by Kate Elliott
How many more were out there?
“Liath,” he said softly.
She stirred but did not wake.
He eased a step sideways, toward her. The Eika dog slept on, too, and it usually woke at once if any danger threatened him, but it had remained terribly weak since Werlida.
A fourth wolf, black enough that it seemed more shadow than body, arrived in the clearing. It growled softly, and he, that fast, unthinking, growled in reply. The lead wolf barked again, like an order. Two more wolves loped into the clearing and halted.
“Liath!” he said, more sharply.
She stirred, yawned sleepily, and murmured his name on a question.
“Get your weapons,” he said without varying his tone of voice.
Three of the wolves broke away to circle them. Liath sat up, grabbing her bow.
Light streaked off the shelter, a silvery thread more thought than form. It bore human lineaments, but in the darkness it shimmered. It slid under the nose of the lead wolf, evaded a snap, and a moment later was joined by one of its comrades. Together, they pulled on the tails of the wolves and otherwise pinched and teased them until the entire pack turned tail and vanished into the forest. The servants disappeared after them, their laughter as soft as the wind.
“Cover yourself.”
Sister Anne emerged from the shelter with the third servant hovering at her side. Liath yanked the blanket up to her shoulders. Sanglant ignored her and went to the edge of the clearing to listen, but although he stood there for a long time, he heard no trace of wolves.
When he turned back, Anne had gone inside. He sheathed his sword and knelt beside Liath, kissed her, then recalled that Anne was, presumably, still awake. He sat back on his heels.
“What happened?”
“Wolves. The servants chased them away. Go back to sleep. I’ll stand watch.”
“I thought my mother said that the servants would stand watch.”
“And so they do, but I can’t sleep now.” But he didn’t tell her it was more because of dreams than wolves. The servants had done a better job of dispelling the wolves than he ever could have. She hesitated, then lay back down, a sumptuous curve under the blanket. For an instant he was tempted—but two of the servants had gone into the wood and had not yet returned. He pulled on his tunic and bound up his sandals, then dragged a fallen log close to the old, ruined way house, midway between Liath’s bed and the shelter, and sat down.
As he sat, he watched the stars. He tried to imagine fixed stars and wandering stars, spheres and epicycles, all these words that Liath used so easily—but it only made him impatient. He got to his feet and began pacing; he couldn’t sit still although he knew full well that a sentry needed to be still. But when he was still, the weight of chains seemed to settle on him, whether Bloodheart’s chains or the chains his own father wanted to bind him with.
King and emperor, with every prince and noble going for his throat.
He shuddered, spun to walk back the way he had come—
They had returned without him noticing.
He stared.
He had seen enchantment while under Bloodheart’s rule. As a child, he had seen certain small creatures hidden in the shadows, peeking out from bushes, half-hidden among the leaves of the deep forest where children weren’t allowed to play, but he had explored there nevertheless. He knew magic lived in the land, and although he hated the thought of it, he knew some part of it lived in his blood, his heritage from his mother.
This was enchantment of a different order, creatures from another plane of being—from a higher sphere, Liath would say.
They danced on the grass, hands interlinked and perhaps even melded in some inhuman way, because they were made more of light than of flesh. They sang an eerie, angular melody that had no words but only a kind of keening throb. Their dance was at once joy and sorrow, braided together until they could not be unwoven one from the other.
If they knew he watched, they gave no sign of knowing. They only danced.
He neither saw nor heard nor smelled any trace of the wolves.
He watched the servants for a long time, until the predawn light made gray of tree trunks and the servants faded into the light of the coming day and vanished from his sight except where light played along the branches of the shelter, corresponding in no way to the sun, which had not yet risen above the treetops. He heard a giggle at his ear, felt fingers tweak his earlobe and a breath of wind tickle his cheek. Laughing, he went to saddle he horses.
Despite the encounter with the wolves, Anne led them deeper into woodland and lightly settled territory. The next day at about midday they came to a crossroads. It was a lonely place at the base of a rugged hill made forbidding by an outcropping of stone halfway up the steep slope. Someone had cut back the trees to make a clearing, but one huge old trunk had been left.
