'Yet I am not the only valuable hostage in this troop," he said with a thrill of triumph coursing through his heart. He laughed. Sometimes it was possible to kill two birds with one stone.

'Gyasi, tell the mother of Bulkezu that I have a proposal. Tell her, I pray you, that I have a noble princess who would be most suitable to travel with the mothers of Bulkezu as surety for his safe return." v: i JHlJc longships ghosted out of the fog wreathing the Temes River to beach along the strand below the walled city of Hefenfelthe. Two river gates pierced the massive wall, but they remained chained and sealed, as impregnable, so it was rumored, as the land gates and the infamous sewer canal. Behind the wall, the towering hall and citadel built by the Alban queens rose like the prow of a mighty ship.

Stronghand knew its reputation. Because of the power of the queens and their tree sorcerers, Hefenfelthe had never been taken in war, although many armies had broken their strength on those walls in the hope of gaining the riches guarded within.

Tenth Son lifted the battle standard. The first wave of Eika swarmed from the lead ship, followed by their brothers up and down the strand. The shroud of fog concealed them, but Stronghand could sense each one, whether running on two feet or on four. Even the dogs ran silently. They knew what reward awaited those who survived the day.

The red glare of a torch flared by the easternmost river gate. Gate chains rumbled and, as the vanguard raced up to the wall, the gate swung open. Three men scuttled out through the gate, arms waving as they signaled the army to pour into the city.

One moment only Stronghand had to study them: three rich merchants clothed in silk and linen, weighted down by necklaces of gold and rings studded with gems. When brought before him at the emporium of Sliesby, they had proved eager to betray their queen in exchange for coin and the promise of new markets to conquer. But no man can serve two masters. Tenth Son himself, running in the lead, cut the first one down, and the others followed, hacked down by swift strokes. They didn't have a chance to cry out. His army rushed heedlessly past the bodies, although some of the dogs stopped to feed on the corpses and had to be driven forward through the open gate.

He waited on the stem of his ship as the sun rose, still obscured by a mist steaming off the waters. The chain of the western gate growled, and a second portal opened into the city. Torches sparked into life along the walls of the citadel as the Alban soldiers and their queen came awake to danger. A shrill horn, a clanging bell, and a piercing scream sounded from inside, but it was too late. Smoke twisted from buildings close by the outer wall, melding with mist. Fire rose from the houses within, lifting on those flames the cries, curses, and anguished wails of the beleaguered inhabitants, a terrible, beautiful clamor. The sun cleared the low-lying bank of river fog and poured its light across the mighty walls of Hefenfelthe, proof against weapons but not against treachery.

Those who resisted were killed; for the rest, chance ruled. Some were spared because they remained hidden, others because they fled. As many died begging for mercy as fell fighting. Hefenfelthe had shut its gates against the RockChildren and would therefore serve as an example to all the Alban towns, villages, and farms that it was better to surrender to Stronghand's authority than to struggle against it.

By the second night of the battle, the narrow streets of Hefenfelthe were deserted and the fires quenched, since he did not want to burn the whole city. With his troops ranged around the citadel walls, Stronghand watched as the Alban queen appeared high above, on her tower. Torches and lamps hung around her made her gleam. Sht wore bright armor; a wolf's helm masked her features. A golden banner marked with the image of a white stag streamed beside her in the wind called up by her sorcerers. She raised a horn to her lips. As the note sang in the air, flights of burning arrows streaked out from the citadel battlements to strike the roofs of buildings far out in every direction.

She intended to burn down the city around them, but she would not succeed.

'Let the men hew down buildings on all sides of the fire in a ring around the citadel,"

he said to Tenth Son, who stood sooty and bloodstained beside him. "That way the fire can only burn back in toward their refuge."

He led the assault on the fire with his own ax, and in the end they cut a wide trail in a ring around the city and wet down the roofs on the far side of that gap. By dawn the towering wall of the citadel caught fire along its eastern front, and smoke choked its defenders, blown back against them by the very wind the tree sorcerers had called up to harry the fire against their foes. He cried out the order for the final assault himself, although he let others lead the charge, the young ones, the foolish, those who sought to prove their worth, attract his notice, or gain a larger share of treasure.

Battering rams were carried forward. Their thick wooden heads, carved to resemble the horned sheep who lived in the mountains, clove in the citadel gates. As his warriors pressed forward, the smoke gave them an unassailable advantage. The Alban soldiers drowned in it, but fire and smoke were no particular threat to RockChildren born in the long ago times when the blood of dragons had fused human flesh to wakening stone.

He followed the vanguard in through the broken gate and marched with his picked guard, his litter brothers, and the warriors of Rikin Fjord along the trail left by the assault.

Bodies lay everywhere, but the dense smoke choked the smell of blood. Battle raged around the entrance to the long hall as the RockChildren tried to force an entry. Arrows drove into shields in a furious hail. Spear points thunked against wood. Shutters cracked and stove in under a press of ax blows, but in each newly-shattered opening spears bristled as Alban soldiers placed their bodies in the gap, shouting for reinforcements, crying out curses. Arrow shot and hot oil poured down the sides of the tower. The blank sides of that huge stone edifice—the largest he had ever seen—offered no purchase. The first course of stone, rising four times his height, had no windows at all, and in the three higher levels the windows were only slits. The only way into the tower was through the hall.

'Throw in torches," he said to Tenth Son. "Burn them out."

Yet although the citadel walls burned as soon as fire touched them, the heavy-beamed hall had a roof of slate. Fire guttered out on these shingles. A few thrown torches slipped in through broken shutters but were quickly stamped out by the defenders. Already, dark clouds gathered, called by the tree sorcerers to put out the fires.

Lightning ripped through the sky, and thunder boomed. The first patter of rain washed over his upturned face.

Warriors threw up a line of shields to protect the men with the ram from arrow shot.

He took a turn himself. The pounding of ram against reinforced doors shuddered down his arms. The noise of its impact crashed above the clash of arms. Rain came down in sheets over them, turning to sleet and then to a battering hail. But what might have confounded a human foe did nothing to his kind. His standard protected them against magic, and their tough hides protected them against almost everything else. Iron might cut them. A hot enough fire would kill them, in the end, and they could drown. But the RockChildren were not weak like humankind. The strength of stone was part of their flesh, and their greatest weakness had always been their tendency to rely on strength alone instead of on the intelligence and cunning that were their inheritance from that part of themselves that derived from their human ancestors.

The door into the great hall buckled and groaned and on the next strike shattered, planks splintering as they gave way. With a shout, warriors leaped into the gap. Many fell back, wounded or dead, but more pressed onward, and the weight of numbers and the haze of smoke everywhere gave them the advantage. Once the fight swelled forward to fill the smoky great hall, it was only a matter of time.

He pushed through with his guard around him. The hall had been built to abut the tower, one end built right up against the lower course of the western face. Stairs led up to a loft, a broad balcony where Alban soldiers now made their stand, holding the single door that led into the queen's tower. The fight was long and bloody, but once his troops controlled the stairs they could hang back and, with their shields to protect them, pick off the defenders one by one.

He could be patient. He had time.

Night came, and the struggle went on with torches ablaze to light their way. Smoke wound in hazy streamers along the beams, curling like aery snakes, half formed and lazy.

Sometimes all he heard was* the breathing of the soldiers as they rested, waiting for a shield to drop, waiting for an opening when one man leaned too far away from another.

Now and again came a whispered comment from among the Albans, a shift in their ranks as a fresh man squeezed forvvard to take his place from one who was injured or flagging.

He dmired their loyalty, their prowess, and their toughness, these ones who stayed to the bitter end. It was, in truth, a shame that such fighters would all have to die.

Midway through the night, Tenth Son reported that the rest of the citadel had fallen and the fires had been quenched. Except for the tower, the RockChildren ruled Hefenfelthe now. Once they captured and killed the queen and her tree sorcerers, the rest of Alba would capitulate.

Foolish to believe it would be so easy.

Just before dawn, thunder rumbled so low and heavy that it shuddered through his feet. As the sound faded, he sensed a strange weakening in the Alban soldiers, shields drooping, a spate of unseen movement within the tower. Pressing the advantage, his troops stormed the door and overwhelmed the score of men who had held that gap all night. Stronghand followed the vanguard as they mounted the ladder steps. The tower had fully four stories, each one a broad chamber fitted with the rich furniture and tapestries proper to a royal house. No one remained to resist them, and the rooms were empty, abandoned—until they came to the battlements, the high tower height where he had watched his enemy launch her final, desperate attack.

There the Alban queen waited for them. He had not expected her to be so young, pale-haired, with the blue eyes common to humans bred in northern climates. Her skin was creamy smooth, untouched by sun, and her expression proud and fixed. She wore robes woven of a shimmering silver cloth, chased with gold thread, and a seven-tined circlet of silver at her brow. An old man bearing a staff of living wood crowned with seven sapling-green branches knelt beside her. With his head bowed, he appeared ready for death. Could it be possible she had only one sorcerer to aid her? Or was she herself a sorcerer? Five children huddled against her skirts, silent except for the youngest, who struggled not to sob and so made a gulping sound instead, erratic and irritating.

Beyond the battlements, the city of Hefenfelthe lay in uncanny silence as the sun cleared the river mist and day came. Crows circled above the buildings and smoking ruins.

Seeing him, the queen picked up the smallest child and stood waiting, eager, face flushed and eyes bright. At that moment, he realized she had no magic to protect herself.

Even the old man, tree sorcerer though he clearly was, was too weak to protect her.

She expected her enemies to kill her and her companions.

He had been tricked.

He of all people, having witnessed the victory, and loss, at Gent should have remembered human cunning.

'Where are they?" he demanded, but she did not know the Wen-dish tongue. Shouts rose to him from below as Tenth Son appeared on the ladder stairs.

'There's a tunnel out of the lowest level."

'The queen and her sorcerers escaped." Fury clawed him. They had outwitted him!

How had he not seen this coming?

'They collapsed the tunnel behind them. I have slaves digging it out. I've ordered patrols out beyond the walls."

But it was already too late. He knew it, as did Tenth Son. As did the girl and her aged companion and the five little ones, left behind to face his wrath.

Sacrifices.

The Alban queens ruled in the old way, offering blood to their gods in exchange for power. The circle god of Alain's people did not reign unchallenged here. Even the gods warred among humankind, seeking preeminence.

Let it be done, then. If these seven had been left behind, then they could not even be worth enough to his enemies to hold for ransom or as a bargaining chip. Lifting his sword, he stepped forward his feet hit the ground so hard that all breath is sucked from his lungs. He staggers, gasping for air so that he can call out to her, but Adica is lost to him, torn away into the whirlwind. He grabs for her, but his hands close on dirt. Grass tickles his face. He smells rain and hears a muted roar, like that of a lion, but it is only the wind caught in trees or perhaps the rush of unseen wings, fading.

Gone.

The hounds lick his face, whining and whimpering, nosing at him, trying to get him to stand. He lifts his head.

Huge shapes surround him. He has fallen into the center of a pristine circle of raised stones. Beyond the circle, four mounds mark the perimeter, grown high with grass and a scattering of flowers. His heart quickens with hope.

But this is not the place he knew and came to love. An encircling forest cuts off any view he might have of lands beyond the clearing. The tumulus, the graves of the queens, the winding river, and the village are all one. What peace he found will be denied him.

Adica's love, given to him freely, has been ripped away.

She is dead.

He knew it from the first when he was dragged unknowing into her ountry, but maybe he never believed. Maybe he thought he really had died. After all, he ought to have died.

He had been so close to death after the battle with the Lions on that ancient tumulus that a part of him had chosen to believe he wasn't living anymore but rather had passed over to the other side, the field of paradise that borders the Chamber of light, where his soul could rest at last in peace.

Ai, God. Peace mocks him, for what he has seen and experienced this night is surely more horrible than the worst of his fears.

How could the Hallowed Ones have done it? Did they know what they wrought? Was it worth such destruction to spare a few?

The hound Sorrow shoves his head under Alain's stomach and pushes. Rage tugs at his hand. Struggling, he gets to his feet, but he no longer knows where he is or what lies in store for him. The hounds herd him toward the forest's edge where a track snakes away into the trees. Face whipped by branches, he presses along the trail. Eventually, it broadens into a path padded by a carpet of pine needles. He just walks. He must not think. He must not remember. If he only walks, then maybe he can forget that he is still alive.

But maybe it is never possible just to walk, just to exist. Fate acts, and the heart and mind respond. The path breaks out of the forest onto a ridgeline. A log lies along the ground like a bench, and he pauses here to catch his breath. The hounds lick his hands as he stares at the vista opening before him.

