The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

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

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

  Dedi muttered a comment under his breath.

  “I did too see lions!” retorted Baldwin. “No one ever believes me.” Ivar examined the ground again but the only prints he saw were his own boots. “It’s said that the Enemy brings strange visions at night,” he said.

  “So may God, my lord,” replied Gerulf, “but it’s hard for mortal man to tell the difference between the one and the other. Saw you anything on your watch?”

  Ivar didn’t have the courage to speak of what he’d seen, nor did Sigfrid mention it.

  IX

  A GRAVE CRIME

  1

  IN the city of Darre, one saw the years laid bare on every street. Near the river, laundresses hung out clothing to dry on fallen columns from a temple once dedicated to the goddess of love. Competing hospices for pilgrims filled three-storied apartment houses near the monumental baths built in the time of the Emperor Tianathano. Cattle and goats grazed in the vast arena where horses had raced. The vast brick marketplace erected during the reign of the Empress Thaissania, she of the Mask, had been abandoned in favor of an ever-changing collection of makeshift stalls set up within the shelter of colonnaded temples that fronted the main avenues, which had themselves been built to honor gods whose names Hanna did not recognize, although Liath might have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “None of them do. They think we’re barbarians. They think we’re stealing their grain and their chickens.”

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

  “I don’t think there’re this many buildings in all of Wendar and Varre.”

  “Maybe so.”

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

  “So they say, and half of them northerners killed out of spite. I don’t know if it’s true.”

  “I wouldn’t leave the safety of the palace after dusk if I were alone, that’s certain. Safety in numbers, I suppose.”

  They came to the sprawling market for foodstuffs, situated close to the walls so it would be easier for vegetables and fruits from the fields to be carted in each day. Chickens squawked in cages next to thrushes and pigeons. Greengrocers presided over offerings of apples and figs, quince, lovage, onions, and the familiar mounds of turnips. Lush bundles of red peonies and white lilies were offered for sale next to bowls of mustard seeds and stacks of dried plums. One entire section encompassed an herb and spice market; the heady scents made Hanna’s head swim as they passed.

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

  “Wendish dogs!”

  “They’re eating all our food! Pigs!”

  “Their mother was a sow!”

  Hanna picked up their pace. Many more folk waited sullenly in pockets of shade or leaned against the marble facings of the grand old buildings, half-fallen into disrepair. Guardsmen lined the length of the colonnade, keeping an eye on a score of young toughs loitering on the steps of an old temple on the other side of the avenue. Murmured oaths could be guessed at, nothing more; some played at dice. A few spat in the direction of the street, but it was hard to tell whether they meant to insult Hanna and Rufus, or the city guards.

  “Seems a few want for nothing,” said Rufus, “and the rest are in want.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Hanna grabbed Rufus’ arm and tugged him onward. “There are the gates!”

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

  “They’re getting closer!” gasped Rufus.

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

  “I beg you, my lady—”

  The novices seemed neither to hear nor understand her.

  “Oh, shit,” swore Rufus. “They’ve got knives.”

&nbs
p; “Run for it.”

  “Eagle!”

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

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

  She recognized Brother Petrus. Bland and powerful, he had received her when she had first arrived in Darre and listened patiently and with aristocratic reserve to her message. She had not seen him since that day, when he had assured her that the matter would be brought to the king’s attention just as soon as Henry returned from the south, but that it was too dangerous for her to ride south herself.

  “Do you come often into the lower city?” he asked in the tone of a man who is surprised to see a heathen worshiping at the Hearth of God in Unity.

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

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

  “I am sorry to hear that my countryfolk are so wicked, Your Excellency.”

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

  Because her head was bent in respectful obeisance, the brim of the hat concealed her expression. Strange that he should mention Aurea, to whom she had spoken up in the attic only two days before.

  “Have you spoken to this woman, Daughter?”

  “I have. I am always happy to find those within the palace who speak my own tongue, Your Excellency, those who are my countryfolk.”

  “Did she speak aught of conspiracies and treachery?”

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

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

  He spoke a word in Aostan, and his servants carried him on.

  She glanced around as she rose to make sure no suspicious souls approached them, but the young toughs had vanished into the crowd. His words chilled her. Hadn’t Aurea spoken almost exactly those same words: “an Eagle might see all kinds of things?” Was it a slip of the tongue or simply a chance similarity of phrase? Did he mean it as a warning?

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

  “He saved us from a fight.”

  “True enough. Never turn your back on small blessings.”

  Nearby, the three clerics had paused while one among their number shook a stone out of her shoe. “Come, now, Sister Heriburg,” said one of her companions tartly in clear Wendish. “We shan’t get a place to sit in St. Asella’s chapel if you do not hurry. You know how crowded it gets when Brother Fortunatus gives his sermon.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “We have lived in Darre for over two years now,” said the tall one as they passed the portico of St. Mark’s and turned left down a side street. A tower marked an old church built on a more ancient foundation. Inside, a half dozen slits in the walls illuminated the interior. Two clerics lit sconces in the wall as these patches of sunlight faded.

  There were benches set in the nave, most filled with sundry folk speaking Wendish. Their companions moved to the front to sit with their clerical brethren. Hanna squeezed in beside Rufus toward the back, resting her floppy hat on her knees.

  She saw no sign of Aurea. Had she misunderstood the woman? The whitewashed walls of the small church whispered no answers; it did not even have painted windows, only slits to let in air, although the thick stone kept the interior cool. She was no longer sweating. Two clerics ascended to ward the choir along the nave, lighting vesper lamps set on tripods at the end of each row of benches. At the front, a deacon entered the rounded choir from the sanctuary and approached the altar, where she raised her hands in the blessing as she began to sing the liturgy.

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

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

  “In peace let us pray to our Lord and Lady.”

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

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

  It is Ivar. Joy chokes her. Is it possible he still lives? Heat burns her face as she leans closer, trying to get his attention.

  “Hanna? You’ll burn yourself!”

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

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

  “Hanna?” Rufus had hold of her arm in a painfully tight grasp. “Are you feeling faint? I thought you would fall into the lamp.”

  “Nay.” Her tongue felt swollen, and she was dizzy, both heartsick and elated. “Eagle’s Sight.”

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

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

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

  “Amen,” she and Rufus said in unison with the rest of the congregation.

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

  A cleric came forward to deliver the Hefensday lesson. The man looked vaguely familiar, but probably that was only because of his beardless face and the cut of his hair, trimmed and shaven in the manner of a male cleric who has put aside the duties of a man of the world, husbanding and warring and sowing, for the cares of the Hearth. He waited a moment for folk to shift on the hard benches, for silence to open a space for listening. The stone walls muted all sound; she could not hear a single thing from outside, as though they were no longer in Darre but translated to holy space, sundered from the world.

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

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

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