《Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4)》


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    PROLOGUE


    OFF to the southeast, thunder rolled on and on. But in the broad ditch where three youths and two gravely injured soldiers had taken refuge from the battle, the rain had, mercifully, slackened. A wind out of the north blew the clouds away, revealing the waxy light of a full moon.


    Ivar listened to the sounds of battle carried by the breeze. They¡¯d scrambled down into the ditch from an embankment above, hoping to escape the notice of their enemies. They hadn¡¯t found safety, only a moment¡¯s respite, caught as they were behind the enemy¡¯s line. The Quman warriors would sweep down from the earthen dike and slaughter them, then cut off their heads to use as belt ornaments. Or, at least, that¡¯s what Baldwin seemed to think as he babbled confusedly about Quman soldiers searching the huge tumulus and its twisting embankments, lighting their way with torches.


    From his place down in the slippery mud at the bottom of the ditch, Ivar didn¡¯t see torches. There was a lambent glow emanating from the crown of the hill, but it didn¡¯t look like any torchlight he had ever seen.


    Sometimes, when a situation was really bad and there was nothing you could do about it, it was just better not to know.


    ¡°Careful,¡± whispered Ermanrich. ¡°This whole end is filled with water. God¡¯s mercy! It¡¯s like ice.¡±


    ¡°Come on, Dedi, come on, lad,¡± coaxed the older of the two wounded Lions to his young companion, but the other man didn¡¯t rouse. Probably he was already dead.


    Ivar found the water¡¯s edge, cupped his hands, and drank. The cold cleared his head for the first time since he had lost his fingers, and finally he could sit back and survey just how bad their predicament was.


    Moonlight cast a glamour over the scene. The pool of water had formed up against a steep precipice, the face of the hillside. Over the course of uncounted years a trickling cataract had worn away the cliff face to expose two boulders capped by a lintel stone. Starlight caught and glimmered in one of the stones, revealing a carving half concealed behind tendrils of moss. Ivar negotiated the pool¡¯s edge so as not to get his feet wet¡ªnot that he wasn¡¯t already slopping filthy with mud¡ªand traced the ancient lines: they formed a human figure wearing the antlers of a stag.


    ¡°Look!¡± Baldwin pushed aside the thick curtain of moss draping down over the stones to unveil a tunnel that cut into the hillside.


    Their side had lost the battle anyway, and they were cut off from Prince Bayan¡¯s retreating army and all their comrades, those who had survived. How could an ancient tumulus be worse than the Quman? Ivar squeezed past the opening, wading in. Cold water poured down into his boots, soaking his leggings and making his toes throb painfully. He couldn¡¯t see a thing.


    A body brushed against him. ¡°Ivar! Is that you, Ivar?¡±


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s me! I heard a rumor that the Quman fear water. Maybe we can hide here, unless this pool gets too deep.¡± The ground seemed firm enough, and the water wasn¡¯t deeper than his knees. Plunging his arm into the freezing water, he groped for and found a stone, tossed it. The plop rang hollow. Water dripped steadily ahead of them.


    Something living scuffled, deep in the heart of the tumulus.


    ¡°What was that?¡± hissed Baldwin, grabbing Ivar¡¯s arm.


    ¡°Ow! You¡¯re pinching me!¡±


    It was too late. Their voices had already woken the restless dead. A wordless groan echoed through the pitch-black tunnel.


    ¡°Oh, God.¡± Ivar clutched at Baldwin¡¯s arm. ¡°It¡¯s a barrow. We¡¯ve walked into a burial pit and now we¡¯ll be cursed.¡±


    But the voice made words they recognized, however distorted they might be by the stone and the drip of water. ¡°Iss i-it you? Iss i-it Ermanrich¡¯ss friendss?¡±


    ¡°L-Lady Hathumod?¡± stammered Baldwin.


    ¡°Ai, t-thank the Lady!¡± Her relief was evident despite the blurs and echoes. ¡°Poor Ssigfrid wass wounded in the arm and we got losst, and¡ªand I prayed to God to show me a ssign. And then we fell in here. But it¡¯ss dry here where we are, and I think the tunnel goess farther into the hill, but I wass too afraid to go on by ourselvess.¡±


    ¡°Now what do we do?¡± whined Baldwin softly.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get the others and we¡¯ll go as deep as we can into the hill.


    The Quman will never dare follow us through this water. After a day or two they¡¯ll go away, and we can come out.¡±


    ¡°Just like that?¡± demanded Baldwin.


    ¡°Just like that. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    They trudged back to the mossy entrance, where they found Ermanrich shuddering and coughing as he clawed at the moss.

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    ¡°Ai, God! There you are! I thought you¡¯d been swallowed.¡± He heaved a ragged sigh, then went on in a low voice, making a joke of his fear and relief. ¡°Maybe even the hills think Baldwin is handsome enough to eat, but I don¡¯t know what they¡¯d be wanting with an ugly redheaded sot like you, Ivar.¡±


    ¡°Dirt is blind, otherwise you¡¯d never get inside. Come on.¡± Ivar waded over to the conscious Lion. ¡°Friend, can you walk?¡±


    ¡°So I can, a bit, lad. But Dedi, here¡ª¡± The old Lion got suddenly hoarse.


    ¡°We¡¯ll carry him,¡± said Ivar hastily. ¡°But let¡¯s get him out of that mail first. Ermanrich, give me a hand, will you? Baldwin, you help the Lion in, and keep ahead of him in case there¡¯s any pits.¡±


    ¡°Pits? What if I fall into a bottomless hole?¡±


    ¡°Baldwin, we haven¡¯t got time! Here.¡± He found the unconscious Lion¡¯s sword sheath. ¡°Take this sword and use it to feel your way forward.¡±


    Amazingly, Baldwin obeyed without further objection. He helped the old Lion to his feet and steadied the soldier as he hobbled to the tunnel.


    It wasn¡¯t easy to get mail off an unconscious man.


    ¡°I think he¡¯s already dead,¡± Ermanrich whispered several times, but in the end they wrestled him out of his armor.


    Nor was it easy to haul him in through the tunnel even without his armor. He was a big man, well muscled, so badly injured that he was a complete dead weight. Luckily, the water did not rise past their thighs before an upward slope brought them shivering out of the water onto dry ground. The weight of the hill pressed above them. Dirt stung Ivar¡¯s nostrils, and his mutilated hand burned with pain.


    ¡°Thank God,¡± said Baldwin out of the darkness.


    Ivar and Ermanrich set down the unconscious soldier, none too gently, and Ivar straightened up so quickly that he banged his head hard against the stone ceiling. The pain made tears flow, and in a way he did want just to sit down and cry because everything had been such a disaster. He really had thought they¡¯d win the battle. Prince Bayan¡¯s and Princess Sapientia¡¯s troops had looked so magnificent arrayed against the Quman army, and even the dreaded Margrave Judith had ridden out with such a strong host that it seemed impossible that everything had fallen apart, including their line. Prince Ekkehard had vanished in the maelstrom, his companions were scattered or dead, and they were all that was left. Probably they were the last remnant of Bayan¡¯s army left on this side of the river: two badly injured soldiers, four novice monks, and one lost nun.


    The battle had started very late in the afternoon, and now night settled over them. Two hours at the most separated them from that glorious place where they¡¯d waited at the front of the right flank, ready to sweep into battle. It just didn¡¯t seem possible everything had gone wrong so fast.


    But meanwhile, someone had to go back to make sure that the Quman hadn¡¯t followed them under the hill. Cold, wet, and shivering, Ivar braced himself for the shock of wading back into the water that drowned the lower reaches of the tunnel. His leggings already clung to him like icy leeches, and his toes had gone numb from cold.


    A hand snaked out of the darkness to grab at his sleeve. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want me to come with you?¡± Baldwin asked in a hoarse whisper.


    ¡°Nay. It¡¯s better if I go alone. If something happens to me, it¡¯ll take you and Ermanrich and Lady Hathumod to carry the injured Lion.¡±


    Baldwin leaned closer. Despite the long weeks of travel in harsh conditions, the terror of a losing battle waged as afternoon gave way to dusk, and the desperation of their scramble over the ancient earthworks, Baldwin¡¯s breath was still as sweet as that of a lord sitting in pleasant splendor in his rose garden, drinking a posset of mead flavored with mint. ¡°I¡¯d rather be dead than go on without you.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll all be dead if the Quman find that armor and figure out that we¡¯re hiding in this tunnel. Just stay here, Baldwin, I beg you.¡±


    Behind, in the stygian blackness, Sigfrid¡¯s gentle voice fell and rose in a melismatic prayer. Somehow, the darkness warped time. Hadn¡¯t it just been moments ago that they had stumbled upon that hidden opening? It seemed like hours.


    Beneath Sigfrid¡¯s quiet prayer Ivar heard Hathumod murmuring words he couldn¡¯t quite make out. She was answered, in turns, by monosyllabic grunts from the old Lion and whispered questions from Ermanrich. He could not see, not even Baldwin, who stood right next to him. He felt them, though, huddled together like frightened rats under the weight of earth and rock.

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    He took the unconscious Lion¡¯s sword from Baldwin and tested the grip with his good hand, squeezed and relaxed until the leather grip gave enough to fit the curve of his hand. With gritted teeth, he surged forward into the water and shuddered all over again as the tunnel floor plunged down and the icy water enveloped his legs.


    With the sword drawn tightly against his left leg, Ivar approached the entrance in relative silence. He smelled the distant stench of the battlefield. Night crows cried far away, alerting their cousins to the banquet. A pebble rolled under his boot, and he grunted softly, balancing himself. The wound on his right hand scraped stone. He caught back a gasp of pain as a hot trickle of blood bled free. Pain stabbed up his hand, and he stumbled forward. The stumps of his missing fingers, shorn off right at the second knuckle, jabbed into a moist tapestry of moss. Tears streamed from his eyes and made salty runnels over his lips. After a while, the pain subsided enough for him to think.


    He had reached the entrance. Cautiously, with his good hand, he fingered the tendrils of moss which streaked the crumbling entrance. Behind this curtain he waited, listening. He couldn¡¯t see anything, not even the sky. It seemed as dark beyond the curtain concealing the tomb¡¯s entrance as it had deep within. The heavy scent of damp and earth and wet moss shrouded his world.


    But he could hear the distant murmur of a host moving, hooves, shouts, one poor soul screaming, the detritus of movement that betrays two armies unwinding one from the other as the battle ebbs and dies.


    From close by, he heard a grunt, a low breathing mutter.


    The sword shifted in his hand before he was aware he had changed his stance. The Lion¡¯s discarded armor spoke with that voice granted to all things born of metal: when hands disturbed it, it replied in a chiming voice.


    Just as he had feared: a Quman soldier had found the discarded armor.


    He lunged through the curtain. The Quman soldier had wings curling up above his back where he bent over the mail and helmet. Ivar ducked down to get under the wooden contraption. Just as the other man spun, he thrust. The short sword caught the winged soldier just under his leather-scaled shirt. With his wounded arm he reached out and wrapped his forearm around the man¡¯s head and with all his weight pulled him in through the entrance. Wood frames snapped against the lintel as Ivar fell into the water with the Quman landing face first in his lap. The sword drove to the hilt between the enemy¡¯s ribs.


    Water licked Ivar¡¯s lips as he pressed the man down, holding him under. The man twisted one way and then the other, trying to raise his head out of the water, but Ivar countered each movement with a sideways push on the hilt of the sword. Steel grated against bone, causing the warrior to convulse and lose whatever advantage he had gained. His black hair floated like tendrils of moss. Ivar tasted blood in the water. All at once, the Quman went limp.


    Ivar shoved the dead man deeper into the pool and staggered to his feet. His body ached from the cold. He dipped a hand in the water to scrub at his face, to wash the taint of blood away, but all around him the pool seemed polluted by the life that had drained into it. He carefully slipped past the moss and found clear water outside.


    Lightning streaked the sky, followed by a sharp thunderclap. A voice called out a query. On the earthworks beyond, a man¡¯s shape, distorted by wings, reared up against the night sky, questing: an- other Quman soldier, looking for his comrade. Ivar¡¯s position at the base of the ditch, within the shadow of the lintel, veiled him. A moment later the shadow moved on, dropping out of sight behind the earthworks.


    A drizzle of rain wet Ivar¡¯s cheeks. With a swelling roar, the river raged in the distance like a multitude of voices raised all at once, but he couldn¡¯t see it, nor could he see stars above. A bead of rain wound down his nose and, suspended from its tip, hung there for the longest time just as he was suspended, unwilling to move for fear of giving himself away.


