infant Mathilda, born to Adelheid. A strong, healthy girl, though she is still a suckling babe."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That Henry's children by Sophia aren't the only ones who can inherit his throne, Your Highness. He has two others. The newborn Mathilda. And you."

Sanglant glared at Wolfhere until the old Eagle fidgeted, looking curiously nervous in the face of the prince's obvious anger and grief.” Find my wife, Eagle.

Why has your Eagle's sight failed you? Has she hidden herself from you? Where has she gone?"

Wolfhere had no answer for him.

"I pray you, my lord prince," said Heribert quietly, "it is like poison to the skin to handle it too much. Nor should you display it openly."

Sanglant started, glanced at the silver medallion in his hand, and slipped it back under his tunic.

Only then, with the three men standing close together, did Zacharias realized that all three—prince, cleric, and Eagle—wore similar amulets concealed under their clothing, a protection against sorcery.

HOW long ago it seemed that she had had the leisure to sit in the scriptorium and work uninterrupted on her History of the Wendish People! It had been so long that the blessed Queen Matilda, of glorious memory, to whom the work was dedicated, had died without ever seeing a finished work. These days, Rosvita wondered if there ever would be a finished work.

As she moved through the sunny scriptorium, she noted the scribes busy at their work, clerics from the king's schola copying out capitularies, deeds, and charters as well as letters pertaining to the king's business here and in the north.

So many rounded shoulders, so many busy hands. Now and again clerics looked up from their work to nod at her or ask for advice. More by accident than design, she was now in charge of Henry's schola. Queen Adelheid had her own schola, made up of clerics from Aosta and overseen by Hugh, who had been assigned as the Holy Mother's official emissary to the Queen.

"Sister Rosvita, ought we to be writing this cartulary to establish the county of Ivria? Shouldn't that properly be done in the Queen's schola?"

"Nay, Brother Eudes, we mean to establish King Henry's right and obligation to rule in these lands so that none will protest if the skopos agrees to crown him as Emperor. Therefore, any grant must come from Henry and Adelheid together."

She walked on, pausing where light streamed in to paint gold over the parquet floor.

"Sister, we have heard another report of heresy, this time from Biscop Odila at Mainni. How are we to answer?"

"Patience, Sister Elsebet. The skopos has already indicated that she will hold a council on this matter next year. Write to Biscop

Odila that she must confine those who will not recant so that they cannot corrupt the innocent, but by no means to act rashly. Avoid at all costs any public trial, until after the council, because it is in the nature of people to make martyrs where they can. We must beware making martyrs of these heretics. Can you render that in your own words, Sister?"

Elsebet had been with a schola for ten years, just the kind of cleric who did better if given a little independence to work. She smiled sharply.” Of course, Sister Rosvita. I am glad that the charge of the king's schola has fallen to you. In truth, the skopos' clerics and presbyters rule with too heavy a hand for my liking.

I daresay the custom is different here in Aosta than it is in the north."

Farther on, Ruoda and Heriburg sat side by side, one white-scarfed head and one pale blue one, intent on their copying.

"How comes the work?" Rosvita asked quietly as she paused beside them.

They had, open on the lectern above them, the Vita of St. Rade-gundis.

Heriburg was continuing the copy started by Sister Ama-bilia, and Ruoda had begun a second copy, which Rosvita hoped to send to Korvei for safekeeping.

"Well enough." Ruoda had blotted a word and now scraped the offending ink away with her writing knife.

Heriburg was ruling a blank sheet of parchment. She did not look away from her work as she answered, her voice so low that Rosvita had to bend nearer in order to hear.” We dared not speak to you this morning, Sister, because of the many visitors you had in your chambers. We have more gossip than you could possibly want—

"Never underestimate how much gossip can be useful to the king, Heriburg. Go on."

Ruoda's smile flashed but she looked up only to read the next line from the Vita, above her, and to dip her quill in the inkpot.

"A Sister Venia came to the palace in the train of the Holy Mother, Anne, when she first appeared here last summer. An elderly woman with white hair and a pleasant, round face, well spoken, well mannered, well educated, and nobly born. She was heard to say only that she came out of the noble lineage of Karrone. Soon after she arrived a presbyter was heard to claim that she was his cousin, a granddaughter of the Karronish princely family who had been made a biscop and then detained for black sorcery, but he died soon after of apoplexy and could not therefore substantiate his claim. No one liked him anyway, so we hear. But in any case, Sister Venia made no enemies while she was here."

"Was here?"

Heriburg studied the newly-ruled parchment, frowning as she measured the space and the amount she could fit into it and where she would break the words.

She had left space for an illustration, but that work would go to Brother Jehan.

"Now she is missing, Sister. She was last seen in those desperate days after the death of the Holy Mother dementia, may her memory be blessed, and before the arrival of Queen Adelheid and King Henry."

"A strange thing, too," murmured Ruoda, pausing to trim her quill, "because until we reminded people of the woman, it was as if everyone had forgotten her."

"I hope you did not draw attention to yourselves."

Heriburg glanced up, her face as bland as pudding but her gaze as sharp as pins.” Have you ever noticed the similarity in Dariyan of the words 'forgiveness'

and 'poison'? 'Venia' and 'veneni.' Many in the palace still wonder about Ironhead's death, and about the death of the Holy Mother dementia, may God have mercy on her. It is only a small slip of the tongue to introduce another name, and clerics are in truth the worst of gossips, given encouragement."

"Have you told Brother Fortunatus this news? He's still waiting to meet with the lay sister from St. Ekatarina's."

"We informed him last night, Sister. He hoped to meet with the lay sister just before Lauds."

"I thank you, Sisters. You did well." Ruoda grinned, as if expecting the praise, but Heriburg dropped her gaze humbly. A gem, and a jewel, as Mother Otta often said of her best novices, worthy to serve in the regnant's crown.” Now back to your work. It will not do for everyone to see you gossiping here with me."

Farther on stood the stool and sloping writing desk set aside for her personal use. With a sigh of relief and hope, she settled down, trimmed four quills, and studied the words she had written out that

morning, copying from her wax tablet: the final days of Arnulf the Younger.

At that time, having taken both Wendar and Varre fully under his control, he was called by his army Lord, King, and Protector of all. His fame spread to all lands, and many nobles from other realms came to visit him, hoping to find favor in his sight, for truly it could be said of him that he denied nothing to his friends and granted no mercy to his enemies. Having at last subjugated the eastern tribes and having thrown the Eika raiders back into the sea, he announced his intention to make a pilgrimage to the holy city of Darre for the sake of prayer.

Yet within a week of this announcement, his infirmities so disabled him that he was forced to retire to his bed.

He called together the leading nobles of the realm and in their presence designated his son Henry as regnant. To his other children he granted honors and lands of great worth as well as a share of the regnant's treasure, but Henry was made ruler over his sisters and brothers and named king of Wendar and Varre and the marchlands.

After his will had been made legal and all in attendance had acclaimed Henry as king, so passed away that great lord, who had by his efforts united Wendar and Varre and, being first among equals and matchless in all those virtues governing mind and body, stood as the greatest of all regnants reigning in all the lands. He reigned for eighteen years and lived to see the age of four and fifty. He was buried in Quedlinhame before the Lady's Hearth. That day, many wept and all mourned.

She wiped away a tear. The memory of that bitter day, which she had witnessed as a young woman, still had the power to move her. She rubbed the parchment with pumice before taking up knife and quil to begin writing.

Here ends the First Book of the Deeds of the Great Princes.

She had to scrape away the last letter and write it again, but at last, with a quiet chuckle, she sat back and surveyed the final sen tence. Hard to believe that this portion was, at long last, concluded. Yet truly, there would be no rest for the wicked: she still had to write the second part, her chronicle of Henry's reign so far. Sometimes it seemed the work would never end. There was always more to tell than space to tell it.

She dabbed her quill in the ink pot.

Here begins the Second Book—

"Sister Rosvita." Fortunatus came up behind her. He bent as if to examine the parchment, keeping his voice low.” Paloma did not meet me this morning. She has been patient, but I swear to you that yesterday when I met her, she was frightened. I convinced her to remain one more day…but now I fear—" He broke off as a man wearing the red cloak of a presbyter walked into^the scriptorium, marked Rosvita, and headed along the aisles toward her.

"We'll speak later, Brother."

The vault of ceiling made the scriptorium an airy place, filled with light.

Watching Brother Petrus approach, Rosvita had leisure to examine the painted frieze at the far end of the room: martyrs and saints receiving their crowns of glory from the angels.

"Sister Rosvita." He inclined his head. She hid a smile, regarding him somberly.

She had the king's confidence, the respect of the schola, and the ear of the queen. A presbyter like Petrus, however nobly born, did not wield as much influence as she did, and he knew it.” I have been sent by Lord Hugh to request your presence in the skopos' chambers."

Rosvita sighed, setting down her knife and handing the still wet quill to Fortunatus. He could only nod, frustrated and helpless, as she left him in charge of her history.

They crossed out of the regnant's palace and into the gilded corridors of the skopos' palace, dense with silence as a mere handful of presbyters, clerics, and servants hurried along the halls on their errands. No wall here was untouched; murals, friezes, paintings, or tapestries covered every wall. Columns were inlaid with tiny tiles or painted bright colors. Sculptures filled the courtyards and lined the colonnaded arcades down which they walked, in blessed shadow, while the sun beat down on empty graveled pathways beyond. This time of year, even as afternoon drifted toward twilight, no one walked under the sun because of the heat.

It was as quiet as if a spell lay over the palace. Pausing once at a break in the wall where she could see out over the city, she marked how the river dazzled as it wound through the streets, crossed in four places by bridges. A stuporous haze hung over Darre. Had even the buildings fallen asleep?

Pray God autumn would come soon, with cooler weather. She was sweating freely, had to dab at her forehead with her sleeve. They crossed into the heart of the palace and came to a door set with the skopos' seal, a private audience chamber. Brother Petrus stood aside. Rosv^ta entered alone.

Mercifully, the Tile Chamber was dark and cool, surrounded by thick earthen walls and decorated with pale tiles, set out in geo-, metric patterns said to represent the path of the soul as it ascends through the seven spheres toward the Chamber of Light. The skopos sat in a simple chair notable for its high back carved in a pattern of linked circles. Her ferocious black hound lay at her feet, growling softly as Rosvita approached but not raising its head. The chair, elevated on a low dais, presided over a set of benches, five deep, set in a semicircle facing the dais. A table stood between the foremost benches and the dais step.

Only five people inhabited the chamber: the skopos, Hugh, a servingwoman dressed simply in a pale shift belted with rope, and two elderly people wearing the garb of clerics. One lay on a couch in the shadows, half hidden, silent. Hugh and the other man stood at the table, holding open a scroll. A lit lamp stood at either end of the map, but it seemed to Rosvita that their light did more to illuminate Hugh's handsome face than the faded markings on the scroll.

"Pray approach, Sister Rosvita," said the skopos in her cool Voice, extending her right hand.

Rosvita came forward cautiously, well aware of that huge hound so close that it could rip off her hand with one bite, but it did not react beyond another soft growl as she knelt on the steps to kiss Anne's ring, the seal of her office.” Holy Mother, you honor me with your summons."

Not a flicker of a smile touched the skopos' face. She might have been carved in stone. It was hard to imagine anyone more regal sitting in that chair, though.

Henry had been wise to grant her CHILD or FLAME the skopos' throne. That way, she could never challenge him for the earthly throne.” If you will, Sister, examine the scroll."

Hugh moved aside to make room for her at the table, nodding with what appeared a genuine smile as she took her place beside him. The other man, older, with a severe face lined with old resentments and a more recent illness, examined her disapprovingly.

"It's papyrus," she said, "and so likely ancient. These symbols marked at the border of the map are not of Daisanite origin. I would say they are heathen and probably meant to represent heathen gods or perhaps the seven heavenly bodies. It is a map." She touched it hesitantly, because something about its markings made a bell chime in her mind.” Here are mountains, a river, a forest, and the sea." She pointed at each as she spoke the word.” It seems the map represents the placement of seven sites, towns perhaps, or temples. Hard to say.

Here are six scattered through the land equidistant from the seventh, which lies in the center, ringed by mountains. Each site is represented by seven marks, like arrow points, which echo the larger design: six in a ring around a central seventh."

"What is it a map of, Sister Rosvita?" asked Anne.

The elder man grunted. Hugh took a step away from the table.

Rosvita had learned in a hard school not to betray surprise, and she did not do so now, as an inkling of what she was looking at lit in her mind.” Perhaps the continent of Novaria, Holy Mother. This sea could be the north sea, and here might be the middle sea, and these the Alfar Mountains. It is a crude representation, if so, but I have seen sailors' maps that show a similar outline of the coast. I have myself crossed the Alfar Mountains three times and know that they stand in about this place."

"What do you know about the coming cataclysm, Sister?" asked the Holy Mother.” About the attack of the Lost Ones, who wish to regain their empire and enslave all of humankind?"

"Nothing more than what I have heard, Holy Mother. Prince Sanglant spoke of a cataclysm, as did his mother, when they sojourned briefly at the king's progress last spring. But they both left when it appeared to them that the king was not willing to heed their words."

"Did you heed them?"

"I would need more evidence, Holy Mother. I confess it is a difficult story to believe. I have read many chronicles in my time. Many times good souls have cried out to warn the regnant of a coming disaster only to discover that they were mistaken in their reading of the stars, or the omens, or the Holy Verses themselves. God's will is a difficult book for mortals to read."

"Are you learned in astronomy, Sister?"

"I confess ignorance in such matters. I learned no more than any apt pupil would in a convent. I can recognize the constellations and I can identify the wandering stars in the sky." She smiled slightly.” I remember that Aturna takes twenty-eight years to circle the zodiac, while Mok takes twelve, but I confess I cannot recall the periods of the others. Somorhas and Erekes lie between Earth and the sphere of the Sun, so they are often lost in the glare of the Sun.

Somorhas appears as both Morning and Evening Star, never at the same time, and sometimes disappears altogether. I pray pardon, Holy Mother. Early in my studies I became enamored of history, and I neglected the other arts in its favor."

"So it appears," said the skopos, yet by no means did she speak reprovingly, only to note what she had heard. A bell rang softly. The servingwoman hurried to the door, spoke there with an unseen servant, and returned to the Holy Mother.

"The emissary from Salia, Your Excellence."

"Let him in."

A portly man, flushed from the heat, knelt on the steps to kiss the skopos' ring.”

Holy Mother." He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, but it might have been fear of the hound and not the heat that made him sweat so freely.” I am at your service."

"Here is Brother Severus," said Anne to the emissary, indicating the elderly cleric.” You will take him personally to Salia on your return, and see that his every wish is fulfilled. He is my personal representative."

"I am at your command, Holy Mother." He spoke Dariyan with the distinctive Salian accent, the soft "v" hardening, the hard "gn" going soft.” I do not know if we can cross the pass this late in the year. I've gotten word that there've already been heavy snows in the northern passes, quite untimely."

"But you have heard no reports from the western passes, Brother. I feel sure that if you leave at once, you will have a successful journey."

i He eyed her with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Perhaps he had heard the rumors that she was a powerful sorcerer, exactly the sort of person whose activities had been condemned as recently as one hundred years ago at the Council of Narvone. It was not something ever spoken of out loud and certainly never to her face.

Or maybe he was only afraid that the black hound was going to lunge to its feet and rip his face off.

"As you command, Holy Mother. We can leave in the morning, if that is your wish."

"It is." Anne dismissed him, and the servingwoman escorted him to the door.

After a silence, she rose and, with the hound at her heels, came down to the table, smoothing her hand over the ancient papyrus. It had gone yellow with age, flaking at the edges.” What evidence do you need, Sister Rosvita, to be convinced of the danger that awaits us all if we do not act?"

"Perhaps it is impossible to convince me, Holy Mother, without hard evidence, but that does not mean I cannot see the purpose to preparing for such an eventuality, in case it comes about. Yet why would Sanglant's mother come to Henry and offer an alliance if her people wish only to enslave and dominate us?

Can a dialogue not be started?"

"With whom? Where is the Aoi woman now, Sister? Where is Prince Sanglant?"

"I cannot answer either question."

"The Aoi woman has returned to her people to raise an army, now that she sees that humankind have no will to fight. Prince Sanglant also left to gather an army."

"For what purpose? How do you know this?"

"Surely you know of that skill commonly called 'Eagle's sight'? Eagles are not alone in making use of it."

The wick of one of the lamps hissed as it came to the end of the oil. The servingwoman hastened to refill the belly of the lamp while Rosvita caught hold of her thoughts, for once so horrified that she could not even voice mindless pleasantries to pass the awkward moment. If Anne could use Eagle's sight, then she could spy on anyone.

Anyone.

Yet even Anne could not spy on people constantly, and then only one at a time, using such methods. Every skopos was known to

have spies, clerics moving through the palace in Darre and the courts of far-flung regnants, reporting back what they observed to the Holy Mother. How was this different?

"-Where is Prince Sanglant now, Holy Mother?"

Odd, and troubling, to see annoyance brush its sharp claws across that normally serene face.” Well hidden," said Anne, reaching to scratch the hound's ears, and by this means concealing her expression as she went on, "no doubt with the aid of his mother's magic. Why conceal himself if he has nothing to hide?"

"Why indeed?" Rosvita glanced away to see Severus examining the map while Hugh listened with obvious interest.” Yet I have not forgotten the Eagle sent by Princess Theophanu, who spoke of troubles at work in the land, including Quman raiders."

When Anne straightened, her features displayed as impassive a mask as ever.”

Be assured that I have looked, Sister Rosvita. I have seen no Quman army."

"You do not think Prince Sanglant might be raising an army to fight the barbarians?"

"I do not know the mind of Prince Sanglant. Wendar is plagued by much unrest in these days, which comes in many guises. A wise mind recognizes these troubles as a sign of the cataclysm to come, for the earth itself shifts and trembles, knowing the dreadful fate that awaits it when the Lost Ones work their terrible magic to force their return."

"It is difficult to argue against you, Holy Mother, considering the extent and depth of your knowledge."

"So it is," agreed Anne. She lifted a hand. At once several servants, previously unseen, hurried out of the shadows. The cleric reclining on the couch was lying, it now transpired, on a litter, which made it easy for the four servants to cany her out of the chamber. Even so, Rosvita could not quite get a glimpse of that person, only that she was small and dark. How strange that she should observe the whole and yet never speak or be spoken to. Yet it was too late to discover who she was now.

Brother Severus retreated, as did Hugh, with a smile and a bow, and at last the servingwoman went out and shut the door behind her. The black hound yawned, displaying fearsome teeth.

"Now you will tell me, Sister," said Anne, facing Rosvita, "why you persist in not trusting me. I have served as Holy Mother for only one month. Have I given offense? Have you heard aught of me that leads you to believe that I am plotting evil?"

For an instant Rosvita felt the thrill of panic, but she knew how to think fast.”

Only this, Holy Mother. Hugh of Austra was sent south to face charges that he had soiled his hands with black sorcery. Now he stands as an intimate in the queen's counsel and you have allowed him exceptional authority within the college of presbyters."

