Prince of Dogs

by Kate Elliott

  From inside the tent the king spoke. “It is good advice, Sister. Hathui, see that the young Eagle who came from Gent rides with the message to Lavastine. You may dispose of the others as you see fit.”

  “Do not think you have escaped me,” said Hugh in a reasonable tone. “I will go in now and tell the king which Eagle Sapientia wishes to replace you. You know which Eagle I will choose….”

  She could not look up. He had won again.

  He smiled. “Your friend will be my hostage until you return. She, and the book. Remember that, Liath. You are still mine.” He turned and walked into the tent. So, with his honey-sweet words, did he convince the king.

  “Liath.” Hanna laid a hand on her arm. “Stand up.”

  “I’ve betrayed you.”

  “You’ve betrayed no one. I am an Eagle. That means something. He can’t harm me—”

  “But Theophanu in the forest—”

  “What are you talking about? Liath, stop it! He doesn’t care about me, he only cares about you. As long as I behave myself, he won’t notice me. Lady and Lord, Liath, I have survived Antonia, an avalanche, creatures made of no flesh or blood, two mountain crossings, a Quman attack, flooded rivers, and your bawling. I think I can survive this!”

  “Promise me you will!”

  Hanna rolled her eyes. “Spare us this!” she said with disgust. “Now go collect your things.”

  Liath winced, remembering. “Burned,” she whispered. “Everything burned in the attic.”

  “Then tell Hathui and she’ll see new gear is issued to you. Oh, Liath—did you—did you lose the book, after everything?”

  “No.” She shut her eyes, heard the soft flow of words from inside the tent, heard Hugh laugh at a jest made by the king, heard Rosvita answer with a witty reply. “Hugh got the book.”

  “Well, then,” said Hanna sharply, “it’s just as well I stay behind to keep an eye on it, isn’t it? Wasn’t it I who got it away from him at Heart’s Rest?”

  Liath wiped her nose with the back of a hand and sniffed, hard. “Oh, Hanna, you must be sick of me. I’m sick of myself.”

  “You’ll have no time to get sick of yourself when you’re traveling all day and just trying to keep alive! That’s what you need! Now go on. The king wants his Eagles sent out as soon as they can get horses saddled.”

  Liath hugged her and went to find Hathui.

  But in the end, when she left the king’s encampment, the road swung back by the market village and, curious, she took a quick detour up to the rise to see the burned palace. Hathui had found no bow to replace the one lost, and there were no swords to spare with so many having been lost in the burned barracks. She had a spear, a spare woolen tunic, a water pouch and hardtack for the road, and a flint to make fire. She had not told Hathui she needed no tools to make fire.

  She could not help herself. She dismounted at the charred gates and led her horse into the ruined complex. Already human scavengers tested the blackened timbers nearest the edge of the fire, those that had cooled; they searched for anything that could be salvaged. Liath threw the reins over the horse’s head and left it to stand. She trudged through wreckage, boots collecting soot, her nose stinging from the stink. A sticky trail of blood from her nose tickled her lip, and she licked it away and sniffed hard, hoping the bleeding would finally stop.

  She knew where the barracks stood. Though confused about the palace’s layout in her first days at Augensburg, she now knew the route well because of the fire, when she had plunged in more times than she could count in her vain attempt to drag all the sleeping Lions to safety.

  There, at that spot, in that courtyard, she and Hugh had jumped to safety. He had had the presence of mind to grab her saddlebags before he jumped. That he still limped from a twisted ankle gave her some pleasure, but not enough.

  She had been too horrified to think. The flames had come so fast, so fierce, and she had not meant them to come into being at all. They had come to her as fire leaps to any dry thing within its reach. She had scrambled to safety after him, and only then had she remembered all the people lying asleep in the palace.

  I will not blame myself. He sent them to sleep. He drove me to the act, whose consequences I could not imagine.

  But that was no excuse.

  Da had been right to protect her. But he should have taught her, too. She had to find some way to teach herself. She had to find a way to keep Hugh away from her.

