Prince of Dogs

by Kate Elliott

  “I can prove nothing, Your Highness. I know only what I saw.”

  “Or did not see.” She looked up at a sight behind Liath’s back, and away quickly, as if she was ashamed. “Am I any better than those who saw a deer in the forest, which is only what they wished to see?” With a jerk and a sudden grimace, she ripped the panther brooch off her cloak and flung it behind her into the leaves. “I am in your debt, Eagle. What reward can I give you?”

  She blurted it out, not meaning to say it, but it was more impassioned for its rash honesty. “Get me away from him, I beg you.”

  “‘The meekness of the dove with the cunning of the serpent,’” Theophanu muttered. “But I need proof.” Still pale, she groped through the leaves until she found the brooch again. Gingerly, as though it were poison, she tucked it in between belt and tunic. “I will do what I can. Go now. It is not wise that you be seen with me, if what I suspect is true. Say nothing to anyone until I give you leave.”

  4

  HENRY was furious. The hunt came clattering back early in an uproar to upset the quiet tenor of a day that Rosvita had hoped would be a productive one for her clerics. But the stories she heard, from so many different sources, were alarming enough that she was relieved when Princess Theophanu rode in unharmed. Strangely, for all that her dress was in disarray, her hair disordered, and her skin scratched and stained with loam and dirt, the princess was herself perfectly composed.

  “So eastern,” muttered Brother Fortunatus. “You know these Arethousans are inscrutable.”

  “Spare us these false wisdoms,” said Sister Amabilia. “Poor Theophanu! To be mistaken for a deer!”

  The king was not to be mollified by the testimony of all who had been present. Everyone, even the foresters and huntsmen who had raced ahead with Sapientia’s party, had seen a deer in place of a princess.

  “The rain confused our eyes.” “The mist confused our eyes.” “It was the shape of the branches above her head.” On they went, all of them grievously shocked at the accident.

  “Or there was a deer behind her in the woods and in your rashness you shot without looking closely! Lord Amalfred. Lord Grimoald. You are no longer welcome at this court. You will be gone by nightfall. We will all of us leave this ill-omened place tomorrow. One of my children I have already lost. I do not intend to lose any more.”

  No protest, even by Sapientia, could mitigate the king’s judgment. The two young lords left the hall in disgrace. Henry spent the rest of the day at Mass led by Father Hugh. In particular, the king prayed and gave thanksgiving to St. Valeria, whose day this was and whose miraculous intervention had spared his daughter worse harm than the fall she had taken. Before the feast he handed out bread with his own hands to the usual supplicants who had gathered outside the palisade. Hearing of the king’s arrival at this southernmost of his royal hunting lodges, they had come from villages at the forest’s edge. Some of them had walked several days on rag-clad feet hoping for food or a blessing.

  At the feast, Theophanu begged a boon of her father. “I pray you, Your Majesty, let me undertake a pilgrimage to the Convent of St. Valeria to offer a proper thanksgiving for my deliverance from harm. Surely her hand lay over me this day.”

  He was reluctant to let her leave after such an incident, but the miracle had been attested by a dozen or more persons.

  “I will take an Eagle,” she said, “and thus any message can be sent quickly from my hand to yours.”

  “As a sign of my favor,” he said, “you may take my faithful Hathui, daughter of Elseva, as long as you and she return in one piece to my progress by the end of the year. It should take you no more than two or three months to complete the journey.”

  “I would not take such a loyal servant from you, Your Majesty,” she replied, as calm as if no arrows had sped toward her head and breast that morning. “But if I could take another Eagle—” Here her gaze came to rest on the young Eagle who stood several paces behind Sapientia’s chair.

  Sapientia leaped to her feet, the gesture of anger made ungainly because of her increasing girth. “You just want what is mine!”

  “Sit down,” said the king.

  Sapientia sat.

  “It is true,” said Henry, “that Sapientia has an Eagle, one whose service I gave into her hands, which I will not now take from her. But it is only right, Theophanu, that you be given an Eagle as well. Since you are going on a journey, two would be better. Hathui will choose among those who attend me now, at your pleasure.”