"Most of which he had already earned by his own efforts during the last days of my predecessor, dementia, may her memory be blessed. Is it my trust in Hugh that you do not trust?"

It was hard to judge Anne's age. She might have been about forty years of age, as Rosvita was, or ten years older. Time had not marked her smooth face but neither did she look young; the weight of time, wisdom, and rank cloaked her.

She had power, bone-deep and solid, and if she chose to support Henry, then truly there was nothing he could not accomplish. For that, Rosvita was willing to forgive much, if it were true that Anne meant to support Henry rather than merely use him for her own purpose, to thwart the return of the Lost Ones.

Rosvita knew better than to voice such doubts aloud. There were, after all, so many other questions that could be answered, now that she had the opportunity to ask them.” I am a historian, Holy Mother. The good abbess at Korvei, where I received my education, said I would be both saved and damned by my curiosity.

I confess freely that I have read the chronicles, and I do not entirely understand your genealogy. I beg pardon if what I say appears rude. Pray trust that it is only the sin of curiosity that leads me to ask."

"You doubt that I am the descendant of Emperor Taillefer?" Was that a flicker of anger, or of amusement? Impossible to tell. The hound growled rather louder than before. Its whipcord tail thumped once against a table leg, almost rocking it.

"I have in my possession the Vita of St. Radegundis, as you know, Holy Mother."

It wasn't easy to keep her voice even, not with that huge hound glowering at her.

"I have seen it." How coolly she spoke those words, considering that the Vita had been written by her own father, a man she had never met.” When you have finished the copies your clerics are

making, I will gladly take such a blessed work into the library here, Sister."

Rosvita knew how to swallow regret, although it hurt.” That would be most fitting, Holy Mother. But although I was blessed by God as the vessel through whose hands the Vita would pass on its way to you, I am puzzled by the circumstances surrounding Fi-delis' marriage. That he was hidden in the cloister and raised as a monk, I can understand. That he succumbed in his autumn years to temptation, I can understand and in truth I pity him, for despite his great age and wisdom it seemed to me that he still thought of the woman with affection and regretted to the end of his life any harm that might have come to her because of his weakness." It was a long speech, and a convoluted argument.

She had to choose her words carefully.” But I have never fully understood the identity of your mother, or what happened to her after. How were you then raised, and in what secrecy, with what education, to find you awake to your ancestry, so learned and so wise, and yet unknown to those of us who have studied the chronicles for all of our lives?"

"I was raised by Sister Clothilde, handmaiden of St. Radegundis and later servant to Biscop Tallia, my aunt. My mother was called Lavrentia. She was the unwanted child of a noble family in Varre. It is common for families to place inconvenient children in the church."

Rosvita smiled bitterly, remembering how her brother Ivar had been thrust into the church with no calling and no love for his new position. Count Harl was not a forgiving man, and no doubt rash, impulsive young Ivar had given him trouble one too many times.” So it is, Holy Mother. We can only pray that they all come to serve God with an honest and open heart."

The skopos murmured a blessing in response, fluid and almost mindless, a habit to one raised in clerical surroundings. The hound sat.” She died, and in any case she was very young, not more than fifteen years of age. Sister Clothilde knew well what trouble might erupt in Salia should it be known that a legitimate descendant of Taillefer still lived. She knew that the Salians only let women rule as co-regnants, never alone, and she knew that were it known that I lived, some powerful Salian lord would take me hostage, raise me, and marry me to his son so that his son could claim the kingship of Salia through his use of my body."

"Truly," murmured Rosvita, "a barbaric custom."

"Not so different than King Henry's marriage to Queen Adel-heid."

That stung.” Adelheid fled to Henry and begged for his help, Holy Mother. It is true that theirs is a marriage dictated by politics and expediency, but there is true affection and respect as well."

The hound growled, yipping once, threateningly. The skopos mounted the steps and sat, placing her hands on the arms of the chair, which were without any decoration except the polished luster of gold leaf enveloping the wood. She gave a soft command, and the hound at once lay beside her.” Sometimes I wonder, Sister Rosvita. Does God come first in your heart, or does the king?"

"I serve the regnants of Wendar and Varre, as I was raised to do, Holy Mother."

"And I serve humankind, as I was raised to do. Biscop Tallia and Sister Clothilde learned of the threat posed by the Lost Ones, so I was raised to follow in their path, to save humankind by casting the Lost Ones back into the Abyss. Will you aid me, or will you be an obstacle, Sister? The king heeds you. You are well respected, and it is obvious that the king's schola and much of his court will follow your lead, should you chose to speak in my favor. Or against me."

Pray God that her face and voice betrayed nothing. Pray God that no hint of suspicion should fall on her.” Then that is why you were raised in the arts of the mathematici, Holy Mother. That is why your daughter was raised to know those arts as well. Yet such arts still remain condemned by the church you now preside over."

"Condemned because of envy, directed at my aunt, Biscop Tallia, the wisest and most selfless of women. Yet I understand your meaning, Sister Rosvita. I must move cautiously so as not to arouse anger and fear. What we fight, we have fought for long years in secrecy, seeming to sleep and yet remaining awake. It has been our fate and our duty to prepare while humankind slept, oblivious to the approaching danger."

Curious, but never a liar. Rosvita had prided herself for all these years on her honesty, yet was it not said in the Holy Verses that pride was first to fall? "It is a solemn charge, Holy Mother. Pray do not suspect me of ever placing any obstacles in the path of righteousness."

Anne raised a single eyebrow, although it was difficult to tell whether she was surprised, pleased, or skeptical.” As long as we work together as allies, we are therefore in harmony. You may go, Pray be at your leisure to attend me when I next call for you. There is also this matter of reports of heresy in the north to consider. A council must be called, and I am minded to command you to preside over the proceedings."

"I am yours to command, Holy Mother." She was offered the holy ring. With some trepidation, she mounted the dais and kissed it. This time the hound did not even growl, but she could feel the weight of his presence so close beside her. Thanking the Lady for small mercies, and glad to see that she still had all her fingers, she made her own way to the door.

Hugh waited outside in the anteroom, leaning on a windowsill and examining the courtyard beyond, a small garden yellowed with summer's heat. A fountain in the shape of a phoenix trickled at the center, with a fruit-bearing tree growing at each, corner. Pears, figs, and apples drooped from weighted branches, awaiting harvest. Smiling amiably, he turned to greet her.

"Sister Rosvita. I was about to walk back to the royal palace. May I escort you?"

"The honor would be mine."

They strolled along shaded arcades. Brother Petrus followed ten steps behind, carrying an unlit lamp.

"I am sorry you could not attend Her Majesty yesterday. We went outside the city to oversee the grape harvest at one of the royal vineyards."

"It is well for Queen Adelheid to get out more," agreed Rosvita.” I am happy to see that she is recovering her health at last."

They spoke for a bit of inconsequential things: Princess Mathilda, Aostan architecture, the rituals of the grape harvest. What game was Hugh playing? Yet at times like this, she wondered if he had truly changed. By al reports, and by her own personal observation, he was pious, discreet, benevolent, eloquent but gentle, grave in his authority and yet as humble as a beggar, affable to every person yet with such an elegance of manners that he never seemed common.

Surely if he were irretrievably stained by the evil inclination, then that mark must somehow show in his outward form. But it did not. It had become something of a joke in the schola that when queen and presbyter rode out into the streets of Darre, folk gathered to acclaim her authority and to marvel at his beauty.

They stepped out from a colonnade to cross a courtyard on a graveled path, white stones crunching under their feet. Afternoon shadows drew long across the neatly raked garden and crisscrossing paths. Above, parapets rose, visible beyond the roofs of the palace.” The Holy Mother means to appoint you to oversee a council on this heresy that troubles the north."

"So she has given me to understand. I fear I am not qualified to lead such an investigation."

"Nay, Sister, do not say so. You are respected by all. It is well known that your judgments are made without any regard to your own personal inclinations. I cannot think of any person in the church who is as widely trusted as you are."

They stepped onto the portico that framed the entrance, three monumental arches, that led from the skopos' palace into the forecourt of the royal compound. Rosvita had never gotten used to the speed with which the sun set here in the south; no long, lingering twilights common to summer days in the north. Darkness was already falling, drowning them in shadow beneath the heavy arches. She could barely make out the elongated figures of saints carved into the facade, pale forms looming above them, stern but merciful.

"I am troubled, Sister," said Hugh softly. Brother Petrus waited obediently behind them, just out of earshot. In the forecourt beyond, torches were being lit, placed in sconces around the court, light flaring and smoke streaming toward the heavens. A dozen grooms hurried out from the open gate that led in to the stable yard. Distantly, from the direction of the road that led down into the city, she heard shouting and cheers.

She said nothing, only waited, and after a moment Hugh went on.” What would you do if you discovered an ancient text in whose words you read an account of the very heresy that even now pollutes the kingdom?"

"What do you mean? It's well known that the Arethousan church remains in error on certain matters of doctrine. At least one of these—these arguments over the nature of the human and divine substance of the blessed Daisan—are part of the heresy as well.

Everything I have heard indicates that the heresy comes out of the east."

He stood in profile, visible in the twilight only as a shade, like a man caught between the living world and the dead.” I do not know where to go. I believe I have found an account written by St. Thecla herself in which she describes the flaying and redemption of the blessed Daisan, just as it is said to have happened in this poisonous heresy."

"A forgery." But she could barely force the words out. That such a statement should come from Hugh, of all people, set her completely off-balance. She was either a fool, or he was a consummate actor, but he seemed to her eyes, and to her instincts, to be truly distraught.

"I have labored to prove exactly that, but I fear—

"Make way for King Henry!"

Soldiers raced to stand at attention in the spacious forecourt. Cries of acclaim rose from the city below as the king and his retinue neared the gate.

"This is unexpected." She had to yell to be heard over the clamor.

"Come." He drew her forward by the arm.

Queen Adelheid appeared, framed by the huge bronze doors that opened onto the entryway of the great hall, just as the first horsemen rode into the forecourt.

They bore the banners of Henry and Adelheid. Behind them came the king himself and his Closest companions: Duke Burchard of Avaria, Duchess Liutgard of Fesse, Margrave Villam, several Aostan nobles, and of course his stalwart Eagle, Hathui. No man there, nor woman either, outshone Henry. He was hale and healthy, not one bit the worse for the wear after a summer campaigning in Aosta's brutal heat. He dismounted, handed his reins to a groom, and hurried to greet Adelheid. But even as he led his entourage into the hall, he spotted Rosvita.

"My good counselor!" Thus summoned, she cut a path through the crowd to his side, Hugh trailing modestly behind her.” Come, Sister, you will sit at my left hand while we eat."

Supper was laid at the feasting tables, nothing magnificent, but sufficient for soldiers ridden in from the field. Adelheid sat at Henry's right hand in splendid robes she had somehow contrived to be wearing—as though she had known he was coming. Maybe CHILD or FLAME she had. The king could have sent a courier, but if he had, then why, Rosvita wondered as she took her place at the king's side, had she and the schola not heard the tidings?

Had Hugh stopped her on the portico so she could witness the king's arrival and understand that she had less power than he had, in his graceful speech, claimed for her?

Nay, she chided herself, you are grown too suspicious.

A steward brought a basin of water and a cloth so that Henry could wipe the dust of the road off his hands and face. Servants hurried in with a clear broth, followed by roasted game hens basted in mint sauce. When the first bite of hunger had been calmed, Adelheid rose with cup in hand.” Let there be an accounting of the summer's victories!" she cried, to general acclaim.

Hathui recited a clear if undramatic account of the army's successes: three packs of Jinna bandits put to the sword; seven sieges brought to a peaceful conclusion, although Lord Gezo was still holding out in Navlia; emissaries from Arethousan potentates who were not eager to fight the Wendish king's army despite the fact that they were usurping lands in the south that belonged to the Aostan royal family; feasts and triumphal parades through a host of towns in central Aosta.

Henry remained somber throughout this recitation, and he left the feast early, taking a small coterie with him as he walked to his private apartments. They stopped to view the sleeping princess. As Henry leaned over Mathilda's bed, admiring how much she'd grown, Rosvita bent close to speak softly in his ear.

"I sense that all is not as you wish, Your Majesty. Be sure that I am ready to listen, should you desire a counselor's ear."

He stroked Mathilda's downy soft brown hair. The baby stirred, slipped her thumb in her mouth, and with a snort fell back to sleep.” Aosta is a thornbush, and the news from Wendar has not cheered my heart. Was I mistaken to leave Theophanu as .regent?"

"You could not have known the Quman would invade, Your Majesty."

"Am I chasing a dream, Sister?" His hands, callused from so many years of war, traced the curve of the baby's ear; he had a delicate touch.

"Nay, Your Majesty. If the Holy Mother is right, then we must have a strong leader in the years to come. Taillefer's crown would unite many who might otherwise refuse to march behind the Wendish banner."

"If report is true, civil war rages in Salia. If I could only secure Aosta, then I might turn my eyes west to Salia next."

The words startled her, and worried her.” You would never be regarded as anything but a usurper in Salia, Your Majesty, if you will forgive me for saying so.

I must advise you to strengthen your position in Aosta first—and not to neglect the troubles in the north."

His sharp gaze, his thoughtful expression, reminded her of the silent calculation, often unseen by others, at work in his mind.” Ought I to return to Wendar, do you think?"

"In truth, Your Majesty, I fear you are caught between the lance and the spear.

If you leave Aosta now, all that you have accomplished so far may crumble. Yet if you do not return to Wendar, worse may follow."

"I had thought to leave a peaceful realm at my back," he said, not without bitterness, "but I see it is not to be. Yet I thank you, Sister, for your honest words." He straightened up, smiling as he caught Adelheid's hand and drew her to him.” Now, my friends, to bed."

There was a great deal of merrymaking as they escorted the king and queen to their bed and at length retired to leave them in peace. Courtiers dispersed quickly to their own private revels, but before Rosvita could return to her chambers, she was waylaid by Helmut Villam.

"I pray you, Sister, a word."

She smiled, genuinely happy to see him.” You're looking well, Margrave. You have weathered the summer's heat better than I have."

"We weren't cooped up within city walls. And I admit, Sister, that I found the women of Aosta most accommodating." His smile turned abruptly to a frown as he drew her into an alcove backed by a hideously clever marble fountain carved in the shape of a medusa's head, every hair a snake and each snake's mouth trickling water like clear poison.” I am distressed by the reports I hear out of Wendar and the marchlands."

"An Eagle came through Dane some weeks ago, sent by Princess Theophanu.

Have you heard other news?"

"A messenger from Geoffrey of Lavas reached us, and it broke my heart to hear the lad speak. 'By the love you bear me, and by the honor you gave to my daughter by designating her as the rightful Count of Lavas.' He begged Henry to come home. Troubles. Drought and famine, and bandits come north from Salia to haunt the roads. Even talk of the shades of the Lost Ones, ranging out of the deep forests to plague folk with elfshot."

"Ill news, indeed."

Villam hadn't finished.” I had hoped to get a message from my daughter, in Walburg, but I have heard nothing. Tell me, Sister, do you think that Henry ought to remain in Aosta or return to Wendar? It is by no means clear to me that he and Queen Adelheid control enough of Aosta even now that they can expect the imperial crowns to be handed to them without a fight."

"Surely they can simply take the crowns. No one else is vying for them."

"That is the risk, is it not? If Henry allows himself to be crowned while Aosta remains in turmoil, with Jinna pirates and Arethousan thieves still in control of half the country..." He trailed off, extending a hand to catch water from one snake's mouth and wiping his forehead. It was so dark in the alcove that Rosvita could only see the movement, not his expression.

"Yet if Henry retreats to Wendar, then this foray into Aosta might be seen as a defeat," she pointed out.

"True enough. Those who make trouble might begin to whisper that he has lost the regnant's luck."

Some tone in his voice alerted her.” Are such words being uttered, Villam?

Surely not."

"I do not like Aosta, and even less do I like the intrigues of Aostan nobles. There is something untrustworthy about the entire lot of them. Nay, Sister, I think we neglect the north at our peril. That is what I will counsel the king: that we should return as soon as possible."

"That will depend in part on the passes over the mountains. Some may be closed by snowfall."

"If that's so, we must bide here until next spring." "I've heard the western passes are still open," she said.” Which lead to Salia. That is no route for a Wendish king and his army."

"Still, Their Majesties can campaign well into the winter if we're forced to remain here. It may come about that Aosta will accede to their yoke before any decision must be reached about returning north."

"So we must hope, Sister." But as he took his leave, he did not seem optimistic.

At last she was free to return to her chambers, where she found Heriburg and Ruoda waiting patiently by the window, talking quietly together, while Aurea swept around the bed. Those two young faces, so eager and full of life, reminded her of her own youth, her first months at King Arnulf's court. How strange and wonderful the king's progress had seemed to her then! Yet despite the burdens that age and authority had brought in their wake, she woke every morning eager to be of service to the king.

Anne's words echoed in her mind. To the king, or to God? To whom was her first allegiance?

"Fortunatus went out with Sister Gerwita," said Ruoda, rising to kiss Rosvita's hand.” Gerwita found something. ... I don't know what. He left this with me."

From her sleeve, she drew out the parchment map he had been given by Paloma.

"Aurea," said Rosvita, "see that no one interrupts us. Let Fortunatus in, if he comes."

"Yes, my lady." She took her broom outside to sweep the corridor.

"I pray you, Heriburg, unroll this and hold it open." Now she could compare this map with the one she had seen in the Tile Chamber.” There, you see, girls," she said with mounting excitement.” We count perhaps fifty stone crowns recorded throughout the lands, but there are only seven marked with seven stones." They corresponded, more or less, with the seven spots marked on the other map.”

Seven crowns, each with seven stones. What can it mean?"

"Seven jewels in Taillefer's crown," said Ruoda promptly.” Six placed equidistant around the rim, just like this, and one in the center."

"Seven stars in the constellation called 'the Crown,'" said Heriburg.

"But they're all jumbled together and it takes keen eyesight to see the seventh.

I never have."

"Seven Sleepers," murmured Rosvita.” 'Devils afflict me in the guise of scholars and magi ... if only I would tell them what I knew of the secrets of the Seven Sleepers."

"They're from St. Eusebe's church history," exclaimed Ruoda, "and maybe just a story told to reassure the faithful. What do they have to do with this map?"

"Hush," whispered Heriburg.” She's thinking."

"She lied to me," said Rosvita, letting her words lead her thoughts.” Lavrentia isn't dead. Or wasn't dead last year. Lavren-tia became Obligatia. Obligatia, when she was Lavrentia, had two children, one a girl born to Taillefer's only legitimate son, and the other a boy. What was it she said?" She placed a palm over the central stone crown marked on the map, concealing it.” She came to an estate called Bodfeld. There she met the nephew of the ruling lady, and in time they married and she gave birth to a child. Whom they named Bernard!"

This triumph of memory gave her energy, despite the lingering heat. She left the map and walked to the embrasure, leaning out where the breeze could touch her face. The city lay hidden beyond except for occasional torches bobbing along a dark street and the beacon fires ringing the outer wall. Could it be? Yet Bernard was not an uncommon name. She had to dig, and dig, recalling the few meetings she'd had with Liath. The time she had followed her outside at the hunting lodge, wondering how a common Eagle was so learned that she could read Dariyan fluently. Where did she come from? Following that path of memory, she found it. Liath herself had spoken the damning words.

