The Burning Stone

by Kate Elliott

  But that evening at twilight Hanna stood beside Hathui, and together they watched the king pacing in the garden as a fine drizzle dampened his cloak. She had given him Sapientia’s message, and now she simply had to bide her time together with all the other Eagles who rode in attendance on the king, waiting to be sent out again.

  “He still mourns his mother,” observed Hathui, “may her soul rest in peace. I tell you, Hanna, the king needs good cheer in his life, not dispute after dispute like this one!”

  “Then you favor Count Alain?”

  “Thank God I don’t have to pass judgment! Lord Geoffrey’s accusations are troubling, and hard to disprove. But Count Alain is no fool. King Henry respected Lavastine, and as Alain said, it is harder to pass judgment on the actions of a dead man than on the worthiness of a living one.”

  “Do you think so? The dead man can’t defend himself.”

  “But a good reputation is its own defense. It’s harder to pass judgment exactly because he can’t defend himself, because the whole of his life is laid out before you. Who are we, then, to decide we would have acted differently, and that our actions would have turned out for the better?” The rose garden was laid out between the great timber hall and the stone tower, bound on the other two sides by a roofed walkway and a log palisade. A half dozen servingmen lounged under the shelter of the walkway’s roof. “I do believe also that Lavastine and Alain will always be linked in the king’s mind with his own wishes for Prince Sanglant. For that reason, I think him likely to favor Count Alain over Lord Geoffrey.”

  Hanna hitched up her hood and held it tight under her chin. The wind shifted, and a mist of rain blew into her face. From the other side of the log palisade she heard the sound of horses being led into the stables after their afternoon’s exercise. Grooms called out to one another, laughing and joking.

  Footsteps crunched on the path behind them, and they moved aside for Villam to pass. He conversed with the king for a few moments, then went back the way he had come, into the stone tower.

  “Is there news of Liath?” asked Hanna softly.

  She couldn’t see Hathui’s expression, but she felt the other woman stiffen and shift a little away from her. “She ran off with Prince Sanglant. Nay, you knew that. You were still with the court then. The Council of Autun found her guilty of the crime of sorcery, and excommunicated her. If you have any traffic with her, Hanna—”

  “I’ll be excommunicated in my turn. But nevertheless, she is my friend, and whatever she was accused of, I know she’s innocent. What happened to Father Hugh?”

  Hathui grunted under her breath. “He was sent to Aosta to stand trial before the skopos. Only she can pass judgment on a man of his rank.”

  “You’ve heard nothing since from Liath? No word of Prince Sanglant?”

  “Nothing,” replied Hathui, even more softly. “And I’ve looked….”

  Her tone held a caution in it, but Hanna’s curiosity was piqued. “What do you mean, that you ‘looked’?”

  Hathui glanced around to make sure no one stood within earshot, but the stewards were far away and the king had walked to the farthest corner of the garden, where the curve of the stone tower met the palisade wall. Here a dog rose climbed a fretwork, and he touched a flower, bent to smell it, then, as with a fit of temper, snapped it off.

  “You’ve served the Eagles well and faithfully,” said Hathui in a low voice, “but you must wait until Wolfhere returns, for I’ve not the knowledge to teach, only to see a few shadows.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “There is more than one sight with which an Eagle can see. Wolfhere knows the secret of it, as do a few others. Those of us who can, learn it to aid ourselves and to aid the king. But you must never speak of it to anyone else. It’s like our badge. It’s part of our oath, sworn to serve the king and to aid each other.”

  “Serve the regnant and no other,” said Hanna, watching the king. He plucked the petals on the rose and ate them, wincing a little at their tartness, then picked a second rose. “Speak only the truth of what you see and hear, but speak not at all to the king’s enemies. Let no obstacle stand in the way of your duty to the king. Let your duty to your kin come second, and make no marriage—” Here she broke off, and Hathui finished for her.

  “Aid any Eagle who is in need, and protect your comrades from any who might harm them. And last, abide by your faith in Our Lady and Lord.”

  “I do so swear,” murmured Hanna, remembering the night when she had been given the badge that made her an Eagle, for now and for always. She winced at a flare of pain in her chest.