A river valley spreads out below, a handful of villages strung along its length like clusters of grapes. Closer lie the plaster-and-timber buildings of a monastery and its estate. The bleat of a horn carries to him on the stiff wind that blows into his face, making tears start up from his eyes. An entourage emerges from woodland, following the ribbon of a road. He counts about a dozen people: four mounted and six walking alongside two wagons pulled by oxen. Bright pennants flutter in the breeze.

He has to speak, he has to warn them.

Running, he pounds down the path. He has to stop and rest at intervals, but grief and panic drive him on. Always he gets up again, heart still racing, breath labored, and hurries down the path until it levels off and emerges out of forest onto a trim estate, fields laid down in rows, orchard plots marked off by pruned hedges, the buildings sitting back behind a row of cypress. Bees buzz around his head and one lights on his ear, as if tasting for nectar. Geese honk overhead, flying south.

A trio of men in the robes of lay brothers work one of the fields, preparing the ground for winter wheat. One leads an ox while another steadies the plow, but it is the third who sees Alain stumbling out of the woodland. He runs forward with hoe in hand, held there as if he has forgotten it or, perhaps, as if he may use it as a weapon.

Lifting a hand in the sign of peace, the lay brother halts a safe distance from Alain and calls out a greeting. "Greetings, Brother. You look to be in distress. How may we help you?" His comrades have stopped their work, and one of them has already hurried away toward the orchard, where other figures can be seen at work among the trees.

Alain feels the delicate tread of the bee along his lobe and the tickle of its antenna on his skin. Its wings flutter, purring against his ear, but it does not fly.

"Can you speak, Brother?" asks the man gently as, behind him, several robed figures emerge from the orchard and hasten toward them. "Do not fear. No harm will come to you here."

The bee stings. The hot poison strikes deep into him, coursing straight into the heart of memory. Weeping, he drops to his knees as images flood over him, obliterating him: In an instant, magic ripped the world asunder. Earthquakes rippled across the land, but what was seen on the surface was as nothing compared to the devastation left in their wake underground. Caverns collapsed into rubble. Tunnels slammed shut like bellows snapped tight. The magnificent cities of the goblin-kin, hidden from human sight and therefore unknown and disregarded, vanished in cave-ins so massive that the land above was irrevocably altered. The sea's water poured away into cracks riven in the earth, down and down and down, meeting molten fire and spilling steam hissing and spitting into every crevice until the backwash disgorged steam and sizzling water back into the sea.

Rivers ran backward. The seaports of the southern tribes were swallowed beneath the rising waters, or left high and dry when the sea was sucked away, so that they abruptly lay separated from the sea by long stretches of sand that once marked the shallows.

Deltas ran dry. Mountains smoked with fire, and liquid red rock slid, down-slope, burning everything that stood in its way.

In the north, a dragon plunged to earth and ossified in that eye blink into a stone ridge.

The land where the Cursed Ones made their home was ripped right up by the roots, like a tree wrenched out of its soil by the hand of a aiant. Where that hand flung it, he could not see.

Only Adica, dead.

Wings of flame enveloped him, blinding him.

',' didn't mean to leave her, but I couldn't see." He has been speaking all along, a spate of words as engulfing as the flood-tide. "The light blinded me."

"Hush, friend."

Voices speak all around him, a chorus close by and yet utterly distant, because his grief has not moved them to stand beside him in their hearts.

"Those are big dogs," mutters one.

"Monsters," agrees another. "Thinkyou they'll bite?"

"Here comes Brother Infirmarian."

A portly man presses forward through the throng and bravely, if cautiously, approaches. Rage and Sorrow sit.

"Come, lad," he says, kneeling beside Alain. "You're safe here. What is your name?

Where have you come from?"

"Ai, God. So many dead. No more death, please God. No more killing."

"What have you seen, Son?" asks the monk kindly.

So much suffering. It all spills out in a rush of words, unbidden. Once started, he has to go to the end, just as the spell wove itself to completion, unstoppable once it had been threaded into the loom.

The caves in which Horn's people have sheltered flood with steaming water, trapping the dead and the dying in the blind dark. A storm of earth and debris buries Shu-Sha's palace. Halfway up the Screaming Rocks, Shevros falls beneath a massive avalanche.

Waves obliterate a string of peaceful villages along the shores of Falling-down's island.

Children scream helplessly for their parents as they flail in the surging water.

The blood and viscera of stricken dragons rains down on the humans desperately and uselessly taking shelter against seven stones, burning flesh into rock. A sandstorm buries the oasis where the desert people have camped, trees flattened under the blast of the wind. The lion women race ahead of the storm wave but, in the end, they too are buried beneath a mountain of sand. Gales scatter the tents of the Horse people, winds so strong that what is not flattened outright is flung heavenward and tossed back to earth like so much chaff. All the trees for leagues around Queen's Grave erupt into flame, and White Deer villagers fall, dying, where arrows and war had spared them. Ai, God, where are Maklos and Agalleos? Hani and Dorren?

Where is Kel?

They are all dead.

Is this the means by which the sorcerers hoped to bring peace? Did they really know what they were doing? Can it be possible they understood what would happen?

"Adica can't have known. She'd never have agreed to lend herself to so much destruction if she'd known."

He has to believe it is true.

But he will always wonder if she knew and, knowing, acted with the others anyway, knowing the cost. Did they really hate the Cursed Ones so much?

"It was all for nothing. They're still here. I've seen them." Ghost shapes, more shadow than substance, walk the interstices between Earth and the Other Side, caught forever betwixt and between. Those Cursed Ones who did not stand in their homeland when it was torn out of the earth were pulled outward with it; they exist not entirely on Earth and yet not severed from it, as all that comes of earth is bound to earth.

Yet isn't it true that no full-blooded Cursed One walks the same soil as humankind now? Didn't the human sorcerers get what they wanted? Isn't Earth free of the Cursed Ones?

"We can never know peace," he cries, turning to the men who have flocked around him. He has to make them understand. "What is bound to earth will return to earth. The suffering isn't over. The cataclysm will happen again when that which was torn asunder returns to its original place."

"Thank the Lady, Father," says the infirmarian as the gathered brothers let a new figure through. "You've come."

The abbot is a young man, vigorous and handsome, son of a noble house. He has a sarcastic eye and a gleam of humor in his expression, but he sobers quickly as he examines Alain and the placid but menacing hounds. The portly infirmarian keeps a light touch on Alain's wrist, nothing harsh, ready to grab him if he bolts.

"It's a wanderer, Father Ortulfus," says the infirmarian. His fingers flutter along Alain's skin. Like the bee, he seems to be probing, but he hasn't stung yet.

"Another one?" The abbot has wildly blue eyes and pale hair, northern coloring.

Adica's people were darker, stockier, black-haired. "I'vetnever seen so many wanderers on the roads as this summer. Is he a heretic?"

"Not so we've noticed, Father," says one of the monks nervously. "He's babbling about the end times. He's right out of his mind."

"Hush, Adso," scolds the infirmarian before he addresses the abbot.

calm words slip from his mouth smoothly. "He's not violent, just troubled." He turns to regard Alain with compassion. "Here, now, son. You'll not be running away, will you?

Don't think you'll come to any harm among us. We've a bed you can sleep in, and porridge, and work to keep your hands busy. That will ease your mind out of these fancies. You'll find healing here." The hot poison strikes deep. These words hurt far worse than any bee's sting.

No one will believe him.

And Adica is dead. No one will mourn her with him, because they cannot. They do not even know, nor can they believe, that she exists. He has come home as a stranger, having lost everything that mattered. Having, in the end, not even kept his promise to die with her.

What point is there in living?

Stronghand's foot hit, jolting him into awareness. One step he had taken, only one.

The sky lightened, and the river's silver band glinted as sunlight drove the mist off the waters, dazzling his eyes. A torrent of images washed over him. All of the colors of Alain's being had overflowed in that vision to drown him.

Joy ran like a deluge. Yet joy had spoken in a terrible voice.

So many dead. No more death, please God. No more killing.

'No more killing." Hearing his own voice, he shook himself free of the trance. The girl turned to throw the youngest child over the battlements.

He leaped forward and wrenched the child out of her grasp, knocking the kneeling sorcerer aside. The girl scrambled onto the battlements herself, making ready to jump.

'Stop her!"

Quickly all seven of the Albans were taken into custody. The child he held squirmed and began to sob outright in fear.

'Hush!"

It ceased its weeping.

'No more killing." His voice seemed unrecognizable to him, yet it sounded no different than it ever had. Was it wisdom that made him speak? For better or worse, he was scarred by the strength of the contact between him and Alain, bound by a weaving that even the WiseMothers did not comprehend.

Where had Alain gone? He had vanished from Stronghand's dreams and apparently from Earth itself for over three years. What was the meaning of this vision of destruction on such a scale that it dwarfed even the slow deliberations of the WiseMothers?

In those years when Alain had been gone, the span of months between the battle at Kjalmarsfjord and this day's rejoining, he had thought and planned and acted the same as ever, but something had been missing. It was as if the world had gone gray and only now did he see its colors. For truly the world was a beautiful place, worn down by suffering, painted by light, never at rest.

He could never be free of that connection. He did not want to be. Before Alain had freed him from the cage at Lavas Holding, he had been, like his brothers, a slave to the single-minded lust for killing, war, and plunder that imprisoned his kind. He had been no better than the rest of them and, because of his smaller stature, at a disadvantage.

Was it Alain's dreaming influence that had altered some essential thread that wound through his being?

Around him, his troops murmured restlessly, still filled with battle lust. They had taken Hefenfelthe, but they had no clear victory.

'Why kill these hostages?" he asked, turning to look at them, one by one. These would carry the message to his army, each brother to another, spreading the word of Stronghand's wisdom. "The queen of Alba and her sorcerers gain power by sacrificing the blood of their subjects. They left these ones behind as sacrifices, knowing we would kill them in anger once we had seen we were thwarted of our prey. So if we kill them, we do their will and strengthen their magic. Therefore we will not kill them. They will become our prisoners. The power of the queen and her sorcerers will become a slave to our power."

The girl wept when she understood that she would not serve her queen as she had been commanded.

One of his Rikin brothers emerged from the tower, carrying his standard. Stronghand sheathed his sword and, with the child still held in his left arm, walked to the battlements and hoisted his standard high, so his army, below, could see him. A roar lifted from their ranks, echoing through the conquered city. The magic that lived in the staff hummed against his palm. The breeze made the charms that hung from the standard sing, bone flutes whistling, beads and chains chiming softly, melding with the clack and scrape of wood, leather, and bones. Once again, the magic woven by the priests of his people had protected him against the magic wielded by his enemies. Out in the fields beyond the walls the last refugees, those who had crept out of their homes while the battle raged around the citadel, fled into the shelter of distant trees. The fields and forest of Alba stretched away in all directions, cut by the broad river and a nearby tributary. It was a rich land.

But it was not his land yet.

'We seek the queen and her sorcerers."

'Where can we find them?" asked Tenth Son.

Stronghand glanced at the weeping girl with her silver circlet and its seven tines. Six sacrifices waited with her, seven souls in all. It could be no accident that Alain appeared to him after so long in the embrace of a stone circle so like the circle made by the WiseMothers on the fjall above Rikin Fjord.

'They will retreat to a place of power. Alert the forward parties and the scouts. All prisoners will be questioned about forts or marshes where a small force can defend itself.

But we should also seek a standing circle of stones, perhaps one with seven stones. I believe that is where we will find the queen." v:

TS AN:

SUN LIGrJHL I washed the plank floor of the attic room, illuminating three months'

worth of dust that layered the floor and empty pallets as well as the trail of Banna's footsteps cutting a straight line from the trapdoor to the window. It was so hot up here that she could scarcely breathe. She stumbled against one of the shutters, unhooked and laid on the floor, and kicked it aside before leaning out to gulp in fresh air.

In late spring the king had ridden south with Queen Adelheid to fight the Jinna pirates infesting the southeastern provinces. Hanna had arrived in midsummer after a grueling trip over the mountains, but the palace stewards had not allowed her to ride after Henry's army. She could not expect, they told her, that her cloak and Eagle's badge would grant her safe passage in those parts of the country not yet loyal to the king.

She had to wait.

She wiped sweat from her forehead and ducked back into shadow, but decided that the blast of the sun in the open air was preferable to the smothering heat of the attic sleeping quarters. Adjusting her brimmed hat to ward off the worst of the direct glare, she leaned out again. A stew of smells rose from the surrounding buildings: ma nure, piss, slops, roasting pig, and a hint of incense almost lost be neath the perfume of human living.

From this angle and height sh looked out over rooftops toward the delicate spire marking the roya chapel and beyond that the outer walls and the gulf of air shimmering above the lower city with its massive stone edifices. The river cut a thread of molten iron through streets hazy with heat, dust, and cook fires.

