Crown of Stars

by Kate Elliott

  “What is it?” hissed her companion, stumbling to a halt a step ahead of her as the horses stamped and waited. “I told you we shouldn’t be walking so fast. We’ll hurt ourselves. Or the horses.”

  “She’s here!” said the woman in tones of surprise and dismay.

  Liath uncurled with a sharp breath and stepped out onto the path. “Hanna! Ivar!”

  Ivar recoiled a step. “God be praised. You’re gleaming.”

  No greeting met her. The message they carried was written on Hanna’s face, in the tight line of her mouth and the deep circles under her eyes. “I pray you, Liath, this is not how I wished to find you.”

  “What is it?” said Liath, her voice gone hoarse.

  “Oh, God.” Hanna faltered, and could not go on.

  So the arrow finds its mark, seeker of hearts, deadly and sure. Pierced there, she went blind, mute, deaf, the dark forest and the night breeze and the dusty path and all the people gathering around her fading to insignificance. There is only the white light of pain blossoming, although it does not yet hurt in the way it will when the blood starts running.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, because sometimes words are a spell that can alter the fabric of the universe, a weft shuttled through the tight warp of fate. “No creature male or female can harm him.”

  Hanna’s expression, torn by sorrow, was thereby implacable. It is when the ones who truly love you tell you the worst news that you know it cannot be escaped.

  “Come,” said Hanna gently. “Best we go wait at Hersford Monastery. It will be peaceful there. Have you companions—oh!”

  “My friends,” said Liath, words emerging by rote. “They are my friends, my allies. And the baby is here. Take us to him. I beg you.”

  Her companions emerged cautiously from the trees, but what they did or what accommodation they reached with Hanna and Ivar, Liath did not notice, only that Blessing clung to Anna and spoke not one word, as though her voice had broken like her father’s long ago in battle, forever altered by an arrow to the throat.

  As Liath was herself changed. What she feared most had come to pass. There was no going back. There can never be.

  The world had narrowed to a tunnel of shadows down which she must walk.

  “Not this way,” she said insistently. “Not this way!”

  But no one heard her, and she had no power to alter destiny or even the path and direction her feet must take.

  Weeping, Hanna took her arm and led her back toward Hersford Monastery, into the darkness.

  2

  ALAIN caught up with the funeral procession in the late afternoon just before they reached the eastern gate of Hersford Monastery, because a man who walks with two hounds—however unwilling those hounds may be—can move faster than a train of wagons. Theirs was a solemn, formidable procession. In the rear marched two score Lions, led by a one-handed captain with bright red hair. They watched Alain pass them along the side of the road, and although they said nothing they nodded and met his gaze, each one, as a man greets a comrade.

  At the end of the line of wagons lurched the closed cart whose scarred walls imprisoned the Kerayit shaman. Her escort came courtesy of Stronghand, two score of Eika and Alban soldiers to match the Lions. These had neither greeting nor words for him, who had never marched to battle at their side.

  In the middle of the line rolled the wagon bearing Biscop Constance and her attendants. These, too, remained silent as he overtook them and walked past. Hathumod saw him, but she no longer wept, only marked him; she must tend to the lady as each jolt jarred her; it was a constant struggle to bring the crippled biscop a measure of comfort. One of their number, a stick-thin young man scarcely larger than a child, formed the sign of the phoenix as the hounds passed, before dropping his gaze humbly.

  They would believe what gave them comfort. So people always did.

  Next in line rode the remaining ranks of Sanglant’s personal guard—about thirty men arrayed before and behind the wagon that bore the body carefully tucked in between sacks of grain, cushioned by linen and covered with a silk shroud. These men noted him striding past, but it was the hounds that got their attention and made their horses a trifle skittish.

  Loyal men, and truehearted. They would follow until the end.

  The vanguard had already reached the gate. Monks and novices and lay brothers swarmed forward to greet proud Father Ortulfus, who walked alongside the lead wagon together with Sister Rosvita, her hardy schola, and a dozen soldiers Alain did not recognize who wore much-mended tabards sporting the sigil of Austra.