Rosvita turned to survey Ruoda and Heriburg, who were regarding her with wide eyes and startled expressions. Lamplight played over their youthful features.” 'I have been told I had cousins at Bodfeld!' How could I have forgotten? Bodfeld."

"Have you cousins at Bodfeld, Sister?" asked Ruoda.” I thought you came from the North Mark. I didn't know the Counts of the North Mark had kin in eastern Saony."

"Nay, they don't, child."

"Shhh!" hissed Heriburg to Ruoda.” She's still thinking."

"After the death of her husband, the child was taken from her and given to a monastery to raise. And the girl called Lavrentia was sent south—found by Wolfhere and sent south!—and so came

by accident, or by God's design, to St. Ekatarina's. Maybe the only place she could have remained safe."

"Safe from what?" asked Ruoda. Heriburg kicked her in the shin.

"That is the one terrible secret that would destroy her position. That would force the council of presbyters to revoke the ring."

"Oh, my God," said Heriburg, as though the words had been forced out of her.”

You're talking about the Holy Mother."

She realized, then, that they were staring at her, aghast.” Daughters, you must speak of this to no one. Truly, you can see how ugly and destructive rumor can be. I have no proof. I have only suspicions. I may be wrong."

"Wrong about what?" demanded Ruoda.” What is the terrible secret?"

"Ai Lady," Rosvita murmured.” Sin laid upon sin. Tomorrow, my children, I must ask you to do a horrible thing, to soil your hands with binding and working—

"Sorcery?" asked Ruoda eagerly.

"We must all have amulets of protection, of concealment."

A sharp rap on the door caused them all to start, as though God in Their guise as Eternal Judge had come calling on account of their sinful thoughts. Heriburg actually shrieked, so startled that she let go of the map, which rolled up with a snap. But it was only Fortunatus, wiping sweat from his brow, winded and distraught. He hurried in, stopped dead, and looked at each of them in turn.”

What's happened?" he asked.” What's wrong?"

Having come so far, even knowing that it might be possible for Anne or any other adept to be watching her right now, she had to speak.

"Sister Clothilde is dead, and so is Fidelis, and the hapless nephew from Bodfeld.

All the other principals. Only Anne and Lavrentia—and Wolfhere—remain. That is why they are looking for her. To make sure no one discovers that Liath's father was Anne's half brother."

"Incest!" whispered Ruoda in the tones of a gardener gratified to find all his roses in glorious bloom.

"May God have mercy," murmured Fortunatus.

"Terrible enough," continued Rosvita, "horrible, indeed. But there's still a piece missing. Why did Sister Clothilde remove an unimportant girl from a convent near the seat of the Counts of Lavas? Why does that nag at me? It might only be coincidence."

Fortunatus grabbed the map off the table and slid it up his sleeve, as if he expected guards to tromp in the next instant and arrest them all for treason.”

The hounds. That hound the skopos keeps by her. Doesn't it look like Count Lavastine's hounds? Aren't the Lavas hounds very like the ones described in the poems about Emperor Taillefer?"

"You see them in all the tapestries," said Ruoda.” I never thought about it before, but that hound the skopos keeps by her is very like the emperor's famous black hounds."

'"He and his daughters led their black hounds with leashes around their necks, and in their excitement the hounds snap at any person who comes near them except for their master and his children, for even the dogs in their dumb loyalty bow before bright nobility.'" Heriburg blushed when the other three looked at her.” I beg your pardon. I knew the entire poem by heart before I entered the convent."

"No." Rosvita stepped away from the window.” We're asking the wrong question. We should be asking not how the black hound comes to attend the Holy Mother Anne, granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer. We should be asking how, and when, such hounds came to attend the Counts of Lavas."

A scratch came on the door and Aurea peered in.” My lady!"

"Ai, God," swore Fortunatus.” I forgot Sister Gerwita. She was quite out of breath." He was sweating, if possible, even more than before.

"You have news, Brother," said Rosvita, not needing an answer. His expression was answer enough.

Aurea opened the door all the way to admit poor timid Gerwita, who was indeed panting so hard that Rosvita herself hurried over to help her to the bed.” Dear God, child, I hope you are not falling ill."

"Nay, Sister, it was just the stairs and the heat. In truth, my heart aches for the suffering I've seen. There is so little we can do to help them." She wiped a tear, or sweat, from her cheek. The lamplight washed her thin, pale face to ivory.”

Alas, Sister, that we come bearing such tidings. Brother Fortunatus told you ...

didn't he?"

"Nay, he's had no chance."

"We found her, Sister." Gerwita sighed heavily, shoulders drooping.

"Gerwita found her," said Fortunatus sternly, never one to take credit where he had not earned it.” She was the only one not afraid to tour the plague houses and the poor houses and the infirmaries. She only took me there to identify the body."

"God have mercy," breathed Rosvita, seeing all too clearly where this would lead.” Go on."

"Found who?" asked Ruoda.

Gerwita waved a languid hand, unable to speak. Fortunatus went on.” Paloma, the lay sister from St. Ekatarina's Convent. Dead of the summer fever, so the sisters at St. Asella's infirmary reported. But she had none of the bruising on the cheeks. Her eyes weren't sunken in. You know how they look. I think she was murdered, Sister, for when I met her yesterday before Lauds, she was as healthy as I am."

IT was obvious even from the outside that Osterburg's walls were in poor repair.

But a mob of prisoners, whipped forward with the lash, could not breach them, not with so many determined defenders pouring hot oil and a rain of arrows down on their hapless foe. Most of the captives died in agony at the base of the walls while Bulkezu and his army watched in a silence tempered only by the whisper of their wings in a steady autumn breeze. There was nothing Hanna could do to stop the killing, nothing she could do to save them.

Nothing.

By the time rudimentary siege engines were brought forward on the third day of the siege, the defenders had plugged the gaps with piles of rubble and quickly erected palisades. To Hanna's eyes, it looked as though they had ripped down entire houses for the beams and planks thrown up to fil in the weak spots, but of course from this distance it was hard to tell.

All she could do was pray that Osterburg would not fall too soon. All she could do was pray that what she had seen with her Eagle's sight two weeks ago had been a true vision, not a false one.

"Eagle." Prince Ekkehard's concubine, Agnetha, had been weeping. She wiped at her eyes as she joined Hanna on the slope between the begh's tent and the prince's. The guards glanced at her and away, pretending disinterest.” Tell me what I must do, Eagle. They took my uncle away yesterday. I was barely able to save his sons from being sent out as well." Two dark-haired, ragged boys knelt on the dirt outside Ekkehard's tent, heads bowed in prayer or in grief.” But they took Uncle away for the attack. I know he must be dead now." She began to cry again.” I should have gone in his place. Look at how many are dead, and I'm safe and dry and not hungry."

"There's nothing you could have done." But her words sounded hollow. In truth, she felt hol ow.” Nothing."

Even had she demanded that Bulkezu cast her back into the crowd of prisoners, that he let his soldiers lash her forward with the rest, he would not have done so. That one night she had spent in the mob had only been a ruse to catch her out, to see what magic she might be hiding. After that, he had reeled in her leash once again and kept her close by his side, always close. She had never known that hate, like a fever, could burn you out until you were only a husk.

She had seen so much death and cruelty that she wondered if it had crushed her heart. She hated herself for ever thinking of Bulkezu as a handsome man.

Outward beauty meant nothing if the heart within was misshapen and monstrous.

Bulkezu's pavilion and the main encampment stood on a low rise overlooking the river valley from the west. The Veser River flowed northward, mighty and broad, meeting a tributary that flowed in from the east through rugged countryside right where the fortress city had been built to take advantage of such a good defensive position. The Quman army had trampled the fields outside of the city, on the west bank of the Veser, although most looked as though they had already been harvested. - "They must have good grain stores," said Agnetha suddenly, betraying her background as a practical farm girl. Not even the rich gowns that Ekkehard dressed her in could disguise the strength of her callused hands. No doubt she had hoed many a field and wrung many a chicken's neck in her time, before she'd been forced to accept the privilege of gracing a captive prince's bed.” And with rivers on two sides, good access to water. They'll be hard to take, as long as the walls hold."

Hanna glanced at her, surprised.” You've learned a thing or two about war."

"So I've had to," replied Agnetha bitterly.” Prince Ekkehard and his companions talk of little else." Although she was already speaking in a low voice, she leaned closer and whispered so softly in Hanna's ear that Hanna strained to hear.” He's terrified. That's his aunt's city, and you can see by the banner that she is in residence together with his cousins. All he's done the last three days is pray to God to not force him to commit treason against his own kin."

"It seems late to worry about that."

"That may be, but what else was he to do, taken prisoner and all?"

"He could have refused to fight on Bulkezu's behalf." "And been killed instead?

His own kin haven't treated him with respect, have they? Why shouldn't he resent them?" "Is that what he tells you?" asked Hanna.” Why shouldn't he tell me? Who else will listen to him?" Hanna examined the pretty young woman. Not even red and swollen eyes could ruin the promise of her full lips and fuller bosom, nor tarnish the glory of her thick, dark hair. For all Ekke-hard's faults, he was still a prince of the royal house, with fine manners, an elegant figure, and his own share of Henry's charisma. Thrown together with him in desperate circumstances, learning the best ways to smooth his feathers when he became agitated, comprehending that his protection could perhaps save her remaining family: nay, she could not find it in her heart to blame Agnetha for becoming his champion, in her own way. People did what they had to, to survive.

All the ferries and fords upstream along the Veser River were in Quman hands, and no doubt Bulkezu was in the process of sending out soldiers to take over those ferries a day's ride downstream of the city as well. The army fanned out along the eastern bank of the Veser, striking east into the forested country that lay between the two rivers, probing, burning, killing any poor soul unlucky enough not to have heard the warnings and retreated to the safety of Osterburg's decrepit walls. The main part of the force waited outside the city, ready for another assault once the siege engines had done their work.

"There are so many of them," whispered Agnetha hopelessly.” No one can ever defeat them."

Despite everything, Hanna still hoped a fierce hope.” They just look like so many because of the way they swarm over the ground. Look there." She pointed to the three fires burning about a stone's throw from Bulkezu's pavilion.” Haven't you seen how they signal to each other, using smoke?"

One of the boys kneeling by Ekkehard's tent leaped up and raced over.” You better come." He pulled at Agnetha's sleeve.” His lordship wants you."

With a glance, a murmured word that Hanna could not understand, Agnetha hurried away. As she went, the distant "thump" of the two catapults being released shuddered through the air. Hanna held her breath, trying to keep her gaze on the missiles rising, and then falling. A cloud of dust rose from within the walls, followed by a stream of smoke as the fire rags caught in thatch.

So it went as the morning passed and the afternoon bled away. Smoke rose at intervals but always got put out again. Hanna paced, four guards in ever-present attendance on her. Prince Ekkehard and his companions stayed in their tent, praying. Now and again she caught sight of Bulkezu's griffin wings below as he rode down to the ferry, over to the catapults, and then vanished north of the city. Cherbu rode beside his brother, easily identifiable because he wore no wings. A few pathetic prisoners, bloody and limping, fled west into the woodlands beyond the open fields, but Quman scouts rode after them and herded them in, driving them back toward the main encampment. At last, Hanna walked with a sick heart to the prisoners' compound, a makeshift corral guarded by the youngest and most inexperienced Quman soldiers, the ones who would more likely overreact to any least sign of activity among the prisoners and who were therefore the most dangerous sentries.

She did what she could, bringing water to the prisoners, tending wounds. Her guards watched without interest and made no move to stop her. They knew that any of these little things she did were useless. But she had to do them in order to live with herself, in order to sleep at night.

She had to listen to their stories, in order to report them to the king. Surely the king would be as horrified as she was, hearing of his loyal subjects driven forward at spear point to take the brunt of the assault, caught between a sure death, if they did not advance, and likely death if they did. One man had spent the night buried among the dying, hearing their screams and moans; even as he spoke, he kept slapping his ears as though he still heard their cries. Another had crawled to safety through a field of blood; his skin was covered in it, cracking and flaking off when he clenched and unclenched his hands. A woman had seen her own son fall with an arrow in his eye, and during the night she had crawled among the dead, searching hopelessly and desperately, until her sobbing brother had dragged her away before she could get cut down by the defenders on the wall or the Quman in the field.

There was no sign of Agnetha's uncle among the ones who had escaped the carnage.

Hanna noticed first that the attention of her guards slipped away from her as they pointed toward the trees and the encampment's flags, barely visible above the foliage. The smoke had changed. Three fat balls of smoke puffed up and dissipated. One of the guards whistled sharply, beckoning to her as he touched the handle of his whip. She wasn't the one who would be struck if she didn't obey immediately.

They got to Bulkezu's pavilion just as he rode up, attended by a dozen of his favored captains. His gaze marked Hanna, but that was all, before he called his brother over. The two spoke rapidly, words blending together so that she could pick not even one common word out of the conversation except a name.

Bayan.

Cherbu hemmed and hawed. He frowned and spat. He scratched his crotch and pried a tiny stone out of the sole of his shoe. Bulkezu wanted him to do something that he clearly did not want to do. But in the end he acquiesced, muttering and mumbling as he walked away with his odd, rolling gait. He had stripped down to almost nothing because of the heat, and the tattoos that covered his body seemed to shudder and move where sweat glistened, trailing down his dark skin.

Bulkezu returned his attention to the scouts who rode up at intervals and gave their reports. Hanna was too nervous to understand even a single word. Around her, men began breaking down tents and pavilions. Cherbu made a circuit of the camp, hopping from one leg to the other while he sprinkled dust onto the ground at intervals. His singsong chant interwove with Bulkezu's laughter every time a new scout rode in.

What was going on? Were they abandoning the siege? Had Prince Bayan tracked them down at last?

Ai, Lord. Maybe Ivar was with him. Maybe Ivar wasn't really dead.

Prince Ekkehard emerged from his tent with his four faithful companions behind him, but they stopped short, caught cold, when two Quman soldiers rode up and dumped at Bulkezu's feet the body of a Wendishman dressed in the light armor of a scout and wearing the badge of Princess Sapientia. Ekkehard grabbed his battle banner out of Welf 's hand and tossed it back inside the tent. Standing with his friends, he could no longer be identified as a royal prince of Wendar.

Bulkezu held up a hand for silence. He had taken off his helm. The wind streamed through his beautiful hair, making it writhe like snakes around his shoulders. Below, the Quman army was pulling back from the walls; on the far shore of the river, groups of ten and twenty riders moved toward the eastern bank, gathering into larger cohorts as they returned from their far-flung foraging.

"Arm for battle, Prince Ekkehard," said Bulkezu.” The time for fighting is soon upon us." At last, he met Hanna's gaze.” When I have destroyed their army, and burned their city, then you will lead me to the witch called Liathano."

THAT day, the ninth of Setentre, the feast day of St. Mary the Wise, six of the ten scouts sent far forward of the army did not return. That evening, Prince Bayan called a war council so that all the nobles and commanders could hear the reports of the four who had survived.

But before Prince Sanglant led his personal retinue to the council, Zacharias had the pleasure of watching the prince make his Eagle squirm.” It worked well enough with Hedwig."

"That is what I am trying to explain, Your Highness." Wolfhere was actually sweating, although in truth it was an unseasonably warm evening, muggy with the promise of a thunderstorm looming on the horizon.” Princess Theophanu had three Eagles in her entourage, and the only one who has the gift of the Eagle's sight is no longer with her. I can use my sight to see where the princess is —"

"At Quedlinhame. Not here, where she ought to be." —but without another Eagle with sight to communicate with, I can't know why she is there, or what she intends, nor even how large an army she has with her."

"What of the missing Eagle?"

"As I told you. She rode south to Aosta. Soon after, I lost track of her."

"Lost track of her?"

"Just so, Your Highness. We are not the only ones seeking to conceal ourselves."

One of Sapientia's stewards rushed up, and Heribert stepped aside to speak to the man.

"Which would explain, I trust, why you did not see the Quman army lying in wait for us at Osterburg? Or, as I've heard, Liath and I when we lived at Verna.

Indeed, now I see the limitations of your Eagle's sight, if it is so easily clouded by sorcery."

Wolfhere lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender.” In truth, no more than one of every five Eagles has ever had even an inkling of the Eagle's sight. It's a secret we guard— "Or hoard."

—and one that not all Eagles can, or should, master." "Well," said the prince. He beckoned, and Heribert came over to him and whispered in his ear. Sanglant smiled sourly.” We must go, if they are waiting only on us." He glanced around the sprawl of his encampment, fires flowering into life as twilight spread its wings over the army: a few cloth tents but mostly men hunkering down to rest on their cloaks. Every man there kept his armor on and his weapons and helmet beside him, now that they knew the Quman were close by. They had marched through open woodland this day, an easy march, seeing nothing.

Too easy. The Quman scouts ranged wide and saw everything; everyone knew that. Bulkezu was sure to already know exactly where they were and how many soldiers they had. He was only playing with them, letting four enemy scouts escape the net of his own scouting line to lure his enemies into complacency.

Zacharias had begun to entertain thoughts of running away, into the woods, but then he would only be caught by a Quman scout and dragged back to Bulkezu.

But probably they were all going to die, anyway, in whatever battle was sure to come. He just hoped it would be quick.

"You're pale, Brother Zacharias," said the prince.” You'd best come with us.

We'll need to know what you know about the Pechanek clan. None here knows them as well as you do."

He couldn't even answer, only shake his head, fear choking him, as Sanglant picked out his most trusted commanders to attend him: Lord Druthmar, Captain Fulk, Sergeant Cobbo, even the lapdog, Hrodik, who at least had the knack of obeying orders.

Bayan and Sapientia held court at their huge tent, all the sides strung up from trees, making it an open air pavilion where every important noble could gather.

The crowd parted to let Sanglant through. He took the place of honor at Bayan's right hand, with Heribert and Zacharias given leave to stand behind him and the rest of his captains fading back to find places in the crowd. Blessing, as usual, sat on her father's lap. She had a stick, carved into the shape of a sword, but she had learned patience in the last few days and now held it over her thighs, her little face drawn into an intent frown as she listened to Bayan quiet the crowd and call forward the surviving scouts.

Of the four scouts who had managed to return, three wen grians and the fourth a wily marchlander out of Olsatia, one of Lady Bertha's trusted men-at-arms. Not one of Princess Sapien-tia's Wendish scouts had come back. The marchlander had seen a man in Wendish armor strung up in a tree, missing his head, but she hadn't stayed to investigate.

"The main army lies on the west bank of the Veser River," said Bayan after the reports were finished.” We'll cross the Veserling tomorrow and continue to march west through the rough country between the two rivers."

"Wouldn't it be better to move northwest along the Veserling, where the marching is easier," asked Duke Boleslas of Polenie, aided by his translator, "and move directly to relieve the siege on Osterburg?"

Bayan shook his head.” The Quman rely on archery. If we approach through rugged country, they'll have less chance to break up our line of march with arrow shot. We would be easier targets marching along the river valley."

