The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  “I did not leave you for four years. In the lands of the Ashioi, time does not run by the same measure it does here. There is an old sorcerer still alive there who lived in the days of the great cataclysm when his people and their land were torn from Earth. He is your grandfather, Sanglant. Still alive, although by our measure he would have lived—ai, God—twenty centuries or more. Yet he seems no older than an elder who boasts seventy years. When I walked in that far country, when I ascended the mage’s ladder and walked the spheres, it seemed to me that no more than seven days had passed. It seemed that I left Verna only a handful of days ago. I could not have returned sooner! I did everything I could. I suffered, and I learned, and I placed myself in danger, and I have grasped the heart of the power that is within me. Maybe I am the only one here who can stop Anne. Maybe that duty, that obligation, has been forced upon me. Maybe that obligation has to come first. Maybe the lives of untold countless thousands and tens of thousands have to count for more than one life, even the life and happiness of my beloved husband. I am sorry that four years passed for you! I would not wish for it to have happened in this way, but there was nothing I could have done differently. I could have stayed there, with my kinfolk, in a place much better and brighter than this one! But I chose to return to you. To Blessing. To Earth. To my father’s home. And I surely expected to come back to a better welcome than this!”

  In the absolute stunned silence that followed this declamation a rolling rumbling whoosh of flame erupted along the ridge, causing the big griffin to take wing and circle away to a safer resting place. Grass sizzled and soldiers cried aloud. Smoke poured heavenward as Liath looked up, startled, and saw the spreading fury of the fires. With an intent gaze, attention shifting entirely and horribly away from him, she frowned. The fires snuffed out, just like that. Smoke puffed; ash sprinkled down over the camp and drifted away on the wind.

  Sanglant had become suffused with an entirely unexpected—or foredoomed—flush of arousal just looking at her, being close enough really to smell the perfume of her. His anger made his senses that much more on edge and her presence that much more intimate, although they did not touch. She was so beautiful, not in the common way but in the remembered way, when he had dreamed of her those nights in Gent, when he had woken up beside her those nights in Verna and been astonished and delighted and utterly famished, starving for the touch of her skin, her hands, her lips.

  Maybe he couldn’t walk yet, but he had strength enough to move his arms. He caught her around the back of the neck, where skin and hair met at the nape. Just that touch made him drunk with ecstasy. He pulled her head toward him and kissed her. And kissed her.

  And kissed her.

  Her warmth melted him like the sun’s fire, as though desire itself could knit him back together again.

  “My lord prince! The griffin!”

  He released Liath as she pulled away from him, jumping to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, as passionate as he was. But behind her, the griffin stalked through the line of tents. Men cowered, but the beast did not strike. Fulk stepped forward, spear raised, but Liath intercepted him.

  “Don’t move!” she said sharply.

  Heribert had gone gray-white, like curdled milk, and Hathui tensed, her mouth a grimace, as she prepared herself for death. Only Breschius stared in outright awe, gaze lit with wonder, as the griffin swung its head to examine him. The frater looked ready to die at that moment, as long as he was slain by something so terribly beautiful.

  Then the creature moved past him and loomed over Sanglant.

  “Don’t move,” said Liath, but of course he could not move even had he meant to kill it. An iron reek rolled off it like the heat of the forge, soaking him to the bones. He had to close his eyes; his face was sweating.

  “Now what?” he asked, cracking open his eyes. He almost laughed. He was entirely helpless; it could take his head off, and even his mother’s curse could not save him then. Yet he could not keep his gaze away from his wife’s form, glimpsed beyond that massive eagle’s head. He knew what lay beneath Liath’s tunic; he saw the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and frankly after all this time the griffin seemed rather more a distraction than a danger. At this moment. At this instant. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die if you expired in the arms of the one you loved best.

  The griffin huffed, a wheezing cough, and the silver griffin uttered a yelping call in answer.

  “Do you wish to free her mate?” Liath asked.

  “No,” he said defiantly. “I need griffin feathers. A live beast serves me as well or better than a dead one. I claim him.”