“We’ll turn east here,” said Anne.
“Not south?” Liath glanced at her mother, surprised.
“East,” repeated Anne.
They reached the actual crossing of paths, and as he came up beside the huge old stump, Sanglant saw that carvings decorated the wood: stag-headed men, women with the heads of vultures, a wolf. Oak leaves, all dried up and crinkly now, littered the base, and someone had piled a cairn of stones on top Those stones had red stains on them, blood long since dried.
“Sacrifice,” said Anne harshly. “And worse things.” She dismounted and walked over to the stump. Without expression, she took apart the cairn stone by stone. At its base, half sunk into the rotting center of the trunk, lay an amulet, somewhat decayed. She swept it off the stump with a branch. “This is the work of the Enemy.”
Sanglant watched her with interest, waiting to see what would happen. Perhaps it was true that the Enemy prodded weak-willed souls to work harm in the world in this fashion. But he had see men resort to stranger rites before battle, and of them, as many who prayed to the gods of their grandmothers were as likely to live as those who prayed to God. Nevertheless, it was true that such displays displeased the Lord and Lady, and they had to be eradicated.
Anne turned to where Liath sat on her horse. “Burn it.”
Liath paled. She did not move or reply
“The gift of fire is in your nature. Burn this place, where the minions of the Enemy have set their hands.”
“No. The people hereabouts only do it to protect themselves and their animals from harm on their journeys, or to guarantee good weather while they’re on the road. Why should we harm them when what they’ve done gives no harm to us?”
“This is Bernard talking through your lips. He traveled too much and was too lenient in his judgments.”
“Da always said we should leave well enough alone.”
“I left you with him for too long.”
“Which way do we go?” answered Liath stiffly. She looked furious.
“You will not do as I ask?”
“I will not. You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.”
“I am one of the few who do understand.” Anne glanced toward Sanglant. He saw the air shimmer around Anne, and suddenly he heard the servants, whispers cutting at the high end of his hearing: words about fire, and burning, but what they used of language was too distorted for him to understand more.
“I say we should ride on,” he said. “Surely there is a deacon hereabouts who will deal with these old superstitions in a fitting manner. Isn’t that why God have ordained some to dedicate their lives to the church, to be weapons devoted to God’s working in the world?”
“Many were conceived and born to be weapons, Prince Sanglant, and yet have no knowledge of their destiny.”
“Spoken like my father, Sister Anne. But I am not such a one. And neither is my wife.”
She measured Liath a final time. “The iron does not know what it will become until it has been hammered in the fire.”
“Let us ride on,” he said again. Liath urged her horse forward, taking the right fork.
“We’ll wait for you ahead.” Sanglant rode on, following Liath. The Eika dog padded listlessly beside him. Up the road, Liath had halted in the shadow of the rock outcropping.
“I don’t understand your mother’s position in the world. Is she sworn to the church, or is she a great lady with many estates under her rule? Who are her kin?”
“She won’t tell me,” she said, so caught up in her own anger that for an instant it appeared she hadn’t heard him, until he realized she had just answered his question. “I asked her why she wears the gold torque, but she wouldn’t answer me. She doesn’t want me to know my own kin!”
“Or she has reasons of her own for keeping you ignorant. What does she want you to know, Liath?”
“The art of the mathematici.”
“‘The iron does not know what it will become—’” he murmured, then faltered, smelling smoke. He heard the clip-clop of Anne’s mule, and a moment later she appeared around the bend.
That afternoon clouds blew in, and gusts of wind shook the trees and threw branches every which way. It began to rain so heavily that they were forced to take refuge at the first village they came to, and there they had to stay for two more days while storm raged and howled around them.
