Prince of Dogs

by Kate Elliott

  “We are still too close,” said Ingo.

  There was a commotion on the road below. Hanna turned to see Hugh striding up toward them. Seeing Liath, he stopped dead. Such an expression transformed his face that it chilled her to her bones and yet made her want to weep in compassion for his pain. But he said nothing. He only looked. Perhaps that was worse. Then, wincing at a pain in his shoulder, he turned to limp away along the path. Servants and townsfolk and clerics swarmed him. Someone brought a chair on which to carry him, but he waved it away. Closer now, the hunting horn sounded again, high and imperative.

  Liath broke into gulping sobs, so racked by them she could hardly breathe. Hanna gestured to her Lions to step back, and they ranged out, helping other Lions and guards pick up any detritus that could be saved without venturing too close: items lost from wagons or thrown down from the wallwalk; swords, shields, spears; clothing, saddlebags, scattered jewelry; a browned and blistered book, two carved stools, a sandal, a trail of ivory chess pieces. The fire burned on, but already the flames seemed less furious—or perhaps she had become accustomed to the heat searing her face. Her hands were red with it, her lips so dry that licking them made them bleed.

  “Liath.” She crouched down beside her friend. “Liath, it’s me. It’s Hanna. You must stop this. Liath! There was nothing you could do to save them. You tried—”

  “Ai, Lady. Hanna! Hanna! Why weren’t you here before? Why didn’t you come? Oh, God. Oh, God. I lost everything. Where is he? Please, Hanna, please get me away from him. You don’t understand. I did it. I caused it. Why did Da lie to me?” On she went, more sobbing than words and all of them incoherent.

  The horn blasted close at hand, and Hanna looked over her shoulder to see the magnificent train of the king and his hunting party emerge from the forest west of the blaze with the setting sun at their backs.

  On Dhearc, the shortest day of the year, light triumphed at last over the advance of night. Candles were lit to aid in that battle. Some fallen candle, surely, had kindled this fire; the bitter irony did not escape her. But Hanna could only sniff back tears, feeling the heat of fire blazing on her cheek as she held Liath and tried to get her to stop shaking and babbling and crying, but Liath could only go on and on about fire and rape and ice and power and sleep as if she had truly lost her mind.

  “Liath,” said Hanna sharply, “you must stop this! The king has arrived.”

  “The king,” whispered Liath. She sucked air in between clenched teeth. She struggled more fiercely than she had against Folquin’s hold, but in the end she fought herself out of hysteria and into something resembling control. “Stay by me, Hanna. Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t.” Hanna looked up as she tasted a new scent on the wind. “Is it raining?” But there were only a few clouds. “Look at the fire. It’s as if all the timber’s gone.” Indeed, the fire was ebbing, although it was as yet far too hot to venture close.

  “Don’t leave me, Hanna,” Liath repeated. “Don’t ever leave me alone with him, I beg you.”

  “Ai, Lady,” murmured Hanna, suddenly afraid. “He didn’t—”

  “No.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. Her hands gripped Hanna’s so tightly it hurt. “No, he didn’t have time to—” Her hands convulsed, her whole body jerking at some horrible memory. “I called, I reached for fire—” Shaking again, she could not go on. The wind had come up, fanning the flames. Beyond, king and retinue approached. Already a small entourage had gone out to meet him and give him the terrible news, although surely he could divine the worst from any distance. The air stank of burning.

  “Hanna, don’t desert me,” Liath breathed. “I need you.” She rested her head on Hanna’s arms. Her hair was caked with soot, as were her arms and hands, every part of her. She was so grimy that anything she touched came away streaky with soot. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know what Da was protecting me from.”

  “What was he protecting you from?” Hanna asked, mystified.

  Liath looked up at her, and her bleak expression cut Hanna to the core. “From myself.”

  7

  SISTER Amabilia had saved the Vita of St. Radegundis.

  This single thought kept leaping back so insistently into Rosvita’s mind that it became hard for her to attend to the council at hand. Brother Fortunatus sat at her feet, hands still gripping the loose pages of her History, which he had grabbed instead of the cartulary he had been working on. She had thanked him profusely, as he deserved, poor child. But though it would have been a blow to lose the History, she could write it again from memory.