  Light winked, a jewel flash among ash and fallen timbers. She stepped forward over the crumbled threshold into the main portion of what had once been the barracks. Everything had caved in and she could not tell which planks came from the walls, which from the attic floor, and which from the roof. Her boot broke through a plank and she fell, foot hitting the ground a hand’s breadth beneath. She tugged her boot out of the hole and gingerly stepped over two fallen beams, skirted a litter of swords and spear points and shield bosses, all chary and still glowing, and stopped where three planks composed more of charcoal than of wood lay in perfect alignment, one, two, three in a row like the lid to a chest. She nudged one aside with her boot.

  There, lying amidst cinders and ash and blackened wood, rested her bow in its case, untouched, unharmed except for a thin layer of soot streaking it. Amazed, she lifted it off the ground to find her good friend, Lucian’s sword, beneath it, still sound, as if together they had weathered the firestorm.

  “Liath.”

  She started back, grabbing bowcase and sword to her, and spun, stumbling over a fallen beam and the detritus of the blaze.

  But there was no one there.

  XI

  THE SOULS OF

  THE DEAD

  1

  ANTONIA had become heartily sick of staring into fire. The smoke stung her eyes and chapped her cheeks. But she knew better than to complain. At this moment, as the heat chafed her skin, she watched with her five companions. She had not yet mastered the art of opening such a window, a vision drawn through fire, but she could see with the others. In her first days in the valley she could not even do that, and Heribert, who had tried many times, still could not see through fire or stone.

  She saw shapes as insubstantial as flames, but the others had assured her that these shapes were the shadows of real forms, real people, real buildings; they had assured her that every incident they saw through the window made by fire occurred somewhere in the world beyond their little valley. By this means, through their power, they could see what transpired in the world beyond—although there were limits to their ability to see.

  Right now, in a distant place whose outlines were limned by the hearth fire, a young noblewoman and her retinue arrived at the gates of a convent and requested admittance to pray and offer gifts.

  “That is Princess Theophanu,” said Antonia, amazed.

  “Hush, Sister Venia,” said she who sat first among them, caput draconis. “Let us listen to their words as she speaks to the gatekeeper.”

  Antonia did not want to admit she heard nothing. She never heard anything through the flames, only saw shapes and people as they moved and spoke in a kind of dumb show. The conversation within the fire went on and on as the elderly gatekeeper questioned the princess at length.

  Antonia examined her companions.

  She disliked their habit of addressing each other in the clerical way: Sister and Brother. It suggested they were equals. And yet, in truth, she had to admit that Brother Severus was an educated man of obvious noble blood and proud bearing; his name reflected his severe manner and ascetic ways. Sister Zoë spoke with the accent of the educated clergy of the kingdom of Salia, precise and clean. A lush beauty with evident charms that had, alas, attracted Heribert’s notice, she looked more like a courtesan than a cleric. Brother Marcus was older than Zoë but younger than Severus; small, tidy, and arrogant, he had unfortunately encouraged Heribert in his obsession with building and had soon involved Heribert in a complicated scheme to rebuild the admittedly dilapidated cluster of buildings that hou
sed their little community. Sister Meriam looked more like a Jinna heathen than a good Daisanite woman; old and tiny, with slender bones that looked as fragile as dry sticks, she nevertheless carried herself with a fierce dignity that even Antonia respected.

  None of these names were true names, of course. Like Antonia, they had all taken other names when they came to the valley. She did not know what they had once been called or who their kin were, although any fool could see that Sister Meriam came from the infidel east. They did not volunteer such information, nor did they ask her about herself. That was not their purpose here.

  The vision in fire faded to the orange-blue blur of flames crackling and the snap of wood. Antonia blinked smoke out of her eyes, and sneezed.

  “Bless you, Sister,” said Brother Marcus. He turned to the others. “Can this be true, that Princess Theophanu was mistaken for a deer? Does the princess suspect a sorcerer walks unseen in the king’s court? Could it be she suspects our brother who walks in the world?”

