by Kate Elliott
“Wait, Prior. I hear them.”
Hidden by the trees, the farmer was laughing, calling out. “Come along! Come along now! Look how they walk!”
Farmer, children, and lambs gamboled into the clearing, the ewes trotting among them under the supervision of the steadfast dog. Ratbold was too astonished to scold them. He rushed over, ignoring the yapping sheepdog, and brusquely examined the hooves and mouths of the ewes. The lambs scattered as he moved among them. The children and the dog rushed around, dog barking, children screaming with delight, as they chased the lambs back from the woodland edge. Light clouds scudded in from the east, shadowing the sun; a shower misted the scene, moving off as quickly as it arrived, and the sun came out from behind the clouds.
“Impossible,” cried Ratbold, checking each of the ewes in turn.
“I said it was not the murrain!” shouted the farmer triumphantly. “Just a fungus. A rot. Cured now! Cured! Once I got them out of the mud.”
“Impossible,” repeated Ratbold.
But true.
Ratbold insisted they remain at the standing two more days to make sure the disease did not reoccur. He believed in the murrain, and he feared that without his supervision the outbreak would spread.
Alain chafed, eager to return to Hersford, but he recognized the farmer’s needs as well. No need to wait fruitlessly when so many spring chores needed doing. Because of the threat of murrain, the local oxherd would not bring his oxen for plowing, so they had to laboriously turn over the earth for the garden by hand. For three days they worked, sweating despite the cool weather, and in the evenings Alain told the children stories and taught the two eldest a little from his meager store of herb-craft, so they might add to their larder and soothe simple illnesses that afflicted them. Three days passed and the sheep showed not the slightest sign of lameness, blistering, or sores. The children’s rashes healed.
It was with a lightened heart that he set out at last beside Ratbold.
“Why did you not wake me that night?” Ratbold asked when they reached the main track and turned toward home.
“I fell asleep, Prior. I pray, grant me your pardon. I meant to wake you.”
“Nay, never mind it. You need no pardon from me.” Ratbold remained distracted as they strode along. He wielded his staff like a weapon, whacking off the heads of thistles as they walked. “That night I dreamed I stood in a high hall waiting for the king to hear my case.”
“The king? Not the abbot?”
“Nay, the king, for I was dressed in the garb of a soldier, as I once was in the king’s service.”
It seemed long ago that Alain had himself stood before the king. Henry had ruled against him, had disinherited him and stripped him of the county gifted to him by a dying Lavastine, but had shown mercy by granting him a position in his own humble Lions. Alain uncovered no anger in his own heart, remembering that day. He only hoped that Lord Geoffrey was proving to be a good steward over Lavas county, that his daughter, and heir, would prove as wise a count as Lavastine had been in his time. That he had failed Lavastine pained him; only that.
“What case did you bring before the king in your dream?”
“I know not.” Ratbold’s habitual frown was set as strongly as ever on his face although his disapproval in this instance seemed turned on himself. “All I did was wait my turn, like a man standing on the knife edge of the Abyss who knows not whether he is meant to fall into the pit or rise to the Chamber of Light. Then I woke. You know what happened next. I should have known. I should have trusted in God.”
They walked for a while without speaking. The peace of the morning sank over them. Here along the track they might have been the only two people in the wide world, alone except for the robins and a flock of honking geese flying north. Birds sang out of the depths of the forest, but the trees were silent, untouched by wind. Water dripped from branches. Shallow pools lay in perfect stillness in basins and ruts cutting across the wheeled track. The hounds padded along with ears raised, listening, alert, pausing now and again to lap up water.
“Why do you stay at Hersford Monastery, Brother?” Ratbold asked at last.
“You took me in when I was desperate and alone. Isn’t that reason enough? But I cannot stay any longer. I know where I must go next. I must find the one who will believe my tale and help me.”
“Alas,” murmured Ratbold. “So we are served for our lack of faith.”