  The feast went on. But the damage had been done to Rosvita’s peace of mind, for she suddenly recalled that Sapientia enjoyed the novelty of having an Eagle in constant attendance. Liath had been on that hunt and, surely, had seen the whole; someone had mentioned seeing her go to the princess after the fall. But no one had called her to testify when even the king’s foresters and huntsmen had given testimony after the noblefolk had finished speaking. How could such a lapse be possible? Why did the young Eagle not come forward on her own?

  Why should Theophanu, inscrutable Theophanu, notice her now and, even, attempt to take her into her own retinue? Only to provoke her sister?

  For that matter, why should Theophanu undertake a pilgrimage across the winter landscape when she could as easily send servants with gifts of gold and silver and an altar cloth to grace the convent’s church and treasury?

  Two arrows bursting into flame in midair. Any soul would agree that it was a miracle wrought by the hand of a saint. But Rosvita did not believe in coincidence.

  “In the guise of scholars and magi,” Brother Fidelis had said to her last spring, “tempting me with knowledge.” Why did his words come back to her now?

  Theophanu knew as well as any why the Convent of St. Valeria was renowned: Its Mother Abbesses were known for their study of the forbidden art of sorcery.

  5

  It was raining, again. Rain made Sapientia irritable; she was only happy when she was active

  “Fetch me wine, Eagle,” she said, although she had servants to fetch her wine. “And milk. I want milk.” Leaving the Thurin Forest had made Sapientia irritable. Riding south into the duchy of Avaria had made Sapientia irritable. Being pregnant made Sapientia irritable. “Read to me, Hugh. I am so bored. It isn’t right I’m not allowed to ride out to the hunt just because I have a little fever.” She yawned. “I am so tired always.”

  Hugh turned away from the great hearth of the king’s hall in the palace of Augensburg. More restless than usual, for he was usually as smooth as cream resting in an untouched bowl, he had been shredding leaves and tossing them into the blazing fire. He did not look toward Liath nor even appear to notice her. He did not need to.

  “I rather like Lord Geoffrey,” Sapientia continued, rattling on despite her protestations of being tired. “He’s a good hunter and he has very good manners. Father likes him so much he asked him to ride beside him on today’s hunt. Poor Brigida. I suppose you wish he wasn’t already married!”

  “He’s from Varre,” retorted Brigida. “I don’t know if my uncle Burchard would want me to marry a Varrish lord, not after what happened to my cousin Agius. And I don’t know what kind of inheritance Geoffrey would bring as his dowry.”

  “Poor man. He lost his inheritance to a bastard!” The princess giggled.

  Hugh looked up abruptly. “Isn’t Lord Geoffrey heir to the Lavas count?”

  “Indeed not!” Sapientia smiled with the satisfaction of a slow child who has, at long last, won a footrace against its rivals. “But you weren’t at court then. Father pardoned Count Lavastine for his treachery and allowed him to name his illegitimate son as his heir.”

  “His heir,” murmured Hugh with such an odd inflection that Liath actually paused to stare at him.

  He knelt beside a clay bowl filled with dried herbs. A strip of linen marked with a writing she could not read lay over his thighs, and as Liath watched, his hands tied the linen strip into a complex knot.

  Binding.

  The word le
aped unbidden into her thoughts. A fragment of The Book of Secrets—which she had herself copied out of a penitential from a monastic library in Salia—rose up from the city of memory and stirred on her tongue. She murmured it under her breath.

  “‘Hast thou observed the traditions of the mathematici, that thou shouldst have power through the binding and loosing made by that woven fabric formed out of the courses of the moon and the sun and the erratica and the stars, each in relationship to the others? These are the arts known to the daimones of the upper air, and it is written, “Whatsoever ye do in word or in work, do all in the name of Our Lord and Lady.” If thou hast done this, thou shalt be judged before the skopos herself.’”

  But there had been more, which she had not written down because it did not concern the astronomical arts. “Hast thou made knots, and incantations ….”