  “Are you well?” asked Hathui, feeling her movement.

  It had already subsided, vanished as if she had only imagined it. The king walked toward them.

  “Hathui,” he called, and his servingmen came running. “Here.” He handed the rose to Hanna. “Take this one to my niece. Tell her that it would be well for her to remember that the thorns of those words which mislead without lying are small but persistent, and that the white rose which symbolizes purity is also veined with flaws.”

  She bowed and retreated as he called for and had brought to him a little whippet puppy which he took on a leash to run in the garden. She had to ask among his servants and discovered to her surprise that Lady Tallia did not lodge with her husband in the count’s tower but rather in a pavilion pitched just outside the palisade wall, which she shared with the duchess of Varingia.

  The duchess was a ruddy-looking woman with the massive presence of a high-ranking noblewoman. An infant old enough to sit up by itself held court on a gold couch, next to the duchess, who entertained the chortling baby by clapping her hands together and tweaking its ears. Tallia’s noble attendant had joined in the play as well, getting down on her knees to shake a gourd rattle for the child to grab. The conversation was nonsensical, conducted entirely by Duchess Yolande who treated Tallia little differently than she did the baby and chattered on in singsong rhymes directed at the baby interspersed with commentary on the dress and behavior of the court folk. Tallia said not one word. The baby was more talkative.

  “Isn’t he sweet?” the attendant asked Tallia, but Tallia only stared at the baby as if it were a scorpion that had gotten loose among the carpets.

  “Your Highness,” said Hanna, bowing. “Duchess Yolande.” In the lamplight she could better see the flower as she presented it to Lady Tallia: the silken white petals were indeed veined with pinkish-purple lines, so shot through with them that she could no longer see the rose as white at all. “His Majesty King Henry bids me give this to you, Your Highness, with this message: ‘Tell her that it would be well for her to remember that the thorns of those words which mislead without lying are small but persistent, and that the white rose which symbolizes purity is also veined with flaws.’”

  Tallia did not move, made no effort to take the rose, only stared.

  “A common whore,” she murmured, shuddering. She seemed to be talking mostly to herself. “That’s why he showed me the nail. He was trying to pollute my faith in God.”

  There was, oddly enough, a sheen of dirt at her collarbone as if she had forgotten to wash. She wore a gold Circle of Unity around her neck together with a sachet, a little bag stuffed with herbs. The bitter scent tickled Hanna’s nose and made her want to sneeze. Up close, Tallia’s pale hair looked limp and stringy, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her hands were thin and white and veined much like the flower’s, more blue than purple.

  “Come now,” said Duchess Yolande, “it’s a terrible blow, I admit it, but he’s a good-looking and well-spoken young man, and I’ve met many a noblewoman who was scarcely less discriminatory in what manner of man she let into her bed.” She took the rose from Hanna and danced it in front of the baby. He grabbed for it, got it, and at once pierced himself on a thorn and began to sob. “There’s life for you!” exclaimed the duchess. She pried the rose out of the baby’s hand, kissed his reddened skin, and tickled him out of his mis
ery. The rose, dropped to the carpet, was picked up by the young attendant; she glanced once around swiftly and then tucked it between her bosom and her gown, as if it were a precious keepsake.

  “Lady Hathumod, you haven’t said what you think of this scandal.” Duchess Yolande lifted the child onto her lap as her own attendants gathered round to coo at him and tickle his chin. He gurgled happily at all the attention.

  “Nay, my lady duchess,” replied the attendant in a grave voice, “I have not.”

  “Surely after months living here with him you have formed some notion of his breeding. Do you suppose that one of the hounds sired him?” Her ladies laughed and laughed, but Lady Hathumod remained silent. “Ah! You’re such a tiresomely serious creature, Lady Hathumod. Perhaps you have some new revelation with which to entertain us?”

  Tallia looked up, startled, and then sighed sharply, almost a hiss between her teeth.

  “As you wish, my lady duchess,” said Hathumod, but she looked at Tallia. “Your Highness?”