“What do you mean? I, too, had a dream that night, Prior. Do not blame yourself or the others. Why should you? How can it be that any sane man could believe the story I told you when first I came? I can scarcely believe it myself, although I lived through it. Yet I know it is true, and that I must act—I don’t know how, or what I can do. Perhaps nothing. But I must act. I must try. I cannot bear any longer only to stand and wait.”
Ratbold missed a step, staggering, but righted himself as Alain paused to help him. “Let me go with you, Brother.”
“Go with me?” The request astounded him because it was so unexpected.
“I will serve you—”
“What can you mean? Father Ortulfus depends on you, Prior Ratbold. He can’t administer the monastery without your help. I must go alone. I mean to journey into lands held by the Eika.”
“The Eika! Will you become a missionary?”
Alain laughed as a tiny frog hopped out of one of the standing pools and vanished under a tangle of blackberry vines. For months now he had been paralyzed by grief, unable to feel or think or move, but that morning with the sheep when he had passed from sleep into waking had brought blood back to his limbs, warmth to his skin, feeling to his heart, painful but blessedly welcome.
Adica was gone. He had lost her.
But he still had a task to complete.
“I don’t know. I only know I must reach the one called Stronghand, whom I see in my dreams.”
Ratbold turned his face away and touched his hidden cheek with one finger as if to wipe away a tear. “So be it, Brother. There is no one here who can stop you.”
No one.
When they reached the monastery, they were brought to Father Ortulfus’ study where the good father entertained exalted guests, the same clerics who had passed them three days before, taking no notice of two humble monks standing alongside the road.
The eldest of the clerics was a lean man called Severus whose ascetic face suggested that he had passed many long nights on his knees in prayer after long days of solitary scholarly study. He refused to speak Wendish, using only Dariyan.
“Had we known, we might have taken him then and gone on our way more quickly. These delays are a trouble to us. I have come all the way from southern Salia, leaving my assistants behind me to oversee the work necessary there. I am on my way to Alba.”
He looked Alain over, mouth tight, expression doubtful. “This one? This is the man we were sent to recover?” He shook his head, but his skeptical gaze touched the hounds sitting faithfully on either side of the door. Not even Father Ortulfus forbade the hounds any chamber they wished to enter. All of them had discovered that if the hounds were let be, they behaved peaceably enough. “Are these his hounds?”
“They are mine,” Alain replied. “Who has sent you, Brother?”
“You are bold, speaking before you are spoken to.”
“I beg your pardon, Brother, but it is obvious that I have been spoken of without my knowledge. Prior Ratbold and I are only just returned from a distant standing where we have watched over sheep suspected of carrying the murrain.”
The other clerics shuddered, wringing hands, whispering.
“Yes, there is a murrain abroad in the lands south of here,” said Father Ortulfus, “so these good clerics report. They passed skulls set on posts and whole steadings burned out. It’s a terrible plague, although some say it’s the work of soul-murdering bandits. But I have not yet heard your report, Brother. Prior Ratbold, what of Farmer Hosed?”
“He burned two of the sheep.” Ratbold glanced at
Alain, then at the clerics, before returning his gaze to the abbot. “But the others … the other ewes and the lambs.” He hesitated, unwilling to speak further in the presence of strangers.
“Go on.”
Words came raggedly. “There is no murrain on our lands.”
Ortulfus had no experience concealing his feelings and thoughts; born of an ancient and noble lineage, placed in a position of power at a youthful age, he had never learned to school his expressions. His look now, staring first with disbelief at Ratbold before shifting to regard Alain, betrayed his innermost heart.
The intensity of Ortulfus’ gaze startled Alain. They do not want to give me up. At Lavas he had been cast out; no one had wanted him, although he had been accepted by the Lions because of the king’s imprimatur and, he hoped, his own hard work. Adica and her village had taken him in as one of their own, but he had been deposited there by a shaman of great power and terrible wisdom. Here at Hersford he had been accepted out of charity; he had believed himself suffered more than loved.