  Hugh looked up at her as if he could sense her thoughts, and she flushed, afraid, when a smile touched his lips. He had not addressed a single word to her since the incident in the forest, and that was worse than anything that had come before … because she knew, and he knew, that he was only biding his time.

  “That Ungrian ambassador is so uncouth.” The princess continued on obliviously, just as all the others seemed oblivious to Hugh’s actions by the fire—as if he had shielded himself from their curiosity. “The way he picks at his food as if it isn’t fit for him to eat! You don’t suppose Father means to marry the son of the Ungrian king to me, do you?”

  “I think not, Your Highness.” Hugh dumped the last of the herbs into the fire and stepped away, dusting white ash from his otherwise spotless tunic. The linen strip had vanished. “The Ungrian king is newly converted to the Faith of the Unities, praise God, and I believe he wishes for a woman of Wendish kin to settle there so that she may bring her knowledge of the Circle of Unity and the example of her faith to his people.”

  “That might be a useful occupation for Theophanu when she returns from her pilgrimage. Where is my milk?”

  A steward fetched wine and milk. Hugh left the hall for the guest rooms beyond. With the shutters closed, it was dim and smoky within the hall. The tapestries carried on the progress by King Henry had been hung over the frescoed walls for warmth, creating an odd mosaic of images, painted and woven, all jumbled up together. Freshly cut rushes smothered the floor. Three hearthfires burned, and lamps glowed on the far table where a dozen clerics worked. The rest, even Sister Rosvita, had gone out on the hunt.

  Candles sat in clay bowls on all the mantelpieces; lit this morning, they would burn all day and through the night. It was the first day of the month of Decial, called Candlemass: the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice. The heathens called it Dhearc, the dark of the sun, and on this day it was traditional to go hunting no matter what the weather was like, because on this day the sun and light, in the person of the regnant, at last defeated darkness and disorder, in the body of the wild game which would be killed and feasted upon. St. Peter the Discipla, whose feast day this was, had been martyred by being burned alive by unbelievers.

  In The Book of Secrets, Da had written: “When the sun stands still, certain pathways otherwise hidden become clear and certain weavings otherwise too tangled to unravel become straight. Thereby with what power you can bind a small spell into life on other days, you can bind your wish into life in an altogether greater manner at the hinges of the year. Therefore, be cautious.”

  Bind your wish. Therefore, be cautious. She crouched by the fire. Two stone posts framed the hearth, carved with the forelegs and heads of griffins, and she touched the one nearest her, tracing its lion’s claws. Tiny singed fragments of flowers lay scattered at the base and on the bricks; she rolled them between thumb and finger and sniffed. Lavender. A single apple seed lay on the flagstones. The scent from the fire was heady and thick, and she had to step back to let her head clear.

  Was Hugh working magic? Ai, Lady, she could not regret saving Theophanu’s life, but what if Hugh suspected—what if the others discovered—that she had made those arrows catch fire? Would she be taken before the skopos to stand trial? And yet the thought gnawed at her, like a nagging pain: If you can bring flame and see visions through fire, then why not other magics? Why did Da lie?

  She was not deaf to magic. She was protected against it: against the magic of others and, perhaps, against her own. But she had no way to discover the truth, she had no one to confide in, no one to teach her. Suddenly Wolfhere’s hints and gentle suggestions, his attempts to convince her to trust him, seemed both more sinister and more welcome. If only he were here now.

  Hugh returned, carrying a book. She recognized Polyxene’s History of Dariya at once. The binding was almost as familiar to her as her own skin. He had stolen it from her as he had stolen so much else. He seated himself beside Princess Sapientia, and two servants stood over him with lamps. The dozen clerics at the other end of the hall set down their pens, turning as flowers toward the sun, eager to hear him read.

  “I shall read today from Polyxene,” he began.