Unbelievably vast, Darre seemed a warren of alleys and avenues with so many houses that no person could possibly count them. Beyond the outermost walls lay fields and vineyards and, farther out, distant hills and a dark ribbon marking the route to the sea.

Wisps of cloud pushed over those sere heights, promising relief against the heat later in the day. Was that smoke drifting up from the tallest peak? Had someone lit a fire at its height? She couldn't tell, and it seemed a strange thing to do in any case.

Hanna had explored as many corners, sinks, and privies, as many balconies, shady arbors, and storage pits as she was allowed into in the regnant's palace. She had even toured the prison down in the city, and the tower where other Aostan regnants had confined their enemies, although Adelheid kept no hostages now. All the tower rooms lay empty, stripped of furniture, heavy with dust.

She had asked about Margrave Villam.

Dead of a tragic fall when he was drunk.

She had asked about Duchess Liutgard of Fesse and Duke Burchard of Avaria.

Ridden south with the king.

She had asked about Sister Rosvita, the king's counselor.

Neither dead nor gone.

How could a person be neither dead nor gone? How could the stewards of the palace and the legions of servants not hoard rumors of her fate? Rosvita had been here when King Henry arrived; now she was not. Hanna had discovered no transition between arrival and departure. She found again and again that her thoughts turned to Hathui's accusations. Either Hathui was lying, or the Aostan stewards were.

She leaned out farther, dizzy from the height, but even from* this angle she could only see one corner of the skopos' palace. She had hoped to find answers there, but the guards would not let her inside.

With a sigh, she ducked back into the shadow, fighting to get in a lungful of the overheated air.

A footfall sounded on the ladder. She spun, drawing her knife. A broom's handle poked through the open trap, followed by the rest of the broom, thrust up and falling sideways to clatter onto the floor. A woman emerged awkwardly, grasped the broom, and rose, then gasped, seeing Hanna.

'Oh, Lord in Heaven!" she exclaimed. "You surprised me!" She wore a serviceable tunic covered with a dusty tabard and a plain linen scarf concealing her hair. Not as young as Hanna, she wasn't vet old. "Begging your pardon. I didn't expect to find anyone else up here."

'Neither did I."

The servant gave a companionable chuckle, a little forced. "Well, now, I suppose that means that neither of us have eyes in the backs of our heads, to see around corners and through walls."

Hanna stayed by the window but sheathed the knife as the woman walked away from her to the other end of the long attic room. There, she stooped to allow for the pitched roof and began sweeping. Dust rose in clouds around her, and she paused to tie up her tabard over her mouth and nose.

'Always the worst when it's the first cleaning," she said cheerfully as Hanna watched with surprise.

'It seems awfully hot to be thinking of cleaning out these sleeping rooms." The heat all summer had been like a battering ram. She had never got used to it.

'True enough. But the weather can turn cold suddenly now that the season is turning from summer to autumn, if you call this autumn. We have to start thinking of inhabiting these rooms again. Last year you can't believe how hot it was, hotter than this, and with unseasonable rains, too, and a terrible hailstorm."

'I hear the king was taken sorely ill, last year."

The servant looked up at her, expression hidden except for her eyes. Her gaze had a queer, searching intensity. But as the silence stretched out uncomfortably, she returned to sweeping.

'Last summer, yes, he was taken ill with the shivering fever. He was laid in bed for two months, and the armies fought all summer and autumn without him. They had no victories, nor any defeats. So they say." Again that searching glance scrutinized Hanna.

"That's if they say what's true, but how are we simple servants to know what's truth and what's not?"

'Eagles know."

'Where are all the Eagles? Gone with the king, all but that poor redheaded fellow who got so sick."

'Rufus?"

'That's right," she continued amiably, her voice muffled by the cloth. "He came south last year at the command of Biscop Constance in Autun, didn't he?"

'So he told me." Carrying a message very like the ones sent by Theophanu, but the king had not heeded him.

'Yes, poor lad. He was so sick even the palace healers thought he would die from the shivering. That's why he had to be left behind this past spring when the king rode south."

'Yet all the other Eagles rode south with the king, didn't they? Why haven't any of them brought reports back to Darre? Why is it always the queen's Aostan messengers we see?"

'How can I know the king's mind? I can only thank the Lord and Lady that his army has won victories over both the infidels and the heretics. And over a few Aostan nobles who would prefer no regnant placed above their heads. So we're told."

Her account tallied with the news Rufus had given Hanna. "I've heard talk that the king and queen will be crowned with imperial crowns before the end of the year."

'That talk has been going on as long as I've been here, these two and a half years.

Maybe it will finally happen."

With the steady scritch of the broom against wood like an accompaniment to her thoughts, Hanna finally realized what was strangest about this industrious woman.

"You're Wendish."

'So I am. I'm called Aurea, from the estate of Landelbach in Fesse. You're that new Eagle what rode in a few months back."

'Yes. My name is Hanna Birta's-daughter, from the North Mark. I come from a place called Heart's Rest." A low rumble shook through the floor and the entire building swayed.

Hanna shrieked. "What is that?"

The rumbling faded, the building stilled, and Aurea kept sweeping. "Haven't you felt one yet? An earthquake? We feel them every few months."

'Nay, no earthquakes. Nor weather anywhere near as hot as what I've suffered through here." She was still trembling. »

'True enough. It's hot here for weeks on end, too, not just for a short spell as it would be up north where I come from. It isn't natural."

Hanna exhaled, still trying to steady her nerves. "An old friend of mine would say that Aosta lies nearer to the Sun. That's why it's hotter here."

'Is it? That seems a strange story to me. Nearer to the sun!" Aurea hummed under her breath. "But no stranger than many a tale I've heard here in Darre. Sister Heriburg says that in the east there's snakes who suckle milk right from the cow. In the south no plants can grow because the sun shines so hot, and the folk who live there have great, huge ears that they use like tents during the day to protect them from the sun. Even here, there's stories about godly clerics who abide in the skopos' dungeons like rats, hidden from the sight of most people, but I don't suppose those are any more true than that tale my old grandmam told me about a dragon turned into stone in the north country. It lies there still, they say, by the sea, but nothing can bring it back to life."

She kept her gaze on the warped floorboards where dust collected in cracks. Hanna thought she would choke in air now polluted with a swirling cloud of dust, but she dared not move. She had to think. How strange to speak of clerics hidden away in dungeons.

Maybe it was only a figure of speech, an old tale spun by the palace servants to pass the time. But maybe it wasn't.

'I've heard stories of men who can turn themselves into wolves," she said at last, cautiously, "but never any of clerics who can turn themselves into rats. I've heard that story about the dragon, too, though, the one turned into stone. When there's a great storm come in off the Northern Sea, you can hear the dragons keening. That's what my old grandmother always said."

'Lots of stories of dragons," agreed the servant woman without looking up from her sweeping, "but I've never heard tell of a single person who'd ever seen such a beast. Rats, now. Rats I've seen aplenty."

'There must be an army of rats in a great palace like this one." "And the biggest ones of all down in the dungeons. I don't doubt they're caught down there somehow, between stone walls. There's only the one staircase, guarded by the Holy Mother's faithful guards, and they're sharp-eyed, those fellows. Everyone says so. As likely to skewer a rat on the point of their knife if it comes scurrying up the stairs. A woman here I know said it happens every year, and then they roast those rats they've caught and throw their burned carcasses to the dogs."

She looked up then, her gaze like a sharp rap on the head.

'It would take a lot of rats to fill a dog's belly," answered Hanna floundering.

'Not if they've grown as big as a dog themselves, or bigger even human-sized or some say as big as a horse. A horse!" She bent back to her task with a curt chuckle. "I'm not believing such foolish tales No rat can grow to be the size of a horse, and where would it hide then? But I suppose they could become mighty big, nibbling on scraps and prisoners'

fingers and toes."

That sharp look made Hanna cautious. Was there a veiled purpose to Aurea's talking, or was she just nattering to pass the time?

'I remember stories that my grandmother told me." Hanna moved along the attic until she came to the open trapdoor. She squinted down the length of the ladder but saw no lurking shadow, no listening accomplice. "I do love to trade old stories, about dragons and rats and wolves. I have a few stories of my own to tell."

'So it might well be, you being an Eagle and all," agreed the woman, sweeping past Hanna toward the window. Tidy piles of dirt and dust marked her path like droppings.

"Eagles see all kinds of things the rest of us can't, don't you? Travel to strange and distant lands with urgent messages on behalf of the king. You're welcome to join those of us servants from Wendar when we attend Vespers in St.

Asella's chapel, by the west gate of the city. There's a cleric from Wendar called Brother Fortunatus who gives the sermon in Wendish there. Only on Hefensday, mind.

That's when we're allowed to go."

Since there were a dozen chapels within the regnant's palace alone and a rumored five hundred or more within the walls of the lower city, Hanna could not guess which one the woman meant. Most of them she only recognized by the image of the saint that marked the portico. Yet she could not help herself. Clerics hidden like rats in the dungeon. Eyes that could see through walls, and traveling Eagles.

Perhaps she was making a conspiracy where none existed, but it wouldn't hurt to follow this path a bit farther.

'I don't know of St. Asella. If I go down to the west gate, is there some way to know which chapel is dedicated to her?"

The woman stilled her broom. Though her gaze was as innocent as a lamb's, the soft words carried a barb. "St. Asella was walled up alive."

the deepening twilight, tall trees seemed a grim backdrop to swollen grave mounds and a stone circle. As their little group neared the gap in the wall of trees that promised to be a trail, Ivar looked back over the clearing. He had never seen a stone circle in such perfect repair, each stone upright and all the lintels intact. It looked as if it had been built, or repaired, in recent months. Only the great stone at the center lay flat. His companions paused as dusk settled over them and a breeze sighed through the forest. The grave mounds seemed to exert a spell, luring them back. Ivar simply could not move, as though dead hands gripped his feet and held him tight. A twig snapped, breaking their silence.

'Do you think we're really near Herford Monastery?" asked Er-manrich, voice squeaking.

'As long as we're well away from that Ojaman army, then I don't care where we are."

Ivar knew he sounded braver than he felt as daylight faded. A wolf howled in the distance, answered by a second, and everyone grabbed for their weapons. "Where's Baldwin?"

'He was right behind you," said Ermanrich.

'He didn't wait." The younger Lion, Dedi, pointed toward the trees. "He went to look at the path."

'Why didn't you stop him?" demanded Ivar.

Ermanrich gave him a look. "When has Baldwin ever listened to any of us?"

'Nay, Ivar, don't be angry at Dedi." Sigfrid laid a gentle, but restraining, hand on Ivar's arm. "Ermanrich's only speaking the truth, which you know as well as we do."

'Damned fool. Why couldn't he wait?" But Baldwin never listened, he just pretended to.

'He probably ran off because he thought he saw Margrave Judith come looking for him," joked Ermanrich nervously.

'Why should a margrave like Judith come looking for the likes of him?" asked Dedi with a snort of disbelief.

'Hush!" said Hathumod abruptly. "Listen!"

The sound of thrashing came from the trees. Baldwin burst out of the forest, arms flailing.

'A lion!" He hadn't run more than ten steps into the clearing when he tripped and fell.

They hurried over to calm him down, but as they swarmed around him, he jumped to his feet with a look of terror on his beautiful face. "I found an old hovel over at a rock outcropping, not far from here, but when I stuck my head inside, I heard a cough behind me. I turned around and there was a lion up on the rocks!"

'A Lion?" demanded Gerulf. "From which cohort?"

'Nay, a lion. A beast. Quite tawny and as hungry looking as you please. A second one came to stand beside the first."

Gerulf snorted. "I'll thank you not to pull my leg, Son. There aren't any lions in the north except them as you might find in the regnant's menagerie. Lions live in the southern lands."

'I know what I saw."

'If it was a hungry lion, then why didn't it eat you up?" asked Dedi with a laugh. "Or was it too busy admiring your pretty face?"

Ivar jumped between Baldwin and Dedi just as Baldwin drew his arm back for a punch. "Baldwin can't help the way he looks. No need to tease him for it. It's getting dark anyway. I don't care to spend a night here inside this stone circle with those barrows as our guardians. Do any of you?"

No one did, not even Sigfrid, whose powerful faith made him hardest to frighten.

'Anything might happen here among the stones and graves," said Ermanrich. "I'd rather face the lions."

'We'll let you go first," said Hathumod dryly to her cousin, "for then they'll have a good meal and won't need to eat any of the rest of us."

'There's the path." Gerulf pointed toward the gap.

'I'd hate to take any path with darkness coming on and wolves howling nearby," said Ivar.

'Not to mention the lions," said Dedi.

'You'll see," muttered Baldwin.