    Finally he set down his sword, rolled up the mail shirt, wrapping it tight with a belt, and looped the helmet strap over his shoulder. With the sword in his good hand and his injured hand throbbing badly enough to give him a headache, he fell: his way back under the lintel. Gruesome wings brushed his nose, one splintered wooden frame scraping his cheek as feathers tickled his lips. Outside, rain started to fall in earnest. Thunder muttered in the west. If they were lucky, rain would obscure the signs of their passage and leave them safe for a day or two, until the Quman moved on. Then they could sneak out and make their way northwest, on the trail of Prince Bayan¡¯s and Princess Sapientia¡¯s retreating army.


    In his heart, he knew it was a foolish hope. The Quman had scouts and trackers. There was no way a ragged band of seven, four of them wounded and most of them unable to fight, could get through the Quman lines. But they had to believe they could. Otherwise they might as well lie down and die.

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    Why would they have been granted the vision of the phoenix if God had meant for them to die in such a pointless manner?


    Baldwin was waiting for him where the tunnel floor sloped upward and out of the water.


    ¡°Come see,¡± said Baldwin sharply. ¡°Gerulf got a fire going.¡±


    ¡°Gerulf?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the old Lion.¡± Baldwin tugged him onward, steadying him when he stumbled. Weariness settled over Ivar¡¯s shoulders. He shivered convulsively, soaked through. He wanted nothing more than to drop right where he stood and sleep until death, or the phoenix, came for him. Or maybe one would bring the other, it was hard to think with the walls wavering around him.


    Strange sigils had been carved into the pale stone, broad rocks set upright and incised with the symbols of demons and ancient gods who plagued the people of elder days: four-sided lozenges, spirals that had neither beginning nor end, broad expanses of hatching cut into the rock as though straw had been pressed crisscross into the stone.


    Yet how could he see at all, deep in the heart of a tomb?


    With Baldwin¡¯s help, he staggered forward until the tunnel opened into a smoky chamber lit by fire. He stared past his companions, who were huddled around a torch. The chamber was a black pit made eerie by flickering light. He could not see the ceiling, and the walls were lost to shadow. He sneezed.


    Just beyond the smoking torch, a stone slab marked the center of the chamber. A queen had been laid to rest here long ago: there lay her bones, a pale skeleton asleep in the torchlight, its hollow-eyed frame woven with strands of rotting fabric and gleaming with precious gold that had fallen around the skull and into the ribs. Gold antlers sprang into sight as Gerulf shifted the torch to better investigate his comrade¡¯s wound.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have lit a fire in a barrow!¡± cried Ivar, horrified. ¡°Everyone knows a fire will wake the unholy dead!¡±


    Frail Sigfrid sat at the unconscious Lion¡¯s head, nearest to the burial altar. He looked up with the calm eyes of one who has felt God¡¯s miraculous hands heal his body. ¡°Don¡¯t fear, Ivar.¡± The voice itself, restored to him by a miracle, was a reproof to Ivar¡¯s fear. ¡°God will protect us. This poor dead woman bears us no ill will.¡± He indicated the half-uncovered skeleton, then bent forward as the old Lion spoke to him in a low voice.


    But how could Sigfrid tell? Ivar had grown up in the north, where the old gods still swarmed, jealous that the faith of the Unities had stolen so many ripe souls from their grasp. There was no telling what malice lay asleep here, or when it might wake.


    Ermanrich and Hathumod sat together, hands clasped in a cousinly embrace. Both had lost a great deal of flesh. How long ago it seemed when the four youths and Hathumod had served together as novices at Quedlinhame, yet truly it wasn¡¯t more than a year ago that they had all been cast out of the convent for committing the unforgivable sin of heresy.


    Baldwin circled the stone altar and its dead queen, crouching to grasp one of the gold antlers. The light touch jostled the skeleton. Precious amber beads scattered down among the bones, falling in a rush.


    ¡°Don¡¯t disturb the dead!¡± hissed Ivar. But Baldwin, eyes wide, reached right in to where strands of desiccated wool rope, whose ends were banded with small greenish-metal rods, curled around the pelvis. His hand closed over a small object, a glint of blue.


    ¡°Look!¡± he cried, with his other hand lifting a stone mirror out of the basin made by her pelvic bones. The polished black surface still gleamed. As Ivar took a panicked step forward to stop Baldwin from further desecration, he saw his movement reflected in that mirror.


    ¡°Ai, God, I fear my poor nephew is dead,¡± murmured Gerulf. ¡°I swore to my sister I¡¯d bring him home safely.¡±


    Other shadows moved in the depths of the mirror, figures obscured by darkness. They walked out of the alcoves, ancient queens whose eyes had the glint of knives. The first was young, robed in a splendor as bright as burning arrows, but her mouth was cut in a cruel smile. The second had a matron¡¯s girth, the generous bulk of a noble lady who never wants for food, and in her arms she carried a basket spilling over with fruit. The third wore her silver hair braided with bones, and the wrinkles in her aged face seemed as deep as clefts in a mountainside. Her raised hands had the texture of cobwebs. Her gaze caught him as in a vise. He could not speak to warn the others, who saw nothing and felt no danger.


    Hathumod gasped. ¡°What lies there?¡± Her words sent ripples through the ghosts as a hand clears away algae from an overgrown pond.


    Ivar found his voice. ¡°Baldwin! Put that down, you idiot!¡±

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    As Baldwin lowered the mirror in confusion, Hathumod crawled forward. Her hand came to rest on a bundle so clotted with dirt and mold that her hand came away green, and flakes fell everywhere, spinning away to meld with the smoke from the torch. Like Baldwin, she was either a fool or insensible. She groped at the bundle, found a faded leather pouch that actually crumbled to dust in her hands, leaving nothing in her cupped fingers except, strangely, a nail marked by rusting stains.


    She began to weep just as Gerulf shook loose the rotting garments: a rusted mail shirt that half fell apart in his hands, a knife, a decaying leather belt, a plain under-tunic, and a tabard marked with the remains of a black lion. ¡°Some poor comrade of mine must have crawled in here to die many years ago,¡± said the old Lion.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± demanded Sigfrid, throwing his head back as if he¡¯d heard something. Baldwin, still gripping the obsidian mirror, screamed and crumpled forward. On the ground, Gerulf¡¯s dead nephew jerked as though a demon had poured itself into him.


    The chamber flared with blue light.


    Ivar cried out, but he could not hear his own voice. His throat muscles strained as he forced out air. Blue fire blinded him. The ground wrenched under his feet, throwing him sideways, and he tumbled to his knees, but no earth met his outstretched hands. He fell, endlessly, hands grasping at empty air, as the young queen with the knife-edged smile walked toward him over a carpet of brilliant fire with her arms extended as if in welcome. He reached for her, grasping for any lifeline.


    Touched her hands.


    And knew nothing more.


    PART ONE


    THE FLOWER


    TRAIL


    I


    THE HALLOWED ONE


    1


    AT sunset, Adica left the village. The elders bowed respectfully, but from a safe distance, as she passed. Fathers pulled their children out of her way. Women carrying in sheaves of grain from ripening fields turned their backs on her, so that her gaze might not wither the newly-harvested emmer out of which they would make bread. Even pregnant Weiwara, once her beloved friend, stepped back through the threshold of her family¡¯s house in order to shelter her hugely pregnant belly from Adica¡¯s sight.


    The villagers looked at her differently now. In truth, they no longer looked at her at all, never directly in the face, now that the Holy One had proclaimed Adica¡¯s duty, and her doom.


    Even the dogs slunk away when she walked by.


    She passed through the open stockade gate and negotiated the plank bridge thrown over the ditch that ringed the village. The sun¡¯s light washed the clouds with a pale purplish pink as delicate as flax in flower. Fields flowered gold along the river plain, dotted here and there with the tumbled forms of the grandmothers¡¯ old houses, now abandoned for the safety of the new village. The grandmothers had not lived in constant fear as people did these days.


    When she reached the outer ditch, she raised her staff three times and said a blessing over the village. Then she walked on.


    By the river three men bent over the weir. One straightened, seeing her, and she recognized Beor¡¯s broad shoulders and the distinctive way he had of tilting up his chin when he was angry.


    How Beor had protested and complained when the elders had decreed that they two could no longer live together as mates! Yet his company had never been restful. He had won the right to claim her as his mate on the day the elders had agreed to name him as war captain for the village because of his conspicuous bravery in the war against the Cursed Ones. But had the law governing her as Hallowed One of the village granted her the right to claim a mate of her own choice, he was not the one she would have picked. In a way, it was a relief to be rid of him.


    Yet, as days and months passed, she missed the warmth of his body at night.


    Beor made a movement as if to walk over to catch her, but his companion stopped him by placing a hand on his chest. Adica continued down the path alone.


    She climbed the massive tumulus alone, following the path up through the labyrinthine earthworks. As the Hallowed One who protected the village, she had walked here many times but never in as great a solitude as that she felt now.


    Nothing grew yet on the freshly raised ramparts except young sow-thistles, leaves still tender enough to eat. Far below, tall grass and unharvested grain rippled like the river, stirred by a breeze lifting off the sun as it sank into the land of the dead.


    The ground ramped up under her feet, still smooth from the passage of so many logs used as rollers to get the stones up to the sacred circle at the height of the hill. She passed up a narrow causeway between two huge ramparts of earth and came out onto the level field that marked the highest ground. Here stood the circle of seven stones, raised during the life of Adica¡¯s teacher. Here, to the east of the stone circle, three old foundations marked an ancient settlement. According to her teacher, these fallen stone foundations marked the halls of the long-dead queens, Arrow Bright, Golden Sow, and Toothless, whose magic had raised the great womb of this tumulus and whose bones and treasures lay hidden in the swelling belly of the earth below.

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    Midway between the earthen gates and the stone loom, where the westering sun could draw its last light across the threshold, Adica had erected a shelter out of hides and poles. In such primitive shelter all humankind had lived long ago before the days when the great queens and their hallowed women had stolen the magic of seed, clay, and bronze from the southerners, before the Cursed Ones had come to take them as slaves and as sacrifices.


    She made her prayers, so familiar that she could speak them without thinking, and sprinkled the last of her ale to the four directions: north, east, south, and west. After leaning her staff against the lintel of slender birch poles, she clapped her wrists together three times. The copper bracelets that marked her status as a Hallowed One chimed softly, the final ring of prayer, calling down the night. The sun slid below the horizon. She crawled in across the threshold. Inside the tent she untied her string skirt, slipped off her bodice, and laid them inside the stout cedar chest where she stored all her belongings. Finally, she wrapped herself in the furs that were now her only company at night.


    Once she had lived like the rest of her people, in a house in the village, breathing in the community of a life lived together. Of course, her house in the village had been ringed with charms, and no one but her mate or those of her womb kin might enter it for fear of the powers that lay coiled in the shadows and in the eaves, but she had still been able to hear the cattle lowing in their byres in the evening and the delighted cries of the children leaping up to play at dawn. Any village where a Hallowed One lived always had good luck and good harvests.


    But ever since the Holy One¡¯s proclamation, she could no longer sleep in the village for fear her dreaming self might entice reckless or evil spirits in among the houses. Spirits could smell death; everyone knew that. They could smell death on her. They swarmed where fate lay heaviest.


    Death¡¯s shadow had touched her, so the villagers feared that any person she touched might be poisoned by death¡¯s kiss as well.


    She said the night prayer to the Pale Hunter and lay still until sleep called her, but sleep brought no respite. Tossing and turning, she dreamed of standing alone and small in a blinding wind as death came for her.


    Could the great weaving possibly succeed? Or would it all be for naught, despite everything?


    She woke, twisted in her sleeping furs, thinking of Beor, whom she had once called husband. She had dreamed the same dream for seven nights running. Yet it wasn¡¯t the death in the dream that scared her, that made her wake up sweating.


    She rested her forehead on fisted hands. ¡°I pray to you, Fat One, who is merciful to her children, let there be a companion for me. I do not fear death as long as I do not have to walk the long road into darkness all by myself.¡±


    A wind came up. The charms tied to the poles holding up the shelter rang with their gentle voices. More distantly, she heard the bronze leaves of the sacred cauldron ting and clack where the breeze ran through them. Then the wind died. It was so quiet that she thought perhaps she could hear the respiration of stars as they breathed.


    She slipped outside. Cool night air pooled over her skin. Above, the stars shone in splendor. The waxing horned moon had already set. The Serpent¡¯s Eye and the Dragon¡¯s Eye blazed overhead, harbingers of power. The Grindstone was setting.


    Was it a sign? The setting constellation called The Grindstone would lead her to Falling-down¡¯s home and, when evening came, the rising Grindstone, with the aid of the Bounteous One, the wandering daughter of the Fat One, could pull her home again. The Fat One often spoke in riddles or by misdirection, and perhaps this was one of those times. There was one man she often thought of, one man who might be brave enough to walk beside her.