  A mob of refugees had gathered behind the stockade, all amazed and confounded. Churchmen and householders alike chattered and clamored, wept and cried praises to God, and drew the sign of the phoenix as thanksgiving until Prior Ratbold bellowed over their noise.

  “Beyond all expectation, you are returned to us, Father Ortulfus! We came under siege! Yet by the blessing of God, and with the help of the phoenix, the Cursed Ones were cast out!”

  A miracle!

  So they must believe, and perhaps it was even true.

  There stood Brother Iso, nervous among the humble lay brothers. When he saw Alain and the hounds, his eyes grew wide and he nudged and poked his brethren until they, too, looked. And said nothing. Father Ortulfus turned, seeing how the locus of attention shifted, and he stepped away from the open gate to indicate that Alain should pass through before him.

  But the hounds had a duty and an obligation. They went reluctantly, ears down, hindquarters in a slow waggle as dogs will when they mean to show doggish apology. They crept to the foremost wagon, whining. Even seeing them display such a frenzy of submission, folk feared those powerful bodies and fierce teeth. Soldiers and clerics sidled away.

  The sight of those huge hounds amused the frail old woman riding in the foremost wagon. When the hounds leaped up into the bed, rocking it, clerics shrieked and soldiers shouted, but Mother Obligatia merely extended both hands and let the cowering hounds lick her fingers.

  “Who are these poor, sweet creatures?” she asked, and looking around saw how far everyone else had retreated. Shamefaced at abandoning her, the soldiers gritted their teeth and squared their shoulders and forced themselves to creep closer, not unlike the hounds.

  “You can’t think they’re dangerous?” she added, chuckling as she rubbed their foreheads and scratched over their ears. Seeing that they would be greeted kindly, they flopped down on either side of her, as well as they could on the sacks of grain piled to make her seat, and rolled to expose their bellies and bare their throats.

  “What means this?” asked Sister Rosvita. “She was married to the son of Taillefer. She was not a child of Taillefer herself. If these are the hounds descended from those in the emperor’s kennel, how come they to bow before her?”

  “These are the hounds of Lavas, Sister Rosvita,” said Alain quietly. “They know who rules them. How they come to her, I know not.”

  The wagon carrying the old abbess was drawn onto the monastery grounds. The crowd backed away as the mounted guardsmen forced a path for the wagon bearing the body of their dead liege, and some folk even broke and ran when they saw the Eika infantry marching up behind it.

  “Clear the way! Clear the way!” cried Father Ortulfus.

  Prior Ratbold took up the call as brothers and farmers scattered and took up places on either side of the dirt path that led from the eastern gate to the central compound.

  The day was warm despite the haze that whitened the sky. It had thinned until the disk of the sun setting into the west could be discerned as a bright patch beyond the veil. The scene opened with a clarity that astonished Alain: the whitewashed buildings set at neat angles; the covered porch fronting the lay brothers’ barracks; the squat, square church tower built of stone; the wide path to the main gate that led past the two-storied guesthouse and the beehives and the smithy and stables and byre; the late flowering orchard overgrown with cloth shelters, sprouted up between the trees like so ma
ny unruly weeds, to house the refugees.

  A familiar place to one who had lived here many months. Here he had found a measure of peace after losing—forever and irrevocably—the one he loved.

  He knew how hard that blow struck.

  He saw her emerge with a pair of companions from the guesthouse. The crowd backed away to widen the path by which she might approach them. The sound of her wings unfurling sang as a faint chiming music in his body, the kiss of the aether; they were brilliant to his eyes but lacking true existence, more thought than substance. They blazed, as she did, but with the fire of despair. Maybe, right now, he was the only one who could see them.

  Marking the wagon and the riders, she staggered as if hit. The two who stood beside her caught her. They held her, because she could not walk. The wagon’s driver brought the conveyance to a stately halt in the middle of a grassy field. She jerked out of their arms and dashed to it, flung herself against the side with a thud, yanked the shroud off the body, and saw his slack face.