Prince Sanglant said little as Bayan outlined the order of march. There was little to say, reflected Zacharias. Bayan was an experienced soldier. He knew what he was doing.

A misty rain fell part of the night, enough to break the heat but not so much to make anyone miserable. In the morning the army set out, a process that took a goodly length of time as each legion or cohort or war band waited its turn and then moved forward. Because of the dampened ground, they raised little dust, a mercy for those marching in the rear. It also meant that they wouldn't betray themselves to the Quman too soon, although surely by now the Quman knew exactly where they were.

It was the tenth day of Setentre, the feast day of St. Penelope the Wanderer, as Heribert was quick to remind him, warm and muggy with that coiled snap in the air that heralded a thunderstorm. But as they marched and the sun rose to zenith, as the trees sweated last night's raindrops onto their heads, no thunderstorm blew through to break the heat. Zacharias rode two ranks behind Prince Sanglant, praying that he wouldn't vomit out of plain fear. His stomach roiled, as disturbed as the air and the wind, waiting for the coming storm.

Once, shouts rose, and a messenger galloped down the line, pausing to speak to Prince Sanglant before continuing on, back to where Prince Bayan rode with his Ungrians. Rumor filtered back to the group around Zacharias. Outriders had clashed with Quman scouts. Skirmishes had broken out across their line of march. The Quman were retreating, falling back toward the Veser, still several leagues away. It was hard to know what was true and what falsely hoped.

They crossed the Veserling in the afternoon at a ford controlled by a contingent of Lions under Princess Sapientia's command. She had crossed first, in the van, with three legions, and left soldiers behind in case Quman horsemen crossed the river and swept around in an attempt to divide their forces. The Lions left behind to guard the ford were already digging in, calling to each other as they worked.

"Ho, there, Folquin, you idiot! Don't drop that log on my head, if you please."

"Lady's Tits, Ingo, if you keep getting in my way I'll scar that handsome face of yours, and then your sweethearts won't want you anymore, and the Quman will probably refuse to cut off your head for a trophy!"

It was amazing how quickly a crude palisade could go up when the workers were lashed by the goad of fear. Strange how these kept joking as they labored.

Zacharias felt he could hardly speak, as though he'd lost his tongue.

How would Bulkezu cut it out? Where would the knife's edge first touch flesh?

The jolt of water on his legs brought him back, hazy, clinging to the saddle as his horse plunged into the river. The current streamed past, trying to drag him off, but he had clung to life for this long that he hung on with bitter strength as the horse made for the opposite bank. This time of year the river was wide but shallow, a silty greenish-brown color. A branch swirled past him, then, strangely, a mangled glove. At last the horse struggled up the shore and he was at once directed to the right, leaving a trail of water drops as he followed the others along a narrow trail cut through the forest, mostly oak and hornbeam here along the river, fairly open, with a dense layer of crocus, hellebore, and wild strawberry carpeting the ground. They regrouped north of the ford where someone had years ago cut a clearing into the wood. An old shack lay tumbled down, good for nothing more than breaking into firewood. In all, as they gathered into their command groups, Zacharias estimated they had about five hundred mounted soldiers: Sanglant's legion, made up of his own personal retinue, Gent's irregulars, and Waltharia's levies.

"We'll make camp here, with the river at our back," said the prince. Lord Druthmar and Lord Hrodik hurried off to give their captains the order to dig in for the night.

Bayan and his Ungrians had just crossed when a scout rode up to Sanglant's position.” Come quickly, my lord prince. There's news! The siege has been lifted!"

A cheer rose raggedly from the men standing around, echoed by others, farther away, as the news was relayed out to them. Sanglant only frowned.” I'll come,"

he said, hauling his daughter up on the saddle in front of him.” Heribert! Lord Thiemo. Zacharias. Wolfhere. Fulk. Lord Druthmar. You'll attend me. The rest, be mindful that we must be ready. An attack might come at any moment."

At the ford, Duke Boleslas and his Polenie were crossing; behind them waited the baggage train, lost to Zacharias' sight where it snaked back into the woodland on the other side of the Veserling. Sanglant's party rode on upstream, where Bayan's Ungrians had made camp next to Sapientia's Wendish legions.

The princess and Bayan held court where three logs had fallen together in such a way that planks could be thrown over them and chairs set up on this raised platform. As they rode up, and Sanglant handed his horse over to Captain Fulk to hold, an argument broke out between two lords standing right in front of the makeshift platform. One of them Zacharias had never seen before; the other was the infamous Lord Wichman, second son of Duchess Rotrudis of Saony, known throughout the army for impressive deeds of valor as well as an absolutely vile temperament. Some said he couldn't be killed, for many had tried, and not all of them were Wendar's enemies.

—swore you wouldn't molest, but then I found that you'd forced her not even just once but three times before you left for Gent!" said the other lord, a brawny fellow with a bald spot and a fleshy face.

"Who's to say I forced her," sneered Wichman, "or that she didn't ask for it, wishing for a bull instead of an ox?"

The other lord swore violently, leaped forward, and grabbed Wichman's throat in his beefy hands. Prince Bayan turned bright red with anger as he jumped up, but before he could act, Sanglant had cut through the crowd and hauled the first man off Wichman.

"I beg you, Cousin, pray leave off strangling your brother." His hoarse voice rang out over the rising clamor.” He may well deserve it, but we need him to fight the Quman."

Laughter coursed through the ranks of the assembled nobles. A good family quarrel broke the tension. Bayan leaned down to whisper in Sapientia's ear.

Gagging and rubbing his throat, Wichman spat on the ground, careful to aim away from the prince.” Ai, Lord! She was just his concubine, common born. Easy enough to get another one, if she didn't please him."

The brother was struggling in Sanglant's grip, but even a man as stout and broad as he was couldn't quite get free.” She pleased me well enough, before you spoiled her!"

"Lord's balls, Zwentibold, that was—what?—two years ago? She's forgotten you by now—

"She's dead. She hanged herself after you raped her."

The crowd had drawn back away from the brothers, but Zacharias couldn't tell if the nobles were appalled at the tale or only worried that one of the two men would draw a sword and accidentally injure a bystander.

Unexpectedly, Sapientia rose, signaling to Bayan to sit down again.” I pray you, Sanglant, let go of our cousin Zwentibold." She took a spear out of the hands of one of the men-at-arms standing below the platform and, from the height, drove the point into the ground between the two men.” Place your right hand on the haft," she commanded imperiously. Not even Duchess Rotrudis' sons, who both wore the gold torque that signified their royal birth, dared disobey a public order made by the king's heir, especially not when so many of her husband's picked soldiers crowded around, smiling grimly with their spears in hand.

"Now swear by Our Lord and Lady," she said when both men gripped the haft, glaring at each other with a hatred as palpable as that of the looming thunderstorm.” Swear that until the Quman are

vanquished, you will do no harm to the other, for the sake of peace in our ranks and for the sake of the realm itself."

Put to the test in front of the entire assembly, they had no choice but to swear.

Sapientia's triumph was easy to see in her expression. At that moment, she looked truly as the heir ought to look: bold, stalwart, and ready to lead. But it was Bayan who stepped up beside her and raised his voice.

"Lord Zwentibold has brought us valuable news: The Quman army withdrew this morning from their siege of Osterburg." A cheer rose, but it died away when Bayan lifted a hand for silence.” Lord Zwentibold was therefore able to ride out of the city with three full cohorts of mounted men and make his way to us. But if Bulkezu withdrew his soldiers, it was only to prepare to meet us. We have no good count of their numbers, and they are in any case difficult to count because of their habit of ranging wide and moving quickly. Do not believe that they can defeat us, because God are with us."

This ringing statement produced another cheer, during which Bayan whispered into Sapientia's ear. When the cheering died down, she grasped hold of the spear's haft again and called out.” Let every leader swear peace and mutual help to one another. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Angels, when the heavenly host sing of the glories of God. We will fight in the name of Our Lord and Lady, and they will ride with us. Do not doubt that we will defeat the Quman once and for all time."

THAT morning, Antonia rose early, prayed, and paced, knowing it important to keep up her strength. At the appropriate time, she waited by the curtained entrance to the guest quarters, head bent and hands folded in the very picture of perfect repose. But in her heart she fumed over the petty insults and grave wrongs the mother abbess and nuns at the convent of St. Ekatarina had done to her.

For three months she had bided here, as quiet as a mouse, as humble as a sparrow, a most unexceptional guest. And yet Mother Obligatia persisted in treating her as an enemy.

A woman's voice, raised in prayer, lifted with heartbreaking beauty: "The longing of the spirit can never be stilled."

As quickly it was lost: a shift of air in the dusty corridors, perhaps, or the singer inadvertently turning her head so that her voice didn't reach so far. A bell tinkled softly. Antonia suspected there were secret hidey-holes from which they observed her. Of course, growing up as a noble child in a royal house, she was used to constant observation. Years of education in the church and the years she had spent presiding as biscop of Mainni, when she was never alone except for moments spent in the privies, had served to hone her skills, to teach her how to present to the world at all times the smooth mask of humility on her face.

Still Mother Obligatia suspected her.

A scrape of sandal on rock caught her attention.

"Sister Venia?" The raspy voice of the lay sister, Teuda, sounded from beyond the curtain.

"I am ready."

For three months they had followed this ridiculous routine. Teuda led her along empty corridors hewn out of stone past the chapel to the tiny library where, in the hours between Terce and Nones, she was allowed to read. At midday, Sister Carita, with her unsightly hunchback, escorted her to the service of Sext and then

back to the library. After the brief service of Nones, Teuda led her back to the guest quarters, where she languished until Vespers, the only other service she was allowed to attend with the sisters. Even her meals were delivered to her in the guest quarters, where she ate alone.

To treat a sister nun in such a fashion was a mockery of charity! They did not trust her.

Sister Petra was already at work, making a copy of the chronicle of St.

Ekatarina's Convent. She nodded to acknowledge that Antonia entered but did not greet her. In truth, except for Mother Obligatia and the lackwit, Sister Lucida, the other nuns acted around Antonia as though they were under a vow of silence. Only Teuda, as a lay sister, was allowed to speak to her, and she said as little as possible.

From Terce to Sext, Antonia studied several interesting and obscure works on theology and philosophy: the apocryphal Wisdom Book of Queen Salome; a complete copy—very difficult to come by of the Arethousan Biscop Ariana's heretical and quite scandalous Banquet, regarding the generation of the blessed Daisan out —of the divine substance of God; the Catechetical Orations by Macrina of Nyssa. But once she had returned from the midday service, she took down the final and of course thereby unfinished volume of the convent's chronicle. She would finish it today, and then there would be no more reason to delay her mission.

The light lancing down through the shafts carved into the rock shifted over the four writing desks as the hours wore on. The silence was broken only by the scrape of Sister Petra's quill and the occasional crackling of vellum as Antonia turned a page. Otherwise, they might have been entombed, suffering the ecstacy of oblivion.

She caught a whiff of cooking turnips, fleeting, gone.

Strange, she mused, as she read the final entries. In the year : The queen took refuge in the arms of St. Ekatarina from those who hunted her, together with certain noble visitors from Wendar. A party of clerics from Wendar stayed one week in the guest hall. A blight struck the wheat crop in the vicinity of Floregia.

Jinna bandits killed every member of the house ofHarenna, leaving their palace and fortress in ruins and their lands without a regnant. The palace of Thersa, eight stones, and ruins.

Two years ago, Queen Adelheid had found safety here, fleeing Ironhead. Two years ago, Father Hugh had sheltered here as well and by an act of sorcery had aided Adelheid's escape.

In the year : Lord John, called Ironhead, was crowned king at Darre.

Now Ironhead was dead and Adelheid was queen. Antonia had to admire a mind that worked as subtly as Father Hugh's, laying out a torturous path often obscured by false doors and then following it to the end.

The rest of the entry for last year did not interest her, a record of certain disasters, called omens, that had befallen various peasant communities and local districts. No doubt the people had sinned in some grievous manner and were being punished by God, as they deserved. That was the usual reason for famine, drought, plague, and the blight of leprosy.

No hand had yet recorded the most important events of the current year, : the death of the skopos and her replacement by Anne; Adelheid's triumphant return and her restoration to Aosta's throne.

Probably, now, they never would.

Teuda, the lay sister, appeared at the door. Her time was up. As Antonia tucked the volume back onto its proper shelf, straightening the corners, wiping a smidgeon of dust from the corner of the book placed next to it, she wondered if she would be able to salvage this chronicle from the chaos sure to follow. There was a great deal of valuable information here, and it was obvious to her that the abbesses of St. Ekatarina's had known far more than they chose to let on. Why else record, in plain sight, the stone crowns scattered around the continent? In their own way, they were making a map. They knew the crowns were a key.

But she couldn't tell if they understood what those keys unlocked.

With a smile for Sister Petra, who had just set down a newly trimmed quill and now wiped ink from her fingers in preparation for services, Antonia left the library and dutifully returned to the guest hall. She tided herself up, revived herself with some wine set aside for this purpose, and went to pray at the small chamber where an altar stood. There was a cunning screen set into the altar itself, a concealed alcove so that an observer on the other side could look into the tiny chapel without being seen. She had noticed it within days of her arrival and could now tell if someone was lurking behind it, spying on her. There was no one there now; they would all be at prayer.

She spent a while making sure everything was ready. Then she knelt before the altar to pray, and to wait.

God would grant her triumph. Who else would see that God's work was done properly on Earth, if not her? She asked, of course, for forgiveness. Sometimes the blood of innocents had to be spilled in order to bring about the greater good for humankind.

In due course, as she always did, Sister Lucida arrived to escort Antonia to dinner. A halting footfall followed by a scraping sound as she dragged her cane along the ground preceded her appearance in the archway that separated the tiny chapel from the main guest hall. As the lackwit sucked in a breath, she snorted and gurgled, breathing hard, eyes blinking away tears. The light in the guest hall always made Sister Lucida cry, as though she had caught sight of angels in the streaming rays. She looked around aimlessly for a bit, head bobbing; it was difficult for her to focus.

At last, she fixed on Antonia and hobbled over. She grinned, displaying about ten teeth, all she had left. Her voice was a cross between a goose's honk and a pig's snort.” S supper! Praise God!"

"Pray kneel beside me a moment while I finish my prayers," said Antonia with a gentle smile. She even helped Sister Lucida with the difficult task of kneeling, grasping her firmly around the back to hold her tight.

Then she slipped a slender knife out from the girdle wrapping her waist and thrust it, decisively, swiftly, up between Lucida's ribs, into the heart. As she held it steady, it pulsed to the frantic beat of the nun's heart. Lucida's mismatched eyes widened in shock and fear. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, only a strangled croak.

"Pray, keep still, Sister Lucida, or you will surely die at this moment. As long as my hand holds the knife firm, then you will stay alive."

A whimper escaped the nun's lips, nothing more. A single tear slid from her right eye, trickling down her poxmarked face.

Antonia closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. The familiar syllables poured as smoothly as cream from her lips. She did not CHILD or FLAME understand them, of course, because they came from the ancient rituals known to the Babaharshan priests, but their efficacy was undoubted.” Ahala shin ah risk amurru galla ashir ah luhish. Let this blood draw forth the creature out of the other world. Come out, creature, for I bind you with unbreakable fetters. This blood which you must taste that I have spilled makes you mine to command. I adjure you, in the name of the holy angels whose hearts dwell in righteousness, come out, and do as I bid you."

The iron-forge scent stung her nostrils. The breath of its being, shuddering into her view, stirred her hair. A galla swayed at the edge of her vision, a dark, towering shape, like a tall reed, reaching from floor to ceiling of the stone chamber.

Lucida, seeing it, jerked convulsively in terror. The knife in her chest wrenched sideways. Her heart's blood poured out of her, a river of scarlet gushing onto her robes, flowing away onto the stone floor. With a grimace of distaste for the mess, Antonia released her and let her drop. She stood and took a step back as the shadow that was the galla brushed past her, smelling the rich tang of innocent blood. Where its substance flicked over her, she heard faintly its agonized screaming, like the whine of a raging storm heard through thick walls.

The middle world was torment to' the galla; that was why they were so easy to control once they were brought over. Though it wavered, tiny tendrils lapping out to touch the flowering lake of blood, it could not resist the very thing that would bind it to her will.

It drank.

She had to cover her nose with a perfumed sleeve to muffle the stink of blood and the stinging forge-tang of the creature.

Soon enough, it had finished. Lucida was, amazingly, still alive, still conscious, her eyes wide and staring and one hand twitching. Life ebbed quickly. A last whimper escaped her as her soul fled. Antonia was relieved that the lackwit nun had died quietly. Not everyone did.

Still, it was an effort to raise her hands to pronounce the final command.” I adjure yorj, creature. This is your task, and you will do as I command. Kill the woman whose true name is Lavrentia, the mother of Anne."

Obedient to her will, its dark substance trembled, and it moved away immediately, its bell-like voice tolling the name of its victim.

Passing through the rock itself, it vanished from her sight, but if she concentrated, she could see with its senses as it forged forward on the track of its prey.

Mother Obligatia—once known as the novice Lavrentia—assembled all unsuspecting with her nuns in the refectory, laying their simple meal out on the table.

Now, at last, Antonia allowed herself to totter to the stone bench carved into the wall, back by the entryway. She sank down, shaking horribly, all the strength drained from her limbs. It might take her hours to recover, and the link that bound her to the creature she had summoned still sucked at her heart. When she had been a young woman, sorcery hadn't taken so much out of her. Age had weakened her. In truth, unless she could divine the secrets of immortality, she hadn't many more years before she might become too weak to impose her will on the church.

Resting, eyes shut, she prayed for strength and health and long life in order that she could continue to do God's work on Earth. On the floor nearby, Lucida's body cooled and stiffened.

THE FIELD OF BLOOD

ANNA found it hard to sleep, especially after listening to the intimate council held late that night under an awning strung up between three trees to give shelter while Prince Sanglant and Prince Bayan conferred, each man attended only by two trusted captains. Sapientia sat beside Bayan, but in truth she hardly spoke, mostly listened. She seemed as nervous as a rat caught in a box.

"You know these children born out of Duchess Rotrudis," Bayan had said.” Are Wichman and Zwentibold the best of them? Or are they the worst?"

"Zwentibold merely lacks imagination," Sanglant replied.” The sisters are as bad as Wichman, in their own way. There's a younger boy, too."

"God save us," murmured Bayan, apparently without irony.

Blessing had already fallen asleep. She stirred, snorting as she turned over, and Anna shut her eyes firmly, hoping that neither of the princes would notice that she was still awake. When Bayan went on, she peeked again, watching the figures silhouetted in lamplight as the awning swayed above them, stirred by the night's wind.

"Then can trust be put in the news Zwentibold to us brings?" asked Bayan.” His mother dying. Conrad rides to Wayland on a flimsy excuse, or as we call it, a lame horse."

"It is in Conrad's interest to protect his western provinces from the civil war in Salia."

"That horse still limps," retorted Bayan, glancing at Sapientia.” With sweet words he can sing to all three sides, and when they have done fighting each of the other and lie weak, so he marches in to take what territory he wishes."

"Do you know Conrad well?" asked Sanglant.

"By his reputation I know him."

"Ah."