2
AS they climbed the last long slope, Lavas tower gleamed in the distance, all freshly whitewashed and with a new thatch roof. They topped the rise to see Lavas Holding spread out before them. From here, Alain could see the river curling away through lush fields, the little church, the neat houses in the village, the enclosure, and the tower and great hall, all looking prosperous and busy. By the gates, a large crowd had gathered, and at the sight of Lavastine’s banner a great cheer rose up. At once, the people waiting by the gates lurched forward into an ungainly procession, coming out along the road to greet their lord.
“Chatelaine Dhuoda has made ready for our coming,” said Lavastine.
“Your fields look well tended,” said Tallia. “And your people clothed and fed.”
“That they are,” he replied, not in a smug way, merely stating a fact.
“The church is small,” she added.
“But richly furnished, as is fitting.” He glanced at Alain, then back at Tallia. “There is also a chapel in the tower where we pray each day.”
They rode down to an enthusiastic greeting. Many of the gathered servants and villagers reached out to touch either Lavastine or Alain on the foot as they rode past. Alain noted a number of unfamiliar faces on the fringe of the crowd, people dressed in ragged clothes and with expressions drawn taut with hunger, watching, hopeful.
“Your people love you,” said Tallia. People called out her name and prayed for God’s blessing on her womb. “When we rode through Arconia, the folk would gather to watch us go by. But they feared my parents, they did not love them.”
Lavastine held court in the great hall, an assembly that took all afternoon. He distributed certain items he had obtained on the king’s progress to his chatelaine, his stewards and servants, and the village folk: inks and parchment, iron tools, a bull to be used in common by the villagers to breed their cows, a dozen stout ewes, cuttings from quince, fig, and mulberry trees, and vine cuttings from one of the royal vineyards. There were harness and leashes for Master Rodlin, cooking pots for Cook, and javelins, spears, and knives for the men-at-arms.
“We have an unusually great number of laborers this season,” reported Chatelaine Dhuoda. “We hear rumor of a drought in Salia. Many have come in hope of harvest work.”
Tallia did not even wait to see the tower and grounds but walked out at once with her attendants to give comfort as she could among the poor. Dhuoda led Lavastine and Alain upstairs to show that she had followed the orders sent ahead by the count. A new bed had been built and placed in the chamber the count used as his study.
“This will be my sleeping room,” he told Alain, gesturing to the study. They took the curving stairs up to the sleeping chamber that by custom belonged to the count of Lavas and which he and Alain had shared before. Now the bedspread marked with the combined symbols of Lavas hounds and Varren roes brightened the room, and Tallia’s chests had been moved into place. “This will be yours. In that bed all the heirs of Lavas have been conceived.”
“Even me?”
Lavastine sighed, frowned, and absently patted Terror’s head. By his expression, he looked a long way away—in time, if not distance. “Even you, Son. But God are merciful, and They forgive us our sins as long as we do our duty on this earth.”
Alain walked to the bed, set a hand on the bedspread, and looked back at Lavastine. Walking had been agony twelve days ago when every step meant that his clothing rubbed against his blistered and raw skin, but he had healed, and the nettle blisters had even gained him some sympathy from Tallia. More importantly, they had allowed him to get through the rest of the journey without any further rash incidents that might turn her against him.
But coming home had lifted both impatience and despair from his heart. As Aunt Bel would say: “If you want to start a fire, you must chop wood for it first.”
He had not forgotten the Life of St. Radegundis, which they had listened to while on the king’s progress and which Tallia had so admired. So as quiet day succeeded quiet day, as crops ripened and came to harvest, he walked with her every morning among the poor laborers who had come to Lavas in hope of work and bread. When she spoke of founding a convent in honor of St. Radegundis, he encouraged her. Together with her favorite lady, Hathumod, they spent many pleasant hours with the builder she had brought with her, a cleric educated in Autun, who discussed the traditional design favored by St. Benedicta in her Rule as well as certain modem innovations devised by the brothers at St. Galle.
At night, when they lay down together, he remembered the nettles.