    Ducking back inside her shelter, she rummaged through the cedar chest in search of a gift for Falling-down. She settled on an ingot of copper and a pair of elk antlers. Last, she found the amber necklace she had once given to Beor, to seal their agreement, but of course he had been forced by the elders to return it to her. Then she dressed, wrapping her skirt twice around her hips, tugging on her bodice, and hanging her mirror from a loop on her skirt. Setting the gifts in a small basket together with a string of bone beads for a friendship offering to the headwoman of Falling-down¡¯s village, she crawled outside. She slung the basket over one shoulder with a rope and hoisted her staff.


    A path wound forward between grass to the stone loom. The circle of stones sat in expectant silence, waiting for her to wake them.


    She stopped on the calling ground outside the stones, a patch of dust shaded white with a layer of chalk that gleamed under starlight. Here, she set her feet.

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    Lifting the mirror, she began the prayers to waken the stones:


    ¡°Heed me, that which opens in the east.


    Heed me, that which opens in the west.


    I pray to you, Fat One, let me spread the warp of your heavenly weaving so that I can walk through the passage made by its breath.¡±


    She shifted the mirror until the light of the stars that made up the Grindstone caught in its polished surface. Reflected by the mirror, the terrible power of the stars would not burn her. With her staff she threaded that reflected light into the loom of the stones and wove herself a living passageway out of starlight and stone. Through the soles of her feet she felt the keening of the ancient queens, who had divined in the vast loom of the stars a secret of magic that not even the Cursed Ones had knowledge of. Threads of starlight caught in the stones and tangled, an architecture formed of insubstantial light woven into a bright gateway. She stepped through into rain. Her feet squished on sodden ground, streaking the grass with the last traces of chalk. The air steamed with moisture, hot and heavy. Rain poured down. She bumped up against a standing stone, her shoulder cushioned by a dense growth of moss grown up along the stone.


    It was, obviously, impossible to see any stars. Nor could she see the path. But Falling-down had built a shelter nearby, and she stumbled around in darkness until she bumped up against its thatched roof. A hummock of straw that stank of mold made a damp seat. While she waited, she worked her part of the pattern of the great working in her mind¡¯s eye over again. She could never practice enough the precise unfolding of the ritual that would, after generations of war, allow those who suffered under the plague of the Cursed Ones to strike back.


    As the day rose, the rain slackened. She walked down the hillock on a trail so wet that her feet got soaked while her shoulders remained dry. Fens stretched out around her, glum sheets of standing water separated by small islands and dense patches of reeds.


    Falling-down¡¯s people had built a track across the fens, hazel shoots cut, split, and woven together to make a springy panel on which people could walk above the marshy ground. As she walked along the track, the clouds began to break up, and the sun came out. On a distant hummock, a silhouette appeared. A person called out a ¡°halloo¡± to her, and she lifted a hand in reply but did not pause. It was easily a morning¡¯s walk to the hills at the edge of the fens, where Falling-down and his tribe made their home.


    Birds sang. She paused once to eat the curds she had brought with her; once she waded off the track to pick berries. Grebes and ducks paddled through shallow waters. A flock of swans glided majestically past. A heron waited in solitary splendor, queenly and proud. It stirred suddenly and took wing with great, slow flaps. A moment later she heard a distant trumpeting call, and she hunkered down on the track and watched silently as a huge winged shape passed along the horizon far to the south and then vanished: a guivre on the hunt.


    At last the track gave out onto dry land that sloped upward to become hills. Abandoned fields overgrown with weeds gave way to fields ripe with barley and emmer. Women and men labored with flint sickles harvesting one long strip of emmer. A few noticed her and called to the others, and they all stopped to watch her. A man blew into a small horn, alerting the village above.


    Soon she had an escort of children, all of them jabbering in their incomprehensible language, as she walked up to the scatter of houses that marked the village. On the slopes above lay more fields and then forest.


    It was still hot and humid, the fever days of late summer. Sweat trickled down her back as she came among the houses. Two women coiled clay into pots while a third smoothed the coils into a flat surface on which she spread a fine paste of paler clay. A finished pot, still unfired, sat beside her, stamped with the imprint of a braided cord. Four men scraped hides. Two half-grown boys toiled up the slope carrying water in bark buckets.


    The headwoman of the village emerged from her house. Adica offered her the bead necklace from the north country, a proper meeting gift that would not disgrace her tribe, and in return the headwoman had a girl bring warm potage flavored with coriander and a thick honey mead. Then she was given leave, by means of certain familiar gestures, to continue on up the slope to the house of Falling-down, the tribe¡¯s conjuring man.


    As she had hoped, he was not alone.


    Falling-down was so old that all his hair was white. He claimed to have celebrated the Festival of the Sun sixty-two times, but Adica could not really believe that he could have seen that many festivals, much less counted them all. He sat cross-legged, carving a fishing spear out of bone. Because he was a conjuring man, the Hallowed One of his tribe, he put magic into the spear by carving ospreys and long-necked herons along the blade to give the tool a bird¡¯s success in hunting fish. He whistled under his breath as he worked, a spell that wound itself into the making.

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    Dorren sat at Falling-down¡¯s right hand. He taught a counting game to a handful of children hunkered down around the pebbles he tossed with his good hand out of a leather cup. Adica paused just behind the ragged half circle of children and watched Dorren.


    Dorren looked up at once, sensing her. He smiled, sent the children away, and got to his feet, holding out his good hand in the greeting of cousins. She reached for him, then hesitated, and dropped her hand without touching him. His withered hand stirred, as if he meant to move it, but he smiled sadly and gestured toward Falling-down, who remained intent on his carving.


    ¡°None thought to see you here,¡± Dorren said, stepping aside so that Falling-down wouldn¡¯t be distracted from his spell by their conversation.


    Faced with Dorren, she didn¡¯t know what to say. Her cheeks felt hot. She was a fool, truly. But he was glad to see her, wasn¡¯t he? Dorren was a White Deer man from Old Fort who had been chosen as a Walking One of the White Deer tribe, those who traveled the stone looms to learn the speech of their allies. As Walking One, he received certain protections against magic.


    ¡°I heard that Beor made trouble for you in your village,¡± he said finally while she played nervously with one of her copper bracelets. ¡°You endured him a long time. It isn¡¯t easy for a woman and a man to live together when they don¡¯t have temperaments to match.¡±


    He had such gentle eyes. With the withered hand, he had never been able to hunt and swim like other children, but he had grown up healthy and strong and was valued for his cleverness and patience. That was why he had been chosen as Walking One. He had so many qualities that Beor so brazenly lacked.


    ¡°Some seem better suited than others,¡± he went on. Surely he guessed that she had watched him from afar for a long time.


    Her heart pounded erratically. Remarkably, his steady gaze, on her, did not waver, although he must have heard by now about the doom pronounced over her and the other six Hallowed Ones. Seeing his courage, she knew the Fat One had guided her well.


    He began anew, stammered to a halt, then spoke. ¡°It must seem to you that the days pass swiftly. I have meant to tell you¡ª¡± He broke off, blushing, as he glanced at the path which led to the village. A few children loitering at the head of the path scattered into the woodland, shrieking and giggling.


    ¡°There¡¯s a woman here,¡± he said finally, in a rush, cheeks pink with emotion. ¡°Her name is Wren, daughter of Red Belly and Laughing. She¡¯s like running water to me, always a blessing. Now she says that I had the man¡¯s part in the making of the child she¡¯s growing in her belly. The tribe elders agreed that if I work seven seasons of labor for them, then I can be named as the child¡¯s father and share a house in the village with her.¡±


    She couldn¡¯t imagine what he saw in her expression, but he went on quickly, leaping from what he knew to what he thought. Each word made her more sick at heart and more humiliated.


    ¡°You needn¡¯t think I¡¯ll shirk my duties as Walking One. I know what¡¯s due to my people. But there¡¯s no reason I can¡¯t do both. I can still walk the looms and labor here, for she¡¯s a good woman, is Wren, and I love her.¡±


    Horribly, she began to cry, silent tears washing down her face although she wanted anything but to be seen crying.


    ¡°Adica! Yours is the most generous of hearts, and the bravest! I knew you would be happy for me despite your own sorrow!¡± Glancing toward Falling-down, he frowned in the way of someone thinking through a decision that¡¯s been troubling him. ¡°Now, listen, for you know how dear to me you are in my heart, Adica. I know it¡¯s ill luck to speak of it, that it¡¯s tempting the spirits, but I wanted you to know that if the child is born a girl and she lives and is healthy, we¡¯ll call her after you. Your name will live on, not just in the songs of the tribe but in my child.¡±


    ¡°I am happy for your good fortune,¡± said Adica hoarsely through her tears.


    ¡°Adica!¡± Falling-down spoke her name sharply as he looked up from the fishing spear, his attention caught by her lie.


    She fled.


    Falling-down could see into her secret heart because of the link that bound them when they worked the weaving together, and anyway, she hadn¡¯t truly come to see him. She had hoped a wild and irresponsible hope, she¡¯d turned the night wind into a false riddle, and now she¡¯d spent her magic and her time on a fool¡¯s journey, a selfish detour. She was ashamed.


    She ran down through the woodland, not wanting to be seen in the village. Dorren yelled after her, but she ignored him. She came down to the shore of the fens and splashed out through the cranberry bog. Berries shone deeply red along the water, almost ripe. She got wet to the thighs but managed to get out to the track without meeting anyone except a boy trolling for fish with hook and line. Farther out on the track, two women hauling a net out of the water called to her, but she couldn¡¯t understand their words. It seemed to her that all of human intercourse was slowly receding from her, one link severed, another warm hand torn from her grasp, one by one, until she would face the great working alone except for the other six, Falling-down, Two Fingers, Shu-Sha, Spitslast, Horn, and Brightness-Hears-Me. They were a tribe unto themselves now: the ones severed from the rest of humankind. They were the sacrifice through which the human tribes would be freed from fear.

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    The clouds broke up, and by the time she reached the island of the stone loom, she had only a short while to wait for sunset. Whatever Falling-down might have thought of her behavior, he was too old to walk out here on a whim. He would not follow and importune her with embarrassing questions. Would Dorren follow her? Did she want him to now that she knew he would find happiness with someone else while she remained alone? Not that she begrudged him happiness, not at all. She had hoped, in the end, for a little for herself as well.


    But twilight came, and she remained alone. As always, the working had slipped the course of days around her. By the position of the Bounteous One in the sky, she guessed that she had lost two days in the last passage, although it had seemed like only one instant to her.


    That was the price those who walked the looms paid: that days and sometimes months were ripped from them when they stepped onto the passageways that led between the looms. But perhaps it was better to lose a day or three of loneliness.


    The stone loom, seven stones set in an oblique circle, awaited her as darkness fell and the first stars appeared in the sky. She lifted her mirror and caught the light of the Bounteous One, the nimble-fingered Lady of Grain and Jars, and wove herself a passageway back to her own place. Stepping through, her feet touched familiar ground, firm and dry, untouched by recent rain. She walked slowly to her shelter and put away the gifts she had not given to Falling-down.


    From the village below she heard voices raised in song. It took her a moment to recall that Mother Orla¡¯s eldest granddaughter had recently crossed the threshold that brought her to the women¡¯s mysteries and would by now be emerging from the women¡¯s house, ready to take her place as an adult in the village.


    She stood on the ramparts listening to their laughter and the old familiar melodies. Before, the villagers would have wanted her there to hallow the celebration, but now her presence would only make them uncomfortable. What if evil spirits wiggled in, in her wake, and poisoned the new young woman¡¯s happiness just as such spirits sometimes poisoned sweet wells or fresh meat? The villagers¡¯ fear outweighed their affection.


    Why had the gods let the Cursed Ones afflict humankind? Couldn¡¯t they have chosen a different way for humankind to rid themselves of their enemy? Was it so impossible that she be allowed some happiness as mate with a man like Dorren, with his withered hand and gentle heart? Why was it the Hallowed Ones who had to make the sacrifice?


    But she shook her head, impatient with such thoughts, borne to her on the night wind by mischievous spirits. With a little spell, spoken out loud, then sealed by the touch of pungent mint to her lips, she chased them away.


    Only the Hallowed Ones possessed the magic to do what was necessary. So it had fallen to her, and to the others.


    She had been called down this path as a child. She had never known nor wanted any other life than that of Hallowed One. She had just never expected that her duty would be so harsh.


    Sleeping, that night, she did not dream.


    2


    SHE woke abruptly, hearing the call of an owl. By the smell of dew and the distant song of birds in the woodland, she recognized the twilight before dawn when the sun lies in wait like a golden-eared bear ready to lumber over the horizon.


    The owl called again, a deep to-whit to-whoo.