"You do not agree?" Bayan laughed.” The crow of gossips says Conrad wishes the kingship of Wendar for himself. Also I hear he married Henry's niece, this Tallia, who wears a gold torque. Her mother is the elder sister of Henry, is she not? What does Conrad intend?"

"It's true that Conrad likes to be his own master, beholden to none. He may wait until we spend ourselves and our men driving out the Quman, and then send out scouts to see what remains. I don't know. What troubles me more is that Theophanu has retreated to Quedlinhame."

"She fears the Quman," said Sapientia.

Sanglant shifted impatiently on his camp stool, lifting his empty cup for more wine.” Only a fool doesn't fear the Quman," he said, hand drifting to touch his throat.” Theophanu does not lack courage, Sister. But she may lack an army, in which case she would have been foolish indeed to meet Bulkezu on the field.

According to Zwentibold's report, she turned west before anyone in this region knew we were coming. I expect she retreated to Quedlinhame in order to protect it—'

"You always take her side," said Sapientia suddenly, falling silent again only after Bayan laid a hand on her arm.

—or to have a base from which to harry the Quman, in case Bulkezu took Osterburg and afterward chose to strike west into the heart of Saony. A wise enough decision, from a strategic point of view. But why has she such a meager army at her disposal?"

"Our father took Liutgard and Burchard and most of their host into Aosta, as well as many more, his own and others."

"Theophanu should have been able to draw from Varingia and Arconia," said Sanglant.

"True enough," reflected Bayan.” No news to us has come of the western duchies. Maybe they have troubles with Salia, too." "Maybe they do," echoed Sanglant.

Anna could tell that he didn't believe it. Anna could tell that something deeper was troubling him, and if the bold prince was troubled, then how could she possibly sleep? She tossed fitfully, dozing, waking, hearing a rumble of thunder that faded and did not sound again. The heat lingered, although a sprinkle cooled down the worst of the mugginess, thank God. After that, the erratic drip-drop of moisture trickling off leaves kept her awake. The river ran behind them, and once she heard voices raised in song, like the angels beginning their choir, but the rustle of wind through the autumn leaves muted the sound.

Like God's glory, snatched away just as the fallen soul came within sight of it.

Had she been wrong to let Lord Thiemo tell Blessing the story of the phoenix?

What would the prince do when he found out that Blessing was already beginning to ask questions about the martyrdom of the blessed Daisan, and the glory of his Holy Mother, who is God of all Creation?

Surely it wasn't wrong to tell the truth? Surely those young monks she had seen, with their paintings and their piety, hadn't been lying? Surely it wasn't a heresy, but the truth, concealed for so long. With the land itself torn by war and plague and famine, wasn't it fittingly brought back into the light?

But she was only a common girl, struck dumb by God's hand, recovered through a miracle, nursemaid to a princess by God's will. How could she tell what was true and what was false? How could she know what was God's will and what the Enemy's lies? The only thing she really knew was that Prince Sanglant would be very, very angry when he found out about the stories Lord Thiemo was telling his daughter.

At long last dawn gave color to the air. Where the sun's rays touched the ground, mist steamed up, making streamers of gauze among the trees. The river was cloudy with mist. She could barely see the other bank, although she heard the Lions at work, chopping, hammering, and swearing, as they prepared a blockade for the ford.

The army, stirring like an ill-tempered beast, made ready to march. Prince Sanglant kissed his daughter and sent her with her retinue to stand on the royal platform—the planks on which Sapi-entia and Bayan had held court the evening before—to preside as the army moved west in marching order. Anna stood behind Blessing's chair while Heribert answered the young princess' endless questions.

"Why isn't my Daddy riding first? They don't like him."

"Nay, it is no insult to your father, sweetling. It is Princess Sapi-entia's right and duty to lead the vanguard. She is King Henry's heir and must prove herself as a leader."

"Why?"

"If she hasn't the luck and the leadership to command troops in battle, then she cannot reign."

"But she's married to Prince Bayan."

"He's a foreigner, who can only rule as consort, not as regnant, over the Wendish."

"Why—?"

"Hush, Blessing, no more on this subject if you please. Sapien-tia commands two legions."

"What is a legion?"

The army made a great deal of noise, horses neighing, men shouting, the tramp of feet, and the crack of branches as they pressed forward along the road, which wasn't much more than a track through the forest barely wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast.

"A legion is an old Dariyan term, from the old empire. It designates a unit of soldiers who fight under one high commander."

"How many soldiers?" Blessing asked.

Anna tried to count as Sapientia's Wendish cavalry rode past, in lines of four, but she lost track after forty.

"That depends on what authority you read," said Heribert, slipping into that way of speaking he had when all his fine education grabbed him by the throat. At times like these, Anna found him difficult to understand.” Some say several thousand infantry—that's foot soldiers—and a few hundred cavalry. Some say a thousand men, organized in ten centuries, or what we call cohorts, each group consisting of one hundred men."

Sitting on the platform, the army seemed to take forever to go by.” Is that a thousand men?" asked Anna. She thought about this for a moment, remembering the sums Raimar and Suzanne had taught her when it came time to count up thread and wool and cloth so that you wouldn't get cheated.” If it was two legions, then it would be two thousand men, wouldn't it?" The number dizzied her. She had to shut her eyes and just listen to the fal of hooves on the track and the persistent drip of moisture from the damp leaves.

"I'd guess not more than eight hundred under Sapientia's command," replied Heribert.” We aren't truly an army the way the old Dariyans had armies. We just use the Dariyan words."

"Why?" asked Blessing. These days she was full of "why."

The last of Sapientia's horsemen rode away down the track. After a gap, a new banner came forward, following the path of the first.” Here is Lady Bertha and her legion of Austran and Olsatian marchlanders," said Heribert.

"Why?" repeated Blessing.

"Why do we use the old words? To remind us of the strength of the old empire."

"I will be emperor," said Blessing, "so I'll call my armies legions, too."

Lady Bertha's legion was perhaps half the number of those who had ridden out with Sapientia. After she had passed, Sanglant rode forward, saluting his daughter, and headed down the track with Captain Fulk and his men, Lord Hrodik's Gentish irregulars, and Lord Druthmar and the contingent from Villam lands. Prince Bayan and his Ungrians, the biggest and most experienced group of fighters in the army, came next, followed in their turn by Lord Zwentibold, Lord Wichman, and their legion of skirmishers and cavalry from Saony. Last came the baggage train under the command of Duke Boleslas, the Polenie duke with his bright silver tabard and feathered helm, the peacock of the army, as Sanglant had called him one night after the prince had been drinking too much.

The wagon in which Blessing was to ride trundled to a stop before the platform, and Blessing allowed Lord Thiemo to help her into the back as Heribert folded up her chair. Although she could ride a pony, she wasn't old enough to do so under the circumstances, so they had tied her pony behind the wagon. As she set ?o tied down among sacks of grain, Captain Thiadbold of the Lions knelt before her.

"Your Highness, your father Prince Sanglant has charged me and my cohort of Lions to see that you remain safe until we come within the walls of Osterburg. I pray you, Your Highness, if there is any trouble, do as I command, and we'll see that no harm comes to you."

"I don't like riding at the rear," said Blessing.

He grinned, then hid the smile quickly, not sure of her temper.” Nay, but there are many fine and valuable things necessary to victory here in the baggage train.

It is no insult to be left to guard them, Your Highness. Nor is it any insult to you to ride with the baggage train. Do you see?" He pointed toward the painted wagon belonging to Prince Bayan's mother.” You are not the only warrior who rides with the baggage train."

The sight of the wagon convinced Blessing not to argue.

Duke Boleslas rode up with a dozen frilled and colorful attendants to either side of his brightly caparisoned horse. He bowed before Blessing.” Your Highness," he said, before riding away again, circling toward the tail end of the train as the wagon lurched forward and they began moving.

Because the ground was still damp from the night's brief rain, there wasn't too much dust, but Anna could still tell that eight legions of fighting men had passed this way before them. Dirt soon coated her lips and tickled her nostrils. Any overhanging branches were snapped back or torn off by the press of bodies.

A feeling of dread grew in Anna's heart as they rolled onward and the sun rose higher. Would they be able to hear the clash of arms, ahead of them, when the vanguard met the Quman? Was it true that every Quman soldier carried a shrunken head at his belt, as a trophy? She touched her own neck, wondering if they chopped the heads off children, too, or if in Quman eyes she was old enough to be married or taken as a slave.

But at least, here in the rear guard, they were a long, long way from the front, where the battle would be fought.

By midday they came up along a ridge and caught a glimpse of the Veser River in the distance. Weapons and armor glinted in the trees below where the rest of the army wound away before them, closing in on the river plain.

Blessing stood up on the cart and grasped the shoulders of the good-natured wagoner who was driving.” Look!" she cried in her piercing voice.” I see the Quman army."

Anna stared, thinking for an instant that she saw a dark stain, like a plague of locusts, swarming over the river plain; then the road dropped into a cleft that steadily widened into flatter ground as it opened into broken woodland, oak and hornbeam and the occasional pine or beech. The tree cover gave them occasional protection from the glaring sun, but she was sweating, even though she didn't have to walk. The Lions, striding steadily alongside, had their helms thrown back and wiped their faces frequently.

Was that a growl of thunder in the distance? She couldn't decide whether a storm would make things better, or worse.

The wagon jostled along the trail in an even rhythm, jarred by an occasional bump. None of this bothered Blessing, who finally got bored, curled up among the lumpy sacks, and fell asleep after making Anna promise to "wake her up for the battle." Anna envied the child her ability to sleep so easily. The load of grain made a sturdy pillow, and Anna was able to fashion a little awning out of tent cloth so that Blessing's head remained in shadow as the wagon rolled along through changes of light and shade.

A group of at least one hundred Lions marched ahead of them and, in front of them, perhaps one hundred Polenie horsemen with their colorful striped tabards.

Lord Wichman and his brother, with the Saony legion, rode too far ahead to see from here.

There was just room on the track for two wagons to move forward side by side.

For a while, Anna watched the painted wagon belonging to Bayan's mother, but the beaded covering over the window never parted to reveal a watching face. Six male slaves marched behind the wagon. Two walked at the front, leading the oxen which pulled it. In this heat, they had all stripped down to loinclothes. They were probably the most comfortable people there: no armor, no weapons. If they were nervous, they didn't look it. She tried to imagine what feelings they had, but even though once in a while one would glance at her, feeling her gaze on him, not one ever cracked a smile or turned his lips down in a frown. They just walked, obedient to their mistress' will.

The rest of the train followed in their dust, supply wagons, a few carts holding injured soldiers, carts holding the pavilions and camp furniture of nobles who could not go to war without their comforts and other visible signs of their rank and importance, the closed wagons bearing the princess' treasure, and several carts belonging to the church folk, which contained their precious vessels and golden altar cloths for the nightly service.

Lions marched alongside all the way down the train, together with other infantrymen. Now and again she caught sight of horsemen farther out in the forest. At the rear, she knew, rode Duke Boleslas and the remainder of his troops. Heribert sat on the open tailgate, lost in thought.

Lord Thiemo, Matto, and the other six of Sanglant's soldiers designated to escort Princess Blessing rode off to the right, working their way through the trees.

"Why are all the infantry back here, Brother Heribert?" she asked finally.

Heribert started, as if he'd forgotten Anna was there.” I'm no expert in strategy," he said with a smile, "but even I know that the Quman are all horsemen. Best to engage them on the field with cavalry."

"Why did Zacharias have to ride with Prince Bayan?"

"I thought you didn't like him?"

"I don't. I think it's better he's taken away. He's worse than a heathen. He used to be a good God-fearing man, and now what is he?"

"A very troubled one, I fear, and as good as he can be, in his heart. Nor should you hate him, child. He's done you no harm." She frowned at him, not liking to be lectured.” I'll say no more," he went on.” Since Zacharias was a slave to Bulkezu for seven years, Prince Bayan wants him nearby in case he sees or hears anything of importance, so he can warn Bayan."

"But not Prince Sanglant."

"Prince Bayan is the commander of this army. That is, I mean " Amazingly, he blushed.” Princess Sapientia is the commander of this army, and I beg you, Anna, do not ever mention that I said otherwise."

Surprised to hear a cultured noble cleric beg her for anything, she began to answer when shouts and the blast of a horn sounded from the rear. Heribert hopped off the wagon, stumbled, and righted himself just as a rider galloped past, heading forward along the line.

Lord Thiemo cut in close, followed by the others.” It must be a Quman patrol,"

he said to Anna, glancing at Blessing.” Nothing to worry about."

Lewenhardt had an arrow held loosely in his bow, and he was scanning the woods nervously, but through all that open woodland Anna saw no sign of winged riders. From the rear, the clash of arms rose singing on the wind. A few arrows fell among the wagons, and as she stared, shocked, at a white-fletched arrow skittering over the ground, a hard thunk shuddered the wagon. An arrow quivered in the side, the entire point buried in the wood. Chustaffus, who had refused to be left behind at Walburg even though his injured shoulder had crippled his sword arm, shouted in alarm as an arrow skated a hand's breath past his nose, and he rocked back, barely able to stay mounted.

"My Lord," swore Lord Thiemo, staring into the woodland as a misty fog coursed through the trees.

Only it was not mist but a hundred, or more, pairs of wings.

The Lions cried out warnings. They broke into a trot, and the cursing driver of their wagon whipped the mules forward.

Behind, men shouted and screamed, and for one horrible moment as they jolted into a broad clearing, she heard a cry ringing out above the clamor.

"Duke Boleslas is down!"

Panic broke through the line of wagons. Riders scattered, and in the chaos the only thing Anna could think was that the Lions were holding formation as they shouted at the wagon drivers to head for a little knoll, topped by a copse of trees, that sat at the far end of the clearing. The rain of arrows thickened.

"Ai, Lord, Thiemo," cried Heribert, "if this is a Quman patrol, then each of them must be shooting four bows at once."

More of the wagons broke free into the clearing, but it was already too late. The foremost group of Polenie horsemen had charged left into the trees to head off the Quman attack. As the lines collided a noise like rumbling thunder filled the air as weapons clashed.

Blessing woke.” Where's Daddy?" she cried.

Lewenhardt leaped onto the wagon, standing literally over the child, bracing himself with a foot on either side of her body. Thiemo, Matto, Surly, Everwin, Den, Johannes, and Chustaffus made a ring around the cart.

Heribert hastily mounted Lewen-hardt's horse, falling behind as more wagons raced forward, desperate to escape the Quman.

Anna got to her knees, staring. Back in the woods, the Polenie standard bobbed awkwardly. The battle was all confusion, half lost under the shade of trees now that the sunlight burned her eyes. It seemed like everywhere she saw Quman wings, crowding into the ranks of Polenie horsemen. A horn blew another long blast before stuttering to silence as the first Quman horsemen broke through the Polenie line, as the handsome Polenie riders scattered from the battle, fleeing or dying.

Blessing tried to push to her feet, but Anna shoved her back down as another rain of arrows spattered around them. Everwin swore, yanking off an arrow that lodged in his chain mail. Matto was bleeding where an arrow had cut into the leather cheek strap of his helmet.

The worst thing about the Quman attack was its silence: no horns, no trilling cries, only the whistle of their wings where the wind sang in them. At last, inevitably, the Polenie standard sank into the fray and the last of Duke Boleslas'

cavalry—had there really been three or four hundreds of them?—were lost to sight, leaving only infantry, half of them running, or falling, or battling as well as they could against superior numbers.

"We're going to die," said Thiemo.

"Shut up," snapped Surly.” I hate whiners."

The wagon surged forward, neck and neck with the painted wagon in which Bayan's mother rode. Her slaves trotted alongside, easily keeping up. Their calm expressions, almost of indifference, hadn't changed.

"Ho! Princess!" An old Lion gestured wildly.” Move along!" The first line of the Lions had reached the knoll and already were frantically digging in, chopping down trees, anything to make a barrier against the horsemen.

Back in the forest, it had begun to rain. Thunder grumbled ominously, and wind whipped the treetops. The Quman were everywhere. Was this their entire army, that had cut around to attack them from behind? A large contingent galloped past, far off to the right side, heading toward the rear of the unsuspecting Saony legion. Others surged up to catch the last of the wagons. A carter was killed, cut down from behind as he whipped his horses. Another man threw himself from his cart and tried to take refuge under the bed, but he got trampled before he got to safety. Without dismounting, Quman warriors began to pull the contents from the carts. Chests were spilled open and bags dumped in the mud to see if they held anything of value.

Half of the Lions fell back to form a line between the forward half of the baggage train and the part that was already being overrun. A number of other infantrymen joined up with them, although in truth hundreds must have already died or fled into the forest, hoping to escape back the way they'd come.

"Get down, girl!" cried Lewenhardt as he dropped to his knees. A shower of arrows fell around them. Someone was hit; Everwin, maybe, or Den. Anna threw herself forward over Blessing. The child wriggled and protested, trying to get free so she could see.

"Lie still!" Terror made Anna's voice no better than a croak.

Lewenhardt jerked to one side as an arrow passed his ear. It buried its point in the neck of the driver, whose head kicked forward. He twitched a few times, slumped as the reins slipped from his hand, and toppled from the wagon. At once, Chustaffus slid gracefully from his mount to the driver's seat and got hold of the reins with his good arm. Behind the twelfth rank of wagons, all they could now hope to save, the rear guard of the Lions stepped back in good order, a single step at a time. The Quman, those who weren't looting the rear wagons, hesitated, unwilling to assault the well-ordered company now that they didn't have surprise on their side.

The knoll lay but a spear's throw away. A rough palisade was already rising as Captain Thiadbold ordered the defense. As their wagon rolled in, it was commandeered at once to fill in a gap in the wall. Anna leaped off the wagon just as Thiemo pulled Blessing free. A moment later, Lions got their shoulders under the wagon's bed and tipped it up on its side. Its contents spilled everywhere. A bag of grain ripped, and wheat poured onto the ground while men hurried over it, unheeding. As the other wagons trundled up, they were corralled to fill in gaps in this makeshift redoubt; even oxen and horses were tied up across such gaps. Only the painted wagon of Bayan's mother was left untouched.

But it was already too late.

A Quman captain with magnificent eagle feather wings had whipped his unruly men into formation. The line split. The main force of the Quman and their leader attacked obliquely on the right flank of the retreating line of infantry, while a smaller force circled around the left, still launching arrows as they rode. Anna hauled Blessing up the knoll to crouch in the shelter of a beech tree, her arms wrapped tightly around the little girl.

So close. Arrows fluttered through the branches. Men shrieked in pain. The line of retreating Lions curled back, trying to protect their back, and to protect the last of the wagons now racing for the knoll. It was impossible that they wouldn't all be killed before they reached the knoll. They were less than a bow's shot away.

Lewenhardt took aim and loosed his arrow. The Quman leader's horse tumbled, throwing him to the earth. A shout of triumph rose from the retreating line of Lions. The old Lion at their center shouted orders. In groups of three and four, men broke from the center, running to extend the flanks so that the line kept extending—at the cost of the center, so far unchallenged. Most of the wagons had now reached the knoll, been tipped over, and set up to fill in gaps, but they didn't have enough to make it all the way around the knoll.