  She who named herself Caput Draconis answered. “She came to St. Valeria Convent because she suspects sorcery. But that she suspects our brother—I doubt it, just as I doubt Mother Rothgard suspects that her faithful gatekeeper is in fact our ally. We are not known, Brother Marcus. Do not trouble yourself on that score.”

  He bent his head in submission to her words. “As you say, Caput Draconis. What of this suspected sorcerer, then, whom Princess Theophanu wishes to make known to Mother Rothgard?”

  “She is precipitate, this princess,” said the caput draconis. “How can we be sure that the young folk in question did not simply see what they wished in their eagerness and mistake branches for antlers and mist for the flash of a deer’s body? That is what the king suggested, is it not?”

  “What of the burning arrows?” asked Sister Zoë. “Taken separately, I would put little credence in either incident. Taken together, I become suspicious.”

  It was dusk, but not chill, for it was never chilly here in this valley. The gold torque worn by the caput draconis winked and dazzled in the firelight. The woman’s face remained calm; she alone Antonia could not put an age to. This difficulty puzzled her and made her fret at odd moments, waking at night, wondering, as she did about so many other things.

  Above, the sun sank behind the mountains and the night stars emerged, brilliant fires burning beyond the seventh sphere, lamps lighting the way to the Chamber of Light. The stars and constellations had names and attributes. Like any educated cleric, she knew a bit of the astrologus’ knowledge, but if she had learned one thing in the last six months, it was this: She knew nothing about the knowledge of the stars compared to her new companions. She and Heribert had come to rest in a nest of mathematici, the most dangerous of sorcerers. Antonia had learned more about the stars and the heavens in the last six months than she had ever before imagined existed.

  She had thought to teach them, for had not the caput draconis admitted that she—Antonia—had a natural gift for compulsion? But her early demonstrations had not impressed her audience. Hers had been a study of magics used to bring people into her power, magics born from the earth, from ancient and fell creatures that waited, hidden, in the earth or in the deep crevices of the soul or of the land itself. Such creatures and spirits were eager to serve, if commanded boldly and given the right payment, usually in blood.

  “Anyone can spill blood,” Brother Severus had said contemptuously, “or read bones, like a savage.” After that she had confined her study of such magics to times when she was alone.

  Though she resented him for speaking such words out loud, even she had to admit—grudgingly—that he was right. Another power arched above all this, and her companions had studied long and fruitfully to master a sorcery which she had only now taken the first and tiniest steps toward understanding.

  Why was it that spring lay always in the air here in this valley while winter’s sky wheeled above them? How old, truly, was the caput draconis, who carried herself with the gravity of a woman of great wisdom and age and yet to judge by her face and hair might be any age between twenty and forty?

  “The burning arrows,” mused the caput draconis. “Our Brother Lupus brought the one we seek closer to us but not into our hands, as we had hoped. We have been patient so far, but this news of burning arrows makes me wonder if it is time to act.”

  “Act in what way, Sister?” Brother Severus raised an eyebrow in muted surprise. Even at night, he wore only the one thin robe, and he never wore shoes. His bare feet reminded Antonia at times of poor Brother Agius, whose heretical notions had led him in the end to the unfortunate death that had proved most inconvenient for her. But God, no doubt, would forgive him his error. God were merciful to the weak.

  “It is time to investigate,” said their leader. “There are gentler ways of persuasion, now that no obstacle but distance lies between us and that which we seek. Brother Marcus, you will journey to Darre to be our eyes and ears in the presbyters’ palace once our brother must leave to return north. Meanwhile, I, too, must venture out into the world to see what I can learn there.”

  “Is that safe?” demanded Antonia.

  “Why should it not be safe, Sister Venia?” asked Sister Meriam, speaking at last.

  A good question, it was one Antonia could not answer.

  “I do not suggest you go, Sister,” continued the caput draconis. “You must not leave here yet. But I am under no such constraints. I can walk in anonymity, as I have pledged to do.”

  “A prince is no prince without a retinue,” said Antonia snappishly, indicating the gold torque the other woman wore.

