"Brother Zacharias?"

"Yes. He is dead."

'All." He glanced at Liath. She nodded, and briefly told him the tale. "I am sorry. Brother Zacharias was a troubled man, but a brave one. In his own fashion. This is yet one more crime to add to Hugh of Austra's list."

"There is no sign of him, I take it," said Liath.

"None. I've heard more of the tale now. He arrived in Austra out of the east but would not say where he had come from, only that he needed shelter. Gerberga brought him with her when she came west to visit Theophanu in Osterburg. Now Hugh has vanished. He must have plotted it all along. Give you the damning book, and fly away so that the taint could not touch him."

"Where can he fly?" Liath asked. "His sister's lands are closed to him. He must guess she has turned against him. Burchard and Liutgard will turn him over to you if they find him in Fesse or Avaria. No one in the North Mark will trust him, if he even wanted to return to such a benighted place. Where can he go? Who will take him in?"

"I've sent riders south and west. He might go to Varre, to offer his services to Sabella or Conrad, but Conrad never liked him either and Sabella has nothing to offer him. Where else can he go, then, except back to the poisonous nest where he gained so much power?"

"He'll elude your searchers," said Liath, shaking her head.

"So be it. If he flees to Varre, we'll catch up to him. If he flies to Aosta, then he cannot trouble us here in Wendar, can he?"

"So we can pray," said Hathui grimly, "for I would like to sleep soundly at night. I have a boon to ask of you, Your Majesty."

"What is that?"

"If he's caught, I want recompense for the harm he's done to me and my kinfolk. A grant of land, perhaps, to add to what they already claim."

Sanglant smiled. "I so swear, Hathui. You will have satisfaction."

"Your Majesty," she said, head bowed, and kissed the royal seal ring on his right hand, the one he had taken off his father's body.

He stood in unusual stillness for a long time, unwilling to break into her grief, but at last she shook her head and rose.

"There is wine," he said. "Captain Fulk will see you get anything you wish. We'll keep a close watch, but I expect Hugh is gone. And that you are safe from him for the time being. Still, we must be cautious."

"Your Majesty," she said. She nodded at Liath, and left the tent.

He remained still for a shockingly long time, and she watched him, curious and also not at all recovered from the unexpected memory of the weaving that had risen like a tide to engulf her. It had troubled her. It had roiled the waters.

"What is it?" she asked him finally.

"Did you touch him? In the library?" His voice was hoarse, but then, he always sounded like that.

'Are you jealous of him, Sanglant?"

"Of course I'm jealous of him! I know he—" He faltered, grimacing. "I know he ... possessed your body."

"He took what he wanted. I didn't go to him willingly."

"I know! I know! It just . . . gripes me to think of him touching you. That isn't all of it. He has all the skills you treasure. He can read and write and puzzle over the mysteries of the heavens, just as you do." He waved toward the walls, the ceiling, the lantern. "He knows sorcery. He's more like you than I am."

"That's true," she agreed, smiling as he got to looking more agitated. "It's a terrible thing to imagine that a man as evil as Hugh can be compared to me in so many ways."

"That's not what I meant!" he answered, laughing but still worrying at it. "He's just so damned beautiful."

"That's true," she agreed.

"How can the outer seeming so ill match the inner heart?"

"I don't know. Yet in the end even his beauty has failed him. His own half siblings ought to trust and embrace him, but they hate and distrust him instead. He betrayed those who did trust him. He is a fugitive, a man without kinfolk or retinue to aid him. Perhaps God have set him before us as a lesson."

"What sort of lesson? I am not well versed in these clerical riddles."

He was amused, and no doubt a little relieved, but in her own heart laughter had fled. " 'Chaos in the world is the result of disorder in the human soul.' I didn't say it," she added. "I'm just quoting.

I read it in a book."

"Which doesn't make it any less true. Did you touch him?"

She thought of Waltharia, a nice enough woman, someone she had liked perfectly well. Someone who had shown her a moment's surprising, and genuine, compassion.

"Why should I tell you?" she asked him, and when he winced, she was glad of seeing him pained.

She hadn't known she harbored so sharp a sting in her inner heart. Flame trembled. She had learned how to contain it, but maybe she was more like Hugh than she knew, wanting to hurt what she could not control.

"Nay," he said raggedly, "I have no right to question you on such matters, God know. I trust you.

Let's leave it at that."

"I would as soon touch Hugh as lie in a bed of maggots," she said, relenting. "Let's leave it at that. There's much to be considered these next two days and not least of them is what royal garments can be found for your investiture. Waltharia has said she will help me in finding suitable clothing."

"Waltharia?"

"Oh, indeed, we are quite close, she and I."

She was doubly pleased, and ashamed of the pleasure she took in it, to see him look askance at her, and frown, and scratch one shoulder in a way that showed he was quite discomfited by these tidings, wondering what they meant and what the two women might have said to each other. He took refuge in pacing, and she let him pace as she allowed the turmoil in her heart to simmer in an alarmingly smug manner.

In time, he came to rest beside the bench. He picked up the book, opened it with the exaggerated care of a man who rarely touches such things, and shook his head as he stared at one of the pages From this angle, she could not see which one.

"I haven't the patience for this," he muttered at last as he closed and set it down with proper reverence.

"I haven't the patience for court life."

"No," he agreed. "You will always say the wrong thing at the wrong time."

"Even if I'm right!"

"Especially if you're right," he said, laughing. "But court is a battlefield, nothing different. You must choose not just how you arrange your forces but when and in what order you attack, when to make a strategic retreat, when to make a flanking action, when to stand your ground."

"Its own form of scholarship."

"Perhaps. I would not say so."

"We each received training in our youth. That can't be changed. I wouldn't have it otherwise.

Because of that, there is much we can learn each from the other. I've been thinking about Gent, and strategy, and excommunication."

"The nobles support me. As long as they support me, the church is limited in how far its influence can reach."

"That may be, but / do not wish to remain an excommunicate in the eyes or heart of the church.

Of course it didn't affect me at Verna or when I was with the Ashioi because I didn't even know of it. In the final march against Anne it mattered little. Now it matters a great deal. I know what I must do."

"What is that?"

"You won't like it."

"Is that meant to encourage me to dissuade you?"

"I mean to do it, because I know it's right."

"So am I threatened! I pray you, if we are to be allies, we must know what the other intends."

"Very well," she said. "You are not the only one who must hold a vigil."

XI

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20d...lliott%20-%20Crown%20Of%20Stars%2006%20-%20In%20the%20Ruins.html SHADOWS AND

LIGHT

1

I don't like you," said Blessing, "so go away."

Although Lady Lavinia's enclosed garden had not yet begun to bloom, Antonia found a measure of peace there when she was not tutoring Princess Mathilda or receiving petitioners and penitents in the great hall beside Queen Adelheid. She had been sitting in solitude on a stone bench considering the nature of evil and the punishments and penance most fitting for oath breakers.

Hearing the shrill voice of her enemy's child, she leaned forward to peer through the foliage that concealed her. A screen of clematis grew alongside the picturesque ruins of a tiny octagonal chapel, a remnant from the old Dariyan palace that had once stood here. Beneath her feet a mosaic floor, swept clean, displayed an antique tale involving two hounds, a huntress, and a half naked man. She had often encouraged Lady Lavinia to destroy the floor, but while the lady was otherwise all compliance, in this matter she refused most obstinately.

"You can't make me go. You're my mother's prisoner."

"I can punch you in the face."

"Bastard of a bastard!"

'Am not!"

'Are so!"

"Brat! Leave off!" A masculine voice entered the fray. Antonia parted the leaves with her hands so she could see. She had succumbed once to a man of that line. It was a bitter failing to know that a youthful face and laughing, generous features might warm her still, although he was young enough to be her grandson. Berthold Villam sauntered up from the far end of the garden along the paved pathway that paralleled the irrigation channel. He was conversing amiably with his Aostan guards.

The two girls faced each other like two young furies, although Blessing looked years older. Yet their expressions and stances were remarkably similar. It was difficult to remember, seeing a woman budding out of the girl, that Blessing was very young despite the age of her body. She looked ready to spit or bite, as little hellions may do, but Berthold's command fixed her to one spot where she fumed and got red and then white as her temper flared.

Princess Mathilda spat at Blessing's feet before bolting for the safety of the colonnaded porch where two of her servingwomen waited in the shadows. As they led the girl away, their chatter faded out of earshot.

"... and Meto said what? Here, now, Your Highness, your mother said you weren't to speak to the child for she's not of your station and a wild thing indeed. Let's go in. So, go on. What did Meto say to her when he found out she meant to marry Liutbold?"

"Marry Liutbold! Is that what that was about? That's the first I heard of it. What can she have been thinking?"

"She's stupid," said Blessing.

Berthold halted beside the girl, scratching at the peach fuzz he had been growing for the last three months. "Princess Mathilda is a royal princess just as you are, Your Highness. You'd do better to make her an ally than an enemy." He had switched to Wendish, which the guards did not, perhaps, understand.

"She's an enemy."

"Perhaps. But she keeps stumbling into you when she isn't supposed to see you at all."

"That's because she hates me."

"She might. Or she might wish for a child her own age to play with. She might want to like you, and act like this because she doesn't know how else to get your attention."

How had this youth come to be so wise?

"She's not my own age! I'm older!"

"You look older, brat. But you don't act it!"

"I do!" She bit her lip. She pouted. But she shut up and fixed a stare on Berthold that would have eaten another man alive.

"Come, brat," he said more fondly, extending a hand.

She laid her head against his arm as a dog rests its muzzle lovingly along its master's thigh.

"Here is Brother Heribert. He's found you a green apple left over from last season. Isn't that amazing?"

"It'll make me puke!"

'Anna can stew it up with herbs and make it all tasty. He found some flowers, too, a kind I've never seen before. Maybe you can dry them and press them to make something pretty."

"I don't want to. Papa let me fight with swords. I want to fight with swords!"

One of the guards made a noise halfway between a hiccup and a cough.

"I can so! I can so!"

"Blessing!"

She shut her eyes and to Antonia's amazement did not burst into tears, as she would have done just two months ago. She struggled, that dusky face mobile in all its expressions, flashing quickly from thwarted anger through innocent bewilderment into a determination that showed itself by the way she jutted out her jaw.

"Your Highness, I have found you an apple."

Antonia looked away, letting the branches ease back into place. It was bad enough to hear his voice. She could not bear to look at him as well.

"Thank you, Brother Heribert."

"Properly spoken, brat," said Berthold with a laugh. "We'll teach you manners yet."

"I hate you," said Blessing in a tone that meant exactly the opposite. "Come, Brother Heribert,"

she added grandly. "We'll go up to Anna. We don't need him anymore."

"It's time for your lessons," he said in the voice that sounded like Heribert but not like him.

"I hate books!"

"You must learn. It is what he wanted."

"Go on, brat. Learning is a weapon as sharp as steel."

"You'll come too, Berthold?" she asked plaintively.

"In a bit."

Her sigh seemed loud enough to rattle the leaves. She tromped off.

Antonia from her concealment saw the pair as they climbed the steps onto the long porch that looked over the enclosed garden. A trio of bored guards dogged their heels. One held the chain bound to Blessing's left wrist, a necessary precaution after her first two escape attempts. On the third step Heribert paused and glanced back over the garden, and for an instant Antonia thought he looked right at her, although surely she was safely hidden in the bower.

"That child has a terrible liking for you, my lord," said the older of the two guards attending Berthold. He spoke in Dariyan.

"Do you think so?" Berthold had taken to Dariyan so easily that it was likely he had some prior knowledge of the language, although nothing Antonia knew of the Villam clan suggested an earlier link to Aosta.

"Surely enough, for I've two daughters close to her in age and I know the look they gave those lads they took a liking to."

"Poor thing," said Berthold.

"Think you so?" asked the younger guard. "She is a brat. Princess Mathilda is a nobler child."

"I pray you, Philo, I will not hear Princess Blessing spoken of in that way." The tone was gentle enough to make the older guard chuckle and the younger one truckle.

"I beg pardon, my lord. I meant nothing disrespectful. Yet it's her father killed our lord, the queen's husband. His own father! Surely the stain of his patricide marks her somehow. She hasn't the look of proper people. What if that's the influence of the Enemy?"

"I'm no cleric to answer such troubling questions. Princess Mathilda is a fine young lady, indeed, as she must be with such royal parents. What say you we go find those pastries you were speaking about?"

"Is it the pastries you lads are wanting a closer look at, or the cook's helpers?" said the elder, and the younger two chortled.

They walked away in good charity with each other. Queen Adelheid had no idea how thoroughly Lord Berthold had cozened his guards and what freedom they allowed him, none of which she had approved. He had the run of the castle, as long as he kept out of the way of those who would get his guards in trouble. Antonia watched the three men retreat down the length of the garden between the serried ranks of fruit trees only now leafing and budding as the warmth of spring tried to penetrate the clouds. There was a brilliance in the sky today that gave her hope that the sun would break through soon. If not now, when?

Berthold could have escaped a hundred times in the last three months, but he had not, because Blessing could not. Like Villam, he was loyal to Wendar and, despite Mathilda's superior claims, it was obvious to Antonia that Berthold had made his choice. Adelheid might believe otherwise, but she had allowed herself to be blinded by his youthful charm.