Had he misunderstood the good brothers? What man would smile sadly as Ortulfus did now, as if searching for a question to an answer he already knew?
“Brother Alain, these honorable clerics come from the skopos in Darre. It is their wish that you journey to Darre to meet with the skopos.”
Their wish, Ortulfus said, but in his tone Alain heard otherwise.
Their command.
“Why would the skopos wish to meet with me?”
“We do not ask,” said Brother Severus coldly. “We only obey. We will leave in the morning.”
Ortulfus gestured to Ratbold and his other attendants, indicating that they should go about their business, see about supper, return to their work. “You may go, Brother Alain, and make any preparations necessary.”
Alain considered objecting. That powerful compulsion to seek Stronghand still rode him, yet the pragmatic voice of Aunt Bel whispered in his mind.
If it is true that Stronghand is in Alba, how will you cross the sea with no goods or coin to trade for your passage?
He was a pauper, living on the sufferance of the church. Surely the skopos had a powerful reason to seek him out. Perhaps she had knowledge of the magical forces that had cast him here. He would make her heed him. Once her belief was secured, all others must believe him as well.
“I will go then, Father, with your blessing.”
Ortulfus shook his head, that tight, ironic smile still caught on his lips. “You have my blessing, Brother Alain. I pray you, think as well of us as you can.”
“How could I think otherwise? You took me in when I was mad with grief. You have sheltered me. I pray none of you come to any harm.”
Father Ortulfus steadied himself on a chair, lowering his gaze humbly. His eyes brimmed with tears.
There was nothing else to say. Alain whistled the hounds to order and left the chamber, but as he walked away he heard them speaking still.
“He is not what I expected,” said Brother Severus, voice carrying, perhaps, farther than he meant it to.
“Nay, Your Excellency,” retorted Father Ortulfus boldly. “It is not for us to judge.”
Iso wept. “Let m-m-me come with you, B-brother. I am alone here.”
“You are not alone. The others will look after you.”
He grieved to leave Iso, who was so frail, so crippled, so trusting. He had abandoned Lackling to his fate, all unknowing; now it seemed doubly criminal to leave Iso behind, but the boy could not sustain the rigors of a long journey, nor did Alain trust the supercilious clerics who served the skopos to be patient with anyone who might impede their progress. They seemed an impatient group to him as he joined them in the cold breath of dawn with dew glimmering on every blade of grass. Cattle and sheep grazed placidly in their pastures. No trace of the murrain had blighted the monastic herds, Ratbold had told him last night, but the prior had spoken the words in the way a man relays information that his listener already knows.
With Father Ortulfus at their head, all of the lay brothers and monks gathered beside the gate to see him off. Even Brother Lallo cried. Iso trembled as he wept. The entire crowd of them remained watching at the gate, silent except for poor Iso’s convulsive sobs, as the cavalcade lumbered away. Alain kept looking back over his shoulder, lifting his hand a second time, a third, a fourth, to convey his fare-you-wells. A few raised hands in answer. The sun rose behind them, and as the road curved he lost sight of the monastery first in the glare of the sun pushing up above the forest and at last as the bend in the road concealed it irrevocably.
XVI
AN ARROW IN THE HEART
1
SHELTERED by a makeshift awning, Blessing sat unnaturally still, legs crossed, hands on her knees, and watched the centaurs confer. The woman-horses ranged in a circle, hindquarters out and torsos in. They spoke in voices both human and mareish, words punctuated by snorts, flicks of their tails, and the stamping of hooves. They remained at the crest of the slope while sentries surveyed the land on all sides. The prince’s forces lay out of sight, although threads of smoke from their campfires marked the sky.
The centaurs had not returned them to the prince’s camp.
Blessing’s silence made Anna nervous. She had never seen the princess go for so long without saying something.
Had the centaur shaman bewitched the girl?
“Honored One? I see if your cuts heal?”