  But the other woman only smiled, her expression almost like pity. “I have a retinue.” Lifting a hand, she indicated the darkened valley beyond them where uncanny lights winked into existence, burning without flame, and stray breezes wove their unsteady way through trees and flowers blooming in unseasonable splendor. “And my retinue is more powerful than any that exists in this world. Let us go, Sisters and Brothers. Let us bend our backs to this task.”

  They rose together, clasped hands in a brief prayer, and left the hearth.

  Irritated, Antonia had to acknowledge the truth of what their caput draconis had said. No human servants lived in this valley: only beasts, goats and cows for milk, sheep for wool, chickens and geese for eggs and quills. No, indeed, their little community was not attended by human servants.

  She left the small chapel behind Brother Marcus and crossed to the site of the new long hall. Though it was growing dark quickly, Heribert was still out measuring and hammering, aided by certain of the more robust of the servants. Strangely, he had gotten used to the servants more quickly than she had, perhaps because he worked beside them every day as he designed and constructed his projects. She still was not used to them. At times, she could barely bring herself to look at them.

  It was one thing to use the abominations nurtured in the bosom of the Enemy to punish the wicked. It was one thing to harness the power of ancient creatures which had crawled out of the pit in the days before the advent of the blessed Daisan to frighten the weak into obedience.

  It was quite another to treat them as honorable servants, to use them as allies, no matter how fair some of them appeared.

  At her appearance beside the construction site, they fluttered away, or sank like tar into the ground, or folded in that odd way some had into themselves, vanishing from her sight. One, the most loyal of Heribert’s helpers, simply wound itself into the planks which were set tongue to groove along the north wall of the long hall. It now appeared as a knotlike growth along the wood.

  “Heribert,” she said disapprovingly. “Your work finishes with sunset.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, but he was not paying attention. He was setting a tongued plank into a grooved plank, clucking with displeasure at the poor fit, and planing the narrow edge carefully down.

  “Heribert! How many times have I told you that it is not right that you dirty your hands in this way.
That is the laborer’s job, not that of an educated and noble cleric.”

  He set down board and plane, looked up at her, but said nothing. No longer as thin and delicate as he had once been—an ornament to wisdom, as the saying went, rather than to gross bodily vigor—he had grown thicker through the shoulders in the past months. His hands were work-roughened, callused, and scarred with small cuts and healed blisters. He got splinters aplenty now, every day, and could pull them out himself without whimpering.

  She did not like the way he was looking at her. In a young child, she would have called it defiance.

  “You will come in now and eat,” she added.

  “When I am finished, Mother,” he said, and then he smiled, because he knew it irritated her when he called her by that title. As a good churchwoman, she should not have succumbed to the baser temptations, and in time she would have her revenge on the man who had tempted her.

  “You would never have spoken to me so disrespectfully before we came here!”

  A whispering came on the breeze, and he cocked his head, listening. Was he hearing something? Did the abominations speak to him? And if so, why could she not hear or understand their speech?

  He bowed his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” But she no longer trusted his docility.

  Had the caput draconis lied to her? Misled her? Did they mean to take Heribert from her—not by any rough and violent means but simply by allowing certain dishonorable thoughts to fester in his mind, such as the idea that he could turn his back on his duty to his elders, his kin, his own mother who had borne him in much pain and blood and who had bent her considerable power to protecting him against anything that might harm him? Would he disobey her wishes simply to indulge himself in the selfish and earthly desire to partake of such menial tasks as building and architecture? Was this the price she would have to pay: the loss of her son? Not his physical loss, but the loss of his obedience to her wishes? Would she have to stand by and watch his transformation into a mere artisan—a builder, for God’s sake! She would not stand by idly while they worked their magics on him, even if they were the trivial magics of flattery and false interest in his unworthy obsessions. They were using him for their own gain, of course, since certainly the buildings they lived in were not fit for persons of their consequence. It was infuriating to watch as those who were supposed to be her companions in work and learning encouraged the young man in these inappropriate labors as if he were a mere artisan’s child.