Nay, Heribert was the cause of it all. He had turned Berthold's heart, although it wasn't clear with what inducements. Blessing, too, had a hand in it, however unwitting. Mathilda had many fine qualities, including Henry's infamous temper and openhanded generosity and Adelheid's devious mind, but she did not shine, not as Blessing did. The child was without question an abomination, intermingling the blood of three races, but she had power that could be molded and used as a tool, either by the Enemy or by the righteous.

Adelheid knew that. It was the only reason she hadn't killed Blessing in revenge for Henry's death.

Antonia sat down on the bench to resume her meditations, but peace had fled. It was dry and cool and the air had a dusty bite to it. No breath of wind rustled leaves. Even the poplars that lined the far wall stood in silence, although normally any least breeze caused them to murmur. There hadn't been rain for a month although usually the dry season commenced much later in the year.

These signs seemed bad omens.

Worse yet to come, as the holy prophets said, although how anything could be worse than what she had seen and the reports that filtered in from the provinces of Adelheid's blasted realm she could not imagine.

When she rose, her knees popped, and her back hurt. These days she was always out of breath and battling a nagging cough. By the dry fountain, two clerics and one attendant waited for her.

Few had survived the destruction in Darre, but that was just as well.

"Your Grace," said young John.

"Your Holiness," said elderly Johanna.

The servingwoman, Felicita, took her arm and assisted her up the steps, which had gotten steeper in the last month.

"We will go first to the queen's chamber and then to my audience hall for the afternoon's petitioners."

"Yes, Your Holiness."

At midday, Adelheid usually sat for an hour beside Berengaria, but she was not in the nursery today. Antonia sank down on the couch beside the bed where the tiny child tossed and turned in fitful sleep. Her face, normally pale, would turn red when she coughed. She had not spoken a word for three weeks now, and it was supposed by everyone except Adelheid that she was dying.

Had Berengaria been innocent, or guilty? It seemed she had been guilty, although it was difficult to know how a child so small could have offended God. Perhaps she was being punished for her mother's sins, as in the ancient days of the prophets when God smote the unrighteous for their failings, great and small, old and young, female and male, and even the cattle.

So be it.

"Poor thing," murmured Felicita. Antonia smoothed sweat-soaked hair back from the child's face as the nurse looked on with resignation.

"Has the queen been in to see her daughter today?" Antonia asked.

"No, Your Holiness," said the nurse. "I heard her in the corridor with her attendants, but then Captain Falco came with some news and they went away again."

"What news?"

"I'm not sure, Your Holiness. There was some talk of prisoners, but you know how the guard do bring in all kinds of folk these days, most of them beggars wanting a loaf of bread and nothing more."

Antonia went into the sitting room where Mathilda sat at a table and laboriously formed her letters. The girl looked up, hearing footsteps, and smiled.

"Your Holiness! Come see, I pray you. I know every one!"

She was a cunning girl, and eager to display her skill on the wax tablet although generally in the church novices were not taught their letters this young.

After every letter had undergone scrutiny and approval, and been done again, the child peeped up at her. She had big eyes and long lashes, but she wasn't sweet, not anymore, not since the days before. As it had in the greater world, the cataclysm had shaken loose the many lesser evils that cut into a soul and thereby in those gouges gave purchase for the Enemy's minions to claw their way inside.

"I'm better at my letters than she is, aren't I?"

"You are very skilled at your letters, Your Highness."

"Better than her?"

"My child, do not seek to be compared to that you do not wish to become."

"She doesn't like me."

"She doesn't like herself. She is very young."

"She's older than me. She can't make letters like I can. Will Berengaria die?"

"We will all die, child. We will all come to dust someday."

"But our souls will live."

"Those that do not fall into the Pit."

She shivered. "I saw it."

"You saw what?"

"The Pit. There was a big wind. There was fire. The earth split apart. It swallowed people. All that poison poured out. Wasn't that from the Pit? It was stinky."

"Maybe so, child. Do not vex yourself. You were not punished."

She bit her lip and stared at the letters, then with a sharp movement wiped the slate clean. "I'll do them again," she said. "I'll be perfect so God won't punish me."

2

ANTONIA meant to stop in her audience chamber—there was so much work to be done—

but her steps led her to the North Tower. This time of day, all the prisoners would be within.

Blessing was allowed into the courtyard only in the morning, under guard, and her attendants had leave to exercise only in the afternoon, so none would be able to attempt escape without leaving the others behind.

"Holy Mother." The guards dropped to one knee, bowing heads, then rose and opened the door.

The lowest room of the North Tower was now a barracks. Pallets and rope beds filled half the floor, benches and three tables the rest. Men knelt as she entered. At least two dozen were barracked here.

"Holy Mother." A sergeant—she'd forgotten his name—came forward. "The queen is above with Captain Falco. Have you come to see the new prisoners? They were brought in at dawn."

"Yes. I'll go up."

A stone staircase curved along the outer wall of the tower, leading up to the next level. Here, the three servants slept on pallets laid out on the plank floor. Two of them, the barbarians, sat here now. The young male was binding hemp into rope. He looked up at her, his gaze impassive, and without the least interest in her rank and exalted status he went back to his work. The female had her eyes shut and, although she was sitting, seemed to be asleep. What coarse hands she had!

They were large and callused, and she had the unattractive, flat-faced features of the Quman, although Antonia had been told she was born to a different tribe entirely. It made no difference.

They were both doomed to the Pit, because they were heathens who refused to accept the Circle of Unity. Except for a single chest, the rest of the circular room was empty and the shutters barred. A pair of guards sat on the wooden steps that had been lowered from the level above, fastened with ropes and a pulley. The stone staircase, continuing upward, had been blocked off with planks.

"Holy Mother! Will you go up to see the prisoners? Let us help you, if you will."

A brawny and gratifyingly polite young soldier lent her a steadying hand. It was not as easy as it had once been to climb stairs that were almost as steep as a ladder, but she got to the second floor without incident. In this chamber Lord Berthold and his attendant slept on decent beds, and therefore good tapestries were hung from the walls and two braziers, now cold, hung from tripods. Carved benches flanked a good table. There was even a chair set beside an open window.

He sat there, staring out over Novomo with an expression on his face that made her shiver because it was so inhuman in its lack of emotion.

"Brother Heribert," she said, that thrill of rage and helpless expectation flooding her weary bones.

Ought not a child to love its parent? Didn't the Holy Book enjoin obedience? He did not turn or even acknowledge that she had spoken. She might as well have been invisible, and mute.

"Heribert!"

He roused, startled, and looked at her, but did not rise to greet her, as any natural child would have. He should love her and be grateful to her. He had been a great burden to her, after all, since it was expected she would be celibate. That his father had seduced her—well, that was the work of the Enemy, and no doubt those seeds sown had sprouted and corrupted Heribert in a most improper way to make him so rebellious and ungrateful.

Before she could speak to tell him so, Captain Falco spoke, his voice heard through the open trap cut into the ceiling. "I will ask you again, where have you come from? Who is this young woman who accompanies you?"

He got no answer.

She walked to stand under the trap. The stone staircase here had also been blocked off, and the ladder that offered access to the third floor rested against one of the benches.

"Can I help you with that, Holy Mother?" asked the guard, who had followed her up. "Can you climb the ladder?"

"I can," she said grimly.

The man set the ladder up through the trap. Heribert rose. From the chamber below, she heard voices.

"Let me up, I pray you!"

"My lord, you weren't to have gone out! The queen was very angry. We told her you were ill with a terrible flux. Lord Jonas threw a hood over his head to pretend he was you and let Paulinus and Tedwin escort him out to the pits. He rowled like a cat hung out on a hook."

Berthold's laugh rang merrily. 'After all those pastries, I may yet wish I were that cat—"

Above, the queen said, "Hit him. Make him talk."

A slap fell hard on flesh.

"Stop it! Stop it, you bitch!"

"Shit!" swore Berthold, from below. "Who is that?"

"The other prisoner, my lord. Dark as honey, that one, and I'm sure she tastes as sweet. I didn't know Wendish women came so dark, like Jinna. But she carries herself like a duchess and she's Wendish, all right, the bitch."

A second slap cracked, from above. From below, feet scrambled on the steps. Heribert's brow furrowed as he considered Antonia's face, or the bright tapestry depicting a hunting scene, or the air itself, perhaps, where the sunlight caught the drifting of dust motes. His gaze was focused on no single thing.

She set foot on the lowest rung as Berthold's head appeared in the open trap.

Above, a scuffle broke out. There came another slap, a muffled shriek, and a woman's sharp curse. Blessing screamed.

"Sit down!" roared Captain Falco.

"You'll not treat me in this manner! Get your hands off me, you Pig'"

"I pray you, child," said a new voice, a man's voice. "Sit down."

Antonia recognized that voice. She climbed as Berthold dashed across the floor and, seeing her on the ladder, hopped from one foot to the other because he was too well bred to demand she hurry up.

She had trouble clambering out onto the floor above. By the time she got to her feet, Berthold had swarmed up the ladder behind her, and he stood there, skin flushed, eyes wide, and mouth open as he stared.

The queen was furious; spots of color burned in her cheeks. This kind of unrestrained anger never made her prettier.

The servant girl, Anna, had Blessing clasped in a tight embrace. The princess looked ready to kick, but did not.

A white-haired man was bound to a chair. Two guards stood behind him. Captain Falco, looking as angry as Antonia had ever seen him and bearing a fresh scratch on his face, had his big hands clamped around the wrists of a dusky young woman who appeared to be about the same age as Berthold.

"Elene!" young Villam cried, in the Wendish manner, dragging out each syllable: Ehl-leh-ney.

"Elene of Wayland!"

Captain Falco released her. The newcomer turned to look at the elderly man, who nodded at her before looking toward Berthold.

"You look like Berthold, Villam's youngest son," said the one called Elene. "I remember you from the king's schola, where I was held hostage."

"You remember me?" said Berthold in the tone of a man who has just fallen heels over head in love.

"Of course. The others weren't kind to me, not as you were. They called me names. They were jealous of my father, of course."

"Elene of Wayland," said Adelheid. She folded her hands and tucked them close against her belly as might a child who has been warned not to snatch at a piece of sweet cake it particularly wants.

'Are you Conrad's daughter?"

The girl looked at her, just that, then turned her back most insultingly and crossed to kneel beside the elderly man. "Have they hurt you, Wolfhere?"

"Hush!" hissed Anna in a too-loud voice as Blessing squirmed in her arms. "Hush, my lady!"

"I want to go to Berthold!"

Anna let her go, and Blessing bolted across the room and flung herself so hard against Berthold that he staggered and almost plunged down through the trap.

"Brat! Hold, there! I can't breathe."

But he didn't look at her. He had not once taken his gaze from Duke Conrad's beautiful daughter, who had, against all expectation, turned up in Aosta under the protection of Brother Lupus, known as Wolfhere, the last of Anne's cabal.

How very interesting.

"Enough!" Adelheid tugged pointlessly at her sleeves as she struggled to recover her composure.

"Let the Eagle stew in the hole until he is willing to tell us why he travels north through Aosta without a retinue and with a duke's heir in his talons. Conrad's daughter may remain with her royal cousin for now."

"I don't want her!" retorted Blessing, who was still clinging to Berthold. "I don't like her."

"I'll show you, you little beast!" said Elene, with a spark of gleeful spite as she spun to face Blessing. "You think I don't know how to discipline nasty little sisters?"

"Hush, Blessing!" scolded Berthold. "Duke Conrad is your father's cousin. You'll treat Lady Elene with respect."

"I won't!"

Wolfhere spoke for the second time. "Princess Blessing. Be good, as your father—and Brother Heribert—would wish you to."

The words silenced her. She sniveled, but kept her mouth shut.

Elene smiled. She looked at Wolfhere, and he at her, and some message passed between them that Antonia could not read, but she understood its import. Prisoners as they were, fallen into the hands of enemies, they were not scared in the least.

They have a plan already.

"Captain, take him quickly, before I lose my temper," said Adelheid. She turned toward the trap.

"Holy Mother! Why have you come?"

"To see the prisoners, Your Majesty. How are they come here, in these terrible days?"

"They were found walking north. How can a pair of travelers with but one sorry mare between them have survived the journey through southern Aosta? Yet neither deigns to speak. We will have to torture the Eagle to extract a confession. Captain!"

Falco untied Wolfhere from the chair. The old man's hands were still bound, and he was bundled away down the ladder while Elene stared after him. Adelheid followed.

"Here, now, brat," said Berthold, "let go."

"Won't."

"How have you come here, Lord Berthold?" asked Elene.

"I pray you, Holy Mother," said Berthold sweetly. "Will you lead us in prayer?"

The girl started, then lifted her chin to acknowledge the blow. She was not subtle, but it was clear that, like her infamous father, she was stubborn and strong. And hiding something. There was a perfume, if not quite a smell, about her that reminded Antonia of Anne and the tower in Verna: the stink of sorcery, that she knew so well herself.

"You are Meriam's granddaughter," Antonia said.

The girl looked at her, surprised. That youthful face had a great deal of pride, but she was also wary, guarded, watchful. She was thinking, plotting, planning.

"Who are you?" she asked imperiously.

"I am the Holy Mother of the faithful, child."

"You are the skopos? Holy Mother Anne's successor?" she asked. "Yet you speak Wendish.

