by Kate Elliott
A morose hymn came to its close. Hanna used her elbow to get room, nudging aside one of Sapientia’s stewards so she could see better. Clerics walked forward in ranks. Each carried a lit candle to signify the Circle of Unity, the Light of Truth. These they set in a circle around Ekkehard, Dietrich, and the others, who had been herded into a clump at the front of the nave. Their light burned hotly, making Hanna blink. The bright light threw the expressions on the carved saints into relief, a lip drawn down in pity, a hand lifted with two fingers extended to show justice, a glowering frown under heavy-cut eyebrows, twin to that emerging on its unfinished companion. They watched, and they judged.
Biscop Alberada mounted steps to the biscop’s platform. She raised her hands for silence.
“Let unsweetened vinegar be brought forward, so that the accused may taste the bitterness of heresy.”
Her servants brought cups forward, each distinguished according to the rank of its recipient: for Ekkehard a gold cup, and a silver one for his noble companions; for Lord Dietrich a silver cup as well, and one of brass for his stubborn retinue. The common-born heretics had to make do with a wooden cup passed between them. One man refused to drink and was whipped, three times, until he did so. All of them choked and gasped, coughing, from the bite, all but Lord Dietrich, who drained his cup as though it were honey mead and did not flinch as his defiant gaze remained fixed on the biscop.
“Let any who wear the Circle be stripped of it, for they no longer rest within the protecting ring of its light and truth. Let their hair be cut, to be a badge of their shame.”
One of Ekkehard’s youths was vain of his blond hair, and he began to weep while Ekkehard stood at a loss to aid him as clerics moved among them with knives, chopping off their hair in ragged bunches. Only when Lord Dietrich moved to comfort the lad and speak to him softly did the young man stiffen, clench his hands, and lift his chin with tremulous pride as a sour-faced cleric hacked off his beautiful hair.
“Let them see in truth that the light of truth no longer burns in their hearts.” Descending from her pulpit, she paced the circle, extinguishing the candles one by one by capping them. Smoke drifted up in wispy ribbons. “Thus are you severed from the church. Thus are you become excommunicate. Thus are you forbidden the holy sacraments. Thus are you cut off forever from the society of all Daisanites.”
Light died. Afternoon dwindled to twilight. Colors faded into grays.
“Let any woman or man who aids them be also excommunicated. They no longer stand in the Circle of Light. God no longer see them.”
Ekkehard staggered as if he’d been struck. One of his companions fainted. Others sobbed.
“I do not fear,” said Lord Dietrich. “Let God make Her will known. I am only Her willing vessel.”
There was silence. Alberada seemed to be waiting for a sign. Back in the crowd, a man coughed.
Lord Dietrich gave a sudden violent jerk that spun him out of the circle. Three candles went rolling as he fell hard to the floor. He twitched once, twice, and thrashed wildly, struck by a fit of apoplexy.
“So you see,” cried Alberada triumphantly. “The Enemy reveals its presence. An evil spirit has taken control of this man. This is the fate that awaits those who profess heresy.”
The bravest of Lord Dietrich’s noble companions knelt beside the afflicted man and got hold of his limbs, holding him down until he went unaccountably still. Foamy spittle dribbled from his lips. A single bubble of blood beaded at one nostril, popped, and ran down his lax cheek. He shuddered once, and then the floor darkened and a stink rose where he had voided his bowels.
“He’s dead,” said Ekkehard in a choked voice, shrinking away from the distorted corpse.
In the shocked silence, Biscop Alberada’s voice rang as clearly as a call to battle. “Take the excommunicates to their prison. None shall speak to them, for any who do so will be excommunicated in their turn. The Enemy dwells deep within. Tomorrow we will scourge those who remain, so that we may drive the Enemy out of their bodies.”
No one objected. They had just seen the Enemy at work.
The church cleared quickly. Alberada left with a phalanx of clerics at her back. Guards carried away the corpse, and servants stayed behind to clean up the mess. Hanna waited, because Sapientia did not move away immediately. The princess waited because Bayan knelt at the altar, as if praying. Somehow, Brother Breschius had gotten hold of one of the silver cups, and when the church was empty except for Bayan, Sapientia, and several of their most loyal servants, he offered it to Bayan.