A fair number of actual people traveled with the centaur army, all of them congregating around a cheerfully painted wagon whose occupant Anna never, ever saw. The healer was one of these humans, although she was odd in her own right with dark eyes outlined with kohl and strangely large hands and feet. She wore a woman’s felt jacket, a skirt split for riding with leather trousers beneath, and a tall felt headdress decorated with bronze spirals and prancing deer. Her voice, if rather low, was soothing, and her hands, probing Anna’s injuries, were gentle.
“How do you come to speak Wendish?” Anna asked.
The healer smiled. Bells tied to her headdress tinkled as she nodded. “We prepare for this meeting. For this reason, some learn the speech of your people. The Holy One sees the day to come and the day already walking past.”
Could the shaman see into the future? How much power did she have? Yet Anna could not say she felt particularly nervous as the healer fed her gruel and a sharp, fermented milk before leaving her and Blessing alone. The milk made her head spin. She became unusually aware of her hands, her lips, her elbows, the red-and-orange carpet on which they sat, the ragged clouds overhead in a pale blue sky which, to the east, faded to a stormy gray. She smelled winter, but it didn’t touch them.
Blessing refused both gruel and milk. Tears streaked her face, but she kept silent, all her fear and uncertainty held in. Anna’s heart broke to see her so bereft. She was so young, despite her size, no more than three or four years of age, still a baby for all that her body had matured rapidly. Although the girl looked twelve or so, she had neither experience nor maturity.
No wonder her father feared for her. He must have known it was only a matter of time before she got herself into trouble beyond his ability to fix. It was a miracle that the centaurs had rescued them from Bulkezu, and even now they were still in grave danger even if the centaurs seemed calm and polite.
It was no wonder Blessing feared the centaurs. She had never lived under the hand of any authority except that of her doting father. Then Bulkezu had abducted her most violently, and now she was held prisoner by these strange creatures.
Blessing hadn’t learned the lesson of Gent. She didn’t know that sometimes you had to bide your time and hunker down in such shelter as you could find, because you no longer had any control over the storm blowing around you.
The old one, the shaman, tossed her head abruptly, backed out of the council circle, and walked over to them.
Blessing stood and stepped forward, her little face creased with determination, her eyes black with anger.
&n
bsp; “When are you going to take me back to my—”
She jerked and spun sideways as though a giant’s hand twisted her around. Her hands clutched at her throat, and her eyes rolled skyward. Light winked, flashed, in the corner of Anna’s eye—barely seen and gone as quickly.
Blessing screamed. “I hear her! I hear her! She came back! She’s all on fire!” She fell limp to the ground.
“Blessing!” Anna shook the girl, chafed her hands, but she did not respond although she was breathing and her eyes were open. A shadow covered the princess’ face, and Anna looked up to find the shaman looming over them. “What did you do?” she cried, then fell silent as the shaman’s gaze touched her.
The centaur said nothing, only gazed at Blessing, coolly appraising. Her face, despite its human shape, had an uncanny appearance, maybe only the luminous shine of her eyes or perhaps the oddly disturbing horn color of her skin and the contrasting gold-and-green-painted stripes across her torso.
It had to be a spell.
Slowly, Anna got up, although it still hurt to move. She was bruised and cut and aching, but it was incontrovertibly true that the centaurs had saved her and the princess from Bulkezu. For all their terrible strangeness, they didn’t look insane.
“Who came back?” demanded Anna rudely, forgetting prudence and courtesy. “Who is on fire?”
The shaman scented the air, facing east. “A powerful force has entered the land.”
Blessing could not speak, but Anna had not lost her tongue. Not anymore.
“What are you going to do with us? Where is Prince Sanglant? Why can’t we go back to our people? What have you done to Princess Blessing?”
The shaman examined Anna as though the young woman were a particularly loathsome grub that she might, upon examination, decide to squish. That look was spell enough. Anna ducked her head. Maybe the end would come swiftly, a bolt of lightning called down from the heavens to burn her to ash.
“I have done nothing to Princess Blessing except spare her the brutal mercies of the beast who stalks in the grass. What affliction besets her, I do not know.”