You're not Dariyan-born. Did Holy Mother Anne choose you to succeed her?"

"God have chosen me to do their work on Earth."

Elene giggled, her expression touched so slightly with hysteria that Antonia almost missed it.

Beneath the noble arrogance inherited from her father, she was fragile. The strength she had shown in front of Wolfhere had no deep roots. "I pray you, Holy Mother, in-tercede with the queen. Do not let them harm Wolfhere. He saved my life!"

There was a secret here, but she would have to probe carefully to uncover it. "How did he save you, child?"

"I can't tell you."

"I pray you, Holy Mother," broke in Berthold, "can't you see she is exhausted? Let her rest.

Surely you can interview her later."

"Wolfhere must not be harmed!" Elene dropped to the floor, weeping.

"Let go, brat!" Berthold shook off Blessing. He crossed to Elene, grasped her hands, and knelt beside her. "I pray you, lady, do not despair. I won't let Wolfhere be harmed."

She lifted her face to stare up at him through her tears. Such a handsome couple! So young and so emotional, as the young were.

"Stop it!" said Blessing furiously. She stomped forward and tried to shove herself between Berthold and Elene.

"That's enough, brat!" said Berthold sternly.

"Stop it, yourself!" Elene pinched the girl so hard on her backside that Blessing shrieked, leaped away, and flung herself into Anna's arms, sobbing noisily.

"No one loves me! I hate all of you!"

Elene's tears had dried. She looked at Berthold, measuring him, and he stared at her with all the intelligence of a young man who has fallen hard and helplessly into the snare of infatuation. She did not remove her hand from his. Tremulously, she smiled.

"No! No! No! He loves me, not her!"

"Your Highness," said the servant girl, clutching the writhing child so tightly against her that the strain showed on her face, "I pray you, do not make a scene. Of course Lord Berthold loves you.

We all do."

"Even Papa got rid of me! No one loves me! No one! No one! No one!" She fell into a sobbing temper tantrum that took all the servant girl's strength to contain.

Antonia smiled. "Lady Elene. What is it you wish?"

She released Berthold's hands and stood. His concern had given her an infusion of strength. "I wish for Wolfhere to be released so he and I can continue north. I want to go home!"

"Queen Adelheid will not be so easily persuaded."

"I have other—" She cut herself off, remembering prudence.

"I expect your grandmother has taught you some of her arts, child. I am not ignorant of Anne and her sorcery. I know Meriam. Is she dead?"

Elene's shoulders curled. Her tense stance slackened. "Yes," she whispered. "She's dead. Anne knew it would kill them all, and she didn't care! That's what Wolfhere said."

"Wolfhere would know, would he not, for he was Anne's most loyal servant."

Elene tilted her head sideways as a measuring smile teased her lips. "That's right," she said in a mocking tone.

Impertinent child!

"I don't know what Wolfhere told you to convince you to travel with him. I stood among their number, once, before Anne tried to betray me. I saw what was coming. I saw who supported Anne, but I also saw that I would be sacrificed, so I chose a different path. That is why I survived."

"What are you talking about?" asked Berthold.

Blessing sobbed on and on. "No one! No-o-o one!" The child had remarkable stamina, which was, no doubt, some unnatural inheritance from her parents.

"Of course you are right," said Elene quietly. "I pray you, Holy Mother, do not let them harm Wolfhere."

"I am sworn to God's service, not to the trivial quarrels of humankind. Yet I hate to see suffering.

It is possible that you and Wolfhere have information that may be of value to me."

"I'll tell you everything, if you'll let us go."

"Were you not already planning to escape? What manner of sorcery did your grandmother teach you?"

Elene twisted one hand within the curve of the other. She bit her lip.

"I know something of sorcery, Lady Elene. I am not without weapons of my own, cruel ones, more dangerous than you can know. Ones whose reach flies farther than that of arrows or spears.

Ones whose touch is deadly, and whose heart cannot be turned aside by any manner of plea or bribe. My servants are not of this world, and nothing on this Earth—nothing you have—can stop them."

Blessing stopped crying, but she shuddered against her servant.

Elene hid her face in her hands. "I know who you are. My grandmother spoke of you. You're the one who controls the galla."

"That I am. Now do you see it is better to cooperate with me? Even if you used magic to escape, my servants can still hunt you down no matter where you run."

"What are galla?" asked Berthold, his face twisted with nervousness and confusion and a touch of proud Villam outrage.

"Something very bad," said Elene so faintly that her voice faded and was lost as, below, a bench scraped and a guard's yell drifted up from the lowest level. She lowered her hands. "What do you want from us, Holy Mother?"

"I want the truth. Tell me everything you know, Lady Elene. I cannot allow you or Wolfhere to leave, but I will see that you are well treated and that Queen Adelheid does not harm you."

"Yes." Groping, Elene found a chair and sank into it with Berthold supporting her. Once she was sitting, he kept a hand protectively on her shoulder as she told her tale in a halting voice, backtracking often, repeating herself, and without question obfuscating where she could.

She was terrified, that was easy to see, and humiliated because she knew she was afraid. She made mistakes and revealed more than she meant to: how Meriam had demanded that her son sacrifice his eldest daughter to Anne's cabal; how they had been shipwrecked but rescued by Brother Marcus; how Wolfhere had vanished in Qurtubah, near the ruins of Kartiako, because the others suspected he had turned against them; how a simple, illiterate brother called Zacharias had saved her from the monstrous akreva, taking the poison meant for her; how she and Meriam and their tiny retinue had crossed through the crown into the deserts of Sais, into a trackless waste where no creature lived or breathed; how Meriam had woven the great spell with Elene's assistance, on that terrible night.

"She died." Elene's voice was more croak than human and her body shuddered as Berthold patted her shoulder. She did not cry. "She needed my strength, but she sent me back at the last moment.

She had planned it with Wolfhere all along."

"With Wolfhere? Planned what?"

"That he would follow us and return me to my father. She fulfilled her vow to Anne. She knew it was right, what they did. But the Seven Sleepers failed. The Lost Ones have returned. They will kill all of humankind if they can. In Jinna lands they still tell tales of the ancient war with the Aoi. My grandmother heard those stories when she was a child. You know what Anne meant to do

—to banish the Lost Ones forever, so they would never trouble us again. Why did you abandon Mother Anne, knowing that her cause was just and necessary?"

"I saw no reason to sacrifice myself when I could serve God better by surviving. Did Anne know that she and all the others would die? That the weaving would extract its own cost? Did Sister Meriam know she was doomed? Did all of them die?"

By the way Elene lowered her eyes and sagged against Berthold, Antonia guessed she was about to lie. "I could not see into the weaving. I only know ..." She wept.

Berthold shot Antonia an indignant glance. "Is this necessary?" He looked so much like his father that Antonia had a momentary sense of dislocation, as if she had been thrown by means of a spell back to the days of her youth. But she had to press on.

"What do you know, Lady Elene?"

"Something terrible happened. I don't know who fought the spell, but it broke down in the north, and then something terrible happened. White fire, and a river of burning rock. My grandmother was ..." Her lips twisted as she struggled not to sob out loud. "She was gone, engulfed utterly in a blast of light. Later, a wind flattened our camp. Our servants were killed, smothered in sand.

There came ... a creature that dug out of the sands." She covered her eyes with a hand. "A huge lion, but it had wings, and the face of a woman. It was going to kill me. Wolfhere came, and we escaped."

"The ancient messengers of God." A fire of excitement burned in Antonia's heart. The rush of heady discovery made her giddy. "The oldest stories come to life! Is this true, that you have seen such things? One of the lion queens, the holy messengers of God?"

"I saw them."

"What did Wolfhere do that allowed you to escape their just wrath?"

Elene grimaced and wiped her cheeks as she calmed herself. 'Ask him. I fainted from loss of blood."

"Can you mean they struck, and yet you survived?"

"Do you not believe me?"

Elene pulled her tunic up to display a length of bare thigh, supple and comely. Berthold flushed bright red and looked away, but Antonia saw the whitened scars from three cruel cuts that had torn the flesh and healed cleanly. A cat might leave such a mark, if it were very, very large.

"Very well," said Antonia. "I believe you, Lady Elene. You will remain here in the custody of Queen Adelheid. Do not forget the galla."

She left them, but it was difficult to concentrate on the discrete rungs of the ladder with her thoughts in a tumult. What power did Wolfhere have? He seemed the least powerful of Anne's cabal, the one who wandered in the world to give reports back to the others because it was the only thing he could do. Yet he and Antonia were apparently the only ones who had survived out of Anne's cabal. There might be others of Anne's schola who had received some training in the arts of sorcery, but it was likely they had perished in Darre or cowered in fear in some hiding place. Without a strong leader, they were no more than boats set adrift without oars or rudder.

On the lower floor, Heribert still stood by the window. By all appearances he hadn't moved at all since she had gone upstairs. His glance touched her, then flicked away.

His disinterest infuriated her. She struck with the only weapon she had. "If Prince Sanglant loved you, he would not have abandoned you."

That caught his attention. He regarded her first with puzzlement, then with faint comprehension.

"That's what the other one said. If he loved me, he would not have abandoned me." He tried out the words, considering the concept. It was not like Heribert to be so slow. "Where did he go? I look and look, but I cannot find him."

"North, so it is said! Back to Wendar in search of the one he loves more than you. He never loved you."

He shook his head as might a child, trying to shake off a hurt that would never go away. "That can't be. He loved me. But he abandoned me to follow the other one. It's the other one who stole him."

His ponderous maundering annoyed her. She had done so much for him, and this was how she was repaid. She continued down to the guardroom, eager to depart the North Tower now that she had so much to think about. How far did Elene's sorcerous abilities extend? Impossible to know.

"Be sure that none of those here leave the tower until I give further orders," she said to the sergeant. "Not even Lord Berthold. I know he is a favorite among you for his amiability, but he must remain confined to the tower for the time being."

"Yes, Holy Mother. But there are certain chores and tasks that my men don't wish to be involved in. Who is to do those?"

"The servant girl can continue to run errands for you in such matters. She will not attempt to escape. Where has the old man been placed?"

"In the dungeon, Holy Mother."

"Make sure he is chained, so he has no chance of escape. He is dangerous, although he may appear inoffensive and weak."

"Yes, Holy Mother."

As a mark of favor, she allowed him to kiss her ring.

Her attendants escorted her through Novomo's gardens and open corridors to her audience chamber. The day's supplicants had been waiting, crowded outside the chamber. Inside, Antonia stood with arms outstretched as her servants arrayed her in the holy vestments. She settled in the high-backed chair with the Holy Lance of St. Perpetua laid on a table, on cloth, beside her. The golden cup was filled with wine and placed on an embroidered tablecloth draped over a table behind her. A dozen scribes sat at a table to her right, prepared to record the petitions, the litigants, and her decisions.

Clerics opened the doors. The petitioners crept forward on their knees and one by one pleaded, begged, and made excuses.

"I pray you, Holy Mother, I have in my possession this letter granting me the benefice of St.

Asklepia in Noria, but without an escort of twenty armed men I cannot risk the journey south along the coast. Without my presence, there is no accounting for the riot and ruin that may afflict the land. I cannot pay taxes into your treasury if I am not there to supervise. Pray delegate soldiers for this task. ..."

"Lord Atto has set his own bastard son as abbot over our monastery, Holy Mother, and this scoundrel keeps three concubines in his chamber and a pack of dogs in the chapel. We pray you, let our good Brother Sylvester be raised to become Father over the cloister of St. Justinian. Have this evil man turned out as he deserves. ..."

"I pray you, Holy Mother, every last stand of ripe grain was burned and all our vineyards destroyed last autumn. I have no stores and the people in my parish are starving. ..."

"It's true we are obligated to provide thirty armed and provisioned soldiers and their mounts for the skopal palace. We are hard-pressed in our own county at this time and need all those men to hold off brigands and outlaws. ..."

"Our biscop died last autumn, Holy Mother. We pray you, appoint a worthy successor. ..."

Every day except Ladysday she heard such cases, or ones so similar that without the record of the clerks she might have gotten confused when a competing group of brothers from the same monastery of St. Justinian arrived to press a claim for the very bastard son whom they said had been slandered by evil men and who was in truth a most pious and learned shepherd who would be happy to offer a generous donation to the papal treasury to prove his worth. Folk would shirk their tithe, and then turn around and beg her to take various foundlings and wastrels into foundations she controlled, but she knew it was only an attempt to fob off extra mouths onto others more willing to feed them. Still, she did not turn away the unwanted. They could always be put to work, and they would be grateful to be alive. The cleverest among them could be trained to act as servants in her growing schola, the least could clean out stables and sweep streets, and the queen always had need of the wicked to toil in the mines. The strong would survive; the rest would smother under the weight of their sins.

For now, she and Adelheid had to rule carefully to gain that measure of authority which would allow them to expand their sphere of influence. That Darre had fallen confused the multitude.

Daily, refugees staggered in from the south with tales that scalded a man's ears—rapine, devastation, looting, buildings torn apart down to the last foundation stone by desperate folk seeking to rebuild elsewhere, pirates along the shore, robbers along the road, and children dying with flies crawling over their eyes and mouths. It was necessary to act ruthlessly to establish preeminence against the many forces rumbling and boiling throughout the stricken Aostan lands.