  Sister Amabilia had saved the Vita. Had it burned, it could never have been restored. Brother Fidelis was dead. Only this copy remained, except for the partial, also saved by Amabilia, which the young woman had herself been copying from the original.

  Rosvita felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it. What if the Vita had been lost? Gone up in smoke to join its creator, Fidelis, where he rested in blessed peace in the Chamber of Light?

  “But it did not,” she murmured.

  Her clerics glanced at her, surprised to hear her comment while the king was speaking. She smiled wryly at them and made the gesture for Silence just as Amabilia opened her mouth to reply.

  “… to the efforts of my faithful clerics who rescued my treasury and much of the business of the court, and mostly to Father Hugh. He stayed to the end until all who could be brought out of the fire were saved. He risked his own life with no thought for himself. Where is Father Hugh?”

  “He is still with Princess Sapientia, Your Majesty,” said Helmut Villam.

  They stood or sat, all in disorder, in the hall of a well-to-do merchant. Even so, most of the court could not crowd in. They had slept out in the fields and forest last night, in barns and hayricks and under such shelter as could be found, safely away from the fire. Rosvita had been glad of straw for bedding; most of the court and the townsfolk rousted from their homes had been glad simply to have a roof of some kind over their heads. It had rained half the night. Now, in the morning, with the palace smoldering and a light rain still falling, Henry had felt it safe enough to venture back into town and take shelter there while he held council.

  Burchard, Duke of Avaria, and his duchess, Ida of Rovencia, sat beside the king. Burchard had the look of a man who has touched Death but not yet realized it; Ida looked stern, tired, and very old, as befit a woman who has seen her two eldest sons die untimely.

  The king himself looked tired. Though his tent had been salvaged from the fire, he had not passed a restful night. Last to sleep, sitting by his pregnant daughter’s bed, he had been first to wake and with a number of attendants had walked to the palace to investigate the remains.

  It was still too hot to enter. A few pillars stood, the remaining roof sloped precariously, about to cave in, and the stone chapel was scorched but otherwise intact. All the chapel valuables—a reliquary containing the dust of the thighbone of St. Paulina, the gold vessels for holy water, and the embroidered altar cloth—had been saved.

  “What of the cause?” asked the king now.

  A palace steward came forward. He had obviously slept in his clothing and himself risked his life in the fire, for his sleeves were ripped and stained with soot and the hood of his cape was singed and blackened. “No one knows, Your Majesty. All the Candlemass candles were carefully watched. We always set them in clay bowls so if they spill there won’t be danger of fire. Alas, the Lions have testified that some among their number fell asleep while gaming in the barracks. Perhaps they knocked over a lamp.”

  Henry sighed. “I see no point in casting blame, not when a dozen souls lost their lives, may God grant them peace. Let us consider this as a sign that we take our leisure at our peril, as long as Gent remains in the hands of the Eika. Thus does our sport blind us to our duty. Let greater care be taken in the future.”

  Sister Amabilia had saved the Vita of St. Radegundis from the fire.

  The book lay on Rosvita’s
lap, swaddled in a lamb’s wool blanket, the softest cradle Rosvita had found for it. She had slept with it clasped to her breast last night, though its presence had triggered strange dreams, and she would not let it out of her grasp today.

  Was this obsession unseemly? Perhaps it would be best to give the original to the monastery at Quedlinhame and keep only Amabilia’s copy for herself, to keep herself free of the sin of esurience—that greedy hunger she had for the knowledge that had died with Brother Fidelis: his knowledge, some of which was retained in the Life he had written.

  Henry sat forward suddenly, his expression lightening. “Here is Father Hugh. What news?”

  Hugh knelt before the king. He looked ragged and unkempt. Possibly he had not slept at all. Yet his lack of concern for his appearance, under these circumstances, could only reflect well on him. He alone of all the nobles had remained behind beside the conflagration; he had directed the rescue efforts; he had made sure all who could be brought safely out of the palace were gotten free.