A few arrows launched from the knoll landed among the Quman attacking the left. A band of ten Lions charged off the knoll to prevent that line of their comrades from being outflanked. On the right the Quman horse rode up to the line but balked at the hedge of spears and shields retreating evenly before them.

"Gotfrid!" cried Thiadbbld from the knoll.” Close up!"

As Lewenhardt and other archers shot rapidly, and accurately, the line still out in the clearing moved backward at double step. Leaving a dozen of their men dead on the field, the Lions closed up the gap. A ragged cheer rose from the Lions waiting for them on the knoll. It was a small, bitter victory, probably short-lived.

The rear guard was gone, obliterated, except for them.

Far away, Anna heard the ring of battle breaking out as the Quman hit the Saony legion from behind.

"They're going to wrap up the line of march one legion at a time, from the rear."

Heribert was white in the face, breathing hard, as he grabbed Blessing's arm and tugged her up to the top of the knoll.

"Won't go!" cried Blessing, waving her wooden sword, which she had managed to salvage from the overturned wagon.” I have to fight, too!"

Anna slapped her on the rump. That got her going.

All across the clearing, Quman continued to upset and loot the captured baggage. The leader, now on a new mount, began organizing the attack against the knoll. Riders spread out in a circle around the knoll and moved in. Near the top Heribert found an old oak with a bit of a hollow burned out, where some traveler had once hidden out from a storm. Anna shoved Blessing in against her protests and stood with her own body blocking the opening.

The eight slaves had brought Bayan's mother, discreetly concealed in her litter, to the top of the knoll. Now they crouched around her.

Anna smelled rain, approaching fast.

Quman riders closed. Because their arrows came from all directions, it was impossible to find a tree that could protect on all sides. Some lord's concubine, a woman with beautiful blonde hair now fallen free over her shoulders, began to curse and throw stones at them—until she was shot dead through the chest.

Lewenhardt and the other archers made them pay dearly. Every arrow Lewenhardt loosed struck human, or horse flesh. The Quman were no fools.

Every person on the knoll who picked up a bow was quickly dropped by a hail of arrows. Many of them aimed specifically for the young archer, but he had a way of shifting, almost like a twitch, that moved whatever part of his body was endangered out of the path of the incoming arrow. Still, he bled from a dozen scratches on his thighs and arms. A young boy, a carter's son, wounded in the leg, scrabbled about gathering spent arrows and placing them at Lewenhardt's feet.

But even with the wagon redoubt, gaps loomed. Even with a strong cohort of Lions and various stragglers, the Quman outnumbered them, and as far as Anna could tell, their enemies had no shortage of arrows.

Five Quman riders made a sortie for one of the gaps, where Thi-adbold himself w'ith a brace of Lions held the opening with shields raised. The enemy fired at the men's feet, all they could see except the tips of their helms.

"At them!" shouted Captain Thiadbold, leaping forward with an arrow quivering in the sole of his boot. He hurled his spear, taking one of the Quman in the throat as his men surged forward with him. Well-placed ax blows caught arms or legs, and Lions dragged three of the riders down to the ground, where they died in a flurry of blows. The last one fought his horse round, thinking to flee, but old Gotfrid had readied his throwing ax, and he threw it with all his might. The rider slumped forward with the handle of the ax sticking out from between the wings and the blade embedded through split plates of lamellar armor.

To the right, another group of Lions tried a similar sally, but as they lurched forward, their leader was caught in the eye by an arrow. Dismayed, his companions scrambled back for cover.

The arrows kept coming. It seemed like between one breath and the next, fully a third of the Lions lay dead or dying and most of the others were wounded several times over. But they would never surrender. They endured the storms of arrows, waiting for that moment when their spears and axes could bite. But there were so many gaps now, too many to hold.

"Look," said Heribert, but Anna had already seen it.

Rain swept toward them over the treetops.

"Let me see!" shrieked Blessing, her voice muffled within the oak hollow. Her small fists pummeled the back of Anna's legs as she fought to get out.

The Quman riders pressed in. Some grabbed the carts and dragged them back while others attacked. Old Gotfrid dropped his shield so that he could concentrate solely on his spear work. His spear point snapped Quman faceplates and caught men in their vulnerable throats. He did not hesitate to strike horse or rider. He was a veteran who did not waste his energy. He did not throw half the blows of the younger Lions, but each one counted. Gotfrid's companions defended him with their shields, well aware of the damage he would do if they could keep him alive.

The eagle rider bore down on Thiadbold's group, which held a gap between a wagon and a cart. The ox which had once filled much of that space lay dying from numerous arrow wounds. The horse had been cut free and had bolted away. As the Quman leaped the ox carcass, the eagle rider struck at Thiadbold.

Thiadbold caught the blow on his shield and pressed in, driving his sword deep into the horse's belly. The rider kicked him in the head as the horse collapsed.

Another Quman thrust, striking Thiadbold in the side. Thiemo struck the spear haft down with his sword, splintering it, as Matto, Surly, and Everwin waded in with their swords. They traded a fierce exchange of blows, but Everwin staggered back, his face covered in blood. Den, who stil had an arrow pro-trading from his side, joined the fight, as did Johannes, and Chustaffus with his one good arm.

Then it was hard to see, or maybe that was only tears in her eyes. Was it starting to rain?

The remaining Lions gave ground step by hard fought step. Captain Thiadbold was back up, accounting himself well; his mail had saved him. Anna whispered a prayer, brushing her hand in the remembered gesture, a circle drawn around her Circle of Unity.

Remembering that day long ago in the cathedral in Gent, when the Eika prince had let them go. Remembering the way her voice had choked in her throat when, in Steleshame, she had heard Count Lavastine's heir tell her that he had once given a wooden Circle, such as hers, such as the one the Eika prince had worn at his throat, to an Eika prince. But she had not spoken; she had not asked, to see if it were the same prince. She had not closed the Circle.

That was why God had punished her.

In ten more steps, the remaining Lions would close in on her position, and then they would have no farther to retreat. Heribert raised his staff, making ready to fight, with the most desolate look on his face that Anna could imagine. He looked brave enough, but it was obvious from his stance that he would be no threat to his attackers. He glanced at her.” Try if you can to be taken prisoner, with the princess," he said in a low voice.” If you ever see him again, tell the prince I died fighting."

Raindrops spit on her face. Out in the clearing it had begun to rain harder, but Quman riders continued their looting undisturbed.

So far away, as in a dream, she heard the ring of Wendish horns calling a retreat.

The Quman were going to kill them all.

Not even the Kerayit princess' weather magic could save them now.

The tip of the wooden sword poked out between Anna's calves. Blessing wriggled and shoved forward as Anna staggered; the little girl thrust out her head, blinking as she surveyed the gruesome scene, as the wave of sound, grunts, cries, sobs, calm commands, and the screams of wounded horses, swept over her, as raindrops slipped down her little cheeks.

"Don't worry, Anna," she said in her self-assured voice.” My Daddy is coming to save us."

i HE gatekeeper who guarded the narrow entrance to the sphere of Aturna looked remarkably like Wolfhere.

"Liath!" The gatekeeper held his spear across the open portal to bar her way.

Black storm clouds swirled beyond; she could distinguish no landmarks on the other side.” Where are you? I have been looking for you!"

"What do you want from me, Wolfhere? Who is my mother? Tell me the truth!"

As she stepped forward, the tip of the arrow she held in her right hand brushed through him, and he dissolved as does an image reflected in water when it is disturbed. Had it really been Wolfhere, seeking her with Eagle's sight, or only a phantom sent to tease her, or test her? Frowning, she passed through the gate.

Storm winds bit into her naked skin. Blades of ice stung her as she pressed forward, leaning into the howling gale. It was so bitterly cold. Gusts of icy wind boomed and roared. Her hair streamed out behind her, and she had to shelter her eyes with an arm, raised up before her face. In her left hand she held Seeker of Hearts and in her right her last arrow, fletched with the gold feather Eldest Uncle had given her. These alone remained of all the things she had started with. These alone, but for her own self.

The cold winds numbed her. Her lips cracked, became so stiff that she could not even speak to call out, to see if any creature lived in these harsh realms that might rescue her. Shivering, aching, battered by the freezing gale, she could only battle forward as her fingers went dead, as the pain of cold seeped all the way down to her bones.

It was so cold, a vale of ice.

She was going to die out here. Not this night, but another one, tomorrow perhaps. There weren't even the pigs to keep her warm. She was going to die, or she was going to turn around and walk back into the chamber where Hugh was waiting for her, just as she had done that winter night in Heart's Rest when she was only sixteen. Just as she had done that awful night, when she had given in to him because it was the only way to save her own life.

But it hadn't been the only way. Da had hidden her power from her in order to conceal her from Anne, who was hunting her. Da had never taught her how to fight, only how to hide and how to run. Hugh had understood that better than she ever had.

She wasn't a powerless girl any longer, frightened and helpless.

She called fire, and the cold blast of icy air split around her. The clouds melted away like fog under the sun.

Aturna's realm dazzled her. She walked along the floor of a vast ravine, its distant walls so far away that their height was lost in a haze. Waterfalls spilled down on either side, flashing, blinding, as light sparkled off the falling waters.

Daimones danced within the brilliant waters, too bright to see except for one with salamander eyes. Ahead, a pair of huge gold wheels thrummed around and around, the source of the wind.

In the vale of Aturna, home to the sage of wisdom, nothing was hidden from her, who could now look long and deeply within herself into the cold darkness that weighed her down.

She had relied on the strength of others for too long: Da and Hanna, Wolfhere and Sanglant, even Anne, who had made promises and never kept them. Even Jerna, whom she had ripped out of the world and back into the sphere of Erekes when she had needed her help to cross the poisonous sea. In the end, she could never reach out fully to others: not to Hanna and Ivar, who had befriended her with honest hearts; not to Sister Rosvita, who had sensed a kindred soul; not to Thiadbold and the Lions who had offered her comradeship; not to Alain, who had given her unconditional trust. Not even to her beloved Sanglant and her precious Blessing. She could not trust them until she trusted herself.

Almost as if that last thought brought it into existence, a staircase came into view, hewn of marble and rising up between the golden wheels. Tendrils of mist played around its base, and its height was lost in a bright blaze of fire, like a ring of flaming swords: the entrance, she knew at once, to the realm of the fixed stars.

Home.

The unexpected thought made her stumble to a halt. Her heart hammered alarmingly. She thought she would keel over and die right there, because she could not catch her breath. Flushed and sweating with exhilaration and astonishment, hope, and dismay all at once, she crouched to steady herself, resting her fist on the ground.

A white-haired figure sat with head bowed on the first step. He was dressed in a plain cleric's tunic. As she caught her breath, rose, and stepped forward, he raised his head.

It was Wolfhere.

Nay, not Wolfhere. That was only the guise she saw, the man with secrets who knew more than he let on.

"You are the guardian of this sphere," she said.” I would ascend the steps."

"You have come a long way," he agreed, "but I warn you, you have only one arrow left. Use it more wisely than you did your others. There is one close to you whom you can save, if you can learn to see with your wits rather than act on your fears."

He moved aside.

She hesitated. Was it a trick? A test? But she had to ascend to reach her goal.

No other way was open to her now.

She set her foot on the first step.” I thank you," she said to the guardian, but he was already gone.

The steps felt smooth and easy beneath her bare feet. As she climbed, sparks and flashes like lightning shot off the thrumming wheels that spun high in the air on either side of the stairs. The brilliant light of the wheels grew more intense as she climbed. Through clouds of gold drifting above she saw into a chamber of infinite size. Nests of blue-white stars glowed hotly, the birthplace of angels.

Thick clots of dust made strange and tangled shapes where they billowed across an expanse of blackness. A faint wheel of stars, like an echo of the golden wheels on either side of her, spun with aching slowness. Beyond all this lay silence, deep, endless, unfathomable.

A flash of blue fire caught her gaze: the crossroads between spheres and worlds. Its flames shuddered and flared, bright one instant and then fading as if that fire pulsed in time to the heart of the universe. In flashes she saw through the distant crossroads into other worlds, other times, other places, glimpses half seen and quickly gone: a girl standing with her arms full of flowers; a woman seated at a desk, writing with a strange sort of quill on sheets of paper, not vellum, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail and her dark coat cut in a style Liath has never seen; Count Lavastine's effigy in stone, with two stone hounds in faithful attendance; an egg cracking as a barbed claw pokes through from inside the shell; the slow trail of molten rivers of fire as they shift course; a centaur woman galloping across the steppe, expression alive to the beauty of speed and power; a woman dressed only in a corded skirt, suckling t\vin infants; Emperor Taillefer himself, proud and strong, at the height of his power, as he watches his favorite daughter invested as bis-cop.

Inside a pavilion, Ironhead's concubine, the pretty one with black hair, smooths Lord John's hair back from the crown of his head in a gentle gesture as he sleeps. Then she takes a stake and, with a hammer blow, drives it through his temple so hard that the point of the stake cleaves his skull to pierce the carpet below. Blood pools, changing color as it snakes out in a stream along the ground, drawing her gaze along its twisting length until Liath sees the man watching from a shadowed corner in the tent.

Hugh.

He lifts his head, as if he has sensed her. She bolts down another branch of the crossroads, forward in time.

Longships ghost out of the fog wreathing the Temes River. With heartless efficiency, silent and almost invisible, they beach along the strand below the walled city ofHefenfelthe. The great hall built by the Alban queens rises like the prow of a vast ship beyond the wall, long considered impregnable. Because of the power of the queens and their tree sorcerers, Hefenfelthe has never been taken

by fighting. Eika warriors swarm from the ships as mist binds the river, concealing them. A torch flares by the river gate. The chain rumbles, and as the vanguard races up to the walls, the gate swings open. What cannot be gained by force can be gained by treachery. Stronghand pauses as three men dressed in the rich garb of merchants scurry out of the gate, signaling frantically as they hurry forward to welcome the army they betrayed their own queen for. His lead warriors cut down the traitors. No man cm serve two masters. If they would betray their own people for mere coin, then they can never be trusted. His army pours past the bodies, although dogs pause to feed on the corpses and have to be driven forward. He waits on the shore as the sun rises, still obscured by mist.

The first alarms sound from inside the city, but it is already too late. Threads of smoke begin to twist upward into the heavens, blending and melding...

She paused, aware again that she stood far up the stairs, the sphere of Aturna glittering below, beyond the golden wheels, and the universe opening beyond her.

A silver belt twisted through the gulf, marking the path of the country of the Aoi, now drawn inexorably back toward Earth. It was impossible to tell one side of the ribboned surface from the other or if it even had two sides at all but only one infinite gleaming surface. With her gaze she followed it down past the spheres descending below, each gateway a gem cut into a sphere's bright curve, all the way down to where Earth lay exposed below her, too broad to encompass with her outstretched arms here at the height of the spheres. Its curve, too, was evident where the line of advancing dawn receded to the west and night rose in the east. Taille-fer's crown gleamed, spread out across the land, seven crowns each with seven points, the great wheel set across many realms and uncounted leagues: the vast loom of magic.

She saw: Far below a battle rages. On a knoll a child brandishes a useless wooden sword while all around her Lions fight and die under the assault of winged riders, the Quman. Is that Thiadbold, calling out commands? The Lions fight bravely, but their numbers thin as the winged riders attack again, and again. It is only a matter of time.

As though struck by lightning, she recognized that dark-haired girl. She plunged down into the world below the moon, bow in hand.

How has Blessing come to be so old, four years of age at least? Ai, Lady! Has so much time passed? Has the child grown, knowing nothing of her mother? Will she die likewise, motherless and abandoned?

Liath sets her arrow to the bow, makes ready to draw.

But whom shall she shoot? There are fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred Quman riders swarming around the knoll and, farther away, another equally large group attacks and routs the rear of a legion of Wendish soldiers. She recognizes the banner of Saony, but this is only a minor distraction.

She must save her child.

Yet against so many, one arrow will not be enough to save her.

To shoot now is to waste the only weapon she has left.

Ai, Lord. Where is Sanglant?

They had at last gained a good view of the plain and the Quman army set in battle order not far beyond when one of Bayan's Un-grians came galloping up.

"My lord prince!" The captain had served in several embassies and spoke Wendish well.” Prince Sanglant! Prince Bayan commands you to turn your line about—

"Turn my line about!" Sanglant's anger cut the message short. What was Bayan plotting now, demanding that he turn his line away from the enemy and thus lose the honor of engaging the Quman in battle?

"Look, my lord prince!" cried Sibold, who had been given the honor this day of carrying the banner.

Only a short stretch of woodland separated them from the open fields where the Quman gathered. The vanguard of the Wendish army could be seen, banners flying, as they emerged from the wood and split apart into regular lines to face the Quman across the broad gap. For a moment Sanglant admired the brisk efficiency of Sapientia's troops, drilled and trained by Bayan over the winter. Was it jealousy that made him hesitate? Did he fear that Sapientia would acquit herself well, as Bayan clearly meant her to do?

Wasn't it necessary to give her a chance to prove herself fit to command, and therefore to rule?

He turned back to the messenger.” Go on."

"My lord prince." The man loosened the strap on his helm and tipped it back for relief from the heat.” Prince Bayan orders you to turn your legion and ride to the aid of the rear guard. The Quman swung wide and sent an entire wing of their army to destroy the rear. Duke Boleslas and the Polenie are hard hit, and the rout has already reached the Saony legion, which is scattering—

"My daughter?" asked Sanglant, as the cold battle fury descended.

The messenger flushed.” There is no news either of your daughter's whereabouts or those of Prince Bayan's mother. The entire rear has collapsed."

He waited for no more.” Captain Fulk! Send Sergeant Cobbo to alert Lord Druthmar that we are turning. He will ride at the rear of our unit. I'll take the van myself. Sibold!"

Horns rang out. The banners.signaled the turnabout. These were not battle-hardened troops, as his Dragons had been, but he had seen their willingness to follow over the last few months. This would be their true test.

Goaded by his fury and his fear, they rode recklessly, at full bore. He trusted them to keep up. Let the unworthy fall behind. He would kill every Quman himself if he had to.

They swung wide through the open woodland as they pounded past Prince Bayan's Ungrians, who whooped and cheered to give them courage but who nevertheless kept moving toward the plain. Why hadn't Bayan himself turned around to meet the threat from behind?

No time to think of that now.

A gap had opened between the Ungrian rear guard and the van of the Saony legion, under the joint command of the two quarreling brothers. Stragglers appeared, running through the trees: soldiers on horseback, a few hapless camp followers on foot, screaming warnings when they saw the prince and his legion.

He lifted a hand; Fulk blew the horn twice, and the entire mass of men—not less than six hundred riders including Druthmar and his marchlanders—came to a stop as Sanglant brought several soldiers to a halt.

Their stories varied wildly. The entire Quman army had hit the baggage train.

Lord Zwentibold was dead. Duke Boleslas was dead. Duke Boleslas was in league with the Quman. All the wagons were burning.

One man had seen the Lions forming up around a knoll; from his brief, panicked description, Sanglant recalled the little hill. He had noted it, as he always noted strategic landmarks, when he had ridden past earlier.

Signaling to Fulk, he started forward. Soon enough they heard the clash of battle ahead. Breaking into a gallop, Sanglant led the charge.