“What of the old ruins the people here speak of?” Tallia asked Alain one day. “Wouldn’t it serve God to build over an old temple and reconsecrate the ground for holy purposes? My attendants tell me that the servants here say there is an altar stone there where terrible sacrifices were performed. They say you can still see the stains of blood.”
She looked so eager at the mention of sacrifices. When she was in this mood, she would often touch him, brush her fingers over his hand, lean against him, all unconsciously. He wanted to encourage that, and yet it would be a lie to agree with her when he simply didn’t know. “It’s laid out with defensive walls. I think it was a fort.”
“But they must have worshiped their gods there. Such people always do.”
“We’ll go ourselves. You can make your own judgment whether the old ruins would be suitable for a convent.”
The next few days he spent with Lavastine overseeing the harvest. It was usual for the lord to bend his own back to cut the first sheaf of grain in each field, for luck, and Alain did not mind the work. It reminded him of his childhood. But Lavastine never let him labor in this fashion for long; that was not a lord’s place.
The expedition was set for the feast day of Raduerial, the angel of song. By the time servants, attendants, and grooms assembled, Alain felt as if they were going on progress, not just a short way up into the hills. Tallia’s ladies chattered excitedly.
Lavastine observed their laughter and gossip with a shake the head. “I do believe,” he said to Alain, “that King Henry selected only those girls who were as empty-headed as possible. If they have brothers, I expect they think of nothing but hunting, hawking, and whoring.”
“Lady Hathumod is not like the others.”
“True. She’s a sober girl, but she came from Quedlinhame with Tallia. I suppose they rid themselves of her because of the heresy. She’s the only one who can pray for as many hours as can your wife.”
“Prayer to God is never wasted,
” retorted Alain, a little stung.
Lavastine whistled back Terror, who had gone to investigate a fresh pile of horse manure. “I am more inclined to believe that God values good works above prayer, but let us not argue this point, Son. Lady Tallia is generous to the poor. The king chose wisely when he picked these girls to serve his niece. Tallia will make no useful alliances here.”
Lavastine signaled to the grooms, and they set off. They followed a broad path through the fields and up into woodland heavily harvested by the villagers for firewood, small game, and herbs. In late summer the sun seemed to bleed until the air itself took on a golden sheen. Pigs scurried off into the brush. They flushed a covey of partridges, and the huntsmen ran off in pursuit. Alain had to whistle Steadfast back when she loped after them. The path branched, narrowed, and they climbed onto steeper slopes into old forest untouched by human hands. Tallia’s deacon entertained them with a story as they rode.
“‘At that time, the savage Bwrmen marched west on the rampage that eventually led them to the great city of Darre, then called Dariya.’”
“Didn’t the Bwrmen destroy Dariya?” asked Hathumod, who was inclined to ask questions.
“They did, indeed. Laid it waste, burned it, killed every male above the age of twelve, and made all the women and children their slaves. But the reign of Azaril the Cruel lasted only five years, for God’s mercy is great and Their justice swift.”
“But what about the visitation of the angel?” Tallia spoke quietly, but Alain was by now so sensitive to every twitch she made that he could hear her as clearly as if she rode beside him.
“Let me return to my story.” Cleric Rufino was as bald as an egg and had ruddy cheeks from working so many hours out in the sun supervising construction. “As they marched west toward Dariya, the Bwr army besieged a town called Korinthar. Now the people of Korinthar had been visited by St. Sebastian Johannes of Eisenach in the course of his holy travels, but although he sang the mass most sweetly, the townsfolk had not heeded his preaching. Instead they mocked him, and when the Bwrmen approached, these same townsfolk thrust him outside the gates into the path of the Bwr scouts. In this way God granted St. Sebastian Johannes the glorious martyrdom he desired. Mean while, the people of Korinthar readied themselves for the final battle with the savage Bwrmen. Although they knew they would lose, they believed it better to die fighting than to beg for mercy from an enemy they hated. But the angel Raduerial visited the chamber of young St. Sonja, who alone in that town had heeded the preaching of St. Sebastian Johannes. The angel blessed her with the gift of song.