  “Yes,” said Tallia in a passionate voice, and her shoulders shook like a woman in the grip of a palsy. “We were speaking of it yesterday.”

  “Go on, speak!” insisted Yolande.

  “We were discussing the matter of women’s holiness,” said Hathumod. “Why would God choose a man as the vessel of Her holiness here on Earth rather than a woman? Why did She send a son to partake of mortality and not a daughter?”

  “I thought we had agreed that She chose St. Thecia to be the Witnesser because a woman’s word is worth more than a man’s.”

  Hathumod smiled with the radiance of an honest heart. She opened her arms as if to open herself to the heavens. “Women are already the vessels of God. Are we not made in Her image? God in Her mercy gave Her Son to be sacrificed just as men are more likely to give themselves in battle to protect their kin. But we are reminded of that sacrifice by the blood women shed each month.”

  This heretical talk was making Hanna terribly uncomfortable. She slid back to the door, even coughed a little, but when no one paid her any mind nor seemed concerned to send her on her way, she simply eased backward through the door and made her escape.

  She found Hathui with the king in the rose garden. The drizzle had stopped although the flagstone walks glistened, slick with water. The whippet puppy had about as much energy as the baby; it leaped and barked as Henry clapped hands at it, racing away and then galloping back when he whistled. Hathui stood beside the king, laughing with him, but when he gathered up the puppy against his chest and sobered suddenly, Hathui quieted as well. He began to pace again, stroking the whippet’s back, while his servants watched from the walkway and Hathui waited on the path nearby.

  Would he walk in this fashion all night? Would Hathui watch with him the whole time? A breath of rain spattered on the stones, a gust that passed and quieted. Hanna wiped its drops from her nose. Though it was dark, she could feel the clouds churning and flowing overhead. Out in the unseen grounds beyond the palisade, a dog barked. One of the servingmen sneezed, and a companion murmured a blessing. The king paused beside Hathui to make some comment which she answered in a murmur, then walked again. Hanna wondered at their intimacy, not anything remotely lascivious but rather far more profound, like head and hand.

  Hathui saw her and came over. “Is there a message for the king?”

  “Nay.” She repeated what she’d heard. “She seemed in a trance. The only time she bestirred herself was when they began to speak of that heresy she’s enthralled by.”

  Hathui grunted. “That’s as we’ve come to expect. It’s a strange thing all around, I’d say.”

  “It makes my skin crawl,” muttered Hanna.

  Hathui glanced up at the tower, where light still gleamed in the upper room. “Go on, then. No need for you to wait up all night.”

  “Will you, with the king?”

  Hathui shrugged. “He often paces at night, now. As my old grandmother would have said, he needs a bed with something more than feathers to invite him in.”

  Hanna chuckled. “He’s nothing like Villam, they say. Not one mistress since the death of Queen Sophia. Do you think it’s true?”

  “Hush!” The retort came sharply, surprising Hanna. “None of us have any call to speak disrespectfully of King Henry. Would you like to have to stand judgment every day over cases like this one? He’s got a hard choice before him. Lord Geoffrey’s a good man at heart despite all the anger he showed today, and he has strong kin behind him and the support of the nobles. Yet Count Alain is a better man, and King Henry knows it. But Alain has got no noble kin to support him, not outside his wife. It will all hang on Lady Tallia’s testimony.”

  “Thus the rose.”

  “Thus the rose,” agreed Hathui. “Now go on. You’ve ridden a long way. You’ve earned some rest.”

  She found the barracks where her comrades quartered, unrolled her blanket among the other Eagles, and enjoyed their companionship as she drank ale and ate cheese and bread. They gossiped about where they’d been and what they’d seen, shared tidbits of news and helpful information, what monasteries stocked the best ale and which villages were most welcoming, where bandits stalked and what forest cut-off was bedeviled by an aggressive pack of wild dogs. The others wanted to know about the east and how matters fared there; she told them details of the wedding and made them laugh when she repeated Prince Bayan’s poetry. They speculated in low voices about Prince Sanglant, but no one spoke Liath’s name out loud, as if by leaving the Eagles her name had been obliterated from their memory, as if they feared that the sound of it on their tongue might implicate them in her sorcery or scar their lips forever.