    She scrambled up. After dressing, she opened the cedar chest to get out her sacred regalia. A hammered bronze waistband incised with spirals fit around her midriff. She slipped on the amber necklace she had hoped to give to Dorren: amber held power from the ancient days, and her teacher had told her always to emphasize her tribe¡¯s power and success when it came time to meet with their allies. She set her hematite mirror on her knees before carefully unwrapping the gold headdress from its linen shroud. The headring molded easily over her hair. Its antlers brushed the curved ceiling before she ducked down in a reflexive prayer.


    ¡°Let your power walk with me, Pale Hunter, you who are Queen of the Wild.¡±


    Tucking the mirror into her midriff, she crawled backward out of the tent on her hands and knees. Outside, she straightened to stand as tall as a stag, antlers gleaming, the gold so bright she almost thought she could see its outlines echoed against the sky. Clothed in power, she walked the path that led into the stones.


    At the center of the stone loom lay the step stone, as broad across as her outflung arms but no higher than her knee. The sacred cauldron rested on the slab, as it had since her teacher¡¯s youth. Here, years ago, Adica had knelt to receive the kiss of power from the woman who had taught her almost everything she knew. She wept a little as she said a prayer in memory of the dead. Afterward, she touched the holy birds engraved on the cauldron¡¯s mellow bronze surface and named them: Father Heron, Mother Crane, Grandmother Raven, and Uncle Duck. She kissed each precious bronze leaf, and with one hand skimmed a mouthful of water out of the cauldron and sipped at it, then spoke a blessing over what remained in her palm and tossed it into the air, to seed the wind.

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    Kneeling before the cauldron, she waited with eyes closed as she breathed in the smell of dawn and heard its sounds: the distant roll of the lazy harvest river, the disgruntled baaing of goats, the many voices of the morning birds calling out their greetings to the waiting sun.


    She heard the flutter of wings and felt the owl settle on the rim of the cauldron, but she dared not look up, for the Holy One¡¯s messenger was a powerful creature full of so much magical force that even a glimpse of it could be fatal. A moment later hooves rang down a distant path of stone, then struck on a needle-strewn path, and finally the waist-high flax rustled as a large body passed through it. The warm breath of the Holy One brushed the hairs on the back of her neck. Her gold antlers stirred in the sweet wind of the Holy One¡¯s presence.


    ¡°You have been crying, Adica.¡± Her voice was like the melody of the river, high and low at the same time. ¡°I can smell the salt of your tears.¡±


    Hadn¡¯t they dried over the night? Yet surely it was impossible to hide anything from a shaman of the Horse people. ¡°I have been lonely, Holy One. The road I walk is a solitary one.¡±


    ¡°Haven¡¯t you a husband? I remember that you were not pleased when the elders of your village decreed that you should marry him.¡±


    ¡°They have taken him away, Holy One. Because death has lain its shadow over me, they fear that any person I touch will be touched by death as well.¡±


    ¡°Truly, there is wisdom in what they say.¡±


    There was silence except for the wind and the throaty coo of a wood pigeon.


    She glanced up to see the land opening up before her as the sun burned the mist off the river. Swifts dived and dipped along the slow current. People already worked out in the fields, harvesting barley and emmer. A girl drove goats past the fields toward the woodland.


    The words slipped from her before she knew she meant to say them. ¡°If only I had a companion, Holy One, then the task wouldn¡¯t seem so hard. Of course I will not falter, but I¡¯ll be alone for so long, waiting for the end.¡± She bit back the other words that threatened to wash free, borne up on a tide of loneliness and fear.


    ¡°I beg you, Holy One, forgive my rash words. I know my duty.¡±


    ¡°Alas, daughter, your duty is a hard one. Yet there must be seven who will stand when the time comes. Thus are you chosen.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Holy One,¡± she whispered.


    Unlike the villagers she watched over, Adica had seen and spoken with people from distant lands. She knew that the land was broad and people few, and true humans fewer still. In the west lay fecund towns of fully fifty or more houses. The gray northern seas were icy and windswept, cold enough to drain the life from any human who tried to swim in them, yet in those icy waters lived sea people with hair composed of eels and teeth as sharp as obsidian. She had seen, far to the east, the forests of grass where lived the Holy One¡¯s tribe, cousins to humankind and yet utterly different. She had even glimpsed the endless deserts of the southern tribes, where the people spoke as if they rolled stones in their mouths. She had seen the Cursed Ones¡¯ fabled cities. She had seen their wondrous ships and barely escaped to tell of it. She had seen the Cursed Ones enslave villages and innocent tribes only to make their captives bow low before their bloodthirsty gods. She had seen what had happened to her teacher, who had joined the fight against the Cursed Ones only to be sacrificed on their altars.


    ¡°We are all slaves of the Cursed Ones, as long as the war they wage against us never ends.¡± The Holy One shifted, hooves changing weight as she backed up and then came forward again, the unseen weight of her massive body looming behind Adica. Once, when she was a child, Adica had seen the Holy One¡¯s people catch up to and trample the last remnants of a scouting party of the Cursed Ones, and she had never lost that simple child¡¯s awe of their size and power. As much as she feared the Cursed Ones¡¯ magic, she was glad to be an ally of the Horse people, the ones who had been born out of the mating of a mare and a human man.


    ¡°Yet perhaps¡ª¡± The Holy One hesitated. In that pause, hope whispered in Adica¡¯s heart, but she was afraid to listen. ¡°Perhaps there is a way to find one already touched by the hand of death who might be your companion. That way you would not be alone, and he would not be poisoned by your fate. You are youngest of the chosen ones, Adica. The others have lived long lives. You were meant to follow after your teacher, not to stand in her place at the great weaving. It is not surprising that you find it harder to walk toward the gate that leads to the Other Side.¡± Did a hand touch her, however briefly, brushing the nape of her neck? ¡°Such a promise should not be beyond my powers.¡±

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    Hope battered her chest like a bird beating at the bars of its cage.


    ¡°Can you really do such a thing, Holy One?¡±


    ¡°We shall see.¡± It was painful to hope. In a way, it was a relief when the Holy One changed the subject. ¡°Have you seen any child among the White Deer people who can follow after you, Adica?¡±


    ¡°I have not,¡± she murmured, even as the words thrust as a knife would, into her gut. ¡°Nor would I have time to teach an apprentice everything she would need to know.¡±


    ¡°Do not despair, Child. I will not abandon your people.¡± A sharp hiss of surprise sounded, followed by the distant hoot of an owl. ¡°I am called,¡± the Holy One said suddenly, sounding surprised. That quickly, her presence vanished.


    Had the Holy One actually traveled through the gateway of the stones? Had she stood behind Adica in her own self? Or had she merely walked the path of visions and visited Adica in her spirit form? The Holy One was so powerful that Adica could never tell. Nor dared she ask.


    Truly, humans had the smallest share of power on this earth. Yet if that were so, why did the Cursed Ones make war against them so unremittingly? Why did the Cursed Ones hate humankind so?


    Wind clacked the bronze leaves of the cauldron. She thought, for an instant, that she could actually hear flowers unfurling as the sun rose.


    A horn call blared: the alarm from the village.


    With more haste than care, she hurried back to her tent, took off her holy garments, and ran down through the earthworks. She got to the gate of the village just as a slender girl with strong legs and a wiry guard dog in faithful attendance loped up. The girl threw message beads at the feet of Mother Orla, who had come to the gate in response to the summons.


    Mother Orla¡¯s hands were so gnarled that she could barely count off the message beads as she deciphered their meaning. She moved aside to allow Adica to stand beside her. At her great age, Orla did not fear evil spirits or death; they teased her already.


    ¡°A skirmish,¡± she said to those who assembled from all the houses of the villages. ¡°The Cursed Ones have raided. From what village did you come, Swift?¡±


    A child brought mead so strongly flavored with meadowsweet flowers that the smell of it made Adica¡¯s mouth water. The Swift sipped at it carefully as she caught her breath. ¡°I came from Two Streams, and from Pine Top, Muddy Walk, and Old Fort before that. The Cursed Ones attacked a settlement just beyond Four Houses. There were three people killed and two children carried away by the raiders.¡±


    ¡°Did any of Four Houses¡¯ people go after them?¡± demanded Beor, shouldering up to the front. He¡¯d been up early, hunting. He carried his sling in one hand. Two grouse, a partridge, and three ducks dangled from a string on the other. The guard dog nosed the dead birds, but the Swift batted it away until another child ran up with a nice meaty bone for the animal. It lay down and set to chomping.


    ¡°Nay,¡± said the Swift, ¡°none of the Four Houses people pursued the Cursed Ones, for those killed were Red Deer people. There were two families of them moved in close by Four Houses two winters ago. They come out of west country.¡±


    ¡°What does it matter to the Cursed Ones whether they kill Red Deer folk or White Deer folk?¡± Beor had a good anger about him now, the kind that stirred others to action. ¡°We¡¯re all the same to the Cursed Ones, and once they¡¯ve killed and captured Red Deer folk, who¡¯s to say they won¡¯t come after White Deer folk next? I say we must fight together, or we¡¯ll all fall to their arrows one by one.¡±


    People muttered in agreement. Young men looked nervous or eager by turns.


    ¡°What does the Hallowed One say?¡± asked Orla with deceptive softness.


    Everyone fell silent as Adica considered. The Swift finished the mead and gratefully started in on a bowl of porridge brought to her by one of the boys she¡¯d beaten at the races the summer before. He eyed her enviously, her lean legs and the loose breechclout that gave her room to run. He looked as if he wanted to touch the amber necklace and copper armbands the girl wore to signify her status. At the Festival of the Sun last year, when all the villages of the tribe met at the henge to barter and court and settle grievances, this girl had won the races and with that victory the right to the name ¡°Swift,¡± one of the favored youths who carried messages between the villages of the White Deer people.


    ¡°Already the Hallowed Ones of the human tribes work in concert, and we count as our allies the Horse people. Yet the Horse people are less human than our Red Deer cousins, and we accept their alliance gladly.¡± Adica paused, hearing their restlessness.

 Page 12

    The Swift finished off the porridge and hopefully held out the bowl, in case she could get another portion.


    ¡°In this next sun¡¯s year is the time of greatest danger. If the Cursed Ones suspect that we mean to act against them, then they will send their armies to attack us. We need every ally we can find, whether Red Deer, or White Deer, or Black Deer. No matter how strange other tribes may seem to us, we need their help. If you are still alive after the next year¡¯s dark of the sun, you will no longer have to fear.¡±


    Orla made the sign to avert evil spirits and spat on the ground, and many did likewise, although not Beor. The younger ones withdrew to get on with their work or to check their bows and axes. As the villagers dispersed to their tasks, only the elders and the war captain remained.


    ¡°I will go with the war party,¡± Adica said.


    They had no choice but to agree.


    She went to her old house to gather healing herbs and her basket of charms. Inside, the small house lay musty, abandoned. She ran her fingers along the eaves. One of the rafters still leaked a little pitch, and she touched it to her lips, breathing in its essence.


    Outside, Beor waited with a party of nine adults whom he trusted to stand and fight, should it come to that. They walked armed with bows, carrying spare arrows tipped with obsidian points, and axes of flint or copper. Agda had a stone ax, and Beor himself carried the prize of the village: a halberd with a real bronze blade fixed at right angles to the shaft. He had taken it off the body of a dead enemy.


    As they set out, the Swift loped past them with her dog at her heels, but she took the turning that would lead her on to Spring Water: Dorren¡¯s village.


    No need to think of Dorren now. Adica could enjoy, surely, this transitory peace, walking under the bright sun and reveling in the wind on her back. It wasn¡¯t as hot as it had been on Falling-down¡¯s island home. She walked at the back of the band, keeping an eye out for useful plants. When she spotted a patch of mustard and stepped off the path to investigate, Beor dropped back to wait for her. The others paused a short way down the path, out of earshot but within range in case of attack.


    She ignored Beor as best she could while she harvested as much mustard as she could tie around with a tall grass stem and set into her traveling basket. He fell in beside her as soon as she started on down the path. She did not look at him, and it seemed to her, by the way he swung the shaft of his halberd out before him, that he did not look at her. Yet it was still comforting to walk beside another person, companions on the long march. Ahead, the rest of the band set out, keeping a bit of distance between them.


    ¡°The elders spoke to me yesterday.¡± His voice was a little hoarse, the way it got when he was aroused, or irritated. ¡°They said that the reason we never made a child between us was because your magic has leached all the fertility from you. They said that if I don¡¯t give up thinking of you that evil spirits will drain me, too, and I¡¯ll never be able to make a child with another woman.¡±


    Her feet fell, one step and another and another. She couldn¡¯t make any thoughts come clear. The sun was bright. The path wound through woodland where a fresh breeze hissed through leaves.