Bayan wiped his finger along the lip of the cup, touched it to his tongue, and spat, making a face. “Poison,” he said softly.
There was a long silence while Hanna willed herself invisible, hoping they would not notice she had witnessed this horrible revelation. If it were even true.
“Will she poison Ekkehard?” asked Sapientia. “Should we try to stop her if we think she might?”
They had their backs to Hanna still, examining the silver cup and the sooty smudge left on the floor by the overturned candles. She edged sideways into the shadows.
“Ekkehard is not threat to us,” said Bayan heavily.
“Not now. He’s still young. But he might become a threat. And what of the church? Surely my aunt knows what she is doing if this heresy is so terrible. We must support her.”
Bayan shook his head just as Hanna touched the border of one of the tapestries. “If we not defeat Bulkezu, then are we dead or slave. This war must we finish first. Let the church argue heresy after. Eagle.”
They all leaped, all but Breschius, looking as surprised and anxious as conspirators as they turned round to see her. The tapestry could not hide her now. Bayan had known she was there all along.
“Eagle,” he repeated, now that he had her attention. “At dawn you ride to King Henry.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” she said, barely able to get the words out. She had a sickly vision of her shrunken, blackened head dangling from the belt of a Quman warrior. Was Bayan sacrificing her because of what she’d heard? Or was this only a sop to his wife’s jealousy while they hatched their plans for the succession?
“Wife.” He rose to take Sapientia’s hand. The princess hadn’t moved. One of her stewards held a ceramic lamp, a rooster crowing a lick of flame, and the light softened her expression and made her black hair glisten like fine silk. “To you, this task. Ekkehard must ride at dawn with the Eagle.”
“Is this wise?” demanded Sapientia.
“He and other prisoners must ride. We need no—what is this, Breschius, nothing to make our minds fall away from the war.”
“No distractions, Your Highness.”
“Yes, none of this thing which I cannot pronounce. Consider, how matters are desperate. The biscop is a godly woman, I know this. But she believes God come before war. Bulkezu waits not for God.” He indicated the altar and the wreath of candles burning there, the light of the Unities.
“But where do we send Ekkehard?”
“Let him go to the march of the Villams. There he can fight. There he will die or live, as God will it. He and his retinue can escort the Eagle so far, out of danger. She must to Henry go, and speak our trouble. But Ekkehard will I not have in Handelburg. That he is prisoner here makes strife in our camp. We have very bad of a situation. If King Henry send no reinforcements, if he not march east himself, then Bulkezu will burn all these lands. This is a hard truth. Maybe we can hold here for a while. If we have no strife in our army. If we have no dis—ah! No distraction.”
“It’s a good plan,” said Sapientia slowly as she considered his words. That was the great change Bayan had wrought in her; she had learned to think things over. “Ekkehard might still die, fighting the Quman, but that would be a better death for him than being executed for heresy. As a prisoner, his presence can only make things more difficult for us. Some will surely sympathize with his plight. He may still whisper his wicked words to the guards, and maybe there are some in the army who still
believe him but lied about it at the trial because they did not want to get punished.”
Bayan nodded.
“But how will I free him from my aunt’s tower? She will excommunicate me for aiding him.”
Brother Breschius stepped forward. “You are the heir, Your Highness. You have already proved your fitness to rule. Think of this as a test of your regnancy. Biscop Alberada would not contest King Henry, were he to tell her that Prince Ekkehard must be sent to the Villam fortress for safekeeping, with or without a large escort, for surely in such times of trouble we cannot afford to lose a large number of men to guard duty. Nor should she contest you, who are destined to rule after your father, may God will that he be blessed with a long life.”
Sapientia twisted the fine embroidered border of her tunic in her hands, crushing roundels between her fingers. The gesture made her look a little like a goose girl about to scold her lover. Yet even a humble goose girl might develop the habit of command.