  “So does she.” She, too, was laughing—although not aloud. Her expression sang with it. She didn’t fear the griffins, and more importantly she still desired him.

  The griffin lowered its head until that deadly beak hovered an arm’s length from his face, seeking his scent or an understanding of his essence.

  “Do you still love me?” he asked, thinking that he might die before he could take another breath. He had to know.

  Now she did laugh. “I swore an oath to never love any man but you, Sanglant, so it scarcely matters, does it? I bound myself. I will never be free of you.”

  “Thank God.”

  The griffin huffed again, a noise that shuddered through its body, and lifted its head, then sat down on its haunches like a watchdog. The audible gasps of the soldiers and his attendants flowed around him like the murmur of a rising wind. An iron feather shook free and drifted down to slice through the grass beside his couch. He reached and found that if he grasped the quill and kept his fingers away from the feathered vane and edges, he did not cut himself.

  “I couldn’t even kill Bulkezu,” he said in a low voice, staring at the feather. The anger wasn’t gone, only swallowed. “I need this griffin, or you may as well lead the army yourself.”

  She grimaced as a shadow covered her face. “I am no leader. I am no regnant.”

  “You are Taillefer’s heir!”

  “I am not!” she cried triumphantly. “Anne is not my mother. I am not the child of any human woman. Do not burden me with Taillefer’s legacy. I am rid of it.”

  He let go of the feather and shut his eyes as a spasm of pain twisted through his chest. After a while, he could speak again.

  “If you are not Anne’s child—if you are not Taillefer’s great grandchild. What of Blessing, then? What of her claims?”

  “You are the child of a regnant, Sanglant. Blessing is Henry’s granddaughter. Isn’t that claim enough?”

  No.

  For all this time he had paraded Blessing in front of his allies as the rightful heir of Taillefer. To discover the claim wasn’t true silenced him.

  The griffin settled down to rest her eagle’s head on her forelegs. She closed her eyes and huffed once more, the strength of that sound rippling through her shoulders and tawny haunches. Her tail slapped the ground, and stilled.

  “I am not even Anne’s daughter,” she repeated so softly that he heard her only because of his unnaturally keen hearing. “I am the bastard child of my father, Bernard, and a captive fire daimone. It’s true Da was born into a noble house, but it is the most minor of lineages.”

  “You said once that Sturm was your kinsman.”

  “So Wolfhere told me. I believe it to be true. But Wolfhere lied to me about Anne, so maybe he lied to me about that as well.”

  “Ai, God,” whispered Sanglant as the tide of adrenaline and arousal ebbed, leaving him drained and exhausted and in so very much pain. “How can we know what is true and what is the lie? How can we choose the right path?”

  “Griffins and sorcerers.” Her gaze flicked toward the dozing griffin, and he saw in her expression that she wasn’t quite as fearless as he thought—the creature made her nervous even though she believed it would not hurt her. “You have been walking on the right path all along. You have what you marched so far to get. Together we can turn back to the west and fight Anne.”


  “We will need a powerful army to defeat our enemies.”

  “I cannot bring you an army.”

  “Nor do I ask you to,” he said irritably. “I boast a talisman better than griffin wings. I know how to raise an army. First, we must call a council …” Yet he was so weak he could not sit up. “I need two days to heal.”

  “The heavens revolve regardless of our hurts. We must move swiftly.”

  “I must have two days! I cannot—” He coughed, grimaced, and only her hands pressing on his shoulders stopped him from thrashing and thereby breaking open the wound. He grasped her fingers and with eyes shut just breathed, lips pinched together and his entire face knotted up as he waited for the agony to subside.

  “My lord prince. Liath, what is wrong?”

  “Bring him something to drink, I pray you, Heribert. Wine, if you have it.”

  “We have nothing but this nasty fermented mare’s milk.”

  “That will do. It will ease the pain.”

  She eased her weight off his shoulder and brushed fingers caressingly along one cheek. He got hold of her braid and twisted it around his hand, letting its feel distract him, breathing out the pain with each breath until, piece by piece, he could relax.