She had no authority save that of God, but of course the authority conferred on her by God's will was higher than all others.

Every day, therefore, when the last of the petitioners had been heard, when all were gathered in the hall to gain her blessing before setting out on their journeys back to their own lands, when Queen Adelheid arrived from her own audience chamber to share a final benediction and prayer, a statement was read out. Antonia had compiled it herself from such writings as had been rescued from the skopal palace in Darre and from her own understanding of necessity and truth. The assembly would hear, and they would carry news of it back to their homes.

The skopos can be judged by no one; The Dariyan church has never erred and never will err until the end of time;

The Dariyan church was founded by the blessed Daisan alone; St. Thecla the Witnesser was the first skopos; The skopos alone can depose and restore biscops; She alone can call councils and authorize holy law; She alone can revise her judgments; She alone can depose emperors; She alone can absolve subjects from their allegiance; All princes and noble vassals must kiss her feet; Her legates, however humble, have precedence over all biscops; An appeal to the skopal court supercedes any other legal appeal; The skopos is undoubtedly made a saint by the merits of St.

Thecla.

Every day Adelheid, queen and empress, bent her head and listened in apparent humility. Like Antonia, she knew they had nothing but God's authority on which to rebuild what had been lost.

Therefore, God would succor them, and they would do what was right by God. Wicked folk would hate Antonia for her fidelity to God, but she knew that the Lord and Lady had brought her to this position because They wished all those who stood in the Circle of Unity to obey her. St.

Thecla had risked all to witness. Antonia could do no less.

"There will be more tomorrow," said Adelheid when the audience hall had cleared and they sat in a pleasant silence with only the scratching of pens and the gossiping of Adelheid's servants to distract them. Lamps were lit. Lady Lavinia excused herself to attend to four relatives, one a holy presbyter, who needed to be settled in be-fore the evening's feast.

"There will always be more, Your Majesty." Antonia admired her clerics as they worked industriously on codicils, grants, and letters. "As we govern wisely, our influence increases."

"Yes. More come every week."

"They fear the Enemy. Therefore, they come to us for rescue. Soon we go in to supper, Your Majesty. It is necessary we discuss Duke Conrad's daughter and the Eagle. The girl is a sorcerer, trained by her grandmother. She is dangerous."

"Because she is a sorcerer, or because she is not loyal to us?"

"I recommend you kill her at once. Be certain to strike when she least expects it, or while she sleeps. She may have weapons at her disposal that will make her difficult to kill."

Adelheid regarded her in silence. One by one, lamps were lit in the hall, casting shadow and light according to God's will: skopos and empress in pools of light, and the rest in the growing shadows each depending on their nature.

"What of the Eagle? Henry never trusted him."

"Kill him, too, if you wish it, but he may yet be of use to you. He knows the secrets of Anne's power. He knew her longer than anyone. He has power of his own that I do not yet understand."

"Where have they come from? Why are they here? Is it not important we learn these things?"

"I have possession of her story. Anne is dead."

"How can the girl know this for certain? Where did they come from?"

"From the deserts of Sais. I will tell you the whole later, after we have eaten."

"How could they have crossed the Middle Sea when such monstrous waves destroyed every shoreline?"

"How and where they crossed I do not know. Only the Eagle can tell us that tale."

Adelheid's gaze skimmed the audience hall, noting each person and what they were doing or to whom they were speaking, noting what soldiers guarded the door and which shutters were open and which closed. "What power have I here, Holy Mother? I have your power, as skopos. It has served us well. So far."

"Do you not trust in God, Adelheid?"

Her expression was wary, and her tone sharp. "It is men I do not trust. A powerful lord—and there are still some in Aosta, especially in the west where they were spared the worst of the cataclysm-may choose to raise another biscop or holy deacon to high office. She may claim the skopos' throne, and that family will therefore gain support for their own faction."

"Their claims would be false."

"So we would argue."

"You have seen God's hands at work here on Earth. How can you doubt Their power?"

"I have seen destruction raised by a great working, raised by human hands. All I know of God's power is that They chose to spare me from death while killing Henry. I have one child who lives, and another who will soon die." The shadows had touched her, but she went on without faltering.

"I have few supporters from the noble clans who rode south and east to support Henry's empire.

Darre is in ruins, uninhabitable. What remains of southern Aosta I do not know. I have marched through the eastern lands myself. They are devastated. Must I go to the Arethousans for help?

Sanglant will not aid me. He intends to become regnant in Henry's place. Yet now Elene of Wayland falls into my hands. With her, I might buy cooperation from Duke Conrad. He has ambitions of his own. She is more valuable to me alive than dead."

"She is dangerous."

'Are you not more dangerous still, Holy Mother? 'The skopos can be judged by no one.' This is a powerful spell."

"It is no spell! The skopos is obliged to govern all peoples who reside in the Circle of Unity."

"Then is the emperor, or empress, your servant?"

Antonia nodded. 'As above, so below."

"You have other servants, scourges whose touch is death."

"I have the tools I need."

"You are well armed for the coming war. Let me keep Lady Elene alive, as a hostage, a companion piece to Princess Blessing. As for the Eagle, I care not. Do with him as you wish. If his death would save my daughter's life, I would tear out his heart with my own hands!"

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20d...lliott%20-%20Crown%20Of%20Stars%2006%20-%20In%20the%20Ruins.html

"A heathen desire, Your Majesty. And yet," she added kindly, seeing how Adelheid set her jaw and clenched her hands upon the arms of her royal chair, "spoken out of a mother's desperation. I have no healing powers of that kind. My gift is to restore God's realm on this Earth."

"So I pray," murmured Adelheid.

Antonia smiled, knowing that her first battle had been won.

XII

WHERE THEIR

FLIGHT TOOK THEM

1

HE did not like it at Quedlinhame, and he liked it less so many days later at Gent when, for the second time, she rose before dawn and drew on a penitent's robe.

"It dishonors you," he said, watching her.

"It does not dishonor me to pray. It does not dishonor me to ask forgiveness for my sins. I am stained with the blood of many men."

'As am I!"

She was dressed like any humble pilgrim in a robe of coarse, undyed linen, with head and feet bare despite the cool spring weather and damp ground. "You killed them cleanly. I did not."

"We can all pray in the church for forgiveness, Liath. This ..."

"This shows the church mothers that I am not afraid to stand barefoot before God even though I am a mathematicus and—the manner of creature I am. I am not a heretic. I am not afraid to be humble before Them. It's the proud who won't kneel before God's truth. It's those who fear to question who are the ones who don't truly believe. God do not fear our questions. Otherwise why would They have made the world with so many mysteries?"

"I can't argue with you!"

"Not in these matters."

He paced, but his protests and his discomfort did nothing to alter the pace of her preparations.

She would go, as she had at Quedlinhame, much to the surprise of Mother Scholastica. In truth, he had to admire it as a good tactic, unexpected and effective as a counterblow.

"How long will this go on?" he asked. "Will we ride the breadth of Wendar and Varre with you kneeling on the church steps at every stop?"

"If I must. Until the excommunication is lifted."

His own splendid clothing had not yet been unpacked from its chest. He would not approach Gent's cathedral until after midday. It took time to ready his retinue.

"You'll continue to ride with me on my progress! You'll not go into hiding! Or into a convent!"

Though somber, she smiled. "Be assured that every soul in this army is aware that you bed me every night without the sanction of the church. That you married me despite your father forbidding the match."

"That you use your sorcery to seduce me and keep me as your prisoner. I know. I know."

"I do not fear what others may say of me or think of me. They can't harm me. Let me do this without having to struggle against you as well, Sanglant."

She did not wait for his answer. After she left the chamber, he surveyed the room. In this same chamber he had resided for many weeks when he had last bided in Gent about two years ago. It was hard to keep track of the time, although he recalled that it had been a cold winter when he and his retinue had arrived. The tapestries on the wall depicting a hunt, a feast, and an assembly of dour clerics and biscops were the same ones he had gazed on before. The handsome Arethousan carpet that covered the floor had the same bright red-and-yellow flowers and green vines as the one he remembered. No reason for the mayor to have changed it, since Arethousan carpets were treasured for their rarity and quality. A copper basin and pitcher rested on a side table. Whatever chests had rested against the wall had been replaced by those he traveled with.

Years ago, Liath had appeared to him in this very chamber through an aetherical gate, and she had stolen Jerna, and vanished.

God, he had been so angry. He began, again, to pace.

The latch jiggled. The door opened a handspan.

"Your Majesty?"

"Come in, Hathui."

She entered, followed by his crowd of intimate attendants. Captain Fulk and Captain Istvan the Ungrian represented his guard. To create ties of kinship between the great lords of the realm and his personal guard he had taken in a quintet of young lords, one each from the retinues of Liutgard, Burchard, Gerberga, Waltharia, and a cousin related by marriage to the deceased Duchess Rotrudis. A trio of clerics from his schola were led by Sister Elsebet, and she had with her a young monk named Brother Ernoul whom Mother Scholastica had attached to his household so that Sanglant might offer the worthy, clever, and affable youth advancement in the world. He had also acquired four honest servingmen, sons of stewards, chatelaines, or castellans, each one a relative of one of his soldiers who had died. Den's younger brother swept dust from around the braziers and refilled them with hot coals, while Malbert's cousin and Johannes' uncle laid out his robes and finery on the bed so that the seamstresses could repair any last moment's snags or frays. Chustaffus' older brother brought a covered pitcher of hot water which he placed beside the basin, waiting until his services were needed.

"Your Majesty," said Hathui, "there is a cousin of Lord Hrodik whom Biscop Suplicia wishes you to interview. She believes that this lady, a widow without surviving children, would serve you well as chatelaine of your progress."

"The biscop comes out of that same lineage, does she not?"

"So I hear, Your Majesty."

"She is putting forward her own kinswoman in hope of gaining influence."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Yet you must have a chatelaine and stewards in the same way an army needs soldiers and captains. Duchess Liutgard will leave you in Fesse. Duke Burchard is already gone. Their capable servants cannot serve you forever."

"Let me interview her, then. But I pray you, Hathui, continue asking among the other noble lords for worthy candidates. Alas that so many of Henry's court died in Aosta."

Prayers were murmured among the assembled. In their wake, he heard a slight noise from outside the chamber whose direction he could not fix.

"Where is Lord Wichman?" he asked.

They looked around. Hathui answered. "He was with us a moment before, Your Majesty."

He went to the door, which Fulk opened. "Don't follow me."

The palace at Gent was famous for its circuitous corridors, made more confusing by layers of rebuilding over the last hundred years. The most recent spate of building had occurred after King Henry's defeat of Bloodheart's army, and, except for the unseasonably cool and cloudy weather, it was clear Gent had suffered less than most parts of the country over the last few years. No children begged on the streets. The outlying countryside was well populated and adequately housed, and the road through Steleshame and down into the river valley was particularly well kept.

Many alcoves offered a place to sit beside an open shutter. Here and there a burned-out corridor had simply been closed off with bricks or boards to become a blind alley. What couldn't be seen by the casual passerby might be heard to one seeking the sound of a struggle.

"No ... uh ... my lord ... I pray you, let me go! I'll scream!"

"I think not, you little bitch! Now, just. ..."

"Wichman."

Halting at the mouth of one of these dark corners, he saw two shapes caught in an intimate embrace, one pressing hard against the other, trapping her against a boarded-off back wall.

"Oh, Lord, Sanglant! Can't you let me be?"

"Let the woman say she prefers to remain of her own free will, and I'll walk on."

She was breathless, straining against groping hands, and desperate. "I pray you, Your Majesty.

Grant me your protection. He's trying to rape me."

Wichman slapped her.

Sanglant grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. The other man, turning, came at him with a punch that landed on Sanglant's chin and slammed him into the other wall. Wichman was in a rage, and pushed in cursing and pummeling fists against his body. God, Wichman was strong.

Each slug staggered Sanglant. Most he caught on his arms, but one got under his guard and punched up right under his ribs, making him grunt.

Sanglant hooked a leg around Wichman's, shoved against him with his hip, and upended him, then came down with both knees on his chest.

Wichman coughed and swore. "One isn't enough for you? You have to have all of them?"

Three servants and two guards appeared, looking anxious.

"Go on," said Sanglant, and they looked at his expression and scurried away.

"Perhaps you have to force women to get them in bed with you, Wichman, and perhaps you mind not that they hate and fear you for it, or perhaps you even enjoy it, but I won't tolerate it."

"What will you do to me, Your Majesty?" he said with a sneer. "What can you do?"

Sanglant wiped a bit of blood from his lip. It would swell later. "Marry you to Bertha of Austra."

"She's dead! Your wife lost her!"

"She may not be dead. If she lives, she'll find her way back to Wendar. What would you think of that?"

"You don't scare me, Cousin. I'll take the puling maiden that's Bertha's little sister. I hear she's comely enough. And Westfall in the bargain. Or make me duke of Saony. That will make my sisters croak and bark! Too late for that, isn't it! You gave Saony to your sister like a bone to a bitch, for she'll never have the throne. What's left for me, eh? I found me a tight sheath for my sword, as my consolation, so leave me be, you damned prick!"

He was wild, and aroused, no better than a dog that has scented a bitch in heat. Impossible to reason with.