'How big is this hovel?" Gerulf nodded toward Ivar to show he agreed that they shouldn't try to go far lest they lose themselves in the night.

'One man could sit inside it, but not comfortably," said Baldwin. "But right below where I saw the lions the outcropping cuts in and makes a bit of an overhang."

'That might serve as shelter," said Gerulf, "enough for one night. We can follow the path in the morning."

'You don't believe me!" Baldwin looked from face to face. "None of you believe me!

Ivar?"

Drops of rain brushed Ivar's face. A gust of wind, heralding stronger rain to come, rattled through the trees. "It might have been wolves," he said reluctantly. Seeing Baldwin's indignant expression, he quickly went on. "Or lions. I'd hate to fight them out in the open. We've weapons enough to fight off ravening beasts as long as we have a good stout wall at our back."

'There you are, Son!" replied Gerulf cheerfully. "If we can get a fire going, then a good overhang will serve us better whether wolves or lions or even a guivre itself comes a-courting. Better anyway than standing out here and getting soaking wet. You'd have made a good Lion, lad."

'I would have been no Lion," said Ivar, stung by this statement. "I'd have been a Dragon, if my father who is count up in the North Mark would have let me ride with them instead of putting me into the church."

'I pray you, my lord," said Gerulf hastily. "I meant no offense." The momentary embarrassment, the realization that although their group had escaped the Quman as comrades they were, in fact, quite unequal in station, held them motionless until rain drove them into action. They slogged through what remained of the grassy clearing, sheltering their heads against the rain as best they could, keeping the torches dry.

Luckily, the track ran straight and true through the trees. They took not more than one hundred steps on a downhill slope before they stumbled out onto a rocky outcropping.

Cliffs rose above and below, staggered like the shoulders of a hulking beast. Rain washed over them with a fresh gust of wind, and they stumbled into such shelter as the overhang afforded. In the last of the fading light, Ivar saw a tiny hovel built of sticks standing off to one side, out in the rain, but truly, as Baldwin had reported, it hadn't enough space even for one man to lie down in.

'Come, there's plenty of sticks here to build a fire that'll last the entire night, and they're not too wet yet," said Gerulf, then added: "If you will, my lords and lady."

They gathered up fuel as quickly as they could and lit a fire just as it really got too dark to see. After some discussion, they settled on watches: Gerulf and Hathumod to begin, followed by Dedi and Ermanrich, and Ivar and Sigfrid last. Baldwin had already bundled himself up in his cloak and lain down to sleep in the deepest, driest crack of the overhang. They set out torches within easy reach, in case they needed them as weapons against marauding beasts, and settled down for the night.

Ivar lay down next to Baldwin. He dozed off at once and was startled awake much later by the sound of Hathumod's voice, as soft as the brush of rabbit fur across his skin but rather more persistent.

'Nay, friend Gerulf, it isn't a heresy at all, although the church may have said so."

'I beg your pardon, Lady Hathumod, but why should the church mothers lie? Why would the holy women who have worn the robes and seal of the skopos each in her turn be party to such a deception?"

'Some simply were ignorant. They were taught as we were and knew no better. But truly, I do not know why the ancient mothers who wrote in the early days concealed the truth. They were the heretics, and the Enemy spoke through them. But now the truth is unveiled and shines brightly for all to see. I have witnessed miracles—

Ivar had heard similar words from the lips of Lady Tallia, whose tortured body and zealous gaze had thrown all of them onto the path of heresy back in Quedlinhame. As he drifted back into sleep, he marveled that Hathumod, despite her undistinguished voice and unremarkable bearing, could sound so persuasive.

A foot nudged him, and when he shifted to turn his back to the summons, it nudged him again.

'Nay, nay," he muttered, thinking himself back at Quedlinhame, "it can't be time for Vigils already, is it?"

'So it might be," whispered Ermanrich cheerfully, "although with the clouds overhead I can't see the stars to tell what hour it is. It's your turn for watch."

Ivar groaned. He hurt everywhere. Even his fingers throbbed, but when he rose, crouching, and closed his hand over his spear, the grip felt funny. Memory jolted him awake. He'd lost two fingers in the battle. Maybe the Quman were already on their trail, ready to cut off his head. He straightened and promptly banged his head on the rock above.

'Hush," hissed Ermanrich. "No need to go swearing like that. We've seen nothing on our watch and nothing was seen on the first watch either. I think Baldwin's lions must have been scared off by his handsome face." »

'God Above." Ivar stepped out past Ermanrich. A rush of cold night air swept his cheeks. He'd been breathing in smoke from the fire all night, and his lungs ached with soot. Outside, the rain had stopped, but he still couldn't see any stars. "I'd forgotten how much I hated rising for prayers in the middle of the night."

'Where's your purity of faith? Don't you remember the miracles?"

'They never took place at Vigils."

Sigfrid stood next to the fire, rocking back and forth with eyes closed as he murmured prayers. Ivar fed a stick to the fire and rubbed his hands near the flames to warm them.

Ermanrich and Dedi settled down on the ground to sleep.

Ivar didn't like to interrupt Sigfrid at his prayers, so he stood quietly at watch. Neither did he want to pray. He had learned all those prayers in the church of his childhood and youth, the church of his mothers and grandmothers. But after witnessing the miracle of the phoenix and the miracle of Lady Tallia's bloody wounds, he knew the church had lied to him. Perhaps Sigfrid and Hathumod could still pray, changing the words so they echoed the truth that had been hidden for so long. But prayer seemed to Ivar like an illusionary feast, pretty to look at and delectable to smell but tasting like ashes when you went to gobble it down.

Perhaps he had suffered so many betrayals and setbacks because he had himself believed what was false. Yet others believed what they had been taught, and they hadn't suffered as he had. Nay, truly, his trials must have been a test of his resolve. Maybe he had been granted leave to witness the miracles because he had resisted Liath's blandishments. She had tempted him, but he had escaped her. Even if he did still dream of her, here on a rainy night lost in a distant country, wondering what was to become of them all.

If it hadn't been for Liath, maybe his father would have let him join the Dragons. But of course, then he would have been killed at Gent by the Eika along with the rest of the Dragons; all but that damned Prince Sanglant, who everyone knew had been enchanted by his inhuman mother so that he couldn't ever be killed.

Looked at that way, maybe Liath had saved him from death. Or maybe it wasn't Liath at all. Maybe God had saved him, so that he and his friends could work Her will. God had saved them from the Quman, hadn't She? God had transported them by a miracle from the eastern borderlands to the very heart of Wendar. God had turned summer to autumn, and healed their wounds, and by these signs had revealed their task: It was up to them to tell the truth of the blessed Daisan's death to every soul they encountered. God had given

-tui,'

the truth into their hands and saved them from sure death in order to see what they would make of these gifts.

The shape ghosted past at the limit of the fire's light. Startled, he dropped his spear. As he bent to pick it up, he noticed a second shape, then a third. "Hsst, Sigfrid! Wolves!"

As if their name, spoken out loud, summoned them, the wolves moved closer. Lean and sleek, they eyed the sleeping party hungrily. The leader yawned, displaying sharp teeth. As he gathered breath into his lungs to shout the alarm, Ivar counted two, then four, then eight of the beasts, poised to leap, ready to kill. They scattered, vanishing into the night.

The shout caught in his throat, choking him, as a lion paced into the circle of the fire's light and lifted its glossy golden head to gaze at him. It had huge shoulders and powerful flanks, and when it yawned, its teeth sparked in the firelight like the points of daggers.

A choking stutter came from his throat. For a space during which he might have gulped in one breath or taken a thousand, he stared at it, and it at him, as calm in its power as God's judgment.

Then he remembered that he had to wake the others before they were ripped into pieces and made into a feast.

Something touched him, and he jumped, but he still couldn't find his voice, and anyway, it was only Sigfrid.

'Nay, Ivar," he said in his gentle voice. "They're protecting us." His small hand weighed like a boulder on Ivar's forearm.

He didn't dare move, because the lion hadn't attacked yet. As he watched, too stunned to do anything, a second lion paced majestically into the fire's light. This one had a coat so light that it seemed silver. It, too, stopped and stared with a gaze so intelligent that at once he knew it could see right down into his soul. It knew all his secrets, every least bitter and petty thought he had ever entertained, every ill he had wished on another, every greedy urge he had fulfilled. It knew the depths of his unseemly passion for Liath and how he had allowed lust to smother his decent affection for Hanna, who had never turned away from him, even when he had treated her badly. It recognized how far he had fallen into debauchery among Prince Ekkehard and his cronies. But it also saw his efforts to preach the truth of the sacrifice and rederription of the blessed Daisan to the city folk in Gent and to the village folk in the marchlands. ft saw how he had aided his friends on the battlefield and helped the wounded Lions to safety. It witnessed, through him, the glorious flight of the phoenix, and for these things it forgave him his sins. "W-why should they protect us?" he stammered when he found jus voice.

'Lions are God's creatures," said Sigfrid. "They're waiting here."

'Waiting for what?"

'I don't know."

Rain spattered down and ceased. The lions paced back and forth, obliterating the tracks of the wolves. Their steady movement, weaving in and out but never coming close, made him so sleepy that he swayed on his feet, started awake, then drifted off again.

And found that it was dawn. Light stained the east, and from this outcropping he saw forest falling away into a deep cleft rank with trees and rising again into wooded hills. To the south he saw the edge of a tidy clearing that suggested a settlement, perhaps the fields of Herford Monastery.

Sigfrid had found a spring in the rocks and drank deeply as the others woke, stretched, and came to slake their thirst. Ivar walked forward, but the ground betrayed no trace of what he had seen in the night. He saw no prints of wolf and certainly nothing like the massive paw prints that lions of such a size ought to have left behind them as evidence of their passage.

Gerulf came up to him. "I see you've noticed it as well. That looks to me like the monastic estate. We'd best strike out at once, so we don't have to spend another night in the forest."

'Alas, Lord Baldwin," Dedi was saying back by the spring as Baldwin staggered up, still half asleep but no less handsome for looking quite rumpled, "it was quiet enough this night, although your stout friend Ermanrich quite bent my ear the whole time we were on watch with so many astounding tales that I don't know what to think." He paused, as a thief might pause to listen before grabbing the jewels out of their resting place in a nest of silk. "I fear your lions chose not to pay us a call, eh?"

There was a scuffle, broken up by Hathumod with a sharp whack to each of their behinds with a stick.

Gerulf grabbed Dedi and hauled him aside. "You'll be polite, Nephew! This man's a lord."

Dedi muttered a comment under his breath.

'I did too see lions!" retorted Baldwin. "No one ever believes me."

Ivar examined the ground again but the only prints he saw were visions al 'So may God, my lord," replied Gerulf, "but it's hard for man to tell the difference between the one and h ofterSaw° ' anything on your watch?"

'" *.

A GRAVE CRIME IJN the city of Darre, one saw the years laid bare on every street.

Near the river, laundresses hung out clothing to dry on fallen columns from a temple once dedicated to the goddess of love. Competing hospices for pilgrims filled three-storied apartment houses near the monumental baths built in the time of the Emperor Tianathano.

Cattle and goats grazed in the vast arena where horses had raced. The vast brick marketplace erected during the reign of the Empress Thaissania, she of the Mask, had been abandoned in favor of an ever-changing collection of makeshift stalls set up within the shelter of colonnaded temples that fronted the main avenues, which had themselves been built to honor gods whose names Hanna did not recognize, although Liath might have.

The four-tiered aqueducts built by ancient Dariyan engineers still brought water into the city from the hills; under their arches beggars sheltered from the sun. Itinerant cobblers repaired shoes on the marble steps of palaces, now empty, and whores sported where emperors had enjoyed other kinds of feasts. But with half the buildings in the city deserted, no one lived in hovels; every woman there might bide with a spacious and only slightly damaged roof above her head, even if she starved. The Dariyans had built their city so that it would last until the end of time. Maybe it would.

It seemed impossible that so many people could live all together in one place. Hanna could not fathom what the city must have looked like in the days, hundreds of years past, when every building had its purpose and the half-breed citizens of the old empire, proud and resolute, crowded the streets.

'I beg pardon." She paused beside a merchant's stall in the shadow of a colonnade near the baths; this enterprising fellow sold copper medallions which displayed the images of saints. "I have lost my way. Which road leads to the west gate?"

She had learned enough Aostan in the months she had, been here to serve her in situations such as this; understanding the natives when they replied was trickier. This man was used to dealing with foreigners. He looked her over, gaze lingering on her pale braids, then studied her companion, Rufus, whose hair was as startlingly red as hers was pale blonde. He spat on the ground and with a gap-toothed grimace pointed to the right where the avenue forked.

'Not much for words, was he?" commented Rufus as they trudged on, keeping to the late afternoon shade.