The Saony legion, taken unawares from behind by the Quman, had dissolved into scattered bands of stalwart men fighting for their lives while the rest fled or were cut down from behind. Sanglant saw Wichman's banner, stil bobbing aloft, before he lowered his lance and let the weight of their charge carry them into the Quman line. In their heavy armor, his Wendish auxiliaries bore down and trampled the more lightly armed Quman riders, just overran them. Sanglant knocked one man from his horse, then thrust his lance deep into another Quman's unprotected belly before letting go of the haft and drawing his sword.

With a cry, he lay about on either side, driving his way through the Quman.

Feathers drifted on the air. Bones cracked. Horses stumbled, wounded, and fell, plunging their riders to the ground. A shout of triumph rose from the Saony men who had so far survived, and they redoubled their efforts.

"Call the advance!" cried Sanglant over the noise, pulling away from the fighting so that Fulk could gather his men again. Wich-man had rallied half the remaining Saony troops. There was no sign of Zwentibold. Sanglant signaled, and Lord Druthmar joined him.” Use your men as the other claw of the pincer. Now that we've shaken up the Quman line, you can crash them between your group and Saony."

"As you command, my lord prince." Druthmar called out orders as Sanglant withdrew from the battle with half of his soldiers.

Fulk blew the advance. Sibold raised the banner high, thrice, and with Sanglant still in the lead, they rode in haste for the baggage train. Behind, the battle raged on as Druthmar drove his soldiers back upon the flank of the Quman, catching them front and rear.

But as shadowy figures fled through the forest on all sides, refugees from the fighting, Sanglant could think only of the baggage train. Pray God his daughter still lived. He should have left her at Walburg, with Waltharia; he knew it, and guilt burned him, but he had to push it aside. If he let guilt cloud his mind now, then he was risking the lives of the men he commanded. There would be plenty of time for guilt later, when this was done.

A crowd of prisoners came into view, being herded by a half-dozen Quman soldiers. At the sight of this new force, the Quman abandoned their captives and rode away, unwilling to stand and fight. The prisoners cheered hoarsely at the sight of the prince and his golden banner. But Sanglant strained to see through the open forest. Was that the knoll, ahead? He heard cries, and the ring of fighting. He heard rain, and the growl of thunder.” There!" cried Fulk.

A broad clearing opened before them. Wagons and carts had been abandoned all across the grassy expanse, now wet under a light rain whose front stopped, uncannily, just before the knoll. Careless Quman, lured by the riches carried in a prince's train, had given up the fight to loot. Not all of them were so undisciplined, however. Wagons had been thrown up to make a palisade around the knoll, but this line had now been abandoned as the remaining Lions were forced to retreat up the knoll. Despite the tiring run, Resuelto stretched out into a gallop, feeling his rider's anticipation.

"Fulk! Take Cobbo's company and kill those looters." A third of the men peeled away, bearing down on the enemy now scrambling for their horses, trying to ready their weapons before they got trampled or swept away. A few Quman threw down their weapons and dropped to the damp ground, trying to surrender—

He didn't see what became of them. The Quman's leader had pulled back from the attack on the knoll to meet Sanglant. Both men wielded swords. Sanglant parried, and cut, cleaving the other man through shoulder and wing. With a shove, he toppled him from his horse.

A Quman rider collided with Resuelto, but the steppe pony was dwarfed by the Wendish war steed. The jolt made the gelding stagger, but the Quman was knocked to the ground. Resuelto reared and plunged down. The Quman died quickly, but the pony still struggled, trying to rise.

At last Sanglant reached the overturned wagons. Above, a score of Lions fought desperately against the onslaught of winged warriors. A cheer rose from the Lions as they caught sight of their rescuers. They attacked with renewed strength, using their shields to shove the winged riders off-balance as Sanglant, now closely followed by Lord Hrodik and his Gentish followers, fell upon their flank.

Sibold and the rest of Sanglant's company had circled the base of the knoll to pinch off the attack from the other side. While many men who bore a banner simply followed and defended, not so Si-bold: the reckless fellow seemed to enjoy dropping the banner in the face of his foe and then closing for the kill while the enemy was still confused. Pressed from all sides, the Quman broke and scattered, running like deer.

The Quman who had pursued the attack up onto the hill were now cut off, and the hundred or so Wendish warriors at Sanglant's back whittled them down until there were not more than two dozen Quman left, many dismounted and wounded, now surrounded.

Sanglant knew one word in the Quman tongue.” Surrender!" he cried now.

A few of the Quman cursed. The rest remained silent, unyielding.

Between one breath and the next, the rain stopped falling. Red-haired Captain Thiadbold stood at the height of the knoll,, commanding what remained of the stalwart Lions. He stepped forward.” No mercy!" he shouted into the unexpected silence.” Kill them all!"

With cries of glee and fury, the Wendish soldiers fell upon the cornered Quman.

The fight was short and desperate. Lord Hrodik fell, pierced in the side, but soon the last of the Quman was beheaded by a Lion's ax after having been knocked prone by old Gotfrid, the Lion Sanglant had rescued from a slaver's chains.

Blessing burst into sight as though she had exploded out of a tree. She leaped for her father's arms. Sanglaht scooped her out of the air and held her tight, face pressed against her hair. She smelled of rotting logs. But she was alive.

"I was waiting for you," she cried, scolding him, "but it took you so long to come and kill the bad men."

"I know, sweetheart," he said, trying not to weep for joy at holding her, unharmed.” They won't hurt you now. I must go to fight at the front. The battle against Bulkezu is yet to be joined." "Didn't you kill Bulkezu? Wasn't that dead man him?" "Nay, Daughter." Tears stung his eyes. They always did, when he had to view the carnage, so many good men down.” This was only a feint, an attempt to roll us up from behind and catch us between two claws." He kissed her and handed her into Heribert's waiting arms as the cleric staggered down the slope, face pale and robes streaked with blood. Quman blood smeared Blessing's cheek and stained her tunic where she had pressed against her father's tabard.

"Thank God," said Heribert. That was all. Anna crept forward to sink down next to the cleric. A moment later young Matto and Lord Thiemo, limping but mobile, pushed their way out of the crowd as well. Were they all that remained of the men he'd left behind to guard Blessing?

Fulk and his company had slaughtered any remaining Quman and now hunted through the scattered remnants of the baggage train. None of the ill-gotten loot from the train would ever arrive in the eastern plains, nor would any of these rich fabrics and glittering jewelry ever adorn Quman women.

"My lord prince." Captain Thiadbold knelt before him, bloodied but not bowed.

The groans of wounded men, Wendish and Quman alike, made a horrible din around them.” What is your command?" "Set up a field hospital." Sanglant glanced around and caught sight of Wolfhere, who had done his part in the fighting but now moved through the battlefield, searching for wounded who could be pulled free.” Eagle! You'll stay with the Lions. There must be men here who might still Jive if they're cared for. These wagons can be set to rights, and loaded. Be ready to march as soon as you can."

"What of the Quman who are injured?" asked Thiadbold.” My men will kill them willingly enough."

Sanglant hesitated.” Nay. Save those who can live. The Lord enjoins mercy, and I'll have it now. Our enemy may yet prove of use to us."

Wolfhere glanced at him, a strange expression on his face, but he said nothing.

Instead, he hurried down the knoll to organize the freed prisoners and surviving soldiers into a work detail. Thiadbold merely shrugged and rose, calling to his men, Captain Fulk rode up.” My lord prince. The Quman are routed."

"Sound the horn and ral y the men. We must return to Prince Bayan."

Sibold raised the gold banner high so that all could spot the prince's colors as Fulk blew three staccato blasts on the horn. Almost all his men reassembled; Lord Hrodik had fallen and was possibly dead, but the prince guessed that he hadn't lost more than ten men in the attack. If only the Lions, and Duke Boleslas and his Polenie, had been so lucky. He could see the line of battle, and the dead, stretching east into the forest, a clear trail of bodies and blood showing the way the earlier battle had fallen out with the Quman chasing down the fleeing baggage train and the Polenie trying desperately to stop them.

No use dwelling over what was past. No time for regrets in the midst of battle.

Knowing the real battle could be joined at any moment back on the Veser plain, Sanglant raised a hand to signal the advance. Paused. The skin between his shoulder blades crawled, as though an arrow had been aimed to pierce his back.

He glanced back over his shoulder.

Captain Fulk moved up beside him.” Do you see anything, my lord prince? I believe we killed them all. They'll not be back to trouble your daughter this day."

"Nay, it's not that, although we have to win the battle at hand before we can be sure we're free of trouble." Sanglant had a momentary illusion that hornets were swarming all around his head, but it sloughed off quickly. Yet he still could not shake the sense that someone was watching him.” Ai, Lord, Fulk, it's hard enough knowing the danger my sweet child faces every day, that I've brought on her. Lord knows I've done things I'm not proud of these last months, but God forgive me, I still think of Liath constantly. Will I ever see her again?"

"I pray that you will, my lord prince."

At times like these, battle was almost a relief. Better to fight than to dwell on his grief and his fears. He lifted his hand again, calling for a new lance to be brought for him.

A crack of thunder splintered the air around them. Horses neighed, rearing. Men raised their voices in alarm, but as suddenly quieted. As though silence itself commanded attention, men began to look around. Sanglant, too, looked back over his shoulder to see a tiny figure descending from the knoll. A veil concealed her face, but her ancient hands, gnarled with arthritis, betrayed her age.

Scarcely taller than a child, Bayan's mother wore rich gold robes elaborately embroidered with scenes of griffins and dragons locked in battle. When she commandeered a horse from a soldier—who promptly dropped to his knees as though felled—and mounted with assistance from one of her slaves, Sanglant saw that the robes were split for riding. Hastily, he rode over to her as soldiers reined away, made superstitious by the stories they had heard and by the uncanny behavior of the rain.

"My lady," he began in Wendish, "I pray you, forgive me for not knowing the proper address for a woman of your birth and rank." Though she was mounted now on a huge warhorse whose size dwarfed her, she did not look ridiculous.

Sanglant towered over her.” I beg you, you will be safer here in the rear now that we have—

One of her slaves stepped forward.” Stand not in the way of the holy woman."

He was a huge man with a dark complexion and thick shoulders and arms, not the kind worth tangling with in a fight unless necessary.

"She is safer—

She rode away. Her feet didn't even reach the stirrups.

"The holy woman has seen that her luck is in danger," said the slave.” She must go."

Her luck?

That quickly, Sanglant remembered the old Kerayit custom, that a shaman woman's luck resided in the body of another person.

Her luck was her son.

This time when he raised a hand, twin horns blared. In the distance, he heard the answering bell of Druthmar's horn. Afflicted all at once with a horrible sense of foreboding, Sanglant signaled the advance. With his forces marshaled and Druthmar waiting farther down to join them, Sanglant led them back along the road at a trot.

Long ago, at besieged Gent, when she saw him for the first time, he had been wearing that same dragon helm, splendid and handsome. Just as he was then.

Just as he is now. Desire is a flame, a torch burning in the night. No traveler can help but be drawn toward it.

Ai, God, she misses him. She misses the feel of him.

But she has to go on. She has to choose wisely, never forgetting that she isn 't truly on Earth but rather ascending the last sphere.

No creature male or female can harm him. Remembering this, she stayed her hand through the worst of the fighting. In battle, truly, Sanglant can take care of himself. She hasn't forgotten the lesson she learned in the sphere ofJedu, the angel of war.

She hasn 't forgotten the horror of being killed, over and over again, by the one she loves.

But those hornets bother her. She saw them as aetheric darts stinging at his face and hands. He shook them off, but it is obvious to her that another hand works magic, hoping to harm the prince. She touches the golden robes of the old woman, the veiled one, but although the crone starts around surprised, feeling her touch, the woman cannot see her, only sense her gaze. The old woman has a face so wrinkled that it is hard to see the soul beneath, like an insect protected by its carapace. Despite her great age, her hair is still as black as a girl's. Her complexion is dusky, and her dark eyes are pulled tight at the comers in the shape of an almond. These features mark her as a steppe dweller, a woman from the eastern tribes, the people who live on the endless plains of grass with their herds and their tents.

She has powerful magic, the air hums around her as though infested with bees, but it isn't her magic that threatens Sanglant. Regretfully, Liath leaves Sanglant, Blessing, and the old woman behind and speeds onward, an arrow on the aetheric winds binding the Earth. She has become the bow.

Skirmishes are being fought far into the woods and as far away as the twin rivers, flowing northward to join at the base of Oster-burg 's walls.

Such melees do not warrant more than a glance. She seeks, and she finds two armies massed for battle just beyond the woodland, gathered on open ground.

The Wendish fly the banner of Princess Sapientia, the sigil of the heir ofWendar and Varre, six animals set on a shield: lion, dragon, and eagle, horse, hawk, and guivre. A large force of Ungrians bearing the sigil of the double-headed eagle comes up behind the Wendish line, ready to strike at the center of the Quman line.

Already the Quman archers fire at will, to soften up their enemy, but the Ungrians give as good as they get, and the Wendish legions swing wide and begin a steady advance toward the flanks. The Quman force seems larger than it is. From this height, like a hawk circling, she sees that the wings they wear make them seem as if they have more soldiers than they really do.

Brute force will win this engagement today, unless that magic she tastes in the air and feels like a prickling along her skin turns the tide.

A rumble like thunder rises as the armies shift forward and charge. Dust billows into the air. The Wendish and Ungrian forces shriek and cry out, voices ringing above the pound of hooves, but the Quman advance in uncanny silence, goaded on by their prince, whose griffin wings shine and glitter in the sunlight.

Just as the two armies meet in a resounding clash, she finds a thread spanning the wind. Aetheric hornets gleam along its length, buzzing and chattering as it extends toward the armies. She speeds backward along the thread. Beyond the Veser in a makeshift camp, desperate prisoners huddle, awaiting the outcome of the battle, but the thread leads her an arrow's shot away from the groaning, helpless captives, back across the river to a low rise on the east bank overlooking the plain. The glimmering thread curls into a line of horsemen: a dozen guards, one light-haired person dressed in ragged Wendish garb, and a strange man stripped down to trousers patched together from a hundred different pieces of fabric. Blue-black tattoos cover his torso; they seem to writhe and shiver as he chants. Unlike the other Quman warriors, he wears no blackened and shrunken head dangling from his belt, but his ornaments are gruesome enough: earrings made from shriveled human noses, a needle piercing the septum of his nose and each end of it adorned with a withered human ear.

He is a shaman. The thread of hornets spins out from his voice, twisted into life through the words of his spell.

The woman beside him raises her head. In that first instant, Liath does not recognize her because of the hatred that mars her expression as she gazes over the field of battle. Hate distorts the heart, leaving scars, as it has scarred her own heart. Remembering this, she knows her.” Hanna!"

Hanna shakes her head as though to chase away annoying flies. Her hands are tied in front of her; she is a captive, forced to watch as the battle unfolds. The smooth wood of Seeker of Hearts feels cool against Liath's palms. One arrow will not rescue Hanna, not with a dozen guards, and because she does not exist on Earth in bodily form, she cannot manifest fire. It is only her consciousness that has fallen to Earth; her body remains above.

But the Quman shaman is up to some mischief. Ought she to kill him? Might his magic alter the outcome of the battle?

She rises aloft on wings to survey the field of blood where the invisible spirit of Jedu now roams, where men kill and struggle. Sanglant and his men have not yet come into view. The gleaming thread unwinds across the carnage. In close quarters, Wendish spears and swords and chain mail hold up well against the more lightly armed Quman. Seen from Aturna's heights, as from a ridgetop looking into the future, Liath feels sure that Princess Sapientia and her allies will win. They don't need her help.

At that moment she hears the faint cry of a voice she has never heard before that yet reverberates in her heart. She rises, seeking a broader view; the. battle recedes below her. In her last glimpse she sees the hornets swarming forward to buzz around the banner of the Ungrian prince, the commander. Faraway, too far away to aid him, the ancient Kerayit woman screams in horror and rage. Clouds bear in from the east. Lightning blinds Liath. Thunder cracks, and back where Blessing stands among overturned wagons, turning her head to stare gleefully at the heavens, it begins to rain.

"Lady, blessed saint, defend us! "

A shrill scream, cut off with an awful gurgle. Liath smells the sharp iron scent of galla. With one step she covers weeks of travel, she leaps the towering Alfar Mountains and tumbles down into a weird landscape of rock chimneys and narrow plateaus rising like pillars out of barren ground. Someone has carved a convent into one of these vast rock pillars, a refuge in times of war. A scream echoes again, and she slides between rock, seeking the one whose prayers have touched her heart and reached her ears.

In a warren of rock she finds six nuns cowering in a chamber carved into the stone. Seven windows admit a gleam of afternoon light, obscured by the terrible creature advancing down the length of the refectory. The table, laden with platters, cups, and a stern meal of porridge and bread, has been overturned.

Cooling pease porridge lies in spatters on the floor. One of the women is screaming convulsively, utterly panicked. Back by the door lies a jumble of disarticulated bones, steaming slightly, as though the soul of the person who just inhabited that body is trying to form itself into a ghostly specter. The old mother abbess, golden Circle of Unity held high, limps forward, past her nuns, making the sign of exorcism to drive the creature away.

But a Circle of Unity and honest faith will not turn back a galla bound by blood.

Lialhfits arrow to string, draws—

And hesitates. Who bound the galla? Who has sent it on this deadly errand?

She has only one breath to decide. The galla is here, and before she draws her next breath it will consume the old abbess just as it consumed the poor woman who had been standing in the doorway.

She looses the arrow. The gold fletching gleams, and sparks, as the arrow explodes in the slender tower of darkness that is the galla's insubstantial body.

With a shriek of agony, and of joy, it vanishes, released from the bonds of magic that dragged it here to this world. Its unfulfilled purpose kicks back along the pale link that ties it to the sorcerer who called it. Briefly, Liath sees an elderly, apple-cheeked woman seated in a chamber with a bloody body nearby. The woman jerks as the rebound hits her, then . faints.

"Go now!" cries Liath, trying to catch the attention of the six women.” Bind the sorcerer who has done this.”

Perhaps they hear her, even above the hysterical sobs of one of their number, who cannot be consoled.

The old abbess gestures.” Hilaria! Diocletia! Go at once to the guest hall to see if Sister Venia is safe. But take rope, and a sleeping potion." Leaning heavily on a cane, she takes four steps forward and bends, picking up a gold feather. There is no sign of the arrow.

She glances up. All at once, staring, she seems to see Liath hovering in the air before her. Her eyes widen.” Who is there, in the shadows?" Despite her infirmities and great age, her voice remains strong.

"Fear not," says Liath, but she thinks the old woman cannot see her, for she is no more substantial on Earth right now than the galla was.

Some eyes are keener than others. The old woman squints, looking surprised, puzzled, hopeful.” Bernard?" she asks, voice gone hoarse all at once, as though she might weep.” Is this my sweet son Bernard, who was torn from me? Your face— Nay, you're a woman. Who are you?"

Who am I? And who are you, who sees in me the image of a lost son named Bernard?

Liath takes a step forward and found herself back on the marble stairs of Aturna, almost at the top. Bow and arrow were gone. She was naked, alone; she had nothing, except herself.