"Do not touch this woman again." Sanglant stood, and he braced himself as Wichman rose, brushed off his clothing, and laughed.

"Saving her for yourself? She's handsome enough, if not as bright a jewel as your soulless wife."

Sanglant punched him hard, and Wichman went down again, and this time rose afterward with more caution, rubbing his chin.

"I'm not angry, Wichman. Nothing you say about my wife can harm her, but it's necessary for you to understand that on my progress you must curb your tongue."

"I meant to curb my tongue in this warm creature's lips. Why are you so stingy?" He took a half step toward Sanglant, but thought better of it. "Kings ought to be generous, not close-fisted, hoarding all the gold for themselves." He walked away.

"My lord," she said from the darkness where she hid. "Your Majesty. I thank you."

He knew who it was. He'd known all along. "Have you any boon to ask of me, Frederun?" he asked her.

"Nothing you can grant me, Your Majesty." She moved forward enough that he could see her shadowed face and the curve of her breasts and hip beneath her linen gown but not so close that he could touch her without taking a step toward her to claim her. "What I most desire I can never have."

"Have you any need of a dowry to make your way? For a marriage, perhaps? To be released from your service in the palace?"

"I need nothing, Your Majesty. Only to be left in peace. I like my service here well enough and the company of the other women who are my companions. It is only men who trouble me." A tremor afflicted her voice, and he knew he was partly the cause of it but that she could never say so.

"Are you content?"

She did not answer, but he heard her begin to weep.

"If there is anything, apply to one of my stewards."

Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Weary, he returned to his chamber, where Hathui had kept them waiting, just as he'd ordered.

"Is all well, Your Majesty?" she asked him as he entered. She had a way of squinting as she examined his face that made him feel quite naked, not in body but in soul.

"Only reflecting on my sins. Let us go to the chapel for the morn-ing service. Then we'll make ready."

She nodded. It was impossible to know how much anyone had heard, but he understood well enough that there was little secrecy and less privacy on the king's progress. He had known that all his life. This was the first time it chafed him.

2

ON the first day of the new year, 736, King Sanglant of Wendar and Varre, son of Henry, approached the cathedral on horseback with his magnificent entourage behind him, each one splendid and terrible in rich robes and gold or silver coronets, depending on their rank. Behind them rode the twoscore soldiers out of his personal guard who had survived the cataclysm in Aosta as well as another score newly brought into his service. Down the widest avenue in Gent they rode four abreast. There was just room on either side for folk to press back against buildings, to stare and call out and sing praises and weep as he rode past. When they came into the square, he saw that the entire expanse was filled with a multitude, the people who lived in Gent and those who had walked a day or even three days to the city in order to witness the anointing and crowning of the new king and to receive the bread that would be distributed in the wake of the ceremony.

The steps rose before him. He halted his horse at their foot and handed the reins to Wichman, who as his cousin had the right to the office of king's groom and insisted on taking his place at Sanglant's right hand. Sibold eased forward along the side. He would hold Fest during the actual ceremony.

Sanglant dismounted. How strange to set his foot on these cold stairs where he had died—only of course he could not die. Here Adela and Sturm had fallen. Here the last of his faithful, bold Dragons had met their deaths. Up by the doors the brave Eagle, Manfred, had been cut down.

This much he owed them: that where they had died he could honor them by his own triumph, if there was honor in surviving when all those around him perished.

He ought to have died, too, but he had no power over the geas laid on him at birth.

A crowd of beggars knelt on the first few steps; they would feast at a special table tonight. Above them waited the great princes of the realm in their finest clothing, his peers, who had acquiesced to his elevation because there was no one stronger and more fit to reign after Henry. He noted them: Theophanu and Ekkehard, Duchess Liutgard, Rotrudis' sullen daughters, the powerful margraves, and a handful of important counts and nobles. Beside them stood an in-timidation of biscops, abbesses, abbots, presbyters, and noble clerics. All these would witness.

All these, but there was one more who amazingly had space to herself halfway up the steps.

Liath knelt with head bowed. Her golden-dark hair, uncovered and unbound, spilled gloriously down to her rump. It curled wildly, dampened by an earlier misting rain that had ceased at midday. She had, apparently, brushed ashes over it, although only a few traces remained.

Bouquets of flowers—violets, white heal-all, late primroses, and an abundance of starry woodruff

—lay at her bare feet, gifts from unknown hands. There were even two wreaths woven of pale green bracken. No one looked at her, but everyone knew she was there. He moved sideways and, without speaking to her, picked up one of the frail bouquets of woodruff and carried it with him the rest of the way up the steps. Behind, the crowd quieted.

Mother Scholastica came forward to meet him and, together with the most noble biscops, escorted him into the cathedral.

In the years since the defeat of Bloodheart, Gent had prospered. The stone cathedral had survived better than many of the wooden buildings. All the broken windows had been repaired and the interior restored, repainted, and refurnished with holy vessels on the Hearth. Only the stone pillars still bore the scars of the Eika occupation. Stone angels lacked a wing; gargoyles leered out of a single eye; beakless eagles flew silently. He paused in front of the altar beside the chain fixed into the stone with an iron spike. Here, in this spot, he had been chained. As the company gathered about him, he stared at those heavy links, but they no longer had power to disturb him.

He placed the fragile bouquet on the chain to remind him of Count Lavastine, who had freed him from his prison, and the nameless Eika prince who had let them go without a fight.

When everyone was in place and as much quiet as could be expected in such an assembly was gathered, he knelt. The rush of their kneeling was like the thunder of wings, echoing up into the vault.

Mother Scholastica produced from her sleeve an ivory comb studded with gold and gems. With this, she combed out his newly cut hair. The biscop of Gent brought forward a vial of holy oil.

His aunt anointed him with a touch: on the right ear, from forehead to left ear, and on the crown of his head. The oil's scent swamped him. The humble oil of olives had been liberally mixed with frankincense and myrrh to produce a profound aroma.

"May Our Lord and Lady crown you with the crown of glory," his aunt intoned, "may They anoint you with the oil of Their favor."

Theophanu and Ekkehard draped a cloak trimmed with ermine over his shoulders. The dragon of Saony, the eagle of Fesse, and the lion of Avaria graced its expanse, embroidered in gold thread.

This cloak had been worn by the first Henry and put aside into storage by Arnulf when he took Varre's royal family into his own house. It still reeked of cloves, having been stored with great care for all these years. Henry's royal cloak had vanished in the south.

"The borders of this cloak trailing on the ground shall remind you that you are to be zealous in the faith and to keep peace. Let it remind you of the royal lineage out of which you spring."

She gave into his hands Henry's battered and scarred scepter. "Receive this staff of virtue. May you rule wisely and well. Crown him, God, with justice, glory, honor, and strong deeds."

As a wind sweeps across a forest as with a voice, a murmur greeted this pronouncement. Out of the assembly, all the way back by the doors, a man's voice rose.

"May the King live forever!"

A shiver of foreboding made tears rise in Sanglant's eyes, but the crowd had already raised its voice to acclaim him, and those in the square and streets beyond shouted and sang as well, heard as a distant echo.

Right behind him someone coughed.

Ekkehard muttered, "My feet hurt. I've been standing for hours."

Psalms must be sung. Each biscop and prince and noble must come before him to kiss his ring and make known that they, each one, accepted his authority to rule. So it would go in every important town his progress stopped at as they rode west into Varre. So it would go for the rest of his life. Time, at least, was neither male or female. He did not desire death. He could wait, truly, for a good long time before he must embrace it, as every mortal creature must. But he hoped that Time would not abandon him. Yet if it was the Lord and Lady's will that each soul spin out a certain length of thread upon Earth, had his mother's curse then shielded him from Their touch?

Surely not. His mother was not as powerful as God's will, even if she did not believe in Them.

That thought struck him all at once as he spoke words and greeted and nodded and looked each person in the eye to mark the honesty of their gaze. What did his mother believe in? How did the Ashioi explain the existence of the world? What did they worship?

Surely Liath knew.

"Your Majesty." Waltharia knelt before him, her expression solemn. She nodded to show her approval. The gesture reminded him uncannily of her father, who had a habit of nodding in just such a way, with a slight twist to the chin.

Shouts and frantic cries drifted in from outside. They lifted into screams, a chaos of fear that rolled into the church.

"Your Majesty! Come quickly!"

"Save us, Your Majesty!"

He leaped up. Wearing robe and crown and still carrying the staff, he strode down the nave. The train of the robe swept the floor behind him. The crowd parted to let him through, although there was a bottleneck at the doors where terrified people from outside tried to press into the sanctuary.

"Make way! Make way!" cried his soldiers.

He knew their voices. They did not sound afraid.

He had glimpsed them sporadically on the march east. They spent most of their time hunting.

Now they circled low, waiting for the square to clear before they swooped down to land next to the steps. Liath had risen. Folk scattered into the avenues and alleys of Gent, fleeing the monsters. A few foolhardy youths wavered at the edge of the square, measuring the response of his soldiers, who instead of fleeing had merely moved back to leave room for the griffins. Others crowded onto the porch of the church. Many cowered inside.

He strode out onto the steps.

The griffins hit hard and not particularly gracefully. Argent whuffed and spread his wings discontentedly. A handful of sharp wing feathers drifted down. Domina raised and lowered her gleaming head, bobbing up and down, stalking back and then forward. Her movements had the quality of a dance. At intervals she shrieked, and when she had done, she crouched and sprang into flight. The backdraft of her flight stirred his robes. Liath's hair was swept back, then settled, as the two griffins circled once, twice, rising higher, before they caught an updraft and rose dizzyingly. Soon they were only specks climbing toward the clouds.

"They'll talk about this ever after," remarked Waltharia, coming up beside him. Her voice trembled. Like the others, she had never become easy around the griffins, even though usually they kept their distance from all large habitations of humankind.

The others surged out after her, chattering as they stared and pointed. Because of his presence on the steps, the townsfolk crept back into the square to see him standing before them robed and crowned in the vestments of kingship.

"You have powerful allies," said Mother Scholastica, who let no earthly creature frighten her.

"The griffin is a heavenly creature that partakes of the nature of an eagle, a lion, and the serpent, who is sometimes also called a dragon. In this way, it reminds us of Wendar. Yet I wonder what this display portends?" She looked up at the sky, squinting as she attempted to trace the dwindling figures.

"What do you think it portends, Aunt?"

She measured him. "Some will say that this is a sign of God's favor."

'And what will others say?"

"That you are ruled by sorcery. Your legitimacy will always be in question, Sanglant. Do not believe otherwise."

"You crowned and anointed me."

"So the griffins remind me. Yet they may not always remain with you." She looked toward Liath.

"Choose your alliances wisely."

Gent's biscop, Suplicia, came up beside them, shaking her head in wonderment. "Griffins! It is a sign of God's favor."

A woman broke free of the gathering crowd and climbed the steps to kneel before Biscop Suplicia.

"I pray you, Your Grace, let me speak. I am an honest and loyal merchant in this town."

"I know who you are, Mistress Weaver," said the biscop kindly. "You are bold to throw yourself forward at such a solemn time. Remember, this is the king."

Robes and crown were a fine thing because they allowed him to remain silent and keep his distance, shielded by the aura of majesty.

She looked at him but only nodded. What had once passed between them had left nothing more than a fleeting memory in her expression. She had moved on. Indeed, she looked indignant as she bent her head humbly and spoke before the church women.

"I pray you, Holy Mother. Your Grace. Your Majesty. Many among us have wondered this day why a woman who has served God so well must kneel outside this holy place as a penitent. I speak of this woman, the Eagle. Know this, there are many here who were themselves saved or who have children or cousins or kinfolk who were saved because St. Kristine of the Knives chose to appear before that one. The blessed saint chose that woman to lead the children of Gent to a place of safekeeping. Why is she dishonored and humbled in this way?"

"You trouble me with your bold speaking, Mistress," said Mother Scholastica sternly. "What means this?"

"Nay, it is true, although I did not witness the event myself," said Biscop Suplicia. "It is a story told throughout the city by those who survived the Eika. If this is that same Eagle, then there must be many here who will be willing to speak. If you allow it, Your Majesty."

"I see the strategy unfold," said Mother Scholastica, glancing at her nephew and again at Liath, who had not moved since the departure of the griffins. "You knew this would happen."

"I hoped it would," he replied.

The handsome Suzanne kept her gaze lowered, but she heard him. "Many will speak if they are allowed, Your Majesty," she said without looking at him. "Your Holiness, I beg you." She lifted her right hand. A dozen worthy and prosperous-looking people ventured forward from the crowd and knelt on the steps below her.

"I am called Gerhard, of the tanners, Your Holiness. I know of fourteen young people whose lives were saved by this woman."

"I am called Gisela, of Steleshame, Your Holiness. I witness that many took refuge in my steading who were saved by the intervention of the saint through this woman."

"I am called Karl, Your Holiness. I am a blacksmith ..."

So they went on, a solemn procession of sober-minded responsible folk who, by the work of their hands, had caused Gent to prosper in the years after the Eika invasion. The most noble abbess and biscops and church folk heard them out. As they spoke, one by one, others, more humble, crept forward from the crowd to place flowers and wreaths at Liath's feet before scuttling away as though they feared lightning might strike. They spoke softly to her, but he could hear them because his hearing was as keen as a dog's.