'I don't think he liked us." The glaring heat made an oven of the city. She was sweating so much that she had given up wiping it away. Her tunic stuck to her back, and a line of sticky sweat had formed where her hat pressed against her forehead.

'None of them do. They think we're barbarians. They think we're stealing their grain and their chickens."

They paused to gawk at the huge bulk of the amphitheater, known colloquially as the Ring, looming to the left as they followed the avenue east. The river lay behind them, and when Hanna turned, the broad brim of her hat shading her eyes, she could look up at the hill on which lay the two palaces, side by side, skopos and regnant, elaborate new constructions grown up on top of whatever ancient temple had once graced that hill. "The upper city," the folk who lived there called it, in distinction from the rest of Darre.

'I don't think there're this many buildings in all of Wendar and Varre." "Maybe so."

'I'm glad you came with me," she added. "I'd hate to walk down here without a companion. I hear there are at least ten murders every night."

"So they say, and half of them northerners killed out of spite. I <jon't know if it's true."

'I wouldn't leave the safety of the palace after dusk if I were alone, that's certain.

Safety in numbers, I suppose."

They came to the sprawling market for foodstuffs, situated close to the walls so it would be easier for vegetables and fruits from the fields to be carted in each day.

Chickens squawked in cages next to thrushes and pigeons. Greengrocers presided over offerings of apples and figs, quince, lovage, onions, and the familiar mounds of turnips.

Lush bundles of red peonies and white lilies were offered for sale next to bowls of mustard seeds and stacks of dried plums. One entire section encompassed an herb and spice market; the heady scents made Hanna's head swim as they passed.

Yet few people seemed to be buying. The longest line lay ahead outside the old law courts where, by the mercy of the skopos, grain and olive oil were handed out to the poor each Hefensday. Women in patched clothing waited restlessly in line, peering ahead to see if they would make it to the gate before the allotment for this week had run out. Even the children stood with tired patience, too hungry to run and play, dazzled by the sun beating down on their heads. A trio of boys, their clothes ragged and their upper lips stained with snot, shouted nasty oaths at the two Eagles. "Wendish dogs!"

'They're eating all our food! Pigs!" "Their mother was a sow!"

Hanna picked up their pace. Many more folk waited sullenly in pockets of shade or leaned against the marble facings of the grand old buildings, half-fallen into disrepair.

Guardsmen lined the length of the colonnade, keeping an eye on a score of young toughs loitering on the steps of an old temple on the other side of the avenue. Murmured oaths could be guessed at, nothing more; some played at dice. A few spat in the direction of the street, but it was hard to tell whether they meant to insult Hanna and Rufus, or the city guards.

'Seems a few want for nothing," said Rufus, "and the rest are in want."

'I've heard it said the war is draining the regnant's coffers. The palace servants told me it's worse now than it's ever been. They hate us because it's our king leading the war."

'Won't it be best for Aosta once all the foreigners are driven out, and the nobles all bend their knee to one regnant?"

'I hope so," she said fiercely, for wasn't that why she had turned her back on Hathui and ridden this far? Because she had faith in King Henry?

A man stumbled out into the street and collided with Hanna. His hands groped her chest as he murmured, "Wendish whore!" His breath stank.

She shoved him off with a grunt as Rufus, startled, turned around to see four young toughs headed their way with ugly grins on their faces. The city guards watched passively.

Hanna grabbed Rufus' arm and tugged him onward. "There are the gates!"

It was said that no gate in Darre did not have four churches built nearby upon the ruins of the old imperial temples. There were six within sight of the western gate, all but one simple structures of brick that could scarcely hold more than fifty worshipers. The sixth was a domed temple, cleared of pagan statues and rededicated to St. Mark the Warrior; his sword of righteousness, which grants strength to the believer, was painted in bright colors above the portico. But which was the church they sought? "They're getting closer!"

gasped Rufus.

A pair of fraters hurried up the steps of St. Mark's. Closer by, a trio of clerics in the modest robes of novices walked past; the shortest of the young women glanced her way.

"I beg you, my lady—"

The novices seemed neither to hear nor understand her. "Oh, shit," swore Rufus.

"They've got knives." "Run for it." "Eagle!"

Carried on a litter by four men, a presbyter appeared out of the crowd. The four toughs veered off. Hanna knelt; Rufus dropped to both knees. The stone burned hot into her knee through the cloth of her leggings.

'Your Excellency," she murmured breathlessly, heart still pounding with fear. "We are honored at your notice."

She recognized Brother Petrus. Bland and powerful, he had received her when she had first arrived in Darre and listened patiently and with aristocratic reserve to her message.

She had not seen him since that day, when he had assured her that the matter would be brought to the king's attention just as soon as Henry returned from the south, but that it was too dangerous for her to ride south herself. "Do you come often into the lower city?"

he asked in the tone of a man who is surprised to see a heathen worshiping at the Hearth of God in Unity.

'Nay, Your Excellency. I am not accustomed to its size. There are so many streets and alleys, and so many people."

'True enough." He looked toward the law courts, where the crowd gathered to receive grain and food was growing ever more restless as the day came toward its end. Many still stood empty-handed. "So many people, and not all of them with God's best interests at heart. It is best to be careful. Even some of your own Wendish folk agitate in the shadows, weaving intrigue among the innocent and the gullible."

'I am sorry to hear that my countryfolk are so wicked, Your Excellency."

'As would any person be who trusts in God. There is one woman in particular, a servant who calls herself Aurea, who is no better than a goad on the flail wielded by the Enemy. Beware of those who bear false tales out of turn in the hope of stirring up trouble."

Because her head was bent in respectful obeisance, the brim of the hat concealed her expression. Strange that he should mention Aurea, to whom she had spoken up in the attic only two days before. "Have you spoken to this woman, Daughter?" "I have. I am always happy to find those within the palace who speak my own tongue, Your Excellency, those who are my countryfolk."

'Did she speak aught of conspiracies and treachery?" Only of clerics hidden like rats in the dungeon. Eyes that could see through walls, and traveling Eagles. But perhaps Hanna was making a conspiracy where none existed. Perhaps the woman had hoped for nothing more with her tales than an appreciative audience. Brother Petrus could not know that Hanna had spoken to Hathui over a year ago in the southern forests of Wendar. He did not know what she knew.

Faced with her silence, he went on. "I hope you will come to me, Daughter, if there is anything you wish me to hear. You need only to ask for me at the skopos' palace. You Wendish Eagles are said to see all kinds of things that the rest of us cannot. I know you are held to be loyal without measure to your king."

He spoke a word in Aostan, and his servants carried him on. She glanced around as she rose to make sure no suspicious souls approached them, but the young toughs had vanished into the crowd. His words chilled her. Hadn't Aurea spoken almost exactly JXATE tLLIOTT those same words: "an Eagle might see all kinds of things"? Was it a slip of the tongue or simply a chance similarity of phrase? Did he mean it as a warning?

'I don't like it," remarked Rufus, "when those high and mighty church folk know who I am. Where I come from, the old folks used to say that it's better to be a pig foraging in the woods with hunger in your gut and no one to know your name than a fat-bellied rooster strutting in the farmyard and all eyes on you when feasting time comes around."

'He saved us from a fight."

'True enough. Never turn your back on small blessings." Nearby, the three clerics had paused while one among their number shook a stone out of her shoe.

'Come, now, Sister Heriburg," said one of her companions tartly in clear Wendish.

"We shan't get a place to sit in St. Asella's chapel if you do not hurry. You know how crowded it gets when Brother Fortunatus gives his sermon."

'I beg pardon, Sisters. We are Wendish Eagles, servants of the king, come to worship at St. Asella's. May we accompany you there?"

'Any true servant of King Henry is welcome to keep company with those of us who are loyal clerics in his schola," said the tall one in the same tart voice she had just used to scold her companion.

'I thank you, my lady," replied Hanna politely. "We will keep company with you gladly. I am called Hanna, and this is Rufus."

These were highborn girls, unaccustomed to chatting idly with commoners; the quiet one looked alarmed at the introduction of names, and the other two hesitated before hurrying on with Hanna and Rufus at their heels.

'You are clerics in King Henry's schola, my lady?" Hanna prompted, an imp of mischief directing her tongue. She wanted to see how they would respond. "Did you march here with the king?"

'We have lived in Darre for over two years now," said the tall one as they passed the portico of St. Mark's and turned left down a side street. A tower marked an old church built on a more ancient foundation. Inside, a half dozen slits in the walls illuminated the interior. Two clerics lit sconces in the wall as these patches of sunlight faded. There were benches set in the nave, most filled with sundry folk speaking Wendish. Their companions moved to the front to sit with their clerical brethren. Hanna squeezed in beside Rufus toward the back, resting her floppy hat on her knees.

She saw no sign of Aurea. Had she misunderstood the woman? whitewashed walls of the small church whispered no answers; .. j not even have painted windows, only slits to let in air, although the thick stone kept the interior cool. She was no longer sweating.

TWO clerics ascended toward the choir along the nave, lighting vesper lamps set on tripods at the end of each row of benches. At the front, a deacon entered the rounded choir from the sanctuary and approached the altar, where she raised her hands in the blessing as she began to sing the liturgy.

'Blessed is the Country of the Mother and Father of Life, and of the Holy Word revealed within the Circle of Unity, now and ever and unto ages of ages."

'Amen," Hanna murmured, the service sliding smoothly into her thoughts and her lips moving in the responses without a need for her to think.

'In peace let us pray to our Lord and Lady."

'Lord have mercy. Lady have mercy." Yet how did Ivar pray, if he were even still alive? How did heretics pray? Her gaze was caught by the flame burning beside her, a flickering golden glow, restless but strong, that hissed as if whispering secrets. Were those tiny wings in the heart of the flame? Were those shadows moving within the curtain of flame that danced before her? Beyond the veil of fire, she saw onto another place.

Six men and a woman make their way along a deserted track through broken woodland as afternoon creeps toward evening. Briefly the sun shines, but then a shower passes over their party, driven northward by a strong southerly wind. The wind blows back the hood of one of the men. She recognizes his red hair first before anything, and after that the lineaments of his face.

It is Ivar. Joy chokes her. Is it possible he still lives?

Heat burns her face as she leans closer, trying to get his attention.

'Hanna? You'll burn yourself!"

She broke free of the vision to find herself in the church, blinking dry eyes, tears wicked away by the flame. The lamp hissed and flickered, but it was an ordinary flame, just like all the others that lit the nave.

'For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth in a time of want, and for peace in this country, let us pray."

'Hanna?" Rufus had hold of her arm in a painfully tight grasp. "Are you feeling faint?

I thought you would fall into the lamp."

'Nay." Her tongue felt swollen, and she was dizzy, both heartsick and elated. "Eagle's Sight."

He flushed, easy to see with that complexion, and dipped his head shamefacedly. "I know what they say, and what some of the others claim, but I've never seen any vision in fire or water." He hesitated, realized he still clutched her arm, and let go as though she were poison. His expression had a dark stain on it, and his lips were twisted down. "What about you?"

She shook her head too quickly. "Just shadows in the flames. Like now. Just shadows."

'Blessed are the humble and patient, for the grace of God shall descend upon them at the end of days. Blessed are the pure in heart, for their glory will shine forever."

'Amen," she and Rufus said in unison with the rest of the congregation.

Believing Ivar might yet be alive was almost worse than resigning herself to his death.

A cleric came forward to deliver the Hefensday lesson. The man looked vaguely familiar, but probably that was only because of his beardless face and the cut of his hair, trimmed and shaven in the manner of a male cleric who has put aside the duties of a man of the world, husbanding and warring and sowing, for the cares of the Hearth. He waited a moment for folk to shift on the hard benches, for silence to open a space for listening.

The stone walls muted all sound; she could not hear a single thing from outside, as though they were no longer in Darre but translated to holy space, sundered from the world.

'I pray you, sisters and brothers, take heed of the lesson that God utters on this day, the feast day dedicated to St. Dominica."

The words of the liturgy were familiar to her; she knew what the prayers meant even when she did not recognize every single word. But the startling change—that he was speaking in Wendish—struck her so hard after so many months in Aosta hearing a foreign language day in and day out, that it took her a moment to follow what he was saying.

'So it happened that one day after the rains the beloved child walked out among the hills. As she walked along the stream's edge below the overhanging cliff, the rocks came loose and fell down upon her, burying her.

'Her powerful companions howled and cried out in vain! The lion roared and the bull bellowed and the great eagle screamed, but they could not find the child beneath the vast expanse of rubble.

'The humble wren, least of birds, flew to the top of the pile of rocks and sang, 'Hush!'

When all at last quieted, they heard the small voice of the child, crying. She was still alive underneath the rock.