  Perhaps it had been a wise choice when Margrave Judith had sent Princess Sapientia on her way, directing her to visit first with the young abbot of Firsebarg, Judith’s bastard son. Poor Sapientia, whose name meant wisdom, had never shown much of that quality; perhaps, with such a name, she had been bound to become sensitive to comparisons to her clever younger sister. But she had chosen wisely when it came to Hugh.

  Truly it could be said, as the court wits said now, that he was the ornament of “wisdom.” Even in such a state as this.

  “Princess Sapientia sleeps, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice as calm and well-modulated as ever. “Her pains have gone away, but she still feels poorly. With your permission, I will send a message to my mother. Her physician—”

  “Yes, I am acquainted with Margrave Judith’s physician.” The king gestured toward Villam. “The man saved my good companion Villam’s life, if not his arm. Very well, send for her—or for the Arethousan, if her business keeps her in the marchlands.”

  “What business?” whispered Sister Odila.

  “Oh, come,” muttered Brother Fortunatus, “don’t you recall? Judith had to return to Olsatia because she is to marry again.”

  “Again?” squeaked young Brother Constantine.

  “Hush,” hissed Sister Amabilia, but a moment later she, too, could not contain herself. “I thought she meant to celebrate the marriage here on the king’s progress.”

  “Indeed,” said Fortunatus smugly, certain of his sources of information and pleased to have knowledge Amabilia lacked. “But the young bridegroom never showed up. His family made peculiar excuses, so the margrave journeyed back to find out for herself.”

  “Hush, children,” said Rosvita.

  “… Sapientia has become fond of her Eagle,” Hugh was saying, “and I fear it would upset her at this delicate time to send the young woman away. If another Eagle could be found to ride …” He smiled gently.

  The king’s Eagle, Hathui, now leaned forward. “Your Majesty. You have not gotten a report from the Eagle who rode in yesterday.”

  The king nodded. Hathui gestured and a young woman walked forward from the back of the hall to kneel before the king.

  “Give your report,” said Hathui to her.

  The young Eagle bowed her head respectfully. “Your Majesty, I am Hanna, daughter of Birta and Hansal, out of Heart’s Rest.”

  Heart’s Rest! Rosvita stared at the young woman but could see no resemblance to any person she recalled from her childhood; it had been so many years since she had visited her home and her father’s hall. Perhaps her brother Ivar knew the family—but it was unlikely unless Count Harl had himself brought the young woman to the notice of the Eagles.

  “You sent me south with Wolfhere, escorting Biscop Antonia, late last spring after the battle of Kassel.”

  “I remember.”

  “I bring grave news, Your Majesty. While in the Alfar Mountains, a storm hit St. Servitius’ Monastery, where we took shelter for the night.” She described a rockfall and the destruction of the monastery infirmary. “Wolfhere believes it was no natural storm. He believes Antonia and her cleric escaped.”

  “He found no bodies?”

  “None could be found, Your Majesty. The rocks were too unstable to move.”

  “Where is Wolfhere now?”

  “He went on to Darre to bring the charges against Biscop Antonia before the skopos. He does not believe she is dead, Your Majesty.”

  “So you have said.”

  At this, she looked up directly at him. “And so I will say again, Your Majesty, and again, until you believe me.”

  He smiled suddenly, the first smile Rosvita had seen since their return from the hunt yesterday into the chaos attendant on the disastrous fire. “You believe Wolfhere is correct?”

  She hesitated, bit her lip, then went on. “I myself witnessed such sights that night… I saw things, Your Majesty, creatures in the storm such as I have never seen before and hope never to see again! They were not any creatures that walk on earth unless called from—other places, dark places.”

  Now he leaned forward. She had caught his interest. “Sorcery?”

  “What else could it be? We saw the guivre, such as only a magi could capture and control. But these were not even creatures of flesh and blood. Wolfhere called them galla.”

  Every person in the hall shuddered reflexively when the word came out of her mouth. Rosvita had never heard of such a thing, and yet some tone, some intonation, made her flinch instinctively. But as she glanced round the room she saw Father Hugh look up sharply, eyes widening—with interest? Or with distaste?