The realm of the fixed stars blazed before her, white hot, as terrible as a firestorm.

But they were waiting for her, clustered at the lower limit of the border: spirits with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. Their gaze fell like the strike of lightning. Their bodies were not bodies like those known on Earth but rather the conjoining of fire and wind, the breath of incandescent stars coalesced into mind and will. The sound of their wings unfurling in pitiless splendor boomed and echoed off the curving gleam of Aturna's sphere. Far below, the golden wheels spun madly, powered by that fiery wind that is the soul's breath of the stars.

She recognized their voice.

"Child," they said as she climbed the last step and without hesitation walked into their joyous embrace.” You have come home."

THE Quman resisted the heavy charge at first, holding firm under the leadership of their prince, who rode with them. But the sheer weight of the Wendish cavalry at either flank and the Un-grian mass in the center broke them at last.

Zacharias watched, exulting, as first the left flank and then portions of the center sagged and gave way, as the infamous Quman soldiers, hardened and grim, began to turn their horses and flee. If Zacharias had believed in God, he would have offered up a prayer at that moment. He mopped his brow instead.

Thunder pealed behind them. He smelled rain, although it was impossible to hear much of anything over the cacophony of battle that raged on the river plain before him. He waited at the rear with Bayan's command group and the prince's adviser, Brother Breschius. Prince Bayan had ridden forward with the charge, but he disengaged from the line and rode back to them, calling for a messenger.

"Ride to the Wendish banners. My wife must now pull back from the fighting.

The day is won, and it makes no matter for her to keep fighting. In the rout, this is when folk may come unexpectedly to grief." The messenger rode off at a gallop. Bayan called for water. Loosening the straps of his helmet, he tipped it back so that he could drink.” Brother Zacharias, what will Bulkezu do next?

Surely you know him best of all of us."

Zacharias chuckled nervously, not liking the way everyone was looking at him.”

Bulkezu is as clever as he is mad. I cannot know his mind."

"I pray you, Your Highness, put your helmet back on," said Brother Breschius.”

A stray arrow might come from anywhere."

Bayan grunted, finished his drink, and pulled his helmet back down. For a quiet moment, such as could be had watching over the battle as the Quman line retreated even farther and began to break up all along its length, he watched, measuring the movement of the various units, their strengths and weaknesses, commenting now and again to his captains and sending messengers or receiving them. Princess Sapientia had not yet disengaged from the fray.

"Damn," swore Bayan, swatting at his helm. With a curse, he undid the straps of his helmet again.” Damn hornet." He pulled it up, exposing his face as he tried to bat away something Zacharias could not see.” It stung me!"

The arrow, coming out of nowhere, took him in the throat.

Without a sound, he slid neatly from his horse. His blood drenched the ground.

And the world stopped breathing.

No man spoke. The air snapped, stung—and screamed, like a woman's voice.

No person ought ever to have to hear a woman scream like that, naked grief, raw pain. Thunder boomed directly over them. Wind howled out of the east, flattening Zacharias. The horses spooked, bucking in fright, and he actually fell right back over the rump of his mount and hit the ground hard while around him Ungrian captains and lords fought to control their horses. He cowered under the fury of the storm while Bayan's life's blood trickled across the ground to paint Zacharias' fingers red.

As abruptly as the storm had hit, it ceased. Leaves fluttered through the air, stilled, and fell. A deadly quiet shrouded the land. Below, the conjoined armies seemed to pause.

As though Bulkezu had been waiting for this moment, the griffin-winged rider called for the advance, and the fleeing Quman gathered themselves together and struck hard at the faltering Wendish and Ungrian line. Princess Sapientia's banner was driven back as if before the lash.

"Oh, Lord, I beseech you, spare his life," said Brother Breschius, dismounting to kneel beside the prince. He took hold of the prince's limp hand, touched a finger to gray lips, then wept.” My good lord Bayan is-dead."

Just like that, the command group disintegrated. The cries and ululations of the Ungrian lords resounded off the hilltop. They had lost their prince, their luck, their commander; for them, the battle was over. The double-headed eagle banner was furled, and along the center of the army, as Ungrian soldiers caught sight of the furled banner, the center bowed backward as they retreated.

"Ai!" cried Zacharias, scrambling up. Blood dripped from his hand. He caught sight of his mount galloping away toward the woods. He was trapped on the rise, easy prey for Bulkezu. With a groan of despair, he threw himself back down on the ground.” We are lost!"

Horns belled in the distance. A great shout of triumph rose from the rear lines as the gold banner of Prince Sanglant burst out of the trees at the head of his troop of horsemen, many hundreds strong.

Sanglant recognized a line about to break, and he knew what to do about it.

With one comprehensive glance, he took in the situation on the field: Bayan's furled banner, the retreating Ungrian troops, Sapientia's wavering troops on the flanks. Only Lady Bertha's Austrans, on the left flank, were holding their own.

That would change if the rest of the army lost heart. Was Bayan wounded, or even dead?

No time to consider. He lifted his hand. Fulk raised the horn to his lips and blew the charge. Drums rolled in time to hoofbeats.

The noise deafened him, but even so he shouted, letting his voice ring out.” For Wendar!"

Urging Resuelto forward, Sanglant led the charge. The discouraged Ungrians parted before them. At the sight of his banner, they rallied, falling in to form up behind his soldiers. With Sibold at his right hand and Fulk, Malbert, and Anshelm around him, he slammed into the forefront of the Quman line. It broke, riders falling, the press of the Quman disintegrating. Yet another line of enemy riders closed from the second rank. He set his lance and directed his charge for a small group of wingless riders, Wendishmen perhaps, traitors seduced by the promise of gold and slaves. Something about their shields—

One of the soldiers pushed his horse past the leader to take the brunt of the impact. Sanglant's lance struck him right over the heart, and the man fell to the ground. As he drew his sword, he slammed a Quman rider hard with his shield to unseat him, got his sword free, and cut at the wingless leader. Only then did he recognize the scarred and battered shield of the boy cowering before him.

"Ekkehard!" With an effort, he twisted his wrist so that the flat of the blade caught his young half brother in the helm, knocking him to the side, although the lad at least had enough horsemanship to keep his seat and ride past. His three other companions threw down their arms and yielded. Only the one lay dead, trampled by his own horse.

"Get them out of here!" he shouted before he pressed forward with Fulk and Sibold on either side and the rest of his men moving up around him as Anshelm dropped back to take care of Ekkehard. Druthmar's banner flew proudly over to the right. Along the left flank, Lady Bertha had pushed her advantage and now swung wide to roll up the struggling Quman flank arrayed against her. Away to the right, past Druthmar, Sapientia was acquitting herself well enough, emboldened by his success.

But he knew that the Quman would not fall until their leader did. Griffin wings flashed in sunlight as the clouds scudded away on a stiff wind. With a cry of triumph, he carved his way to Bulkezu. This fight would be very different than the one six years before when the Quman begh had ruined his voice and almost taken his life.

Bulkezu turned to face him. Even through the clash of battle, Sanglant heard him laughing as they closed. Sanglant had the advantage of height—the Wendish horses were simply larger than the stolid Quman ponies. He rained blows down on Bulkezu, but the griffin warrior parried every one with shield or sword. Sparks flew as his griffin feathers notched Wendish steel. But in the end brute strength won, and a massive blow sent Bulkezu's sword spinning from his grasp.

Bulkezu threw himself into Sanglant, punching with his shield. Grabbing hold of Sanglant's belt, he dragged the prince from his mount. They both tumbled to the ground as the horses broke free and bolted, leaving them on foot as the battle raged around them. Bulkezu pulled his dagger as he tried to break Sanglant's grip, but Sanglant wrapped his shield around Bulkezu's back and struck him in the face with his pommel. With each blow a large dent appeared in the face mask and the iron began to crack. A trickle of blood oozed from the eye slots as Sanglant struck a fourth time.

Bulkezu jerked back, twisting his shoulders to one side so that the griffin feathers cut into Sanglant's left arm. His shield fell to the ground, its leather straps severed. Bulkezu caught his lower arm and shoved it hard, twisting all the while, to drive the sword

into the ground. He thrust with his dagger at Sanglant's head. The blow scraped gold flakes from the dragon helm. Sanglant caught the frame of a wing with his boot and shoved. The wing snapped off. They rolled on the ground. Bulkezu's other wing snapped, shedding griffin feathers along the earth as they wrestled, each trying to get the upper hand.

Sanglant caught sight of a Quman rider bearing down and barely got hold of his sword, whipping it up to parry the blow that would have crushed his head.

Bulkezu kicked him away and scrambled up, lost at once in the turbulent sea of fighting. Sanglant killed another Quman rider before Fulk cleared a space for him to remount Resuelto.

"Bulkezu?" he shouted as Resuelto pranced away from the griffin feathers, which could even cut into hooves.

Bulkezu had vanished, impossible to trace without his griffin wings. The Pechanek standard swayed and, abruptly, collapsed under a Wendish charge. A roar of triumph rose from the Wendish troops as the Quman line disintegrated.

The Ungrians, rallying round, cried out Sanglant's name.

Between one breath and the next, battle turned to rout. The bravest Quman warriors soon found themselves isolated and surrounded and in this way they perished in the midst of their enemies.

"Send messengers!" the prince called to Fulk.” Let all the fords and ferries west and east be on their guard."

He and his captains withdrew from the field, letting the soldiers do the rough work of slaughter, those who could catch the fleeing Quman now scattering in all directions. Back on a rise they found Brother Breschius and a dozen Ungrian noblemen preparing Bayan's body for transport, stripping him of his armor.

Sapientia was already there, keening like a lost child, scratching at her cheeks in the old way as she mourned her dead husband. Her attendants had to restrain her twice from throwing herself onto his bloody body.

Sanglant surveyed the scene with a dull heart. All of Bayan's liveliness was gone, fled; what remained was only a husk. He wept openly, honoring Bayan with his grief, while Anshelm washed and bound the cuts on his left arm where the griffin feathers had laid o open his skin. They stung like crazy, but they didn't hurt half as much as the pain of seeing Bayan dead.

Captain Fulk rode up with the latest reports: Lady Bertha had followed a large contingent west, toward the Veser; Lord Wich-man, recovered from the near rout of his forces earlier, was engaged in a lively slaughter of any Quman soldier he and his men could get their hands on; Thiadbold's Lions had captured a lordling, son of a begh, but it wasn't Bulkezu. Prince Bayan's mother had been found, with her slaves keening around her: she, too, was dead.

"Where is my brother Ekkehard?" asked Sanglant quietly, not wanting Sapientia to overhear. He could not predict how she would react to the news of Ekkehard's treachery.

Fulk nodded wisely.” We've taken him to the baggage train and put him in the custody of the Lions, my lord prince. They're levelheaded enough to treat him calmly. What of Bulkezu? Do we pursue?"

"Nay. I doubt we've more than an hour of daylight left to us. Send Druthmar to the baggage train. I want my daughter escorted forward at once under heavy guard. I'd best go pay my respects to my aunt and remind her whom she has to thank for saving her city and her duchy. Sapientia and I will ride to Osterburg together, with Bayan's corpse."

"But Prince Bulkezu got free—" objected Sibold. He stood in his stirrups, alive with excitement as he held the gold banner aloft in victory, as his gaze scanned the field beyond. Broken wings littered the field, obscuring bodies. Feathers drifted on the wind. A roan kept struggling to get up but could not stand. Carrion crows circled. In their haste to retreat the Quman had scattered into packs of two or ten or twenty, hard to catch but easy to kill once they were ridden down.

Many escaped into the forest, fleeing east like frightened rats toward their distant home.

Sanglant shook his head, eyes narrowing as a soldier dismounted beside the distant roan and knelt to examine its wounds. Sapientia sobbed on, and on, and on, brokenhearted. He wiped away tears from his own cheeks, thinking of the toasts he could no longer share with Bayan.” Tomorrow is soon enough to hunt Bulkezu. He may already lie dead on the field."

"And if he does not?" asked Fulk.

<>

"I've never heard that any Quman can swim. He'll have to cross at a ford or ferry. My soldiers will be ready for him."

FROM a rise on the east bank of the Veser River, Hanna watched in silent exultation as the two armies engaged. Even from a distance she could see that the Wendish were better armed, and that the weight of their larger horses and bigger shields gave them an advantage despite the crippling heat. Sweat streaked her forehead, and her tunic stuck to her back. With her bound hands, she swatted at a cloud of gnats swarming around her face. The ropes made her awkward, so she couldn't hope to escape, or to interfere.

Not until too late did she realize why her hands had been tied, so that she could not possibly disturb the other battle going on, the secret one. Not until Cherbu stopped muttering and chanting did she hold her breath, abruptly aware that something was about to happen. A shout of despair and confusion arose from the Ungrian ranks. Prince Bayan's banner, no bigger than her hand seen from this distance but still easily recognizable, was furled, as they would do if he were dead.

Dead.

She knew then, seeing Cherbu's solemn face, that the Quman shaman had killed him with magic. He sighed, dismounted, and laid himself flat on the ground, all four limbs pointing out like those of a sea star, as though he were awaiting his fate. Was that a single tear, trickling down one cheek?

The storm hit.

The first blast of wind actually tossed her from her horse. She hit the ground, taking the brunt of the fall on one hip, and lay there, stunned, while thunder cracked around them and lightning flashed so close that horses screamed and she smelled burning. A cloudburst swept through, flattening the grass.

Then all stilled. She took in two shuddering breaths. Her skin tin gled alarmingly, as though she had been stung by a thousand hornets. Her face, where Bulkezu had hit her, throbbed painfully, and her hip ached as she rolled over to push herself up. A spear drifted lazily in front of her eyes. The guards, at least, had not forgotten their duty.

Stiffly, cautiously, she got to her feet, gritting her teeth as pain shot through her hip and up into her shoulder. The stink of charred flesh made her gag.

Cherbu was dead, his body blackened and contorted. He had been struck by lightning. Her stomach clenched. She stumbled away, dropped to her knees, and vomited.

A ragged cheer rose from the ranks of her guard. Surprised to hear their cry, she raised her head in time to see Bulkezu, his griffin wings a glittering beacon on the distant field, leading a charge to smash the Wendish army. The Ungrian legion began to retreat. Tears stung her eyes, but she choked them back, swallowing bile as she stared helplessly. Yet wasn't this her duty? To witness and remember, so that she could report to the king? She straightened up proudly, though it hurt to stand. No matter what happened, she had to be strong enough to defy Bulkezu. If he defeated her, then it would be as if he had defeated King Henry. Maybe that was the game Bulkezu had been playing with her all along.

So when the horns rang and a gold banner emerged from the wooded lands farther east, she could not help but cry out in hope and triumph. Who bore the gold banner? What prince or noble lady had come to Sapientia's aid?

Dust obscured the scene. The guards muttered nervously around her as the clamor of battle drifted up to them on a stiff breeze blowing in from the east. It was impossible to see who was winning, and who was losing. Impossible to know anything except interpret the shouts and cheers and commands ringing faintly from the field.

At first, she didn't recognize the rider making a dash for their line, galloping out of the haze of battle with about a dozen Quman soldiers at his heels. The shattered wood frame of his wings trailed over him, shedding bright feathers.

Griffin feathers.

As Bulkezu rode up, she laughed to see him humbled, but when he yanked his battered helm and featureless face mask from his head, her laughter choked in her throat. Blood ran down his face from a gash at the corner of one eye where the mask had been driven into his skin. A flap of skin hung loosely; she even saw the o

white of bone. His terrible expression made her shudder as, with the tip of his spear, he poked his brother's corpse. Without comment, he turned and, signaling, headed south at a brisk pace. By now he had about thirty soldiers following. She saw no sign of Prince Ekkehard and his companions.

They swung south a ways before cutting east, pushing their horses to the limit.

Twice they came across knots of Wendish soldiers and, after a skirmish, broke free. But they always left a few men behind, wounded or dead. After the first time she tried to escape under cover of such fighting, Bulkezu tied a rope around her neck and, using it like a lead line, forced her to ride directly behind him.

When she let her mount lag too far behind, the noose choked her. When she crowded him, hoping to injure his horse or make it stumble, he turned and whipped her across the face with the only weapon he had left: a stick.

Her nose was bleeding and her hip had gone into spasms by the time it got too dark to ride any farther. In any case, the horses were winded, blown. It was at least a week past the full moon, and the waning crescent hadn't yet risen. They had to stop, taking the time now to eat and drink what little remained to them.

There were about two dozen left, creeping through the forest, signaling to each other with hisses and whistles. From ahead, they heard shouts and the noise of horses and fighting. Bulkezu yanked her rope and dragged her forward. By this time she could hardly walk; the pain in her hip stabbed all the way up to her head, and her teeth ached. They took refuge in dense cover on the edge of a clearing. Leaves tickled her face.

He pressed a hand over her mouth so that she couldn't cry out. Where he held his head against hers, blood from his wound seeped onto her cheek, warm and sticky, and where the blood snaked in between her lips, she swallowed reflexively, tried to jerk away, but could not. No one had ever called Hanna, born and raised to hard work, a weakling, but Bulkezu had a grip like iron chains, almost as though he wasn't really a man at all but some kind of unnatural daimone.

A party of Wendish horsemen, at least fifty strong, had cornered a much smaller party of Quman soldiers in a little hamlet. The fleeing Quman had taken refuge in two cottages and now used this cover to take shots at the enemy.

A lord rode into view, followed by a dozen lordlings, all swearing and laughing as they taunted the trapped Quman. It made no difference to them that they trampled the gardens and kicked over the fences and now-empty chicken coops of the farmers who lived here. Probably the families had taken refuge in Osterburg. Hanna recognized Lord Wichman as he called forward six archers.

Fire bloomed along six arrows and made a beautiful arc as the arrows lofted into the air and landed on thatch roofs.

A few of the Quman tried to break free of the burning death traps but were shot full of arrows. The rest chose to die, burned alive, in silence.

Bulkezu grunted, retreated back into the wood, and they moved on. The damp ground made the going rough. Soon enough her boots were caked as she shed mud and picked it up with every step. After a while the soldiers had to take turns carrying her. After an interminable gray journey, bounced and jounced while the throbbing in her hip slowly receded into a merely agonizing torment, she smelled horse manure, heard the rush of a river, and was dumped unceremoniously into the rotting remains of an old hovel. She could see nothing, only hear, as Bulkezu and his surviving men whispered to each other, settling in around her.

Under the collapsing roof the ground was dry. She grimaced as she straightened out her leg, rolled onto her back, and used her palms to massage the knot in her hip. The pain eased.

That was when she heard the Lions.

At first she didn't understand the melange of voices, blending as they did with the rush of the river behind her.

"There! Coming out of the water!"

"Behind you, you idiot!"

"Got him!"

"God be praised!"

Fading again. She thought maybe she had dozed and heard the words in a dream. Strange that one of those voices should sound so like that of her old friend Ingo. Hope plagued her, making it impossible to sleep as the night dragged on.

Bulkezu squatted down beside her.

"You lost." She no longer cared what happened to her. She no longer cared if he killed her. Or at least, at this moment, her hatred drove her.” Now what can you do except run like a whipped dog?"