'How the lion roared and the bull bellowed and the great eagle screamed! But despite their powerful voices, and their biting claws, and all the strength of their limbs, they could not shift the rock.

'The blind mole peeked out from the earth and said, 'I can dig a hole to the trapped child, and through this hole she can crawl to safety.'

'

'But how long will it take?' objected the wise owl. 'Surely the child will die before a creature as small and weak as you can dig a tunnel large enough for her to creep through!'

'The lion roared, and the bull bellowed, and the great eagle screamed, but all their powerful voices joined together could not feed the child trapped beneath the rock.

'The small brown field mouse called her sisters and brothers, her cousins, and all her kin. They slipped between cracks in the rock and carried in bits of bread and acorn cups of water to the trapped child, and in this way kept her alive for seven days while the patient mole dug a hole deep through the earth broad enough for the child to escape.

'And the lion and the bull and the great eagle remained silent, when they saw that it was the work of their humble brethren that saved the child."

Hanna rested her head on clasped hands. Strange that he should seem to be speaking intimately a message meant for her ears. Looking up, she noticed the three young clerics seated on the foremost bench. As though her gaze were a greeting, the tall one glanced back. Hadn't this young woman called one of her companions "Sister Heri-burg," the same name mentioned in passing by the servant woman, Aurea?

'They know her," she murmured.

'I beg pardon?" whispered Rufus.

'Nay, nothing," she demurred, but in her gut she knew. They wanted her to see them and to hear this lesson about the work of the humble and the small. The knowledge coursed up through the soles of her feet, making her unsteady. It almost seemed the lamp beside her was swaying.

Ivar's sister Rosvita was alive, buried in the dungeon because she had witnessed what the powerful wanted kept secret. Hathui had told the truth.

A rumble hummed up from the ground, a grinding roar like distant avalanche. The lamp swung on its chains as the feet of the tripod skipped along stone. A woman sobbed out loud. Under Han-na's rump, the bench rocked as though shoved.

Rufus swore. "Damn! Not another one!"

Voices rose in agitation and fear. People bolted for the door, and by the time Hanna realized that the rumbling and rocking had stopped, the church had half cleared out. Yet from outside, through the open doors, she still heard a hue and cry. By the Hearth, the cleric who had been preaching stepped aside to talk to the three young clerics; they looked drawn and anxious as they listened to the growing clamor. A distant horn sounded the call to arms.

A woman hurried back in through the doors, followed by a dozen companions.

'Shut the doors!" she cried in Wendish. "There's a riot! They say they're going to kill every Wendishman they can find!" Folk rushed to the doors, shutting them and stacking benches as a barrier. "Ai, Lady! It was the breadline! All those folk went wild."

The door shuddered as a weight hit it from the outside, causing the left door to creak, shift, and crack open.

'Help us!" shrieked one of the men up front. With several companions he slammed the opening door shut.

Hanna ran forward with Rufus and set her shoulder to the doors. Blows vibrated through her body as she leaned hard against the wood. Through the wood she heard the screaming of men and women, their words incomprehensible because of rage and the heady wildness of a mob inflamed by hunger and fear. Incomprehensible because it was a foreign tongue, not her own. An ax blow shook the door, followed by a second.

'We'll never hold out! They'll kill us all!"

A babble of voices rose within the heart of the church as the assembled worshipers wept, moaned, and wailed.

'I pray you!" cried the cleric who had spoken the lesson. "Do not despair. Do not panic. God will protect us."

'They only have one ax," shouted Hanna between blows, "or else they'd be chopping more quickly. Is there another way out of the church? Or another way in that we should be guarding?"

'Oh, God," wailed an unseen soul in the sobbing crowd. "The dea,'-con's sanctuary has a door to the alley!"

Too late. An unholy shriek cut through the wailing. The deacon ho had led the service staggered out from the low archway that led rk to the sanctuary. When she fell forward onto her knees, they il saw the knife stuck in her back.

'Use the benches!" shouted Hanna as the door shook. The mob had evidently given up pushing from outside and was now waiting for the ax wielder to destroy the door. "Pick them up and use them shields. Throw them. Two can lift one."

Her muscles throbbed already, bruised under the assault. The door shuddered again.

Splinters, like dust, spit from the wood. How soon vvould the ax cut through? It was only a matter of time. Yet if they left the door to face the new assault, they would be hit from two sides. No one moved. Two ragged men burst from the archway. The leader stumbled over the deacon and went down hard, cursing as his companion tripped over him.

'Rufus!" Hanna leaped away from the door with Rufus right behind her and ran toward the altar. "Grab a bench!" she shouted to the paralyzed clerics, who stared as the two toughs got up and hoisted broken chair legs like clubs. She grabbed an end of a bench as Rufus hoisted the other end.

'Out of the way." The male cleric, shoved the three young women aside.

'Heave!"

Hanna and Rufus launched the bench as the two toughs ran forward. It slammed into them, knocking them backward to the floor. She heard a bone snap. One screamed. The other, falling hard, cracked the back of his head on the stone and went limp.

She grabbed the chair leg out of his hand. Rufus tugged the bloody knife out of the deacon's back. The tall cleric had gone over to the deacon's side and with commendable composure had got hold of her ankles to drag her aside, leaving a trail of blood.

'More will come in that way," said Hanna. "I'm surprised they haven't already." She turned to the cleric who had given the lesson. "Can the sanctuary door be fixed closed?"

'Yes. I'll show you."

'Is there nothing you can use for a weapon?"

'I cannot fight in such a manner," he said quietly, but he picked up the holy lamp that lit the Hearth and jerked the altar cloth off the Hearth with such a tug that the precious silver vessels fell clattering to the floor, holy wine and pure water splashing onto the stone and running along cracks to mingle with the deacon's blood. "This will shield me somewhat. Sister Heriburg,'' he added, handing the lamp to the stoutest of the young clerics, "you must see that these criminals do not escape or harm anyone else."

'How can I?"

'You must." To Hanna and Rufus: "This way."

Hanna had never stood in any choir, never ventured beyond the Hearth into any sanctuary where deacons and clerics meditated in silence and communed with God. In such places deacons slept, and the church housed its store of precious vestments and vessels for the service. She caught a closer glimpse of the two faded tapestries hanging on the choir walls, then ducked under the arch with the cleric and Rufus behind her, the club upraised to ward off blows. Two steps took them down into a low, square room, drably furnished with a simple cot, a chair, a table, and a chest. Two burning lamps hung peaceably from iron tripods. The table lay upended, torn pages of a prayer book strewn along the floor in among broken fragments of a smashed chair. The chest lay open, and a young man with dirty hair and dirtier clothing pawed through it so eagerly that he did not see Hanna and the others come up behind him. It was impossible to tell from this angle if he had a knife. Alarmingly, there was no one else in sight, although the door that led outside, cut under an even lower arch, stood ajar.

All this she took in before the youth looked up. With a startled grimace, lips pulled back like a dog baring its teeth, he groped at his belt.

'The door," cried Hanna, jumping forward. She brought the chair leg down on his head as a knife flashed in his hand. He dropped like a stone. The knife fell between a pair of holy books he'd discarded on the floor in his haste to find treasure.

Distantly, through the open door, she heard a second horn call followed by shouts of triumph and fear.

With a thud, the side door slammed into place, muffling the sounds from outside.

Grunting with effort, Rufus dropped a bar into place. Through the archway that led back into the church, Hanna heard an odd scuffling sound. The steady drone of weeping and wailing drowned out the noise of the crowd pounding at the front doors.

'Why isn't there such a bar for the church doors?" she asked as the three of them stared first at each other and then at the youth lying unconscious on the floor. ^ 'The door leading to God's Hearth must always remain open."

said the cleric, "and there is always a cleric or deacon awake to tend the lamps by the Hearth. But thieves may sneak in through the side door, seeking silver and silk while God's servant rests here in solitude. What do we do with this one?"

This one had warts on his nose and hands and pustulant sores along his lower lip. His stink made her cough. His wrists were as thin as sticks. Hunger had worn shadows under his eyes. Drool snaked down from his slack mouth into his fledgling beard.

'Is there rope?" Rufus was grinning a little, sweating and excited. "We've got to tie him up."

The youth moaned. They heard a shout and the slap of footsteps, and one of the young novices burst into the room.

'The king has returned! He's at the gates. The mob is running away. We're saved, Brother Fortunatus!"

They were all too tense to relax even at such hopeful news, and Brother Fortunatus gave Hanna such a look as an escaped slave might give to his companion just before the chains are clapped back on them.

'For now, Sister Gerwita." He nodded at the moaning youth. "Drag him outside and let him go. I would not hand any poor soul over to the justice of the city guard."

'But—" Rufus began.

'Nay," said Fortunatus. "He still had his knife on him, so he's not likely the one who assaulted Deacon Anselva. His only crime is poverty, and he stole nothing, after all. The other two must face justice for what they did to the deacon."

Cheers broke out from the church, echoing through the archway. Hanna grabbed the youth's ankles and dragged him out the door after Fortunatus unbarred and opened it.

Although twilight hadn't yet faded into full darkness, the walls leaned so closely together in the alley that she had to pick her way by feel, stepping more than once into piles of noxious refuse. The stink was overwhelming. She shoved the boy up against the wall of the church. He stirred, retching. She stumbled back to the open door. Looking up the alley, she saw the thoroughfare beyond—torches and lamps lighting a magnificent procession. A roar of noise echoed among the buildings, the ring of hooves on paved streets, shouting and cheering and an undercurrent of jeering in soft counterpoint amid the clamor. Smoke stung her nostrils. The peal of the fire bell summoned the city guard.

When she slipped back inside, bending to get under the lintel with out banging her head, Rufus barred the door behind her as she checked the soles of her sandals in the lamplight to make sure she wasn't tracking in anything awful.

They took both of the lamps as they returned to the choir. The front doors had been thrown open. Most of the worshipers had flocked outside, but a dozen waited by the doors, too cautious to venture out. The walls looked different; holding high her lamp Hanna realized they were bare. The two tapestries lay on the floor rolled up tight around the two criminals' bodies; it was odd to see them squirming so. The tall cleric and the one called Gerwita huddled by the Hearth, whispering to Brother Fortunatus, who still held the altar cloth. The third knelt beside the wounded deacon, holding a lion-shaped lamp in one hand. With a pad of cloth torn from her own robe she applied pressure to the wound on the deacon's back. Blood stained the prone woman's white garment.

Hanna bent down beside her. "Sister Heriburg, will the deacon live?"

She had a bland, amiable face but a glance that hit like the sight of black storm clouds in winter. "I pray she will. It is in God's hands now."

Rufus had gone to the doors to examine the damage done by the ax. Here in the silence of the choir they were alone except for the muffled groans and panicked curses corning from the men bundled up in the tapestries. They had only two lights. Another five or six burned along the nave, but most of the remaining lamps had been taken forward to the doors by worshipers, making a veil of light that shrouded the night scene beyond.

'Are you loyal to Henry, Eagle?" asked Brother Fortunatus, coming up behind her.

'Yes. That is why I came."

'From Princess Theophanu."

Although she had not met this man in the months she had loitered in the regnal palace, she knew that her arrival had surely been gossiped about from the lowest halls to the highest. "I rode here at the behest of Princess Theophanu to bring a message to her father, the king."

'Was there no Eagle who came to Theophanu in the time you were with her?"

She rose stiffly. Her legs ached from the effort she'd spent bracing; her bruised shoulder throbbed. Even her fingers hurt from gripping the chair leg so tightly before she'd hit the thief. The two women ovv flanked Brother Fortunatus: the tall one, still nameless, and (.' mid Gerwita. They hardly looked like a foul cabal of conspirators.

VVasn't it possible that Henry had enemies who might seek to entrap the ones most loyal to him? If Hathui had told the truth, those who novv controlled Henry would seek to eliminate anyone, even a common, powerless Eagle, who might act against them.

Anything might be possible.

From outside, the roar of acclamation rose to a high pitch as some notable—perhaps Henry and Adelheid themselves—approached down the thoroughfare.

'No Eagle came to Theophanu while I was with Her Highness, but I met one of my comrades north of the mountains who had come from Aosta. She rode one way, and I another. Where she is now I do not know." The memory of Hathui's expression, at the end of their conversation so many months ago, made her throat tighten. Yet for all the bitterness that curdled in her when she thought of Sanglant and Bulkezu, she could not wish Hathui ill. "I pray she is well."

The cheering swelled at the porch of the church.

'Beware—" Fortunatus broke off as Rufus called to her and the people gathered at the doors cried out in thanksgiving as they knelt with heads bowed. A tall, elegant figure moved forward through the glow of lamplight like an angel advancing out of the darkness to lead the benighted to salvation.

Only this was not an angel.