    ¡°I never wanted any woman like I wanted you. But that has to be done with now. So be it. The elders say that Mother Nahumia¡¯s eldest daughter over at Old Fort just last moon set her man¡¯s hunting bag outside the door and made him leave. She¡¯ll be looking for a new man, then, won¡¯t she?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d have to go to Old Fort,¡± said Adica, since he seemed to expect her to say something. ¡°You¡¯d have to live there.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. But I¡¯ve a mind to leave. I¡¯ve even thought of walking farther east, to hunt for a season with my Black Deer cousins.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a long way,¡± said Adica, and heard her own voice trembling, not able to speak the words without betraying the fear in her own heart.


    ¡°So it is,¡± he agreed, and he waited again, wanting her sympathy or regret, perhaps, or an attempt to talk him out of this rash course of action. But she couldn¡¯t give him more. She had already offered her life to her people, and the magic hadn¡¯t even left her a child to keep her name alive among them.


    ¡°You¡¯re a good war captain, Beor,¡± she said. ¡°The village needs you. Will you at least wait until my work is done before you go? Then maybe it won¡¯t matter that they lose you.¡± Here she faltered. It was forbidden to speak aloud of the great weaving, because words were power, not to be carelessly cast to the four winds in case the Cursed Ones overheard them. ¡°At least wait until then.¡±

 Page 13

    He grunted but made no other answer, and after a bit picked up their pace so that they fell in with the others. Since the others feared speaking to her, and would not look at her, she might as well have been walking alone.


    The sun had risen halfway to noon by the time they reached Four Houses, a scatter of a dozen sheds, huts, pit houses, and four respectable compounds, each one boasting a round house at each corner with a thatched roof and a rock wall built into storage sheds between. A half-dozen adults labored at a ditch, digging with antlers and hauling away the dirt in bark buckets.


    The war captain of Four Houses was a stout woman with two scars who went by the name Ulfrega and who wore the string skirt that marked her as a woman old enough to choose a marriage partner. By the evidence of the pale birth threads that decorated Ulfrega¡¯s belly above the band of her low-slung skirt, she had survived several pregnancies.


    Ulfrega led them down past the river, through woodland rife with pigs, and along a deer trail that led to the Red Deer settlement. Two round houses and six storage pits lay quiet under the summer sun. Strangely, one of the round houses was entirely burned down to the stone half wall while the other stood as fresh and whole as if it had been built a month ago and lived in only yesterday. There was also a stone corral and a hayrick and a very neatly laid out vegetable garden, lush with ripening vegetables. Flies buzzed. A crow flapped lazily away as they approached. Even the village dogs had fled the carnage. The village lay empty except for a single abandoned corpse.


    The Red Deer settlers had begun digging a ditch, too, and had gotten a rampart and ditch halfway around the settlement.


    ¡°Too little, too late,¡± said Ulfrega, gesturing toward the half-dug ditch and the fallen and partially burned rampart. Debris from the fight lay everywhere: arrowheads; a shattered spear shaft; and one of the Cursed Ones¡¯ swords, a flat length of wood edged with obsidian, although most of that obsidian was broken or fallen off. Ulfrega picked up an arrow shaft and fingered the obsidian point quickly before tucking it away into the leather satchel she wore slung over one shoulder.


    ¡°You¡¯re late to build a ditch as well,¡± said Beor.


    She shrugged, looking irritated. ¡°The other raids always came over by Three Oaks and Spring Water.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not so far to travel between them, not for the Cursed Ones.¡±


    ¡°Hei!¡± She spat in the direction of the corpse. ¡°In open country they may move quickly, but they¡¯re slower when they bring their horses into the woodland. There¡¯s a lot of dense growth between Three Oaks and here.¡±


    ¡°That didn¡¯t save these people.¡±


    The rest of Beor¡¯s people fanned out to scavenge for obsidian points and whatever was ripening in the garden. They avoided the corpse.


    ¡°I¡¯ll chase the spirit away,¡± said Adica. No doubt the Four Houses people had been waiting for her to settle the matter. Both Beor and Ulfrega made the gesture to avert evil spirits and delicately stepped away from her. She rummaged in her basket and got out the precious copper bowl, just large enough to fit in her cupped hands, that she used for such workings. At the outdoor hearth she struck sparks with flint and touched it to a dried scrap of mushroom to raise a fire, then poured blessing water from her waterskin into the bowl and set it on a makeshift tripod over the flames to heat. The others vanished into the woodland to seek out the trail of their enemy or to hide while she worked magic.


    While the water heated, she stared in silence at the corpse.


    His fall had torn his wooden lynx¡¯s mask from his face. He had proud features and a complexion the color of copper. His black hair had been coiled into a topknot, as was customary for his kind, and all down his arms various magical symbols had been painted with blue woad and red ocher, one twined into the next. Yet truly his sex mattered little: it was an adult, and therefore dangerous, because it could breed and it could fight.


    No animal scavengers had touched the body. The Cursed Ones protected their spirits with powerful spells, so she would have to be cautious. Luckily, none of the Four Houses people had tried to strip the corpse, although he wore riches. A sheet of molded bronze protected his chest, so beautifully incised with figures of animals that she could not help but admire the artistry. Across the breastplate a vulture-headed woman paced majestically toward a burnished sun while two dragons faced each other, dueling with fire. It was hard to reconcile the creatures who stalked and terrorized humankind with ones who could fashion so many beautiful things. His bronze helmet, crested with horsehair, had rolled just slightly off his head, lying askew in the dirt. Someone had trampled the crest during the fight, the crease still stamped into the ground.

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    A leather belt fastened with a copper buckle held tight his kneelength skirt, all sewn of a piece. The cloth lay so smooth and soft over the body that she could not help but touch her own roughly woven bodice and the string skirt. With such riches as they had, why did the Cursed Ones bother to attack humankind at all?


    But didn¡¯t they look upon humans as they did upon their own cattle? Maybe it was true that, before the time of the great queens, humankind had roamed like animals, eating and drinking and hunting and rutting, no different than the beasts. But that wasn¡¯t true now.


    Hanging a sachet of juniper around her neck for protection, she picked out four dried leaves of lavender, then walked to the north and crumbled one between her fingers. Its dust spilled on the ground. To the east, south, and west, she did the same, forming a ring of protection. Standing to the west, she crouched and cupped her hands over her nose to inhale the fading lavender scent, strong and pure. She murmured words of power and protection into her hands.


    The water boiled. With bone tongs she lifted the copper bowl off the heat and brought it over to her basket. She dropped old thistle into the water and waited, hands raised, palms out.


    The spirit manifested in her palms as a tiny vortex. Then she saw it rising from the body, slippery and white. It quested to the four corners but could not break free, bound by the spell of lavender. As it spun like a whirlwind, its plaintive voice first growled then mewled then whined, and suddenly the cloud of the spirit, like a swarm of indistinct gnats, sprang heavenward, running up the tunnel made by the four directional wards. She jumped forward to sprinkle lavender dust on the corpse¡¯s eyes and dab lavender into the corpse¡¯s ears and nostrils and over its lips. Pulling up the skirt, she wiped paste of lavender over its man part, then rolled the corpse over so she could seal it completely.


    Far above, she heard a howl of despair. She clapped her hands three times, stamped her feet, and the sensation of a vortex swirling in her palms vanished. The spirit had fled to the higher world, up the world axis made by the wards.


    Yet it had left a treasure behind: under the corpse lay a bronze sword.


    Cautiously, she ran her hands over the metal blade. It, too, had a spirit, fierce and implacable. This blade had bitten many lives in half, and sent many spirits screaming from their bodies. Yet who should carry such a dangerous and powerful being? No one in the White Deer tribe, not in all the nine villages that made up the people, had a sword like this.


    She found vervain in her basket, rolling it between her hands and letting it fall onto the sword, to placate that vengeful spirit and to temporarily mute its lust for blood.


    In addition to the bronze breastplate, the helmet, the sword, the belt, and the loose linen tunic, the dead one had carried a knife, and also a pouch containing four common river pebbles, a sachet of herbs, a conch shell, and a small wooden cube engraved with magical symbols.


    After stripping the corpse, she dragged it into the burned house and covered it with firewood. She marked the ruined threshold with hexes and threw the dead man¡¯s sacred pouch and his warrior¡¯s mask in after. As she shoveled hot coals onto the fallen thatch, the pyre began to burn.


    Seeing smoke, Ulfrega led the others out of the wood. ¡°No one will settle here again,¡± observed Ulfrega before she hurried after Beor to examine the treasure.


    ¡°Do not touch it,¡± said Adica quickly. Smoke boiled up from the funeral pyre. ¡°The Cursed One¡¯s magic lives in those things.¡±


    ¡°But I use this halberd, and it was taken from the Cursed Ones.¡± Beor eyed the bronze sword with naked hunger.


    The vision hit her so hard that she couldn¡¯t breathe.


    Beor runs with the sword in his hand, leading a crowd of wild-eyed young people, running east to fight their own kind, humankind, burning their homes and stealing their cattle and goats.


    This was the madness that the Cursed Ones had brought into their hearts!


    Gasping, she found herself braced on her hands and knees. Everyone had stepped away from her. She was sweating, although a cloud covered the sun.


    Unbidden, she wept, torn by grief. What would the White Deer people become, after she was gone? Were none of them strong enough to resist the implacable spirit that lived in the sword? Was this what the vision promised her, that her people would be consumed by its anger and lust? Were they fated to be poisoned by this legacy of the Cursed Ones, called war?


    The rank smell of burning flesh washed over her, and she floated on that smoke into a more complicated vision, one without beginning or end.


    There would be peace and war, kindness and cruelty. There would be honor, and shame.


    All this would come to humankind.

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    It was already here.


    Perhaps it was even true that the grandmothers had lived in a peace and loving-kindness unknown to the White Deer tribe now. Or perhaps the ancestors had fought their own battles, as simple as anger between friends or as complex as old enmities between tribes.


    What would come, would come. She could only do her duty, here and now. So had the Holy One spoken. So had she agreed, knowing that it was the only way she had to protect her people.


    The vision faded. Trembling, she got to her feet to find that the others had retreated to hunker down by the intact roundhouse and chew on stalks of dried meat, waiting for her to come out of her trance. She never had to explain herself. She went down to the nearby stream and cut reeds with her stone knife, then braided them into rope strong enough to bind and carry the dead one¡¯s treasure. With this bundle hoisted over her shoulders and her basket tapping at her hip, she walked back to Four Houses. The others followed at a safe distance, keeping their voices low.


    They feared her, because she had magic and they had none, because she saw what they could not see. That was how the gods chose, giving sight to some and leaving the rest blind.


    Sometimes, she knew, it was more merciful to be blind.


    3


    THEY sheltered that night at Four Houses. The people hustled out of her way when she approached. Fathers pulled their children in through the gates that barred off the family compounds, where her glance could not scar or cripple any of these most precious young ones. No one invited her inside, and Beor was wise enough or fearful enough of what she might do if she were angered that he and his party sat outside, too, taking the meal that the Four Houses adults shared with them.


    They ate well: fresh venison and swan; a malty beer almost thick enough to scoop up with her fingers; cheese; and late season greens, rather toothy and fibrous. The Four Houses people kept their dogs tied up so that they could eat in peace without the constant begging menace.


    That night she slept outside, alone, in the shadow of one of the hayricks. Yet she could not help stroking the smooth cloth once worn by the dead Cursed One. She could not help crushing its soft weave against her cheek. It didn¡¯t comfort her.


    In the morning, they walked back to their village. Everyone wanted to see the bronze sword, but she kept it hidden. Its spirit still wept for its former master; it was still angry. She carried the treasure up the hill and wove a warding out of herbs and charms into an old cowhide. In this hide she wrapped sword and armor. A shallow hole just outside the stone loom made a convenient temporary grave.


    She knelt by that hole for a long time, but no visions came. Finally, she walked down to the river and washed the linen shirt until no taint of the Cursed One lingered in it. Returning up the hill, she found a platter of food left by her shelter, a pottage now cold and congealed, a mug of ale dusted with a scattering of vegetal matter blown in by the wind. After she hung the linen cloth over the shelter to dry, she ate. No one ever turned down food. No one else ever had to eat alone.


    It was a warm summer evening, golden and endless with promise, but she clutched only emptiness at her heart.


    Binding on her hallowing clothes, she walked the familiar path to the stones as night fell. Stars bloomed above like the campfires of the dead. Was there a new star among their number, the spirit of the Cursed One she had banished from the Earth yesterday? She could not tell.


    With certain gestures of ritual respect, she walked into the stone loom. The great stones seemed to watch her. Kneeling before the cauldron, she sipped at the water before flinging a handful into the air to seed the wind with its holiness. With arms folded across on her chest, she breathed herself into the trance necessary to the working, walked each step of the great weaving so that she would make no mistake when the time came and thus sever the threads. When she had walked it through in her mind¡¯s eye without mistake, she walked it again.


    But she could only remain deep in the working trance for so long. After a while, she eased herself free of it. She was tired, but not sleepy. Bowing her head, she waited.