  “Blessing,” he said at last, when he could speak. “What of Blessing?”

  “It is no form of sorcery I understand. Perhaps Da wrote of it in his book, but I don’t have his book anymore.”

  “Hugh has your father’s book.”

  “Hugh is another danger,” she agreed. “I will go back to Li’at’dano. I will convey to her your wish for a council. I will ask her to do what she can to protect Blessing.”

  “Can we trust them? They destroyed the old empire. They feared and hated them. They fear humankind now.”

  “I trust Li’at’dano.”

  “Do you trust her with your daughter’s life?”

  “Do you trust me with it, Sanglant?”

  “Ah!” It was an unexpected stab, a knife in the dark. The words came hard, after all that had passed, but he said them. “Do what you must.”

  4

  “NO.”

  The stink of Willibrod’s sorcery filled the tent and made Alain’s eyes run, yet he wept with sadness and disgust as well. Reaching behind his own back, he found the coarse cloth of the tent, the flap that covered the entrance, and gripped it. “I will not join you. And you will not kill me. You have no power over me.”

  “I have power,” whispered Willibrod.

  “The power to turn men’s hearts so they eat at themselves and succumb to the worst that is in them. The power to make others suffer. The power to prey on the weak. I am not weak.”

  “You are alone.” Willibrod took a step toward him, but Alain held his ground and jerked the flap aside to let light stream in.

  Willibrod shrieked, staggering backward. He groped for the hat and veil while, outside, Rage and Sorrow began such a clamor of barking that the folk who had crept close to listen scattered in fear.

  “Can you bear the touch of the sun? Or the touch of the earth? You are vulnerable, Willibrod. By abusing your power you have forged the weapon that will kill you.”

  Willibrod was still whimpering in pain as he struggled to settle the veil over his face. Alain stepped sideways out of the tent and stood on the lowered tailgate of the wagon. Rage lunged toward Bartholomew and a gang of five other men who had sidled forward, and they bolted back to a safe distance. Red hefted his staff to protect himself, but the hound danced out of his range.

  “Father Benignus is not master over life and death!” Alain pitched his voice to carry, knowing that the fear the bandits felt in the presence of Willibrod worked to his advantage. Anger made him reckless. “He can hurt you only as long as you wear the amulets he gave you.”

  “They protect us against death!” shouted Bartholomew. “No man wearing the amulet has died in battle.”

  “Against what implacable enemy have you fought? Poor peasants? Frightened children? Folk who have no better weapons than their shovels and hoes? Would you fare as well against armed men? Because armed men will come soon. The levy of Lord Arno will ride, alerted by my companions. How will you survive against trained men-at-arms?”

  The wagon rocked under his feet, and he jumped off the tailgate and landed on the earth.

  “Will Father Benignus protect you? He cannot even protect himself! Has light touched his skin since the day he first gathered you together? Have his feet touched this earth? He fears light and earth, because he is not a strong man but a weak one. He needs you for one purpose only, to bring him souls to drink to keep his husk alive for one day longer. In the end, he will eat your souls, too, because his hunger rules him.”

  He had them now. A score whispered, backing away, as Willibrod pushed past the entrance flap. The maleficus was once again veiled and gloved with not a speck of skin showing. Women cowered against the stone ridge.

  “Kill him,” said Willibrod. “The man who kills him can have his choice among the women tonight.”

  Alain took a step toward the gathered men. Theirs were a bleak line of faces, some worn and weary, some merely fashioned, like untrained dogs, to jerk where each least instinct pulled them.

  “Is this the reward he gives you? That you can force women who get no pleasure from the act and will hate you afterward?”

  “What care we if they hate us,” cried Dog-Ears, “if we get the pleasure in doing them? I was a slave in a lord’s steading and there were no women for me there and never would be. Now at least I’ve something I hadn’t before.”

  “I have a good wool cloak, and a silver necklace,” said Red. “I never had such things before!”