"Do you remember me?" they would whisper.

"This is my brother. He and I—we remember you, Eagle."

"God praise you, Eagle."

"I followed you out through the crypt. Lady save you, Eagle."

It was this crowd, more than that of the prosperous merchants and artisans, that attracted Sanglant's notice, a tide of common laborers and craftsmen, most of them very young. Fully half of them wore at their necks crudely fashioned necklaces from which hung two charms: the Circle of Unity and a flowering bird. He knew the symbol. He had seen representations of it elsewhere, carved in similar manner.

It was a phoenix.

3

IT was late. The feast had ground on for hours, pleasantly enough. The beggars had eaten a most noble portion. Bread had been passed out to the multitudes waiting outside the mayor's palace.

Sanglant retired after the singing, but he could not sleep and so pulled on his tunic, laced up his sandals, and slipped back into the great hall with Hathui and Fulk padding at his heels.

Dogs slept in the rushes. Beggars snored beneath trestle tables. What else stank in the hall he did not care to identify. It would be swept out at dawn in preparation for tomorrow's second feast.

"Where do you mean to go, Your Majesty?"

He threw his cloak over his shoulders.

Hathui did not ask again after he did not reply, but a look was exchanged between her and the captain. Four soldiers appeared, two bearing lamps, and followed him as he went outside. As always, the sky was dark. No moon or stars shone down on them. The light of the lanterns rippled over the courtyard as he walked to the palace gates, once shattered and now rebuilt. Gent would always haunt him. He had suffered too much here. Like the buildings, he had scars, but he had prospered nevertheless.

Beyond the palace gates he walked the cold streets. It was dark and dank, and his feet slopped in mud. In the handful of years since Bloodheart's ouster there had been time to rebuild walls and residences but not yet the plank walkways that had once kept men's feet out of the muck.

Wind moaned through eaves. A smattering of rain kissed his face. All the smells of the city drifted on that night air: offal and sewage, fermenting barley and rancid chicken broth, the rank savor of the tannery and the slumbering iron tang of the blacksmith's forge. The old marketplace had been reconstructed as a row of artisan compounds. The old mint was still a ruin, a jumble of charred pilings and shards of lumber too badly burned and broken to be scavenged for other buildings. Eyes shone in lamplight, and feral dogs growled as he and his escort passed. He growled back. They slunk away into the shelter of overhangs and collapsed walls.

'Amazing they haven't been killed," said Fulk. "I'd think it would be good sport for the lads in the town to hunt them out, vermin like that."

"No doubt they've tried," replied Hathui. "It's hard to kill them all."

The central square of Gent opened before them. The soldiers swept the lantern light in swathes across the stones, but the square was empty. Everyone had gone home or found lodging. They mounted the steps, but these, too, were deserted. A single flower petal lay forgotten on stone.

Otherwise, every wreath and bouquet brought here earlier had vanished.

"Where is Liath?" He took a lantern. "Wait here."

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Fulk, but he looked at Hathui as with a question, and she nodded back at him, and abruptly Sanglant wondered if there was some deeper intimacy going on between those two.

Never mind it. He was not the right person to judge.

Folk slept restlessly in the nave. Once, years ago, refugees had gathered here. This group were commoners who, having walked in from outlying areas to witness the anointing and crowning of the regnant, had no other place to stay before they set out for the journey back to their homes in the morning. He kept the lantern held low so none would mark him, and made his way to the stairs that led down to the crypt.

The stairs took a sharp corner, here, which he remembered as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

A spiderweb glistened, spun into a gap in the stones. He halted at the bottom of the stairs. A field of tombs faded into darkness. Beyond the halo of lantern light, it was utterly black.

"Liath?" he said softly, but there was no answer.

He waited, listening, but heard nothing. He smelled the aroma of clay and lime but no scent of oats. Instead, the fragrance of drying flowers brushed him. The bones of his Dragons had been thrown down into this holy place. In a way his old life, that of the King's Dragon, Henry's obedient son, had died here, too. The old Sanglant could not have taken on the regnant's mantle despite Henry's desire to raise him to that exalted state. It was Bloodheart's captivity that had changed him. How strange were God's ways!

" 'Be bound as I am by the fate others have determined for you,' " she said.

"Liath!" He shifted the lantern, but he still could not see her. The pit of darkness had swallowed her.

"Do you remember?" she asked. "That's what you said to me, that day."

"I don't remember saying it. I remember following you down here. God know I remember the day well enough. I died that day, or would have, if my mother hadn't cursed me. And you lived."

"I remember something else you said," she added, and he heard amusement in her tone. She was laughing at him.

"What is that?"

" 'Down that road I dare not walk.' "

He laughed. "Not here among the holy dead, at least. But there is a cold bed waiting to be warmed if you'll come with me."

"Not tonight, beloved. It wouldn't be right."

"So you say. I'll not ask again if it displeases you."

"Nay, don't scold me, Sanglant. I'm still reflecting on my sins. What do you think happened to Wolfhere?"

"What has that to do with your sins?"

"I'm not sure, but I feel sure there is a connection. Do you think he's dead?"

"If he is, I will not mourn him overmuch, considering he tried to murder me when I was an infant.

He was taken with Blessing, though. So much so that he tried to kidnap her."

"Blessing said otherwise, so you also said."

"That he protested against her being taken? She can't be expected to have understood the whole."

"Brother Zacharias ended up with Hugh. So I must wonder, where did Wolfhere end up? Will we ever know?"

"A mystery," he agreed, but he was getting restless again. His legs had a way of getting twitchy when he needed to move. "Do you mean to stay down here all night?"

"The griffins have left."

"What?"

"So I believe. They made their farewells, and flew east."

"Why would they desert me now?" he demanded, thinking of Mother Scholastica's words.

"Spring is come. They'll want to rebuild their nest and mate."

"So do all creatures! This one not least among them!"

She laughed but, infuriatingly, did not move forward to where he could see her. He thought he caught the fine scent of her now. He smelled the bouquets and wreaths that had surrounded her before: a tincture of violet, the earthy aroma of bracken, the comfort of woodruff and heal-all.

She liked to wash her hair in water scented with lavender, to make it shine, and she had always a clean, dry smell about her that reminded him of the way stones smelled on a hot summer's afternoon when the sun's light has glared down on them all day. It was a good scent, an arousing scent.

"Go on, Sanglant," she said, as if she could feel his desire through the air, which perhaps she could. "I'm trying to find the tomb of St. Kristine of the Knives. I want to place all the offerings there, in thanks."

"That was a miracle. She rose in a time of great need. You won't find it tonight."

"Maybe not. But I have to look."

He knew enough of her now to know when she could not be swayed, and he respected her well enough to let it be as she wished. Even if it irritated him a little. Even if it made him think.

"God be with you on your search," he said, and turned away to climb up the steps.

Outside, his escort waited. He caught them yawning.

"Your Majesty!"

"I have a wish to see the river gate." He did not offer to let them return to their beds. He knew they would not go back to the palace without him.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Fulk, who seemed amused. Hathui hid another yawn behind a hand.

The soldiers—tonight it was Sibold, Surly, Lewenhardt, and one of the new men, Maurits—set out with lanterns raised to illuminate their road.

Here in the square he had mounted for that last ride with his Dragons. Now he walked, like a penitent, along the path he and his soldiers had taken that day. Then, hooves had rapped. Tonight, footsteps tapped. The main avenue that led to the gate was still intact, paved entirely with stone.

Then, the city had breathed with fear. Tonight, only the wind stirred. All slept, sated with feasting or exhausted by standing in the streets for hours waiting to see the king and his fine procession and the grand ladies and lords and their entourages, so many visiting Gent that it must seem like a plague of nobles to the humble folk who must open their larders to feed them all.

Would the crops grow this season if there was no sun?

Could Liath learn the art of the tempestari in order to aid the kingdom?

If sorcery had created this disaster, then wasn't it necessary for sorcery to be wielded to correct it?

Surely that would be no sin. Surely it were better for the church to lift the prohibition against weather-working than for people to suffer and die. And yet, once begun, where did it end?

The avenue debouched into an open space before the eastern gate. When they had rebuilt the wall walk, they had put in steep wooden stairs in new locations, so it took them a little while, searching, to find their way up.

A lookout was built out over the gate. Two milites, guardsmen from Gent, turned to challenge him, then recoiled in surprise.

"Your Majesty!"

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty!"

"Never mind it. It's well you're alert." They moved back to let him look over the river and the eastern shore, although he saw only darkness.

"That is the future," he said softly. "That which we cannot discern."

Had he listened to Liath, that day when Bloodheart's army struck, none of this would have happened. It was difficult to know which decisions were God's will and which merely human choice, a mistake made in this case because he knew too little of her to trust that she might be able to see what others could not: that is, what is truth, and what the lie. In a way, he saw as little now as he had then on that day the Eika had used magic to deceive their human foes into opening the gates to their own destruction.

He wondered, sometimes, if Li'at'dano had known how vast a cataclysm the great weaving would create. If she had known that it would harm humankind as much as the Ashioi. Had she encouraged the mages of ancient days to open the gates to their own destruction? To weave the tides that would overwhelm them?

He tasted the moisture of the river purling along below. Its tang tickled his nose.

"There's more salt," he said. "I can smell the tides."

"Have you not taken a tour of the land hereabouts, Your Majesty?" asked the older guard.

"I have not. What would I see?"

"Terrible things," muttered the lad.

"Here, now, boy, be quiet! Begging your pardon, Your Majesty."

"Nay, you must tell me what you know and what you yourself witnessed."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"It was terrible!" exclaimed the lad. He shifted restlessly, mail rustling like the wind in dry leaves. 'A great wave struck the shoreline. A score of fishing villages were wiped out, just like that, swept into the sea never to be seen again! I hadn't any kinfolk there, but a fellow I know—he lost his entire family! Never saw them again! For seven days after the tempest, the river ran backward. It flooded fields all around the city."

"With seawater?"

"With evil things—! Ow!"

The older man clipped the younger one on the head to silence him. "Nay, Your Majesty. He'll tell you all manner of wild tales. This is what happened. The tempest made the land shake and the shoreline fall away. Or the sea fall. I don't know which. You'll see by daylight that there's no seagoing boats drawn up on the strand below, as there used to be."

"Indeed. Gent is known for its trade and its many workshops. The river seems to be flowing well enough."

"So it appears, but the course changed."

"It's a league farther to the sea than it was before!" said the lad.

"How can that be?"

"Not a league, Your Majesty, but a good long way. There were two channels before. One wasn't deep enough before to take seagoing vessels. Now even the deeper channel dried up. Not even silted, just went dry. Boats couldn't come through, it was a swamp, no more than an elbow deep.

After the winter, the river cut a new path to the sea, many fingers but none of them deep. There's talk of building a new port out by the shore where ships can put in, mayhap carting goods overland to Gent. Digging a canal. Yet if we lose our trade, I don't know how the city will thrive."

"There's been no ships anyway," said the lad. "None at all, and winter's over and sailing season ought to have begun. The fishermen—those who survived—say the tides have changed and the winds are fierce out there. That it isn't safe to be on the water. That creatures swim there that will tear boats into pieces with their claws and eat the men who fall into the water."

"Whsst! Stop telling stories, boy!"

"Nay, let him speak, Grandfather. Stories may hold a grain of truth. Yet Gent seems prosperous."

'As long as the stores hold out, Your Majesty. Biscop Suplicia and Lady Leoba are good stewards. I pray Lady Leoba will not go riding after the princess again, God save her, for she watched over us well enough and with the biscop's aid set aside grain against famine. That's what's held us. Yet if there's no crop and no trade this year ..."

He could not go on.

"It would be God's will," muttered the lad. "Punishment for turning away from the truth of the phoenix."

"Hush!" The old fellow slapped him in the head again.

"I did not know," murmured Sanglant.

The wind came up suddenly out of the north, spilling over the parapet, rattling along the rooftops.

"Like that," the old guard said. "A north wind like that, it never used to come this time of year.

Weather's changed. The winds aren't the same as they was used to be, in the days before."

"Everything's changed," whispered the lad, then hunched his shoulders, waiting for a blow that did not come.

"I did not realize the tides of destruction had washed so high." Sanglant leaned out over the wall, breathing in the murmur of the air. The night's presence poured over him. The whole wide world lay beyond. It stretched to every horizon, covered in darkness, unseen and unknowable without moon or stars to light the land.

A battle might be fought and won in a day, but the ebb and flow of the sea and the heavens never ceased. What had been set in motion might not trough, or peak, for weeks or months or years.

The riptide might already be dragging them under while they never knew they were drowning.

Out of the night a deep hoot trembled. Grit slipped under his sandals as he turned, trying to pinpoint the sound.

"Whsst!" said the old guard. "That's an owl! Did you hear it?"

"Is that a good omen?" asked the lad plaintively. "Or an evil one?"

"I've not seen feather or beak of a bird these last months," the old man said, then shrieked and ducked as a huge owl skimmed out of the darkness right over their heads and with a graceful plummet came to roost on the wall. Its massive claws dug into the wood. By lantern light, its amber eyes gleamed boldly, seeming lit from within. The light set off the streaks of white on its breast and the tufted ears.

"What is this?" asked Sanglant.

It blinked.

"Where is your mistress?" he demanded.

But all he heard was the wind.