    Maybe she was only waiting for hope, or release. Maybe she was only waiting for the wind. Or for death.


    It was a long night.


    Mist crept up into the stones and wreathed her, cold and soft. The stars breathed in and out, souls sighing for their lost home. A nightingale sang.


    An owl hooted.


    She started up out of a doze. Her knees ached, her left foot was asleep, and as she shifted to banish the needles of evil spirits, come to plague her while she napped, she saw the owl glide in noiselessly on its great wings and settle on the cauldron. Swiftly, she covered her eyes with a hand.


    Dawn lightened the eastern horizon. The mist retreated, like a creature withdrawing its claws, until its coils wrapped only the westernmost stones. A blue-white light flared before her eyes. The breath of the Holy One tickled her neck, smelling of grass. Hooves tapped the ground as the Holy One danced away.

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    The ground shuddered beneath her knees, throwing her back. Some force reached into her guts and yanked them one way while she was jerked in the other direction. The movement tore her in half and yet she was entire, whole and panting with exertion and fright. Her tongue had swollen, and her head spun with a myriad dizzy tumbles, as though she were rolling bodily down a steep hill even as she knelt unmoving beside the cauldron.


    Something deep in the cosmos had come undone. The world murmured around her, unsettled and curious, and she heard birds coming awake in the forest and the distant howling of wolves. The breath of the stars grazed her neck, burning her with their fierce heat, as implacable as the souls of swords. She heard a gasp, and then all was silent except for the movements of the Holy One, murmuring quiet words.


    Except for another voice, low and confused.


    Except for the rank scent of blood, and an unknown smell that smothered her until she understood what it was: wet dog.


    Startled, she looked up to see two huge black dogs, as large as half-grown calves, standing alert on the other side of the step stone. She rose cautiously, but the dogs made no move against her, nor did they growl or bark.


    A naked man lay on the ground on the other side of the cauldron. He had the lean male body of one who is no longer a youth and yet has not been a man for many years.


    The Holy One waited, unmoving, a spear¡¯s length away from the prostrate body. A litter of bloody garments lay heaped on the ground before her.


    Adica circled the cauldron cautiously, murmuring words of protection. Was this a conjuring man, walking abroad with his spirit guides?


    The dogs nosed the body as though smelling for life before settling down contentedly on either side of the prone man. They did not try to bite her as she slid in between them to touch the man on the shoulder. His skin was as soft as a rose petal, marvelously smooth. He was much less hairy than the men of the Deer clans, but he hadn¡¯t the bronze complexion that marked the Cursed Ones. Pale and straight, he was like no person she had seen before. She traced the line of his shoulder blade, his skin warm under her hand. He breathed softly and slowly.


    ¡°Here is the husband I have promised you, Adica,¡± said the Holy One. ¡°He comes from the world beyond.¡±


    His scent was as sweet as wild roses. His ear, the one she could see, had a whorl as delicate as that of a precious seashell, brought in trade from the north, and his lips had a delicate elder-violet tinge, as if he had recently been very cold.


    She spoke softly, afraid to disturb him. ¡°Did he come from the land of the dead?¡± Because of the way he was lying, it was hard to make out the shape of his face.


    ¡°Truly it was to the land of the dead that he was walking. But now he is here.¡±


    Her hand rested on the curve of his shoulder. He had a young man¡¯s thighs and buttocks, but she could not quite bring herself to accept that he was truly a male. Yet her heart pounded loudly. Wind sighed through the stones, scattering the mist as the sun¡¯s hard face rose higher in the sky.


    It was hard to speak when hope battered so harshly against her fears. Her voice broke on the words she finally forced out. ¡°Will he stay with me until my death, Holy One?¡±


    ¡°He will stay with you until your death.¡±


    The calm words hit her like grief. She wept, sitting back on her heels to steady herself, and didn¡¯t notice that he stirred until he heaved himself up onto his forearms to look at her. He looked no less startled than she did, yet he also seemed as dazed as if he had taken a blow to the head. His skin had the pallor of one who has been ill. A small red blemish in the shape of a rose marked his left cheek, like the brands the Horse people used to mark their livestock. Despite the blemish and his paleness, he had a pleasing face, expressive and bright.


    Before she understood what he meant to do, he brushed a finger gently along the scar that fire had left on her cheek, lifting a tear off her skin. The moisture surprised him so much that he exclaimed out loud and, reflexively, touched tongue to finger, tasting for salt.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± she asked. ¡°What is your name, if you can share it?¡±


    His eyes widened with surprise. He replied, but the words that came out of his mouth sounded like no language she had ever heard. Perhaps this was the language spoken in the land of the dead, incomprehensible to those who walked in the middle world known by the living.


    He pushed unsteadily up to hands and knees, sat back on his thighs, and suddenly realized that he was naked. He grabbed for the tangled cloth lying an arm¡¯s length away, but when his fingers closed on a patch still wet with blood, he recoiled with a cry and scrambled backward, looking around as if to seek the aid of the Holy One.

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    No trace of the Holy One remained within the stone loom. Her owl, too, had vanished.


    ¡°Come,¡± she said, extending her hands with palms up and open in the sign of peace. ¡°Nothing will harm you here.¡±


    The dogs had not moved, so he settled down cross-legged, hands cupped modestly over his lap. To show that she was a human woman, she took off the golden antlers and unbound the bronze waistband, setting them to one side. He watched her with a wary respect but without the fear that dogged every glance thrown her way by the villagers she had grown up with and lived beside for the whole of her life. Either he was still confused, or he was simply not afraid. Yet if he had walked the path that leads into the land of the dead, then perhaps he no longer feared any fate that might overtake him in the land of the living.


    The smell of blood hung heavily in the air. The garments that lay in a jumble in the grass were stained with bright-red heart¡¯s blood, just now beginning to dry and darken. The dogs showed no sign of injury, and although he bore a fresh pink scar under his ribs, quite a nasty wound, it was cleanly healed and wasn¡¯t weeping.


    Where had the blood come from?


    ¡°Do these belong to you?¡± she asked, cautiously reaching out to touch the closest garment. The wool shone with a brilliant madder gold, and when she shook it out, she recognized under the bloody stain the image of a spirit fixed to the gold garment: a lean and powerful lion woven of black threads set into the gold.


    He jerked away from the sight. His face was so expressive, as if his soul permeated all of his physical being from the core to the surface rather than being lodged in some deep recess, as was true for most people. Perhaps he wasn¡¯t a person at all but the actual soul, manifest on the physical plane, of the warrior who had once worn these garments and who had died in them. Perhaps he had killed the man who had worn them, and now recoiled from the memory of violence.


    She examined a second garment of undyed wool, bloodier even than the lion cloth, that lay crumpled to one side. Beneath it lay a leather belt incised with smaller lions, fastened by a bronze buckle also fashioned in the image of a lion¡¯s snarling face. Foot coverings cunningly molded out of soft leather lay in a heap with lengths of cloth and strips of leather that were, she realized, fine leggings.


    Where had his people learned such craft? Why had they not joined the alliance of humankind against the Cursed Ones?


    Beneath the clothing lay a garment woven of tiny metal rings, pale in color, yet not silver, or tin, or bronze, or copper. It was heavy. The rings sang in a thousand voices as she lifted them. They had a hard and unforgiving smell. Like the lion coat, the garment had holes that would accommodate a head and arms, and it was long enough to fall to the knees. Perhaps it was not metal at all, but a magical spell of protection made physical, curled and dense, to protect the body. Her shoulders ached from the strain of holding it as she set it down and picked up the knife that lay hidden underneath.


    Not stone, not copper, not bronze: the metallic substance of this knife had none of the implacable fire of the bronze sword she had taken from the corpse of the Cursed One. It was blind, with a heartless soul as cold as the winter snows, as ruthless as the great serpents who writhed in the depths of the sea and swallowed whole the curraghs in which the fisherfolk plied their trade: having hunger, it feasted, and then settled back in quiet satiation to wait until it hungered again.


    Magic was the blood of these garments. Was it any surprise that blood stained them all?


    She looked back at him, hoping, even fearing, to find an answer in his expression. But in the way of any young woman who has gone too long without pleasure, she only noticed his body.


    He was quite obviously not a child, to run naked in the summer.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± she said, making gestures to show him that she meant to go and return.


    As she rose, her string skirt slid revealingly around her thighs, and he blushed, everywhere, easy to see on his fair skin. She looked away quickly, to hide her hope. Did he find her attractive? Had the Holy One truly brought her a mate? She gathered up her regalia and hurried away to her shelter, storing antlers and waistband in the chest and returning to him with the linen shirt draped over her arms.


    He still sat cross-legged but with his head bowed and resting on his cupped hands. Hearing her, he lifted his head. Tears ran down his face. Truly, then, he wasn¡¯t actually dead, because the dead could not weep.


    She set the garment on the ground in front of him and took a few steps away, turning her back so that if he had any secret rituals he had to perform, crossing the threshold of nakedness into civilization, she would not disturb him. There was silence, except for the wind and the rustle and scrape of his movements. Then he coughed, clearing his throat, and she turned around.

 Page 18

    The tunic draped loosely over his chest, falling to just above his knees. Amazingly, he stood as tall as Beor. The southern tribes, and the Cursed Ones, commonly stood shorter than the people of the Deer clans. Only the Horse people, with their bodies made half of human form and half of horse, stood taller.


    Through a complicated and awkward ritual of gesturing, he indicated himself and spoke a word. She tried it one way on her tongue and then another, and he laughed suddenly, very sweetly, and she looked into his eyes and smiled at him, but she was first to look away. Fire flared in her cheeks; her heart burned in her. He was not precisely handsome. He looked very different than the men she knew. His features were rather narrowed, his forehead a little flatter, his cheek was marked with the blemish, and his hair was almost as dark as that of the Cursed Ones, but as fine as spun flax.


    He spoke his name again, more slowly, and one of the big dogs barked as if to answer him.


    ¡°Halahn,¡± she said.


    ¡°Alain,¡± he agreed good-naturedly.


    ¡°I am named Adica,¡± she said. ¡°Ah-dee-cah.¡±


    Her name was easier for him to say than his had been for her. When she smiled at him, this time he was the one who blushed and looked away.


    ¡°What must we do with the treasure you brought with you?¡± She gestured toward the heap of garments. A small leather pouch lay off to one side, its thong broken. Underneath it rested a peg no longer than a finger that resembled one of the wooden pins used to fasten together joints at the corners of houses. The peg had been fashioned by magic out of the same heartless metal that made up the coat of rings.


    The rusty red of old blood stained the tiny nail. Like the knife, it, too, had a soul, crabbed and devious and even a little whiny in the way of a spoiled child.


    He choked out a sound as he staggered backward and dropped to his knees. Did he fear the nail¡¯s soul, or had it felled him with an invisible malignance? She quickly concealed it in the pouch. With an effort he got up, but only to retreat to the edge of the loom, bracing himself on one of the guardian stones, shoulders bowed as under the weight of a powerful emotion.


    She gathered together the garments and hid them in the shallow grave next to the bronze sword and armor she had taken from the Cursed One. Finally, she returned to him. ¡°Come.¡±


    He and his dogs followed obediently behind her. Now and again he spoke to the dogs in a gentle voice. He halted beside the shelter to examine the superstructure of saplings and branches, the hide walls, the pegs and leather thongs that held everything in place.


    ¡°This is where I sleep,¡± she said.


    He smiled so disarmingly that she had to glance away. Had the Holy One seen right into her heart? Impulsively, she leaned into him and touched her cheek to his. He smelled faintly of blood but far more of roses freshly blooming. His scant beard was as soft as petals.


    Startled, he leaped back. His cheeks were so red and she was so overcome by her own rudeness, and the speed of her attraction to him, that she hurriedly climbed the nearest rampart to look out over the village and the fields, the river and the woodland and beyond these the distant ancient forest, home to beasts and spirits and every manner of wolf and wild thing.


    The dogs barked. She looked back to see them biting at Alain¡¯s heels, driving him after her. He slapped at their muzzles, unafraid of their huge jaws, but he followed her, pausing halfway up to examine the slope of the rampart and exposed soil, and to study the layout of the hill and the span of earthworks that ringed it. Then he halted beside her to survey the village below, ringed by the low stockade, the people working the fields, the lazy river, and a distant flock at the edge of the woodlands that would either be young Urta with her goats or Deyilo, who shepherded his family¡¯s sheep.


    He spoke a rush of words, but she understood nothing except his excitement as he pointed toward the village and started down, half sliding in the dirt in his haste. She watched him at first, the way he moved, the way he balanced himself, sure and graceful. He wasn¡¯t brawny like Beor, all power and no grace, the bull rampaging in the corral, yet neither had he Dorren¡¯s reticent movements, made humble by lacking all the parts necessary to an adult¡¯s labor. He was young and whole, and she wanted him because he wasn¡¯t afraid of her, because he was pleasingly formed, because she was lonely, and because there was something more about him, that scent of roses, that she couldn¡¯t explain even to herself.