She knew him even before she saw him clearly. No person who had seen him could ever forget him and especially not when he was burnished, as now, by the light of a dozen lamps and the heartfelt acclaim of people who had been rescued from certain death by his timely arrival. A fire burned in her heart, and she took a few steps forward before she remembered what he had done to Liath. She scarcely heard the whispers and footfalls behind her as Hugh entered the church.

Presbyter Hugh, they called him here. Everyone talked about him, but it was easy to ignore talk. Talk did not have golden hair, a handsome face, and a graceful form.

'Is this where it happened?" he asked with outraged concern. He caught sight of Rufus.

"An Eagle! I thank God you survived. Lady have mercy! Look how they tried to chop their way in through the door."

It was impossible not to be moved by that beautiful voice, both to be lulled' until the moment He saw her. He knew her.

' how she had drawn as though by a tether line being reeled in ' Liath had cried, long ago in Heart's Rest And ie had known that day. He had returned to stop Hannafrom speaking slave d'

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Just like Bulkezu.

Such a shudder of misgiving passed through Hanna's body that mp trembled in her hand. He smiled gently, and she remem he way he had looked at her that day in Heart's Rest in the the chapel: as if he were measuring her to decide if she posed a threat to him.

He had dismissed her then. She was only a common girl. He might nize her face, because of her link to Liath, but she doubted he remembered anything else about her.

it wa: etter when they didn't know your name.

W tieard news of an Eagle come from Princess Theophanu," he king forward. She remembered to kneel; she found another : WaY> on her right knee, that she'd gotten without know e paused beside her without looking at her, because he was ung the choir with a mild expression of surprise. "Are you the last one here?"

*ufus stood behind him, looking puzzled as he, too, stared at the the writhing tapestries. She turned her head. The four clerics Were gone.

;'The other clerics-" Rufus began.

with the rest, in fear of their lives," she interrupted. "We left. Your Excellency, if I may rise, there is an injured n and the two criminals who assaulted her. She is gravely injured." lugh knelt beside the deacon, lifting the bloodstained pad of cloth the wound.

He frowned and set fingers carefully along the ier throat, and shook his head. "She is dead. May God have her soul." After murmuring a blessing, he looked up. "Do you know her name?"

' s^A^n' Y°Ur Excellency,'' she lied. "My comrade and I came here ^la's today because we were told we might hear theJesson , ijvered in Wendish, which our souls craved to hear after so many months in a foreign land."

'Ah." He dabbed a smear of blood off his forefinger onto the dea on's robe and rose.

"Eagle." He indicated Rufus. "Certain of the king's soldiers wait outside. See that these criminals are taken away to the regnant's dungeon. I will send clerics from the queen's schola to take away this poor deacon's body and prepare it for burial."

At the Hearth he studied the holy lamp set on the bare stone floor, the scattered vessels, and the altar cloth spilled carelessly over them. "A grave crime," he said as he picked up the altar cloth and the vessels and set all to rights, smoothing the gold-trimmed cloth down over the Hearth and placing holy lamp and precious vessels in the precise arrangement on its surface, reflecting the glory of the Chamber of Light, which awaits all faithful souls.

'It is a grave crime to assault and conspire against those who serve God and the regnant." His gaze marked her, who was waiting only for his permission to go. He had beautiful eyes, a fine, dazzling light blue, but in their depths she saw a splinter of ice.

"Isn't it, Hanna?"

'Your Excellency." It was all she could say.

'You will accompany me. Their majesties King Henry and Queen Adelheid will wish to hear your report. And so will I." iJcRrORD Monastery had the slightly run-down look of an estate that has been neglected by an incompetent steward, but as Ivar and his companions approached the main gate, they saw scaffolding around the church tower and men laboring on its ladders and platforms, whitewashing the walls. Beyond the low double palisade that fenced off the monastic buildings from the surrounding estate, a group of lay brothers bound new thatch on the roof of the monks' lormitory. Outside these walls men sawed and hammered, constructing benches and tables, while a trio of laborers built a kiln with bricks.

The gatekeeper had big hands, a big nose, and a relentlessly cheer-disposition once he realized he had visitors of noble lineage.

'Come in, come in, friends. We'll be glad to hear tidings from th east." He called to a scrawny boy climbing in an apple tree. "Tell th guest-master I'm bringing visitors up."

The child raced ahead. They followed more slowly, since the gate keeper had a pronounced limp. His infirmity had not weakened his tongue. "The old abbot died last year, may he rest peacefully in God's hands. Father Ortulfus has come new to us this spring, and though I do not like to speak ill of the dead, I will say that he has been setting things right, for I fear the monastery got run down. Father Ortulfus has even sent to Darre to see if a craftsman can be found to repair the unicorn fountain, which I'm sure you have heard of."

'I fear we have not— " began Ivar, but the gatekeeper chattered on as he directed them to a side gate that opened into an enclosure surrounded by a high fence and populated by a tidy herb garden, a gravel courtyard, and three square log blockhouses, each one freshly plastered.

'Nay? You'll see it soon enough. Here my lady must retire, for women aren't allowed within the monastery walls. Father Ortulfus has brought his cousin to preside over the guesthouse and with her a few servingwomen to ensure the comfort of any ladies who may come by in traveling parties or with the king's progress. Alas, under Father Bardo's abbacy I fear that women were let walk as they wished in the monastery itself, but that shan't be happening now."

A pretty young woman with a fair complexion and an almost insipidly sweet smile emerged from one of the cottages. "What have you brought us, Brother Felicitus?" She couldn't have been more than fourteen. "We haven't had a visitor in ages, although I fear, my lady, that you look in need of a bath."

She clapped her hands. Three equally young women rushed out in her wake, followed at a more stately pace by an elderly matron who had the visage of a guard dog, ready to strike first and growl later.

'I am Lady Beatrix," continued the first girl. "Cousin of Father Ortulfus. He's my guardian now that my parents are dead, and he's brought me here until— Oh!"

'Oh!" echoed her young companions.

They had seen Baldwin.

'Best you be getting on, Brother Felicitus," said the matron threateningly, setting herself between her charges and temptation.

Hathumod stepped forward with a martial gleam in her eye. "I thank you for your welcome, Lady Beatrix. I am Hathumod* My • ai randmother was a count in the marchlands. I was first a novice Quedlinhame—

'How come you here, then, my lady?" interrupted Lady Beatrix, although she hadn't taken her gaze off Baldwin, who stared soul-ftilly at a table set under an awning and laden with wine, bread, and cheese. "Who are your companions?"

'I pray you, friends." Brother Felicitus cleared his throat for emphasis. "Let us retire to a more appropriate place."

'I'm so hungry," said Baldwin plaintively. "We haven't eaten for two days." Lady Beatrix dashed to the table and brought Baldwin an entire loaf of white bread, still smelling of the oven.

'I thank you," he said, turning the full force of his limpid gaze on her innocent face.

Ivar thought she might swoon, or perhaps he was the one who was dizzy because the bread smelled so good and he was really so desperately hungry.

'Come, come." Brother Felicitus herded his charges toward the gate. "Let us not linger here, but if you will come with me I will see that you are fed."

As they retreated, Hathumod begin to speak. "How I came here is a long tale. If you have the patience for it, it will change you utterly." "No tale can be too long if it is also exciting," retorted Beatrix, "for we bide unGodly quiet here. We get so few visitors—"

'She's very young," said Brother Felicitus as he closed the gate, cutting them off from the women's enclosure. The men followed him through a gate in the log fence marking out monastic ground from the unhallowed buildings set up between the inner and outer fence. "But her parents are dead, her elder brother rode east with Princess Sapientia, and her elder sister died at the battle to recover Gent. Duchess Liutgard is her distant kinswoman, but the duchess has been called south by the king on his great expedition to Aosta, so it fell to her cousin Ortulfus to give her guidance." Having established his abbot's noble credentials, he felt free to eye Baldwin distrustfully, as if he feared Baldwin intended to lure poor young Lady Beatrix into a life of debauchery. Baldwin was too busy tearing up the loaf into four equal portions to notice.

'I feel sure Father Ortulfus is a Godly man," said Ivar. "So he is. Here is the laborers'

dormitory." Felicitus indicated a long hall with a porch set outside the inner wall. "Those who are servants of the abbot, or of the king—" He nodded at the two Lions.

'—reside here. Our circatore, Brother Lallo, will take care of yOu Here he comes."

Brother Lallo was brawny and immaculately groomed. For a circa-tore—the monk set in charge over the manual laborers—his hands were remarkably clean.

'Can they work?" he demanded, looking Gerulf and Dedi over and not appearing to like what he saw. They were all unkempt. "I've a full house these days, for it's troubled times as you know, Brother Felicitus. I wish you would have consulted me first—

'And risked sending them down the road to Oerbeck where they'll get no more than a thin broth for their supper? We are still the king's monastery, Brother, and God's house, and have an obligation to travelers." ,

'And vagabonds, evidently!" replied Brother Lallo sourly. "At least they don't have dogs with them! Come this way, then. You're stout-looking fellows, I'll give you that."

'We are Lions in the king's service," said Gerulf, with real annoyance.

Lallo blinked. "Why aren't you with the king?"

Dedi seemed about to speak, but Gerulf signed him to silence. "That is truly a long tale, and a cursed strange one, for I've seen such things as few would believe—" He broke off, rubbing his throat. "Ach, well. My throat's too dry to talk much."

'Come, come, then," said Lallo eagerly. "We can find you mead. There'll be porridge and apples for supper. A long tale would be welcome here."

As Gerulf and Dedi walked off to the laborers' dormitory, Baldwin gave Ivar, Ermanrich, and Sigfrid their share of the bread. Ivar wolfed his down before they reached the inner gate, but all it did was make him hungrier.

At the inner gate Brother Felicitus handed them over to the rotund guest-master, who saw them washed and fitted with clean robes appropriate to their status and brought them to the abbot's table just in time for the evening's feast.

Father Ortulfus was young, vigorous, and handsome. He had a sarcastic eye but a gleam of humor in his expression as he rose to welcome his guests. The dozen monks seated at the abbot's table gaped at Baldwin, who had cleaned up nicely. "My spies brought news of your arrival. There are places for you on these humble benches."

Since all the furniture in the abbot's dining room was elaborately rv and painted, as befit the son of a noble house, Ivar merely miled. "You are most gracious, Father Ortulfus. We have traveled a most strange road. I am Ivar—

'—son of Count Harl of the North Mark and his late wife, Lady Herlinda," finished Ortulfus. "Before I became abbot, I had the honor of being a member of Biscop Constance's schola. I will not soon forget the trial of Hugh of Austra before an assembled council in Autun. Nor, I suppose, will you, Brother Ivar."

Ivar knew his fair complexion branded him, since his blushes could never be hidden.

His cheeks burned. "Nay, I suppose I will not."

Baldwin had already found a seat next to a slender monk of aristocratic bearing whose expression was, alas, not at all pure as he offered to share his platter, on which lay a steaming and handsomely spiced whole chicken. Ermanrich and Sigfrid held back at the door, waiting for Ivar's reaction.

'God knows Father Hugh was arrogant," said Ortulfus as his retinue of monastic officials and highly placed brother monks watched avidly. "I suppose it comes of being the son of a margrave." He glanced at Baldwin before smiling mordantly at Ivar. "I admit, Brother Ivar, that I wasn't sorry to see you stand against Father Hugh, even if it was only because that sorcerer they spoke of had enchanted you as well."

'Perhaps she did," retorted Ivar, stung and flattered at the same time, "or perhaps Hugh was lying. I could tell you—"

'And I trust you will," interrupted the abbot smoothly, "but I beg you to take drink and food first, for you look famished. When Biscop Constance raised me to the abbacy of Herford Monastery, she strictly enjoined me to see that travelers were always well cared for. Will you not share a platter with me, Brother Ivar?"

No one could refuse such an honor. In this way, the four visitors were separated from each other and each given to one of the abbot's officials to entertain. Wine flowed freely.

The abbot did not stint when it came time to eat. The savory chicken was all Ivar could have hoped for, and it was succeeded by a clear broth to cleanse the palate, after which the meat course arrived, a side of roasted beef so heavy it took two servants to carry the platter. Three types of pudding followed the meat, each one richer than what came before, and there were also apples, pears, plums, cherries, and the sticky honey cakes common to feast days.

As the meal wore on, Ivar realized that this astounding repast was, indeed, in honor of a saint's day. A young monk with a face so undis tinguished that one hesitated to look twice at him sang most sweetlv various hymns in praise of St. Ingrith, she who was patron of weavers and benefactor to every person who has faced down and wrestled with an unexpected setback.

The battle against the Quman had been fought in late Aogoste. The feast day of St.