For an instant, Hanna remembered what Hathui used to say: God make the sun rise on noblewoman and commoner alike, for all folk are equal before God. What truly separated Hanna from Sapientia?
Sapientia lowered her hands. She had a queen’s bearing; in that moment, in the gloomy church with the silent saints staring down at them from on high, one could see the luck of the regnant in her face. “I will speak to my aunt. Ekkehard will ride out at dawn, to escort the Eagle until it is safe for her to ride on alone.”
Hanna laughed softly to herself. At herself. God had long since separated the lowborn from the high, no matter what Hathui said. A few words exchanged, and Hanna’s fate was sealed.
“Eagle.” Bayan rose. His gaze on her was steady, a little admiring still, but quite final, as though he knew he had said farewell to her for the last time. “By no means turn south until you have come west of the Oder River. Even then, be cautious. The Quman range far.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Ekkehard is young and foolish, snow woman,” he added. “Take care of him.”
“Come, we should go,” said Sapientia sharply. Bayan went obediently. He did not even glance back. His husky, authoritative figure faded into the gloom alongside that of the princess. Hanna heard them continue talking although she could not make out their words.
Breschius lingered. He took her hand and drew her forward to stand before the altar. “Trust in God, friend Hanna.” He made the sign of a blessing over her.
“I thank you, Brother. In truth, I feel afraid.”
He walked with her to the entryway, still holding her hand. His grasp felt comfortable, like a lifeline. Once they stood on the porch, beyond the most holy precincts, he bent his head to speak softly into her ear. “Never forget that a Kerayit princess has marked you as her luck.”
The silence, and the secrecy, and the strange tone in his voice, like doom, made her shudder. Death had brushed her with its cold, callous hand.
They left in the cold light of dawn, Hanna, Prince Ekkehard, his six noble companions, and the twenty other heretics, excommunicates all. Sixteen of them marched, since Bayan did not care to lose so many horses.
Frost made the ground icy, a thin crust that hooves and boots crushed easily. As they crossed the western bridge, Hanna looked back to see Lord Dietrich’s head stuck on a pike above the gate. After that, she could not bring herself to look back again. Ivar was probably dead anyway. Looking back would not bring him to life. She kept her gaze fixed on Ekkehard’s banner, fluttering weakly in a lazy wind. The rain that had followed them for so long had passed. They rode out in cold, hard weather with the sun glaring down and not a feather’s weight of warmth in it.
Hanna had not even been given leave to say farewell to her friends among the Lions. Ekkehard’s escape had an unsavory air about it, tainted by Lord Dietrich’s ghastly death and the threat of excommunication.
They saw no sign of Quman scouts.
It seemed an inauspicious way to ride out.
VIII
UNKNOWN
COUNTRY
1
ALAIN pushed through the crowd now arguing and lamenting in the council house. Once outside, he whistled the hounds to him and ran to the small house, marked by various charms, chimes, and wreaths, that belonged to Adica. She never went in, or out, without making certain gestures at the threshold; and certainly he had not seen a single person from the village enter this hut. But if their gods, or their council, meant to strike him down, they could do it later.
Inside, he stowed the leather bundle with her precious items inside a wooden chest for safekeeping. He grabbed one of her sleeping furs and hurried outside, where the hounds waited.
Sorrow and Rage weren’t alone. Half the village had followed him, although they hadn’t come inside; the other half waited uneasily outside the council house.
As the hounds sniffed the fur, Kel stepped forward as if to speak, but Beor thrust him aside and set his spear against Alain’s chest. The bronze blade gleamed wickedly. Alain grasped the haft of Beor’s spear. The other man was stronger, with a bear’s muscular bulk, but Alain was on fire.
“Move aside,” he said in his own language, staring him down. “If we go quickly, we may still be able to follow their trail and get Adica back. If they meant to kill her at once, they’d have done so, but if they took her, it means we have a little time at least. For the sake of God, do not hinder me.”
A strange expression passed across Beor’s face. Behind him, villagers murmured to each other. Beor stepped back hesitantly.