    Hastily, she followed, and he had the good manners to wait, or perhaps he had seen by her regalia that she was the Hallowed One of this tribe and therefore due respect. No adult carelessly insulted a hallowed adult of any tribe.

 Page 19

    Everyone came running to see. He stared at them no less astounded, at their faces, their clothing, and their questions, which ran off him like water. Adults left their fields to come and watch. Children crowded around, so amazed that they even jostled Adica in their haste to peer upon the man. After their initial caution toward the huge dogs, they swarmed over them as well. Remarkably, the huge dogs merely settled down as patiently as oxen, with expressions of wounded dignity.


    Into this chaos ran a naked girl, Getsi, one of the granddaughters of Orla.


    ¡°Hallowed One! Come quickly. Mother Orla calls you to the birthing house!¡±


    Cold fear gripped Adica¡¯s heart. Only one woman in the village was close to her birthing time: her age mate and friend, Weiwara. She found her cousin Urtan in the crowd. ¡°This man is a friend to our tribe. Treat him with the hospitality due to a stranger.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Hallowed One.¡±


    She left, running with Getsi. The cords of her string skirt flapped around her, bouncing, the bronze sleeves that capped the ends chiming like discordant voices calling out the alarm. As she ran, she prayed to the Fat One, words muttered on gasps of air:


    ¡°Let her not die, Fat One. Let it not be my doom which brings doom onto the village in this way.¡±


    The birthing house lay outside of the village, upstream on high ground beside the river. A fence ringed it, to keep out foraging pigs, obdurate goats, and children. Men knew better than to pass beyond the fence. An offering of unsplit wood lay outside the gate. Looking back toward the village, Adica saw Weiwara¡¯s husband coming, attended by his brothers.


    She closed the gate behind her and stamped three times with each foot just outside the birthing house. Then she shook the rattle tied to the door and crossed the threshold, stepping right across the wood frame so as not to touch it with any part of her foot. Only the door and the smoke hole gave light inside. Weiwara sat in the birthing stool, deep in the birth trance, eyes half closed as she puffed and grunted, half on the edge of hysteria despite Mother Orla¡¯s soothing chanting. Weiwara had birthed her first child three summers ago, and as every person knew, the first two birthings were the most dangerous: if you survived them, then it was likely that the gods had given their blessing upon you and your strength.


    Adica knelt by the cleansing bowl set just inside the threshold and washed her hands and face in water scented with lavender oil. Standing, she traced a circular path to each of the corners of the birthing house in turn, saying a blessing at each corner and brushing it with a cleansing branch of juniper as Weiwara¡¯s panting and blowing continued and Mother Orla chanted in her reedy voice. Orla¡¯s eldest daughter, Agda, coated her hands in grease also scented with lavender, to keep away evil spirits. Agda beckoned to Adica with the proper respect, and Adica crept forward on her knees to kneel beside the other woman. Getsi began the entering rituals, so that she, too, could observe and become midwife when her age mates became women.


    Agda spoke in a low voice. A light coating of blood and spume intermingled with grease on her hands. ¡°I thank you for coming, Hallowed One.¡± She did not look directly at Adica, but she glanced toward Weiwara to make sure the laboring woman did not hear her. ¡°When I examined her two days ago, I felt the head of the child down by her hip. But just now when I felt up her passageway, I touched feet coming down. She is early to her time. And the child¡¯s limbs did not feel right to me.¡± She bent her head, considered her hands, and glanced up, daringly, at Adica¡¯s face. The light streaming down through the smoke hole made a mask of her expression.


    ¡°I think the child is already dead.¡± Agda spat at once, so the words wouldn¡¯t stay in her mouth. ¡°I hope you can bind its spirit so Weiwara will not be dragged into the Other Side along with it.¡±


    Weiwara labored in shadow, unbound hair like a cloak along her shoulders. She moaned a little. Orla¡¯s chanting got louder.


    ¡°It¡¯s time,¡± gasped Weiwara.


    Agda settled back between Weiwara¡¯s knees and gestured to her mother, who gripped Weiwara¡¯s shoulders and changed the pattern of her chant so that the laboring woman could pant, and push, and pant again. Agda gently probed up the birth canal while Getsi watched from behind her, standing like a stork, on one foot, a birthing cloth draped over her right shoulder.


    Adica rose and backed up to the threshold, careful not to turn her back on the laboring woman. A willow basket hung from the eaves, bound around with charms. Because the birthing house was itself a passageway between the other worlds and this world, it always had to be protected with charms and rituals. Now, lifting the basket down from its hook, Adica found the things she needed.

 Page 20

    From outdoors, she heard the rhythmic chop of an ax start up as Weiwara¡¯s husband spun what men¡¯s magic he could, splitting wood in the hope that it would cleave child from mother in a clean break.


    Weiwara began grunting frantically, and Agda spoke sternly. ¡°You must hold in your breath and push, and then breathe again. Follow Orla¡¯s count.¡±


    Adica found a tiny pot of ocher, and with a brush made of pig bristle she painted spirals on her own palms. She slid over beside Agda. ¡°Give me your hands.¡±


    Agda hesitated, but Orla nodded. Weiwara¡¯s eyes were rolled almost completely up in her head, and she whimpered in between held breaths. Adica swiftly brushed onto Agda¡¯s palms the mark of the moon horns of the Fat One, symbolizing birth, and the bow of the Queen of the Wild, who lets all things loose. She marked her own forehead with the Old Hag¡¯s stick, to attract death to her instead of to those fated to live.


    With a sprig of rowan she traced sigils of power at each corner of the house. Pausing at the threshold, she twitched up a corner of the hide door mantle to peek outside. Weiwara¡¯s husband split wood beyond the gate, his broad shoulders gleaming in the sun. Sweat poured down his back as he worked, arms supple, stomach taut.


    Somewhat behind him, looking puzzled, stood Alain.


    Adica was jolted right out of her trance at the sight of him, all clean and pale and rather slender compared to the men of her village, who had thicker faces, burlier shoulders, and skin baked brown from summer¡¯s work. Her cousin, Urtan, had a hand on Alain¡¯s elbow, as if he were restraining him, but Alain started forward just as his two black dogs nosed up beside him, thrusting Urtan away simply by shoving him aside with their weight. They were so big that they had no need to growl or show their teeth.


    ¡°Aih!¡± cried Weiwara, the cry so loud that her husband faltered on his chopping, and every man there glanced toward the forbidden house, and away.


    Adica stepped back in horror as Alain passed the gate. As the hide slithered down to cover the door, an outcry broke from the crowd waiting beyond the fence.


    ¡°It is born!¡± said Orla.


    ¡°Yet more!¡± cried Weiwara, her words more a sob of anguish than of relief.


    Agda said: ¡°Fat One preserve us! There comes another one! Hallowed One! I pray you, take this one. It has no life.¡±


    Adica took the baby into her arms and pressed its cold lips to her own lips. No soul stirred within. The baby had no pulse. No heart threaded life through its body. Yet she barely had time to think about what she must do next, find the dead child¡¯s spirit and show it the path that led to the Other Side, when a glistening head pressed out from between Weiwara¡¯s legs. The sight startled her so profoundly that she skipped back and collided with Alain as he stepped into the birthing house. He steadied her with a hand on her back. Only Getsi saw him. The girl stared wide-eyed, too shocked to speak.


    What ruin had Adica brought onto the village by bringing him here? The baby in her arms was blue as cornflowers, sickly and wrong. Dead and lost.


    The twin slipped from the birth passage as easily as a fish through wet hands. Agda caught it, and it squalled at once with strong lungs. Weiwara began to weep with exhaustion.


    Orla took her hands from Weiwara¡¯s shoulders and, at that moment, noticed the figure standing behind Adica. She hissed in a breath between her teeth. ¡°What is this creature who haunts us?¡±


    Weiwara shrieked, shuddering all over as if taken with a fit.


    Agda sat back on her heels and gave a loud cry, drowning out the baby¡¯s wailing. ¡°What curse has he brought down on us?¡±


    Oblivious to their words, Alain gently took the dead baby out of Adica¡¯s arms and lifted it to touch its chest to his ear. He listened intently, then said something in a low voice, whether to her, to the dead child, or to himself she could not know. All the women watched in horror and the twin cried, as if in protest, as he knelt on the packed earth floor of the birthing house to chafe the limbs of the dead baby between his hands.


    ¡°What is this creature?¡± demanded Orla again. Adica choked on her reply, sick with dread. She had selfishly wanted company in her last days and now, having it, wrought havoc on the village.


    ¡°Look!¡± whispered Weiwara.


    The dead baby stirred and mewled. Color swept its tiny body Blue faded to red as life coursed back into it. Alain regarded the newborn with a thoughtful frown before lifting the baby girl to give her into Weiwara¡¯s arms. Weiwara had the stunned expression of a ewe brought to the slaughter. Living twins were a powerful sign of the Fat One¡¯s favor.


    ¡°Aih!¡± she grunted as the last of the pains hit her. Without thinking, she gave the baby back into Alain¡¯s arms before gripping the stool one more time. Getsi expertly swaddled the other newborn in the birthing cloth.

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    When the afterbirth slid free and Agda cut off a corner of it for Weiwara to swallow, all the women turned to regard Alain. He waited quietly. Adica braced herself.


    Yet no flood of recrimination poured from Orla. Agda sat silent. The afterbirth lay in glistening splendor in the birth platter at her feet, ready for cooking.


    No one scolded him. No one made the ritual signs to protect themselves against the pollution he had brought in with him, the one who had walked into a place forbidden to males. Though it was wrong to let him stay, Adica hadn¡¯t the strength or the heart to send him out. He had brought light in with him, even if it was only by the lifting of the flap of hide tied across the threshold, because the flap had caught on the basket hook, halfway up the frame, and hung askew. The rose blemish on his cheek seemed especially vivid now, almost gleaming.


    ¡°What manner of creature is this?¡± murmured Mother Orla a second time.


    ¡°The child was dead,¡± said Agda. ¡°I know what death feels like under my hands.¡± She, too, could not look away from him, as if he were a poisonous snake, or a being of great power. ¡°What manner of creature is he, that can bring life out of death?¡±


    But of course that made it obvious, once it was stated so clearly. ¡°He is a man,¡± explained Adica, watching him as he watched her. He seemed confused and a little embarrassed, half turned away from Weiwara as Getsi cleaned her with water and a sponge of sound rushes. ¡°He was walking to the land of the dead when the Holy One brought him to me to be my companion.¡±


    Weiwara was still too dazed by the birth to respond, or perhaps even to have heard, but Agda and Orla merely nodded their heads and pulled on their ears to make sure no evil spirits had entered into them in the wake of such a provocative statement.


    ¡°So be it,¡± said Orla. ¡°If the Holy One has brought him to you, then she must not be afraid that he will bring any bad thing onto the village.¡±


    ¡°If he was walking to the land of the dead,¡± said Agda, ¡°then truly he might have found this child¡¯s soul wandering lost along the path, and he might have carried it with him back to us.¡±


    Orla nodded in agreement. ¡°It takes powerful magic to call a person off the path that leads to the Other Side. Maybe he has already seen the Other Side. Speaks he of it?¡±


    ¡°He cannot speak in any language I know, Mother Orla,¡± admitted Adica.


    ¡°Nay, nay,¡± retorted Agda. ¡°None who have glimpsed the Other Side can speak in the tongue of living people anymore. Everyone knows that! Is he to be your husband, Adica?¡± She hesitated before going on. ¡°Will he follow you where your fate leads?¡±


    ¡°That is what the Holy One promised me.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± said Orla, consideringly, ¡°a person who can see and capture wandering spirits, like that of this child, ought to stay in the village during this time of trouble. Then he can see any evil spirits coming, and chase them away. Then they won¡¯t be able to afflict us.¡±


    ¡°What are you saying, Mother?¡± Agda glanced toward Alain suspiciously.


    ¡°I will speak to the elders.¡±


    ¡°Let me take him outside,¡± said Adica quickly. ¡°Then I will purify the birthing house so that Weiwara can stay here for her moon¡¯s rest.¡± The new mother¡¯s bed lay ready, situated along one wall: a wooden pallet padded with rushes, a sheepskin, and the special wool padding bound with sprigs of rowan that brought a new mother ease and protection. Cautiously, Adica touched Alain on the elbow. His gaze, still fixed on the newborn in Weiwara¡¯s arms, darted to her.


    ¡°Come.¡± She indicated the door.


    Obediently, he followed her outside. It seemed in that short space of time that the whole village had heard of the adult male who had walked into the birthing house. Now every person in the village crowded outside the fence, waiting to see what would happen.