  But she was comfortable here lying on straw and surrounded by good plank walls. Horses stamped in the stalls below them; their scent and warmth drifted up, and one by one her comrades drifted off to sleep. She slept, and she dreamed.

  She is lost, battering her way through a tangle of high growth that scratches her hands and slaps her face. Swordlike leaves taper to points swaying far above her reach, a forest of grass. The sky is turgid with clouds. A strange humming tickles the air, a whistle with more weight than breath in its tone. She stumbles over a hump, trips, and lands with her hands buried in the oozing, stinking innards of a huge silver-furred bear that, eviscerated and hacked into parts, sprawls in death along the ground.

  Just then, a heavy shadow overtakes her. She feels the wind of talons swiping at her back and hears a shrill trumpet of disappointment. Wings beat like bellows above her. She bolts, terrified, and flails through the grass, hands weeping blood and effluvia, but the wind of its passage returns, hot and staggering. She cannot see it precisely, she is too afraid to look up, but it is some monstrous creature, and as she cries out, the talons settle on her shoulders, grip her, and in the next instant her feet no longer touch the earth.

  She kicks helplessly as they go up and up and the ground drops away so quickly that her head spins, and it is all she can do to clutch her spear tight. She isn’t imprisoned by bird’s talons at all, but by something more like lion’s claws, and yet she glimpses a noble and terrifying eagle’s head far above, with tufts for ears and armed with a fearsome beak. Beyond massive hind legs poised below her lashes a golden tail. At the heart of the blinding sheen of iron-gray feathers where she might plunge in her spearpoint, she sees a single pale spot on its breast, but they have made height so fast that she fears if she kills it, and it drops her, she will be dead from the fall.

  If it is only a dream, will her death matter?

  She doesn’t want to find out.

  They fly until her shoulders ache. Unlike its claws, time has no grip. A day passes, an hour, a minute; she can’t be sure. The landscape changes as she hangs above it. Perhaps she isn’t moving at all, perhaps it is the land beneath her that moves while she hangs unmoving, Liath used to talk about such things—The heavens are always turning around us, swifter than any mill wheel, as deep under this earth as above it, quite round and solid and pai
nted with stars—but she never understood them or perhaps it is more correct that she didn’t understand why they were worth wondering about. Yet in the last two years she has seen a lot of things that have made her wonder and made her head ache for wondering. The clouds have fallen back behind them, scattering like sheep until at intervals the sun glares down so that she has to blink wildly as her eyes adjust to its harsh light. The bear’s blood dries stickily on her hands, a pair of unpleasant gloves. Trembling, looking at her bloody hands, she realizes that the bear had no claws.

  Ahead, grass dies away into hillocks of sand and fields of rock, boulders tumbled into odd, veined shapes by some ancient cataclysm. Ahead, the ground gleams all silver and gold. The creature descends until she sees that the plain opening before her is a desert strewn with sands that resemble seas of golden granules interwoven with channels of silver dust. The sun sets, bathing the glimmering sands in rose light. Abruptly, darkness comes but for a single light, a campfire. She sees no moon.

  That suddenly, they dip, and the claws release her. The creature screams, and she is deafened, she falls with her hands clapped to her ears and her spear lost, and she hits the ground. Her knees drive into her chest and she can’t breathe, clutching at anything, finding her spear jammed up against one elbow. The coarse sand burns on her skin, still hot after hours baking in the sun. The grains are oddly shaped, unlike any sand she’s ever seen before: they’re disk-shaped, flat and round like a baby’s petrified fingernail. What ocean deposited this sand here? Where is the shore?

  Firelight illuminates a figure walking toward her, but she knows that form as she knows her own heart, always, for her, an easy depth to fathom.

  “I called you,” says the princess, giving her a hand and helping her rise.

  “What was that creature?” Hanna demands as she brushes off the knees of her trousers. In an odd way, she has become used to these meetings.

  “That was a griffin,” says the princess, emphasizing the word as though she thinks Hanna won’t understand it even though every word they speak, two who share no common language, is completely intelligible in her dreams.