“I go,” said Alain, groping for words. “I find Adica.”
Mother Orla spoke. Instantly, several folk ran off into the village.
Kel jumped forward, carrying now a bronze knife in addition to the bronze spear he had taken off the corpse of the dead invader. “I go!” he cried triumphantly.
“I go,” said Beor abruptly.
Belatedly, a dozen other adults volunteered, but a large party could not move in haste and secrecy. “Kel.” Alain paused, then nodded sharply. “Beor. We go.”
Quickly, they made ready. Alain wished keenly for his knife and sword, but he didn’t know where Adica had hidden them, and there wasn’t time to look. Instead, he accepted a bronze knife. Mother Orla’s errand runners brought rope, waterskins full of mead, a wooden tube lined with fired ceramic and filled with hot coals, and a pungent supply of dried fish, wayfarer’s bread, and a bundle of leeks. Both Beor and Kel had wood frames to sling on their backs, fitted with a leather sack for carrying these provisions. Even this took precious time.
Alain led the hounds down to the birthing house. Urtan’s daughter, following, showed him the scuffed ground where the altercation had taken place; by means of signs and mime, she showed him what she had seen from the watchtower at the gate. Urtan and his companions had run up to Adica and Tosti moments before a group of at least twenty raiders had come running down from the tumulus. They had split into two groups, one to harry the village and one to capture the Hallowed One, Adica.
The hound sniffed the ground and, at a command from Alain, trotted away toward the tumulus, following a trail only they could perceive. Alain followed at a jog, with Kel and Beor at his heels. The villagers gathered like mourners at the gate, watching them go. Then, prudently, the gate was swung shut. The half-finished outer palisade looked flimsy from this height. He saw a scrap of color fallen in the ditch: a corpse.
Who were the raiders who had struck? Why did they look like relatives of Prince Sanglant? Everyone knew that no Aoi roamed the Earth any longer—not unless they were shades, caught in a purgatory between substance and shadow. Why did they want Adica?
Beor and Kel could probably answer these questions, but he had no words to ask. He could only pursue.
He expected the hounds to lead them to the stone circle, but they cut away at the highest ring of earthworks and padded along in the shadow of the twisting serpent of earth until, at the eastern edge, they scrambled downslope.
There, most o
f the way down the eastern slope, stood a stone lintel, the threshold of a passageway that led into the great hill. Kel moaned with fear as the hounds sniffed at the opening. A long-dead craftswoman had carved into the left-hand pillar a humanlike figure wearing the skin and antlers of a stag. Beside the yawning opening lay an offering of flowers, wilted now, scuffed by the passage of animals and wind. A deer had left droppings where it had paused to investigate the flower wreath, and the hounds became enamored with this fascinating reminder of its passage.
Beor knelt. When he rose, he displayed a scale of bronze that might have fallen from armor. Alain searched to make sure they hadn’t missed any other sign of the raiders’ passage. A stone had fallen from the hillside and now rested among faded cornflower blossoms. Tansy had found a foothold in a hollow off to one side, where water collected. That was all.
Sorrow barked and vanished into the passage. Kel had gone quite pale, as though painted with chalk. Beor only grunted, but he had a fierce grin on his face as he looked toward Alain as if to see if the other man were brave enough to continue on.
No matter.
A half-dozen torches lay ready, stacked neatly inside the threshold. Alain caught a spark in the pitch-smothered head. Flame blazed up. With his staff skimming the ground ahead to test for obstacles and a second unlit torch thrust between his belt and tunic, he followed Sorrow into the passage.
Beor and Kel exchanged words, soon muffled by stone. Alain had to crouch to move forward. Ahead, he heard Sorrow snuffling and panting. The torch bled smoke onto the corbeled ceiling. Hazy light revealed carvings pecked into the stones that lined the passageway: mostly lozenges and spirals, but here and there curious sticklike hands which reached toward four lines cut above them. Such symbols of power betrayed the presence of the old gods, but he wasn’t afraid of them. They had no power over those who trusted to the Lady and Lord.