  Wind raked through the trees and rippled the grass.

  What greater cataclysm can there be than this, that which tears the world asunder?

  This is the poison that strikes deep, the bee’s sting, the nectar of anguish. How can it be that life goes on? What point is there in living? Ai, God. So we fall into the Pit as the black Abyss rips open under our feet.

  3

  DEAD. Dead. Dead.

  All the rest, hands touching her and pressing her this way and that, voices murmuring, faces leering into view and fading away, the roar of the wind and the shuffle of feet and hooves and wheels grinding on dirt and doors shutting and an unexpected laugh heard down the distance and the trickling splash of water and a cough, all this was noise.

  She sank into the tide.

  “Let me go to her.”

  Not party to the storm of discussion that followed the arrival of Sanglant’s cortege, Hanna stuck close to Liath until the body was laid on a bier in the nave of Hersford’s church. Lamps were lit along the aisles and blazed beside the Hearth at the eastern end as dusk fell. Liath clung to his dead hand. She said no word; she was lost. Father Ortulfus scattered sprigs of cypress over the body. Mother Obligatia was carried in, with her attendants and Sister Rosvita at her side. Seeing that others attended Liath for the time being, Hanna sought out Sorgatani.

  “Is this a good idea?” Ivar dogged her path as she crunched along the gravel walkway that led along one side of a dormitory. She wasn’t quite sure whether his presence was gratifying or aggravating. “I heard some awful story just now, that one look from her eyes and you’re a dead man.”

  “I’m never a dead man, Ivar, and anyway, it’s the guivre’s stare that paralyzes you. You must stay outside, though. It’s true that if you looked on her, you would die.”

  “Well, then, I’m not going to let you look! I’ll not risk you dying, not now!”

  “You managed it before!”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  Before she could turn under the covered walkway that cut between two dormitories into the famous unicorn courtyard where, she had heard, they had hauled Sorgatani’s wagon, Ivar dragged her to a stop.

  “You can’t go into the cloister anyway. Only men can—this is a monastery.”

  “Shut up, Ivar,” she said, and kissed him on the lips, which shut him up for long enough that she was able to shake her hand out of his grasp and get five steps ahead of him.

  The unicorn fountain streamed quietly, water burbling down horns and forelegs. The rose garden was neatly trimmed, but only a few flowers bloomed, their color delicate in the deepening light of the dying afternoon. Outside was brighter than inside; it was still possible to distinguish bees circling among the flowers.

  She was not sure why they had pulled Sorgatani’s wagon all the way in to the fountain courtyard and hidden it beside the hedge of cypress, but cypress was said to protect against death. And, in truth, someone had set up a pair of braziers on either side of the wagon and thrust an evergreen bough of cypress into each one. The smell made her nose tickle; she wiped her eyes.

  Atop the battered wagon perched a huge owl. She blinked, and it became a thread of smoke winding skyward.

  The entire roster of Lady Bertha’s surviving guardsmen had set up camp in the courtyard, although she wasn’t sure who they were guarding from whom. She nodded at Sergeant Aronvald. The wagon creaked under her weight as she set a foot on the step. The wood step gave a high snap and twisted slightly.

  “Careful,” he said. “That’s cracked, there.”

  The men skittered away behind the hedge as she opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and slid the door closed behind her.

  The interior of the wagon was a shambles. The tall chest of drawers had fallen onto its side; two of the drawers were broken; silks and silver bowls and utensils had been shoved into a pile. The boxed-in bed listed, one leg broken off, although the bed on the other, empty side of the chamber stood intact and seemingly untouched. On the altar, the golden cup lay on its side, the flask rested against the handbell, and a crack sliced through the gleaming surface of the round mirror.

  Sorgatani sat on the bed with one arm in a sling and her head back and resting against pillows piled up over the saddle. Seeing Hanna, she rolled to rise, set a foot on the floor, and winced.

  “Nay, nay, do not move! God Above! You were badly tumbled.”