  “What should I care about such an old history, and written about heathens, at that?” asked Sapientia.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Your Highness. Surely you are aware that the Dariyans, who were said to be half of humankind and half of elvish kin, conquered and ruled the largest empire the world has ever known. Only in the myths and tales of the ancient Arethousans do we hear of older and greater empires, that of Saïs which was swallowed by the waves, or of the wise and ancient Gyptos peoples across the middle sea. After the destruction of the Dariyan Empire the many lands they had once held together in greatness became the haunts of savages, and uncivilized heathens fought over the spoils. It was only a hundred years ago that the great Salian Emperor Taillefer restored the empire, by the grace of Our Lord and Lady, God of Unities. He had himself crowned Holy Dariyan Emperor, but at his death his empire was lost to the feuding of his successors.”

  Sapientia’s expression cleared, and she looked oddly thoughtful. “Father believes that it is the destiny of our family to restore the Holy Empire of Dariya.”

  “And so your family shall,” murmured Hugh, “and be crowned in Darre before the skopos, as was Taillefer.”

  Liath shivered. Was this why Hugh had tried to murder Theophanu? So Sapientia would have no rival for the imperial throne, not just for the throne of the kingdom of Wendar and Varre?

  He cleared his throat, took a sip of wine, and began to read out loud in his beautiful, almost hypnotic voice. “‘The fact is that we can obtain only an impression of a whole from a part, and certainly neither a thorough knowledge or an accurate understanding. It is only by combining and comparing certain parts of the whole with one another and taking note of their resemblances and their differences that we shall arrive at a comprehensive view.’”

  Was that what Da was doing all along in the first part of The Book of Secrets? In that first part he had written down so many snippets from so many different sources, compiling them so that he could better understand the knowledge hidden in the heavens. She yawned, feeling a sudden sense of numbing lassitude, then shook herself back awake.

  “‘By what means and in what time the people we know now as the Dariyans first came to Aosta rests outside my consideration. Instead, I shall take as my starting point the first occasion on which the Dariyans left Aosta, crossing the sea to the island of Nakria.’”

  Sapientia snored softly. She had fallen asleep, as had two of her servingwomen; her other servants, seated around her, also nodded off. Liath had a sudden desperate fear that if she did not get up and get outside this instant, she, too, would fall asleep.

  The youngest cleric spoke up from the other end of the room. “I beg you, Father Hugh, read to us of the seige of Kartiako.”

  The distraction gave her cover. She crept out the door but took a wrong turn and at once was confused. The Augensburg palace boasted two reception halls, a solarium, courtyards, barracks, guest rooms, chambers for the regnant and for t
he duke of Avaria, a safe room for the king’s treasury, and a dozen cottages for envoys and servants. All this was built out of timber felled from the surrounding forest. Only the bathing complex and the chapel were built of stone.

  Liath had left her saddlebags in the barracks, but Sapientia held her on such a tight leash that she’d had no time to commit the palace layout to memory. She retraced her steps. In the hall, everyone was asleep—and Hugh was nowhere to be seen. Backing out of the room, she tried again to find the barracks by cutting through a side corridor, but it only let her out through a tiny fountain courtyard where an old gardener sat dozing in the cold air on the lip of a frost-encrusted fountain. No water ran.

  The reception room opened before her. Frescoes gleamed on the walls, splashes of color in the dim chamber. Great wooden beams spanned the ceiling. A languor hung over the hall. Two servants, brooms in hand, snored on the steps that led up to the dais and the regnant’s throne, itself carved cunningly with lions as the four legs, the back as the wings of an eagle, and the arms as the sinuous necks and heads of dragons. A woman had fallen asleep by the hearth fire while mending a seat cover; she had pricked herself with her needle, and a tiny drop of blood welled on her skin.

  Suddenly uneasy, Liath climbed spiraling wooden stairs to a long corridor. Built above the north block of buildings, the corridor was reserved for the king, his family, and his messengers; it provided a way for him to proceed from one quarter of the complex to another without walking through the common rooms below or setting foot in the muddy alleyways. She hurried down the narrow corridor, not wider than the width of her arms outstretched. Now she remembered; the barracks lay in the northeast corner of the palace complex.

  She became consumed with the fear that something was following her. She felt breathing on her neck, spun around. The far end of the corridor, down which she had just come, lay blanketed in darkness except where spines of light shone through cracks in the wooden shutters. A footstep scraped on the stair.