PART FOUR

THE MOUNTAIN

file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20d...lliott%20-%20Crown%20Of%20Stars%2006%20-%20In%20the%20Ruins.html OF THE WORLD’S

BEGINNING

XIII

BLOOD

1

WHEN winter turned to spring and the village deacon sang the mass in honor of St. Thecla's witnessing of the Ekstasis and Translatus of the blessed Daisan, the folk of Osna village met after mass to discuss the summer's journeying to other ports.

For months Alain had been ill and weak and weary, unable to do more than sleep, eat the gruel Aunt Bel cooked him, and sit beside the hearth dozing with Sorrow and Rage stretched out on either side. He had suffered from the lung fever; a terrible infection had inflamed his right foot; he had battled recurring headaches.

In the end, Aunt Bel's nursing defeated these afflictions.

Now he walked with only a slight limp as he accompanied Henri to the church in the afternoon. It was cold and, as usual, cloudy.

"We haven't seen the sun for months," remarked Henri. "The winter wheat never sprouted. I fear the spring planting won't get sun and warmth enough to grow if the weather doesn't change.

There'll be famine."

"There already is."

Henri glanced at him but made no comment.

Sorrow and Rage had gamboled ahead. They rushed back, nipping at each other and running in circles. Aunt Bel and her daughter Stancy walked in front of them. Bel's other surviving children Julien and Bruno and Agnes, trailed behind, laughing over the antics of Julien's younger child, a chubby toddler named Conrad but called Pig by one and all for his love of mud.

"Eeuw!" squealed Pig's older sister, Blanche, now eight or nine "Eeuw. Pig's throwing it at me again, Papa! Make him stop! I hate him! He's awful!"

"Don't you touch him!" cried the baby's mother. "If you will provoke him, it's no wonder he throws mud at you!"

"Do stop, Blanche," agreed Agnes. "He's just a baby."

"Come walk with me, Blanche." Alain held out his hand, and she ran to him and clutched his fingers. She was a pale, frightened, resentful creature, motherless since birth. The wife Julien had brought home from Varingia did not like her, and Blanche returned the favor.

"I hate that pig stinker," she muttered, eyeing Alain sidelong to see if he would respond. 'And her, too. I hate everyone, and they all hate me."

He did not respond, although her unhappiness gave him pain. In truth, she was an unlikable girl who struck out at others and bullied younger children. It seemed to be the only way she knew to battle her wounded heart.

He sighed, and she sniffled but kept silent, unwilling to offend the only person who offered her more than perfunctory kindness. His attention strayed. Aunt Bel's scarf hadn't lost that particular twist she gave to the knot that made it hang somewhat to the left. Stancy was pregnant again, tired but hale. Her husband Artald was already at the church door talking with several men from the village. Their agitated voices rose as a local woodsman regaled them with a tale.

"It was so quiet all autumn and winter I thought we'd done with these refugees plaguing us,"

exclaimed old Gilles Fisher, cutting the other man off. "Yet now they come. We haven't enough to feed them. I say we gather staves and drive them out."

"Fotho says it's mostly women and children and old folk," objected Artald. "It doesn't seem right."

"It was women and children and old folk last year and the year before, too, what with the Salian war going on and on and before that Eika raids."

"Nay, it was better last year," said Artald. "Not so many came north, and then only in early summer. They were caught down there in the border country."

Agnes stifled a sob.

"What's this?" asked Aunt Bel. "I smell a drizzle coming on. Let's g o inside so we don't get wet."

In they all marched. Sister Corinthia presided because the old deacon had died two years ago and the count's father had sent no one to replace her. That Aunt Bel had had the foresight to keep a cleric in her house to educate her grandchildren had given her immense prestige in Osna village now that Sister Corinthia led all the services. The cleric had even picked out two village children bright enough to be educated at St. Thierry.

The young cleric led them in a dozen psalms before stepping aside to let Bel stand up.

"Have you some news for all of us, Fotho? I pray you, speak loudly and clearly so we can all hear. Hilde, take the children outside and watch them."

Hilde was Stancy's eldest, a stout, well grown girl about the same age as Blanche but of an entirely opposite disposition. She herded out a score of mewling, giggling, restless children, some older than she was. Silence descended as the score of adults regarded first each other and then the quiet woodsman who shuffled forward to stand on the first step of the dais where they could all see and hear him. Everyone was sitting on fine benches built in Aunt Bel's workshop. Blanche clung to Alain, and he let her crawl up onto his lap, the only child who hadn't gone outside.

"Refugees," said Fotho. "Come up the coast road. Not a man over twelve or under forty among

'em. They're wearing nothing but rags—if they have clothes at all, which most of the children don't. They're starving. They come up out of Salia. They say there's fighting along the border again. No food to be had."

"Is it Eika?" asked Agnes tremulously.

"They're not out of Medemelacha way, if that's what you're asking, lass," said Fotho kindly, and with some warmth. He was a decent-looking young man a few years older than Agnes. He had a yen for her, as everyone knew, but it was a hopeless case even though Agnes was now considered to be a widow after only a year of marriage.

"Is it even safe to sail to Medemelacha?" asked Gilles Fisher. He was too crippled with arthritis to sail or even to build ships, but his keen mind and store of knowledge were precious to the community.

"That's one of the questions we must ask and answer," said Henri. "It was safe last year, even with the emporium under the rule of that Eika lord."

Agnes wiped away a tear, glanced at Fotho, and dropped her gaze to the ground.

"It doesn't sound as if these refugees will give us any trouble," said Artald. "I say we let them move on. They can beg at Lavas Holding."

"Hah! As if Lord Geoffrey has aught to give them, or as if he would!" It was Mistress Garia's truculent son who spoke, but he had the decency to blush as every person there looked at Alain and away as quickly. "We've not heard a word from Lavas Holding for six months. Hung us out to dry, the lord has."

"What do you suggest, then?" asked Stancy. "We haven't enough to feed every soul who comes begging."

"If you turn no one away, there will be enough," said Alain.

They fell silent. Blanche sucked a dirty thumb, eyes wide and expression fierce. The light through the glass window washed the floor in five colors, according to the panes: there was red, and a pale green, as well as yellow, blue, and smoky violet. Because the bay of the church faced east, the sun shone through the glass window in the morning. Now, at midday, there was no direct light, but it was still bright enough with the doors flung wide to see the murals painted along each side of the nave. There, the blessed Daisan at the fire where he first encountered the vision of the Circle of Unity. And again, the blessed Daisan with his followers refusing to kneel and worship before the Dariyan empress Thaissania, she of the mask. The seven miracles, each depicted in loving detail. Last of all the eye might rest upon the blessed Daisan lying dead at the Hearth from which his spirit was lifted up through the seven spheres to the Chamber of Light. Beside him, St.

Thecla the Witnesser wept, her tears feeding the sanctified cup.

Once he had seen brave scenes of battle hiding beneath the lamplit murals, but now he saw only suffering and it made him angry, and it made him sad.

Sister Corinthia cleared her throat. "Spiritually, you speak what we all know to be true, Friend Alain. The church mothers teach that every heart is a rose, and that to turn away from those in need when you could aid them causes the rose to wither. In this same way, plants need water to live, and we need breath. But in truth ..." She faltered and looked to Aunt Bel for help.

"One loaf cannot feed one hundred starving beggars," said Aunt Bel. "Wishing does not make it so."

"Which one will you refuse?" he asked Bel. "Let it be your choice, if not yours, then whose?

Who will volunteer to be the one who chooses which supplicant lives and which dies?" No one answered him.

"Yet your Aunt Bel is right," said Henri later as they readied the boats for sailing. "If we give all our stores away, we'll starve, too. That seems not just foolish but stubborn."

Below the house, workshops, and gardens lay a narrow trail that led to the boat shed, built two years ago. They rolled the new boat down to the tiny beach and pushed it out onto the water.

Julien and Bruno set the sail and put out into the bay to test the waters while Henri and Alain remained behind to look over the old boat, always in need of repairs. Alain slid under the boat, which was propped up on logs. The work came easily to his hands. The smell of sheep's wool greased with tar made memories swim in his mind of the days long before when Henri had taught him the skills of shore and boat.

Inspecting his work, Henri grunted. "Well, Son, you haven't forgotten how to fasten a loose plank. Here. There's another spot."

They worked in companionable silence. Alain ran his hands over each fingerbreadth of the hull while Henri replaced the leather lining and hemp rope that secured the rudder to the boss. A gull screeked. Water slurped among the rocks.

From the boat shed, angled to take advantage of the view, they could see north over the sound.

The eastern islands floated on gray waters. The distant promontory shielding Osna village gleamed darkly, and beyond it to the northwest lay ragged shoreline and white breakers where once the vast Dragonback Ridge had vaulted. A flash of sail skimmed the bay to the north.

"Rain," said Henri, pausing, hands still, to stare across the waters.

The smell of salt and tar and wet wool caught in Alain's mind, and he was swept as by the tide into memory.

Two slender ships skim up onto the strand. Scale-skinned creatures pour out of them. They cannot be called men, and their fierce, horrible dogs cannot be called dogs, but there are no other words to describe them. They burn as they go, destroying the monastery and the hapless brothers.

There is one who watches with him, her gaze sharp and merciless. "It is too late for them," she says.

"No!" He jerked back, slamming his head against the boat.

'Alain?"

"She is the enemy," he said raggedly. His head pounded. Stabs of pain afflicted him, waking that old headache that had caused his blindness and muteness.

"Who is the enemy?"

"The one who says, 'This is as it must be, we can't do anything else even if we want to.' "

"Do you speak so of your aunt?"

"No, no." He rubbed his head. Spots and flurries of light blurred his vision. "Of the one I met on the road."

"What one?"

"The Lady of Battles."

"Who is the Lady of Battles? Are you well, Alain? Is your headache back? Maybe we'd better go back to the hall and let you rest."

"What was my mother like?"

There came a silence from Henri and only the answer of the land around them: the hiss of surf, the wind in leaves, a branch snapping under the weight of Rage's paw, a distant shout of laughter, a bird's warble, quickly hushed. The ache in his head faded as he breathed, waiting.

After a bit, he felt Henri move, then heard the noise of the file as Henri worked to shave the curve of a wooden plug to the exact fit for its oar port, to replace one eaten away by dry rot. Alain leaned back against the boat, recalling the familiar comfort of familiar patterns. Henri had always had a habit of thinking as he worked, or perhaps it was better to say that working helped him think, that the motion of hands teased patterns of thought into symmetry.

The hounds snuffled into the woods. The sea sighed.

"Is that what drove you?" Henri asked at last. "Seeking your mother?"

"I admit I have always wondered."

The file scraped at the wood.

"Not so much about my mother," Alain continued. "What she might have been like, of course I always wondered that. Yet if a birth is witnessed, and the witnesses tell the truth, there's no doubt of a mother's identity. It was wondering who my father was that drove me."

The file stilled. "Do you wonder that still?"

Alain shifted to look into Henri's face. He took Henri's seamed, callused hand in his own and held it tightly. "No. I know who my father is. He is the one who raised me and cherished me."

Tears fell, although Henri wept silently. One coursed down his cheek to land softly on the back of Alain's hand, a warm salty drop followed by

"No good song is ever sung of a traitor," he says to Deacon Ursuline.

"It is not treachery. It is an alliance," she objects.

He sits and she stands in the hall built by his Alban carpenters to replace the one that burned in last year's assault on Hefenfelthe. Most of his court have retired to their beds for the night, but he is, as always, wakeful, and Deacon Ursuline is persistent.

Torches burn in sconces bracketed every three strides along the wall. The tang of smoke licks at him, reminding him of scorched timbers and dying men. His dogs whine from their corner. No doubt they dream of the slaughter which feeds them.

"That is the point in keeping the old royal lineage alive now that the rest are dead," she continues mercilessly. "If you marry the eldest princess, then it will bind the Alban people closer to you."

"She will have turned against her ancestors, the queens, if she agrees to such an arrangement. She was to be the sacrifice to death, not to life."

"The queens made such alliances in plenty when they ruled. It is the way of noble houses to marry this daughter to that son, this lady widow to that lord's unmarried brother, to make peace or expand influence or consolidate fortunes. Among humankind, it is not considered treason but wisdom and expedience."

It is a cool night, cloudy and dark as always these days. Through the open doors and shutters he hears the footsteps of guards on the wall that surrounds the rebuilt hall and repaired stone tower, the heart of Hefenfelthe. Beneath the light of one of the torches, two Eika warriors dice, a game they learned from human comrades. Their human pack brothers doze restlessly beside them, twitching and, now and again, moaning in sleep as they chase dreams. Other Eika guards stand in that strange half dream and half waking stupor that humans mistake for sleep. Even Trueheart, grasping the standard, sways on his feet.

Over the long autumn and this interminable winter and seemingly endless spring, the winds and tides have conspired to confine him to Alba's shores. Yet while the sea's caprice chafes him, it has also given him time to consolidate his victory in Alba. The central and southern plains are now quiet. The last of the resistance has been forced into the northern and western hill country, too rugged to pacify easily but possible to contain through judicious use of forts, raids, bribes, and the resettlement of former slaves on those lands closest to the rebels.

'Among humankind such alliances lead to offspring," he adds. "Should I marry the Alban princess, we could not breed."