Ingrith was celebrated in late Setentre, almost a full month after the equinox. Impossibly, in the two days since they had escaped the Quman, over one month had passed here at Herford Monastery. Impossibly, they had traveled from the eastern borderlands all the way to the heart of Wendar by walking into—and out of—a barrow.

'You said you had a strange tale to tell us," said Father Ortulfus. "I confess myself prey to the sin of curiosity, for I'm thinking that your handsome companion is the infamous young bridegroom of Margrave Judith, the same lad who vanished the night after Hugh of Austra's trial."

Although he hadn't appeared to be paying attention to anything but his food, Baldwin leaped to his feet, ready to bolt. "I won't go back to her!"

Ortulfus laughed in surprise. "Truly, you will not. Can it be you don't know that she was killed in a battle against the Quman three years ago?"

The sickly sweet scent of plum wine made Ivar queasy. The in-firmarian burped. The singer faltered and fell silent, and every man there turned to watch the abbot and his guest.

'I don't understand what you're saying," said Ivar, pushing away his cup of plum wine.

"We saw Margrave Judith lead her troops into battle against the Quman not one month ago, under the command of Princess Sapientia and Prince Bayan."

The monks at table set down spoons and knives as they glanced nervously, or meaningfully, toward Father Ortulfus. Ivar studied them. Each man wore robes and a sigil to identify his place within the monastic order. The abbot wore an ivory Circle of Unity incised with perfectly articulated scenes in miniature from the life of the blessed Daisan.

Beside him sat the rotund guest-master with his cloak pinned by a brooch in the shape of a wine barrel, signifying hospitality. The abbot's trusted second-in-command, the prior, wore a dozen keys of all shapes and sizes on a gold chain around his neck. The infirmarian had his caduceus, the cellarer his silver spoon, the chief scribe his pen, the novice master a stylus, and the sacrist a little || golden vessel representing the oil used to light the holy altar. Even ji the servants, tending the braziers set in each corner to warm the room, wore brooches of bronze wire twisted into brooms, although with their burly shoulders and military bearing they looked as if they had only recently come from fighting in the wars.

'My friend," said Father Ortulfus, measuring his words, "Prince Bayan has been dead these two years, killed at the battle of the Veser River. It's a long road from the marchlands here to Herford, one that can scarcely have been traversed in a month even by such stout fellows as you." He moved his wine cup a hand's width to the right.

A servingman entered, bent to whisper in the sacrist's ear, and stood back to wait.

With a nod of apology, the sacrist rose.

'I pray you, Father, we've run out of oil for the Hearth lamp." "Go on."

The sacrist left, closing the door behind him. Father Ortulfus went on. "After the trial at Autun, the court supposed that you had escaped Margrave Judith's clutches with the aid of Prince Ekkehard, whose preference for Lord Baldwin had become, shall we say, well known. When we heard that Prince Ekkehard had married the new margrave, Gerberga, those of us who remembered the trial assumed that the marriage was in some measure payment for his earlier theft of Judith's young husband. So you must imagine that your appearance here, at this late date, raises more questions than it answers."

'Do sit down," said Baldwin's companion with an unctuous smile. "Won't you have more honey cake?" Baldwin stubbornly remained standing.

'You need not fear that any of us are loyal to the kinfolk of Margrave Judith," added Father Ortulfus. "We are all first and foremost servants of our most gracious and magnificent biscop and duke, Constance."

Both Ermanrich and Sigfrid looked at Ivar.

Ivar rose slowly. "Baldwin, I pray you. Sit down." With a pretty frown, Baldwin sat.

"Is this some trick, Father Ortulfus? We have traveled far and by strange paths, and we have witnessed miracles, not least of which was that God delivered us from the Quman.

We have been given by God the obligation to bring the truth to those of you who still linger in darkness, for it has come to us to know that the church has taught a falsehood these many years. For God so loved the world that She gave to us Her only Son, that He should take upon himself the measure of our sins."

Ermanrich took up the litany. "He came before the Empress Thais sania, she of the Mask, and He would not bow down before her, fOr He knew that only God is worthy of worship. The empress had him flayed, as they did do to criminals in those days, and His heart was cut out and thrown into the courtyard, where it was torn into a hundred pieces by the dogs. Aren't we, ourselves, those dogs?"

'I knew it!" thundered the prior. "Such babblings as we've heard from vagabonds this past year could not have sprung fully grown out of nowhere. Here's the plague's root!"

'"A novice poisoned by heresy.'" The abbot had elegant fury to spare. His disdain and disgust were a well-honed weapon. "So you were accused when you came forward at the trial of Hugh of Austra, Brother Ivar. Do you and your companions deny that the Mother and Father of Life brought forth the universe through the Word? Do you still profess this vile heresy of the Redemption?"

'It isn't heresy! The king's own sister, who is abbess at Quedlin-hame, ordered Sigfrid's tongue cut off as punishment because he kept speaking the truth. Yet he speaks with a purer voice than you or I, because of the miracle, when the phoenix rose out of the fire.

Why would God have restored his voice if he spoke only falsehoods?" "It was the sign of the blessed Daisan." Sigfrid's expression shone as he remembered that awesome moment when the phoenix's wings had unfurled and it had risen in glory into the dawn, leaving a trail of flowers in its wake. "For the blessed Daisan also rose from death to become Life for us all."

'You are still polluted," said Father Ortulfus. "If you will walk with God, then walk in silence and free your heart from the Enemy's grasp. Let there be no more of these tales, which spread like a plague upon the Earth!"

Too late Ivar recognized the servants for what they were: retired soldiers. Even the abbot had the bearing of a man who had fought in a battle or two as part of the biscop's military host. They were many, and Ivar and his friends were few.

'But there was a phoenix," objected Baldwin. "I hate it when people don't believe me."

'Where did this miracle take place?" demanded the prior.

'In the borderlands, some days east of Gent," said Ivar.

'A conveniently long distance from here," said the abbot. "Have you any other witnesses?"

'The villagers saw it," said Ermanrich.

'The villagers are not here, my friend. What of the Lions who accompany you? Or Lady Hathumod?"

'Prince Ekkehard saw it, as did all of his companions," said Baldwin. "Prince Ekkehard abides far to the east as well, and is now married to Margrave Gerberga—"

'He does not!" retorted Baldwin, who was never more indignant than when he was utterly sure of his ground. "He's abbot of St. perpetua's in Gent. He can't be married. And he was just at the battle vvith us. I saw him cut down!"

'It's said Prince Ekkehard survived many things, including battles, captivity, and his own treasonous actions. I think your account must be confused, Brother Baldwin." "It is not!"

'Baldwin." Ivar had a bad feeling that he was missing something very important.

"Father Ortulfus, you must forgive us if we seemed confused. It seems to me that only a few nights have passed since I saw both Margrave Judith and Prince Bay an alive. It seems an ill omen when I hear you speak as if they're dead."

'Ivar!" Sigfrid's whisper was like the murmuring of ghosts on the wind. Sigfrid had thought of something that the rest had not. "What is it?"

'The year," said Sigfrid diffidently. "The year?" "What year is it?"

'Any fool knows that it's—um—what year is it, Sigfrid?" The prior made to speak, but Father Ortulfus silenced him simply by lifting a hand. "Go on, Brother Sigfrid," said the abbot more kindly than before, although his sudden gentleness made Ivar unaccountably nervous. "What year is it?"

'The year of our Lord and Lady, seven hundred and thirty," answered Sigfrid quietly, but he had a sad little frown on his delicate face.

The door set into the wall behind the abbot's seat opened. "My lord abbot," said a brother, leaning his head in. "The brothers have assembled and are waiting for you." It was time for prayer.

'It was a miracle," said Sigfrid stubbornly. Despite his small size and unprepossessing appearance, he had both the intelligence and strength of faith to speak with an authority that made others listen. "Ask if you will at Qjiedlinhame, for they will remember clearly enough when they cut out my tongue. How, then, can I speak now, if not by a miracle?"

'A difficult question to answer," agreed Ortulfus, rising from his chair. His officials stood as well, leaving only Baldwin, Sigfrid, and Ermanrich on their benches. "Be sure I will write to Mother Scholas-tica for her account. But it will take many weeks or even months to get a reply, and I must decide what to do with you in the meantime In truth, like any pestilence, heresy spreads quickly unless it is burned out."

The monks blocked the doors, and while the chief of scribes hadn't the ready stance of a fighter, the others looked able to hold their own in a scrap. They were trapped.

'You are three years too late," added Father Ortulfus. "This is the autumn of the year seven hundred and thirty-three since the Proclamation of the Holy Word by the blessed Daisan." Three years.

Sigfrid swayed, and Ermanrich made a squeak, nothing more, as his eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open with an "o" of surprise and disbelief. No one knew better than Ivar how well Sigfrid attended to his studies. Sigfrid hadn't been wrong.

"What three years?" demanded Baldwin.

Ivar felt the grasp of that ancient queen who had appeared to him in the barrow, clutching him by the throat, squeezing the life from him, her hands cold as the grave.

Magic had caught them in its grip, and now they were paying the price. They had escaped the Quman, but not at the cost of two nights. Not even at the cost of a month. "Three years," he whispered.

'Maybe we were asleep," said Ermanrich, who for once had no joke to make, "like that Lord Berthold we saw under the barrow."

Monks murmured in surprise and alarm, and a startled servant, hearing that name, scurried out the door.

'It's a lie!" cried the prior, a bluff, soldierly looking man. "They're liars as well as heretics! I was here the day Margrave Villam's son disappeared up in the stone crown among the barrows. He hasn't been seen since, and those tunnels were searched for any trace of the young lord."

'We did see them!" protested Baldwin. "I don't know why none of you believe anything we say!"

'I'll have silence," said Father Ortulfus, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Cold air eddied in through the open door, disturbing the warm currents off the braziers. A misting rain darkened the flagstone path vvays in the courtyard, seen beyond the brother waiting patiently in the doorway. In the center of the courtyard stood an elaborate fountain depicting four stone unicorns rearing back on their hind legs. A hedge of cypress hid the colonnade on the opposite side of the courtyard, but several stout monks loitered there. The abbot had left no escape route unguarded.

'My lord abbot," said the servant again. "The brothers are waiting for you to lead Vespers."

'Come, then," said Father Ortulfus grimly. "Let us pray all of us together, for surely in this hour of trouble and confusion we have need of God's guidance."

THE DEPTHS HIS GAZ THE Eagle, Your Majesty, recently come from Princess Theo-phanu at Osterburg."

All morning every person in the palace had done nothing but talk about the triumphal procession of Henry and Adelheid into the city yesterday evening. With each hour the story grew in the telling: how the king had single-handedly quelled the riots, how the queen's mercy had saved children from death, how malcontents had thrown down their staves at the sight of Presbyter Hugh. God had smiled on the righteous in their campaigns in Aosta. They had won a great victory over the Jinna bandits outside the town of Otiorno. Although the Arethousan usurpers in southern Aosta still clung to power, the authority of Henry and Adelheid in northern and middle Aosta could now be called decisive.

Yet despite these epic feats, the scene confronting Hanna seemed strikingly domestic in its intimate charm. King Henry sat at a table in a private chamber, staring at the chessboard across which he and Duchess Liutgard of Fesse battled, ivory against black.

Hanna knelt, grateful for the cushion of carpet beneath her knee. Because the king did not look up from his game immediately, she had time to studv the room and its occupants.

The king looked little older than when she had seen him last. Had it really been three years since she had left his court at Autun bound for the east with a company of Lions?

Much of that time seemed like a blur to her, passed in captivity or in illness. She had been on the road a long time.

About half of the royal garden was visible through an open window. A dark-haired child played in that garden, followed by a veritable swarm of attendants. Even at this distance Hanna heard her shrieks of delight as her nursemaids tried to catch her while she ran excitedly along the twisting pathways of a floral labyrinth, stumbling on unsteady feet but always climbing gamely up with a new burst of energy.

Mathilda, child of Henry and Adelheid, was the anointed heir to the kingdoms of Wendar and Varre and to the kingdom of Aosta. She was not much more than two years of age, but every one spoke of her as the child who would be empress in the years to come. No one spoke of Henry's children by Sophia at all, except muttered comments about the untrustworthiness of Arethousans bearing gifts. And soon Mathilda would not be sole child of Henry and Adelheid.

Adelheid reclined on a couch, and by the shape of the queen's belly Hanna judged her about midway through a second pregnancy. While a singer accompanied herself on a lute, the queen chatted in a desultory way with white-haired Duke Burchard and half a dozen noble courtiers. Adelheid had such a graceful way of using her hands to punctuate her speech, like birds or ribbons, that Hanna did not realize she was staring at the queen until she heard her own name spoken.

'Hanna! The king will hear your report now."

Henry moved his castle to threaten Liutgard's biscop before turning.