  “Enough to eat, and meat to share!”

  The rest muttered in agreement. These were outlaws and outcasts, slaves and servants, homeless day laborers, the ones who, like Willibrod, were used and discarded according to the whim of the folk who had power over them. Why should they care if they gave way to the evil inclination? They had no hope anyway. Lord Arno’s men would kill them like vermin, so they took what was offered by Willibrod since it was a feast compared to the leavings that had been cast in the dirt before them in their previous lives.

  He could not sway them with this argument.

  Bartholomew set arrow to string. Red and Dog-Ears took threatening steps toward Alain, staffs raised, hesitant only because of the growling hounds. Their amulets dangled at their chests.

  Their amulets.

  That stink of vinegar held the key.

  “Do you know how Father Benignus sustains himself?” Alain cried.

  “Kill him!” shrieked Willibrod from the wagon.

  “It may be true that none of you die when you attack the poor and the helpless. But you fight among yourselves, and Father. Benignus punishes those who break the peace. And when that man dies, his soul is captured by the amulet. When this man—” He gestured toward Willibrod. “—takes that amulet, he soaks it in water and drinks that man’s soul. It gives him life for another day or another week. He feeds on you now. He drew you together only to use you. He bears no love for you. He cares nothing for any hardships you may have once suffered, nor does he care what cruelties you inflict upon others. He lives for no reason except his own hunger. In the end, he will kill you all.”

  “Kill him!” shouted Willibrod, but the bandits held still, whispering each to his fellow, fingering the amulets, lowering their bows.

  “Or I will kill you!” shrieked Willibrod. “Eloie! Eloie! Isaba—” Bartholomew let the arrow fly.

  It ripped through the tattered robes. Willibrod spun backward and slammed into the tent. Canvas ripped as the frame splintered, but he flailed and righted himself, still standing despite the arrow protruding from the center of his chest. He raised his hand to call down the curse.

  “Eloie! Eloie!”

  Sorrow leaped and got his leg in her jaws. The force of her bite overbalanced him. He staggered. With a horrible shriek he tottered, sp
un his arms, and lost his footing. His robes fluttered and his veil streamed open; he fell and hit the ground hard as Sorrow, yelping in pain, scrambled backward, shaking her head from side to side as though she had been stung. She buried her muzzle in the dirt.

  Silence followed, hard and heavy. No sound of birds, no murmur of wind in the trees, no noise at all broke the unnatural hush.

  Willibrod did not move. Around the camp, voices whimpered in fear. An infant squalled and was hushed by its terrified mother.

  “Ai, God,” said one of the men.

  His voice shattered the spell that held Alain. He knelt beside Willibrod and plucked at his robes. The body beneath shifted, clacked, and rattled. What was left of him? Although Alain sniffed, he smelled nothing like the stench of putrefaction, only a hint of that vinegary tang. Bracing himself against the awful sight he might see, he lifted away the veil and hat to reveal a grinning skull, jaw agape.

  Willibrod was gone. Only his skeleton remained, darkening where sunlight soaked into pale bone.

  Rage leaped, growling furiously, and Sorrow lunged.

  Too late Alain sprang up. A staff smacked into the side of his head. He went down in a heap, hands and legs nerveless, paralyzed by the blow, while all around him he heard the snarling battle of the hounds, outnumbered, and the screams and cries of the bandits, closing in.

  “Go,” he murmured, commanding the hounds, but he had no voice. His head was on fire, and the rest of him was numb.

  Why had he turned his back? Even for that one moment, thinking that all of them were shocked by Willibrod’s death and disintegration; even that one moment had been too long. Anger and grief boiled up. What had he done to his faithful hounds? Better that they run and save themselves. He stirred, fighting to get up, to protect them, to save them.

  A second blow cracked into his back, and a third exploded in pain at the base of his neck, this flare of agony followed by a long, hazy slide as he was caught in the current of a sparkling river flowing toward the sea. Now and again he bobbed to the surface, hearing voices but seeing only a misty dark fog.