  “I have no reason,” said the king wryly, “to distrust Wolfhere in such matters. Well, then, Eagle, if this happened while crossing the Alfar Mountains in the summer, why has it taken you until winter to reach me?”

  She lifted a hand. “If I may, Your Majesty?”

  Curious, he assented.

  She gestured behind, and three Lions walked forward and knelt beside her, heads bowed. They, too, looked travel-worn, tabards and armor much mended; one had a newly healed cut on his left cheek. “These Lions were my escort, and they will witness that all that I say is true. When we turned back from the monastery, we found the pass was closed, blocked by another avalanche. Therefore we had to keep going south into the borderlands of Karrone until we could link up with the road that led back north through the Julier Pass. But here, too, we could not get through.”

  “Another storm?” demanded Villam, and Father Hugh leaned forward as if he feared the Eagle’s answer would be too faint for him to hear.

  “No, my lord. Duke Conrad closed the pass.”

  Henry stood up, and immediately any persons in the hall who were sitting scrambled to their feet as well, including poor Brother Fortunatus, who had sprained his knee in the conflagration yesterday. “Duke Conrad has closed the pass? On whose authority?”

  “I do not know the particulars, Your Majesty, only what I could learn from the border guards. It seems there is a dispute about borders between Queen Marozia and Duke Conrad, and neither will back down. So to spite her, Duke Conrad refused to let any traffic through the pass.”

  “To spite himself,” muttered Villam. “That pass links the duchy of Wayland to Karrone and to Aosta.” He shook his head, looking disgusted.

  “Nevertheless,” she replied, still sounding offended at the memory of the incident, “we were not let through although I carry an Eagle’s ring and badge, the seals of your authority.”

  There was a silence while Henry considered this news. A few whispers hissed through the hall, then hushed. Abruptly, he sat down. Rosvita could not read his expression. “What then?” he asked, his voice level.

  “We had to ride farther east until we came to the Brinne Pass, and farther east still, once we had crossed over the mountains. We came into the marchlands of Westfall where Margrave Werinhar fed us most handsomely and gave me a new horse and all of us generous supplies. But so many of t
he paths and roads had been washed out by heavy rains that we had to go even farther east into the marchland of Eastfall before we could find a good road leading west.” Again she hesitated and looked toward Hathui, as for courage. The older Eagle merely nodded crisply, and the younger went on. “Every person there sent word by me, Your Majesty. They beg you to set a margrave over them for protection. The Quman raids have been more fierce this year than in any year since your great-grandfather the first Henry fought and defeated the Quman princes at the River Eldar.” She turned and signed to the Lion, eldest of her companions—the one with the scarred cheek.

  He presented a broken arrow to the king.

  Fletched with iron-gray feathers, the arrow had an iron point; it looked innocuous enough for a tool meant for killing, and yet a kind of miasma hung about it as if it had a rank smell or some kind of repelling spell laid on it. Those feathers resembled none of any bird she had ever seen.

  But in the eastern wilderness, griffins hunted. Or so books said and report gave out. But Rosvita rarely trusted the reports of credulous folk who might see one thing and believe it was another—as had the lords and ladies out hunting, seeing a deer instead of Theophanu. It was stuffy in the small hall with so many people crammed in, even with the high windows thrown open. A restlessness plagued them all at the sight of the arrow. A few slipped out the door, but even as they left, others shouldered in to take their place.

  Henry took the arrow from the Lion’s hand and at once cut a finger on the hard edge of the fletching. He grunted in pain and stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking on it. Immediately, the Lion took the arrow out of Henry’s hand.

  “Let me hold this for you, Your Majesty,” said the man. “I beg you.”

  “Where did you get this arrow?” asked the king as he pressed on the finger with his thumb to stop the bleeding.

  “At a village called Felsig,” continued the Eagle. “We arrived hours after dawn, when they had repulsed an attack of Quman raiders. We helped fight off the last of them, some of their foot soldiers who I swear to you are so unsightly that they could be born of no human mother, though they are nothing like the Eika. Our comrade Artur died of wounds taken there. We brought with us a lad, named Stephen, who fought bravely in that skirmish. He wishes to swear himself to the service of the Lions.”