"No, I suppose not. It would be a political alliance only. This, too, you must consider, Lord Stronghand. If you do not make plans for succession, then your empire of Eika and Alba will fall apart when you die."

"That is true, Deacon Ursuline. I have considered the question more than once over this long winter. All things die in the end. We are only flies compared to the life of stone. We sons of OldMother are shorter-lived even than humankind. Yet this hall—" He indicates the rafters, the plank floor, the steps leading up to the tower. " — will survive me, and it will even survive you."

"As long as war or tempest do not destroy it. You must build an edifice that will survive despite war and tempest."

"Using what materials? I have stone, steel, and flesh."

"You have mercy and justice."

"I have my wits."

"With all respect, Lord Stronghand, your wit will not survive you."

"What if I care nothing for what passes in the world once I am gone?"

"Do you not?"

He laughs. "If I cared nothing, I would not be sitting here."

In the distance, too faint for the deacon to hear, guards call out a challenge. He cocks his head, listening, and identifies the lilt of voice and rhythm of hurried stride as that of Lord Erling. Strange that Erling should be here in Hefenfelthe instead of tending to his own earldom. Trueheart shakes himself alert.

"Is someone come?" asks the deacon belatedly, turning to look. "It's so late ..."

The young Alban sweeps through the door as if on a gust of wind, hair blown in disarray and cloak streaming back as he approaches the dais. Four soldiers, two Eika and two Albans, follow him.

Stronghand's Eika guards shift into readiness, axes and spears raised, but Erling halts and drops to one knee. Stronghand lifts his hand and, given permission by this gesture, the young man rises.

"I did not expect to see you," says Stronghand.

"News!" He is flushed with news. His skin is red.

"How fares the middle country?"

"Well enough considering we've not yet had sun this year. Folk fear it is a sign of the gods' displeasure."

"Do you think it so?"

Erling has taken to wearing a Circle of Unity. His is silver, finely made, and incised with leaves as if to recall the old religion he left behind. He touches it now. "It might be. I am no priest to name God's will.

Still, the folk who have lost what they once had might have reason to suppose God displeased with them. I worry for the summer's growing season if the weather remains so damp and cloudy."

"As do we all," says Deacon Ursuline.

"What brings you south, Erling?" Stronghand asks.

The young man nods. "I wished to observe the anniversary of my mother's death at Briden Manor, south of the river. I rode south to plant a tree at her grave."

"So the tree priests would have you do," scolds the deacon, although her tone is benign, not harsh. "Better to pray for her soul and dedicate a convent in her memory."

"Can I do that?"

"Surely you can, and endow a dozen novices to pray for your mother's soul each and every day of the year."

"I like that idea! But I would need a priestess— a mother— to watch over them and guide them."

"I can make sure that such a woman, we call her an abbess, is available to you, Lord Erling. You need only ask."

"As must I," says Stronghand, tapping one foot. "What news do you bring me so late at night and in such a rush as if on the wings of a storm?"

"Ah! Just that, Lord! An omen has been seen in the south! A dragon! Seen flying by the sea."

The Eika murmur among themselves at this astounding news.

Dragons! Have the First Mothers risen out of the wake of the sorcery that altered the world? Have things changed so greatly?

"Come." Stronghand rises. He leads them up the stairs, into the tower, and by ladders and steep steps to the roof. It is a stiff night, cuttingly cold up so high with the wind's bite on hands and face. The men shiver and rub their hands, but he leans into the wind and listens.

After a while, he speaks.

"It was long told among my people that the FirstMothers bred in ancient days with the living spirits of earth and in that time gave birth to the RockChildren. It's said that in Wintertide, in the Western Sea, one may hear them calling ..."

"Listen!" cries Erling.

Yes!

They all lean south, many pressed against the stone battlements as though likely to hurl themselves over if only that would bring them closer to what they seek. The call thrums through the air, its vibration so low that he feels it through the stone.

A sun rises in the southeast.

"Look!" cries Trueheart.

There are two of them, seen first simply as a bending, twisting aurora of light far off but approaching fast.

Their bellies gleam. Their tails lash like lightning. They are coming up the river, following the course of the water as they fly inland on what errand he cannot guess. Alarm bells clang, and he hears a clamor as folk rush out of their halls and hovels.

They grow in size; they near; they are huge, impossibly vast. A hot stream of stinging wind pours over Hefenfelthe and in their wake the clouds churn and the forest roars.

"Look!" cries Erling. "The stars!"

Above, the clouds have parted to reveal those pinpricks, the most ancient ones, the eternal stars. But as the dragons course northwest, as the heat and wind falter and the cold night air sweeps back, mist shrouds that glimpse of the heavens and soon all is concealed again.

"It's time to move," says Stronghand, when all is silent. They stare northwest, but there is nothing to see.

Night veils all things. "That is an omen, indeed, Lord Erling. You were right to bring news of it so quickly."

"Yes, my lord," the young man says, but he is barely breathing. He is still in shock, staring fixedly northwest as if turned to stone.

"We must make ready," continues Stronghand. "Trueheart, you'll remain here as my governor. Stores must be set aside for next winter. Seed corn hoarded, as much as possible. Plant fields. Hunt and trap, raid our enemies in the north and west and take their grain and seed corn for ourselves and our loyal servants. If they starve, so much the better. Lord Erling, you and the other lords I have raised will remain secure if your people have enough to eat. Be prepared for anything."

"So have we seen!" Erling whispered, still staring after the vanished dragons.

"In six months I will return to make an accounting."

"Where do you go, Stronghand?" Trueheart asks. "Will you fight again in Salia?"

He looks at Deacon Ursuline. She nods. "I must consult with the WiseMothers. I believe they have much they can tell me."

"Should they choose to do so," she says.

"Should they choose to do so. There is much I desire to know. This war is only beginning."

another tear.

The tears were only beginning.

Dizzied, he shaded his eyes with a hand, but he had to concentrate, to fix on this moment, this Earth, this place—not the other one—because Henri was still talking.

"She was strong-willed but weak in her heart. Desperate, and beautiful. She used her beauty to feed herself, to get what she wanted. It was the only way she knew, Alain. Had she not been so desperately poor, she might have been otherwise. I do not know what she endured before she came to Lavas Holding. She would never speak of it. Pregnancy killed her. It's the war women fight. Just as men die in battle, so some women are fated to die in childbed, wrestling with life.

You survived it. She did not, though she wished to live. Fought to live. Sometimes beauty is like a candle flame—it shines because it burns. I would have married her, but she wanted something else."

"What did she want?"

Henri shrugged with one shoulder, a movement so constrained that if Alain had not lowered his hand at that instant he would have missed it. "I don't know. She wished to be something she was not."

'As I did."

"No, Son. No. Well, perhaps." He laughed weakly. "That comes of her, I suppose." He set down the file, scratched his beard, scratched his hair, and picked up the file again. 'After all this, who do you think your father is? I mean, the one whose seed watered her garden."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I know who I am now because I know what I must do."

Henri frowned. "You will leave us."

"I must." Sorrow barked, and he heard the hounds thrashing back through the undergrowth. He rose and stepped to see around the boat and up the trail. "Here comes Artald."

Stancy's husband waved to get their attention as he strode up. He was local born and local bred, a man without much imagination but levelheaded and generous, and a hard worker whose labor had helped Aunt Bel's workshop prosper. He wasn't puffing at all although he'd come in haste.

"Where's Jul and Bruno?" he asked as his gaze skimmed the sound, seeking their sail. "Well, no use waiting for them."

"What news?" asked Henri.

"A runner from t'village. They say Chatelaine Dhuoda has come with a small company."

"Lord Geoffrey with her?"

"Nay, nothing like that. She's looking for Alain, here. Best if he goes, don't you think?"

"Best if I go," agreed Alain, looking at Henri.

Henri frowned and absently patted the head of Sorrow as he nodded. "Just so, if she's asking particular for him. Is she come to take young folk to Lavas Holding for their year of service?"

Artald shrugged. "Runner spoke nothing of that, Uncle. I'll go with Alain."

"Best we all go," said Henri, "considering in what state we found him."

"Ah!" Artald stroked his beard. "Hadn't thought of that, truly. They might be wishing him mischief, after all is said and done."

"They won't harm me," said Alain. He whistled, and Rage padded in from the woods, worrying at one paw.

"Still," said Henri, "we'll all come. Best to sound the horn and call Julien back, if he can hear.

He's the only one among us who has any real training at arms."

The horn was slung up under the low rafters of the boathouse. Artald unfastened it and walked down to the edge of the water before lifting it to his lips. The low moan trembled across the waters. Alain bade Rage sit, then pulled three burrs out of the fur in and around a paw. After this, he gathered up tools and supplies and headed up the trail with the hounds panting along behind him. A second call chased him, then faded, and he paused on the trail to let Henri catch up.

"In so much hurry to leave us?" asked Henri.

"I pray you, forgive me, Father. It's just I've been expecting this."

"That the Counts of Lavas will come seeking you?"

"No. Only that there would be a sign that this time of peace had come to an end."

That evening he packed such things as he thought he would need: a spare tunic; a pair of soft boots that Aunt Bel absolutely insisted he take along; rope braided by Bruno; a pouch of silver sceattas out of Medemelacha; a collection of small tools from the workshop rolled up in a leather belt that Artald felt were indispensable to a man wanting to make his way in the world; a strong staff carved by Julien; gloves Stancy had sewn out of calf leather; a heavy wool cloak woven by Agnes; and a bowl, cup, and spoon carved by Henri, each one with a hound's head incised into the concave base.

The household had their own taxes to gather and make ready to deliver to the chatelaine, but Bel made sure they ate well and drank well that night.

He slept easily, although others fretted at his leaving. The pallet he slept on in the hall was not the one he had grown up sleeping on, back in the village. The estate, however fine it was, had no hold on him because these surroundings were only a way station. He had left Osna village years ago. That leave-taking could not take place a second time.

In the morning, a dozen accompanied him to Osna: Henri, Bel, Stancy, Artald, Agnes, Julien with his Varingian spear, five of the workers armed with staves and shovels, and little Blanche because she refused to remain behind. Bruno was left at the workshop with the rest of the household, just in case, in these difficult times, some cunning soul had planned a ruse in order to loot or burn the estate while it was undefended. Aunt Bel was famous for her careful and farsighted ways, and many would suspect that her storehouses remained well stocked, as indeed they did.

"We ought to put up a palisade," said Artald as he swung along beside Stancy. He steadied her at the elbow as she picked her way over a series of ruts worn into the path. "I've been speaking of it for three years now. Past time we started."

"Have a care," called Julien from the front. They came up behind a score of ragged folk who, seeing them, shrank back into the trees. A child wailed and was hushed. All of the children had sunken eyes and swollen bellies. The adults, all women except two toothless old men, drew the little ones back and ducked their heads.

"I pray you, good folk," said one of the women, creeping forward on her knees. "A scrap of bread, if you have it. Pray God." One of her eyes was crusted shut with dried pus.

Behind her, others coughed, or scratched sores and pustules. One woman had a scaly rash splattered down the right side of her face and ringing her neck like a strangling cord.

Alain stepped forward, still holding Blanche's hand.

"They're dirty!" she cried. "I hate them!"

He pulled two loaves of bread from the pouch on his back and gave one to the child. "Here."

"That's your waybread, Alain!" objected Aunt Bel. "You'll go hungry!"

"Pray do not worry on my account, Aunt." He turned back to Blanche. "This is your offering to make, and you must make it."

"Can't! I'm scared!" she whined. "I hate them."

"Blanche," he said kindly, looking her in the face.

Weeping, she shuffled forward, shoved the bread into the hands of the creeping woman, then bolted back to the safety of the hounds, pulling on their ears until Rage nipped gently at her to get her to let go.

"Do not fight among yourselves," said Alain as the other refugees converged on the woman, who clutched the loaf to her chest. He marked among them a girl no more than Agnes' age whose cheeks were so hollow that you could trace the skull beneath stretched skin. He gave her the other loaf. "Listen! Let all be satisfied that you have each dealt fairly with the others. Otherwise you will never know peace."

All were silent as they walked on, leaving the beggars behind. At last, as the woodlands were cut with the fields and clearings that signaled the advent of village lands, Agnes spoke.

"How could you understand them, Alain?"

"They were Salians," said Henri. "I know enough of that language to trade in Medemelacha." He glanced at the girl, who paled when he said the name, and reached out to squeeze her hand.

"There, there, lass. He may yet be alive. That report I heard might have been wrong."

"It would be easier if I knew," she murmured as she wiped her eyes.

"True enough," agreed Henri. "Poor child."

"God must hate them, too," said Blanche. "Otherwise why would they be sick? Only bad people suffer. If they did a bad thing, they'll be punished."

"That being so," snapped Agnes, "why are you not covered with weeping sores and white scales?

Why hasn't your nose fallen off?" Her face got red, and she began to cry.

"Enough!" said Aunt Bel. "I'll not come walking into the village with the pair of you snarling like dogs fighting over a bone! For shame!"

"It's a long way to walk," said Artald. "From the border with Salia all the way up to here. Days and days walking, a month maybe. They must have been right desperate to leave their home."

"They looked desperate to me," said Stancy. "Poor creatures. Who knows how many they started with and how many lost along the way. It's the fault of those Eika raiders."