  “But I survived.”

  “What can I do? How have you eaten and drunk?”

  Sorgatani gestured toward the window set into the door. It was shuttered with a square of wood that could be slid open and closed, and screened with strands of beads that formed a concealing curtain. The aroma in the closed wagon was heavy with sweat and mildew. Hanna opened the shutter, and the rising breeze jangled the lengths of beads.

  “Help me to go there,” said the shaman. “I want to see where I have come.”

  “Rest a moment,” said Hanna. “Let me straighten up. How did you get that sling on your arm?”

  “He entered when the wagon was set upright. I feared for him, but, after all, his magic was stronger than mine.”

  “Who came?”

  “I don’t know his name. He was attended by a pair of black hounds. He cared for my wounds. My hip is badly bruised. My arm—up at the shoulder—broken. He told me I would heal. He told me that the Holy One—my teacher—Li’at’dano—has passed on beyond this life.”

  She said the words without tears. They were a statement. A burden.

  Smoke coiled around the center pole, which stood straight and true despite the crash. Hanna shivered as cold air winged around her. A sense of being watched prickled along her back. She turned to see the owl perched on the saddle tree. It had not been there a moment before.

  “So you see,” said Sorgatani. Her headdress was heaped at the other end of the couch, and her hair was tangled. An ivory comb lay on the bed, black strands of hair wrapping the teeth, but she hadn’t gotten far in her combing. Maybe it hurt too much. “The owl’s coming is a sign that I must return to my people. This is the shaman’s messenger. Mine, now.”

  “Yours?”

  “I am the Holy One’s heir. The owl came to me last night and led me along the flower trail that leads to the other side. There I met the Holy One. She is dead, as he said she was. I had hoped … to stay a while … here with those who understand me.” She clenched her jaw at a pain, and smiled wanly.

  When Hanna sat beside her, Sorgatani grasped Hanna’s forearm with her good hand. “I must return to my people. I cannot stay here. Will you come with me, Hanna?”

  Tears rose. “I cannot.”

  She sighed as if this was the answer she expected. “Must I go alone, then?” She laughed softly, but the sound conveyed only grief. “You were to bring me a pura, Hanna. Breschius served me, and for that I honor him, but he was old. Anyway, a man can only be pura to one woman in his life. Like Liath and her Sanglant.”

  “He would not take kindly t
o the comparison,” said Hanna with a chuckle that spilled to tears, quickly shed and quickly dried. “I have not done well by you, Sorgatani.”

  “No. You are my luck. It matters only that you exist.”

  “Ivar! What are you doing here? Don’t you know that wagon is haunted?”

  The well-modulated voice, a youthful and melodic tenor, pierced easily the veil of beads. Sorgatani sat up, tugging on Hanna’s arm.

  “Let me see,” she said.

  Outside, the two young men fell into a fevered and rather disjointed conversation that seemed mostly to consist of Ivar stammering out the story of his ride to Kassel and the battle while the other one kept interrupting him with questions that never quite made sense.

  “… we ran to get away from the skirmish but were overtaken in the woods by Duke Conrad’s men—”

  “Why would horsemen be attacking the woods?”

  Sorgatani moved slowly but with determination, favoring one leg. She leaned on Hanna and tweaked aside a few strands of beads, allowing her to look out without others looking in upon her. Hanna saw Ivar at once, pulling at his hair as he did when he was nervous and upset and frustrated. An astonishingly pretty young man had hold of Ivar’s elbow in a possessive way that forced a slow simmer of jealousy to boil up in her heart. How could anyone be that good-looking? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Angels might look so, with their perfect features and their sunlit hair aglow.

  “Look there!” murmured Sorgatani huskily, perhaps because standing hurt her. “Now that’s a handsome stallion!”

  He’s mine, she almost blurted, but of course Sorgatani wasn’t referring to Ivar. No woman would call Ivar a handsome stallion when he was standing next to that creature, even though Ivar was the most beautiful man in the world to her eyes even if she knew very well that he really wasn’t.