    Beor shouldered his way to the front. He took the ax from Weiwara¡¯s husband and fingered the ax head threateningly as he watched them emerge. Like bulls and rams, men always recognized a rival by means not given to women to understand.


    ¡°I will take care of this intruder,¡± said Beor roughly as Adica approached the gate.


    ¡°He is under my protection.¡± The dogs pushed through the crowd toward their master. Their size and fearsome aspect made people step away quickly. ¡°And under the protection of spirit guides as well, it seems.¡±


    One of the big dogs, the male, nudged Beor¡¯s thigh and growled softly: a threat, but not an attack. Alain spoke sharply to the dog, and it sat down, stubbornly sticking to its place, while Alain waited on the other side of the fence, measuring Beor¡¯s broad shoulders and the heft of the ax. Under the sunlight, the rose blemish that had flared so starkly on the tumulus and inside the birthing house faded to a mere spot of red on his cheek, nothing out of the ordinary.

 Page 22

    Urtan hurried up and spoke in an undertone to Beor, urging him to step aside. Beor hesitated. Adica could see the war waged within him: his jealousy, his sharp temper, his pride and self-satisfaction battling with the basic decency common to the White Deer people, who knew that in living together one had to cooperate to survive.


    ¡°No use causing trouble,¡± said Urtan in a louder voice.


    ¡°I¡¯m not the one causing trouble,¡± said Beor with a bitter look for Adica. ¡°Who is this stranger, dressed like a Cursed One? He¡¯s brought trouble to the village already!¡±


    ¡°Go aside, Beor!¡± Mother Orla emerged from the birthing house. ¡°Let there be no fighting on a day when living twins were given to this village out of the bounty of the Fat One.¡±


    Not even Beor was pigheaded enough to go against Mother Orla¡¯s command or to draw blood on a day favored by the Fat One. Still gripping the ax as if he wished to split Alain¡¯s head open, Beor retreated with his brother and cousins while the villagers murmured together, staring at the foreign man who had come into their midst.


    Alain swung a leg over the fence and in this way crossed out of forbidden ground so casually that it was obvious that he did not understand there was any distinction. He could not feel it down to his bones the way Adica could, the way she knew whether any hand¡¯s span of earth was gods-touched, or hallowed, or forbidden, or merely common and ordinary, a place in which life bloomed and death ate. The crowd stepped aside nervously to make a pathway for him.


    ¡°You must wait here, Hallowed One,¡± said Mother Orla once they reached the village gates. ¡°I ask this of you, do not enter the village until the elders have made their decision.¡± She called the elders to the council house, and the meeting pole, carved with the faces of the ancestors, was raised from the centerpost.


    Adica had learned how to sit quietly as an apprentice to the Hallowed One who had come before her, the one who had been her teacher, but she was surprised to see how patiently Alain waited, sitting at her side. His dogs lay on the ground behind him, tongues lolling out, quiescent but alert, while he studied the village. The adults went back to their work and the children lingered to stare, the older children careful to keep the less cautious young ones from approaching too close.


    In the end, it did not take long. The meeting pole wobbled and was drawn down through the smoke hole. Mother Orla emerged with the other elders walking deferentially behind her. Villagers hurried over to the gates to hear her pronouncement, all but Beor, who had stalked into the forest with his hunting spear. The dogs pricked up their ears.


    ¡°The elders have decided,¡± announced Mother Orla. ¡°If Adica binds this man to her and lets him live in her house, she can reside again in the village until that comes which must come.¡±


    ¡°So be it,¡± murmured Adica, although her heart sang.


    The villagers spoke the ritual words of acquiescence, and it was done, sealed, accepted. The Holy One had brought it to pass, as she had promised.


    Adica had her own duties. She had to purify her old house, which had sat empty for two courses of the moon, and she had to purify the birthing house, since a male had set foot in it. Women who had borne living children passed in and out of the birthing house while she worked. They brought presents, food, and drink to Weiwara as they would every day until a full course of the moon had waned and waxed, at which time the new mother could resume her everyday life.


    But afterward she was free to watch Alain, although she was careful to do so from a distance, pretending not to. She expected him to wait for her at the village gates, shy and aloof as strangers usually were upon first coming to a new place, but he allowed children to drag him from the well to the stockade, from the freshly dug outer ditch to the pit house where the village stored grain. He crouched beside the adults making pottery and the girls weaving baskets, and examined a copper dagger recently traded from Old Fort, where a conjuring man lived who knew the magic of metal-working. He coaxed in a limping dog so that he could pull a thorn from its paw, and scolded a child for throwing a stone at it although surely the child understood no word of what he said. He fingered loom weights stacked in a pile outside the house of Mother Orla and her daughters, and combed through the debris beside Pur the stoneworker¡¯s platform. He spent a remarkably long time investigating the village¡¯s two wooden ards. Adica remembered her grandfather speaking wonderingly of helping, as a young man, to plow fields for the first time with such magnificent tools; all his childhood the villagers had dug furrows with sharpened antlers.


    Alain¡¯s curiosity never flagged. It was almost as if he¡¯d never seen such things before. Perhaps he was born into a tribe of savages, who still lived in skin shelters and carried sharpened sticks for weapons. Why then, though, would he have carried such skillfully made garments with him?

 Page 23

    Although she watched, she was afraid to show too much interest in him. She was afraid that she would frighten him away if he noticed her following after him. She feared the strength of her own feelings, so sudden and powerful. He was a stranger, and yet in some way she could not explain she felt she had always known him. He was a still pool of calm in the swift current that was life in the village. He stood outside it, and yet his presence had the solidity of those things which lie awake and aware in the world, cutting both into what is holy and what is ordinary, blending them in the same way a river blends water from many streams.


    So it went, that afternoon, as Alain explored the village, followed by a pack of curious children whom he never snapped at, although they often pestered him.


    So it went, that evening, when people brought food to her door, as if to apologize for their neglect from the months before, as if to acknowledge her new household and mate. They still would not look her in the eye, but the children sat easily beside Alain, and he showed them how to play a game made by lines drawn in the dirt and populated by moving stones, a clever way of capturing territory and retreating. Urtan made a flamboyant show of sitting next to him as though they had been comrades for ages, like two who handled the ard together at plowing time or spent a lazy afternoon supervising children at play in the river shallows. Beor still had not returned from his solitary hunt, but the other men were curious enough, and respectful enough of Urtan¡¯s standing, that they came, too, and learned to play the game of lines and stones. Alain accepted their presence graciously. He seemed at ease with everyone.


    Except that night, when she tried to coax him into her house and showed him that he could sleep on the bed with her. At once he looked agitated and spoke words more passionate than reasoned. She had offended him. Flushed and grim, he made a bed for himself with straw just outside the threshold, and there he lay himself down with a dog on either side, his guardians. In this way, for she checked several times, he appeared to sleep peacefully while she lay awake and restless.


    An owl hooted, a presence gliding through the night. One of the dogs whined in its sleep and turned over. A child cried out, then stilled. The village slumbered. In their distant cities, the Cursed Ones plotted and planned, but at this moment their enmity seemed remote compared to the soft breathing of the man who slept outside her door.


    At dawn, Urtan took Alain to the weir with his young cousins Kel and Tosti. He went, all of them laughing in a friendly way at his attempts to learn new words. The dogs trailed behind. It was remarkable how good-natured he seemed. She wanted to see how he managed at the weir, but she had her own duties.


    Going to renew the charms in the birthing house, she found Weiwara nursing one infant and rocking the other with a foot where it lay asleep in a woven cradle. The new mother examined the sleeping twin with a look compounded mostly of surprise, as though she had opened a door to admit a tame bear. ¡°Is it true that the stranger brought the firstborn back to life?¡±


    ¡°So it seemed to my eyes.¡± Adica crouched beside the sleeping infant but was careful not to touch it. ¡°I held this baby in my arms. Like Agda, I listened, but I heard no spirit stirring inside it. He called the spirit back.¡±


    ¡°Is he a conjurer, do you think?¡±


    ¡°No, I do not think so.¡± The woven cradle creaked as it rocked back and forth. The other twin suckled silently. A bead of clear liquid welled up from a nipple and beaded there before slipping down Weiwara¡¯s skin.


    ¡°I hear he is to be your new husband,¡± added Weiwara. ¡°Is he handsome? I didn¡¯t truly see him.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Adica quickly. ¡°He¡¯s not really handsome. He doesn¡¯t look like a Deer man.¡±


    ¡°But.¡± Weiwara laughed. ¡°I hear a ¡®but.¡¯ I hear that you¡¯re thinking of him right now.¡±


    Adica blushed. ¡°I am thinking of him now.¡±


    ¡°You never thought of Beor when you weren¡¯t with him. I think you¡¯d better bind hands with this man, so he¡¯ll understand your intentions. If he came from far away, he might not wish to offend anyone. He surely doesn¡¯t know what is forbidden here, and what is not. How else could he have walked into the birthing house like he did? You¡¯d better ask Mother Orla to witness the ceremony, so he¡¯ll know he¡¯s not forbidden to you.¡±


    ¡°So I must. I¡¯ll have to show him what is permitted.¡±


    She walked slowly back to the village, reached the gate in time to see Alain and Urtan and Urtan¡¯s cousins carrying a basket slippery with fish up from the river, a catch worthy of a feasting day. Alain was laughing. He had let the cloth slip from his shoulders, to leave his chest bare. His shoulders had gone pink from the sun. He was lean through the waist, and remarkably smooth on chest and back, so different than the Deer men.

 Page 24

    ¡°Never did I think to see the Hallowed One at another¡¯s mercy,¡± said Mother Orla, shuffling up beside her. She walked with a limp, supporting herself on a broken pole that had once served as the shaft for a halberd.


    ¡°Mother Orla! You startled me!¡±


    ¡°So I did. For you truly were not standing with yourself.¡± They had to step aside to make room for the four men and their heavy basket to cross the plank bridge that led over the ditch and into the village. Alain saw Adica, and he smiled. She was not quite sure how she responded, for at that moment Mother Orla pinched her hard on the forearm. ¡°There, now, daughter!¡±


    She had not been touched in so long¡ªexcept when Alain had brushed tears from her cheeks to see if she were real that she yelped in surprise, and then was embarrassed that she had done so. But the men had already passed, hauling the big basket up to the council house where it would be divided up between the village families.


    Mother Orla coughed. ¡°A stranger who sleeps in a woman¡¯s house without her promise and her binding is not the kind of adult a village can trust as one of its own.¡±


    ¡°I was hasty, Mother Orla. Do not think it his doing. I invited him into the house without waiting for the proper ceremony.¡±


    ¡°He did not enter,¡± retorted Mother Orla approvingly. ¡°Or so I hear.¡±


    ¡°I hope you will advise me in this matter,¡± Adica murmured humbly. ¡°I have no experience. You know how things went with Beor.¡±


    ¡°That was not a wise match.¡± Mother Orla spat, to free herself of any bad luck from mentioning such an ill-fated decision. ¡°Nevertheless, it is done with. Beor will see that his jealousy has no place in this village.¡±


    ¡°So easily?¡±


    ¡°If he cannot stomach a new man in the village, then he can go to his Black Deer cousins, or marry Mother Nahumia¡¯s daughter and move to Old Fort.¡±


    ¡°I believe it would be better to have a strong fighter like Beor stay here until¡ªuntil the war is over, Mother Orla.¡±


    ¡°That may be. But we¡¯ve no need of pride and anger tearing down our community in times like these. There will be no more spoken on this matter.¡±


    ¡°As you wish.¡± In a way, it was a relief to be spoken to as if from aunt to niece. It was hard to act as an elder all the time when she was really still young.


    ¡°Let the stranger sleep at the men¡¯s house,¡± continued Mother Orla. ¡°After all, would you want a man for husband who had so little self-respect that he didn¡¯t expect courtship?¡±


    Adica laughed, because the comment was so unexpected and so charged with a gratifying anticipation. At first she did not see Alain up by the council house, but she soon caught sight of him among the others because of the dogs who faithfully followed after him. A vision shivered through her, brief but dazzling: she saw, not Alain, but a phoenix, fiery and hot, shining beyond the ordinary with such intensity that she had to look away.


    ¡°Truly,¡± Mother Orla continued in the voice of one who has seen nothing unusual, ¡°the Holy One chose wisely.¡±


    II


    MANY MEETINGS


    1


    AT night, the stars blazed with a brightness unlike that of any stars Liath had ever seen. They seemed alive, souls writhing and shifting, speaking in a language born out of fire rather than words. Sometimes she thought she could understand them, but then the sensation would fade. Sometimes she thought she could touch them, but the heavens rose as far above her here in this country as they ever had in the land of her birth.


    So much lay beyond her grasp, especially her own past.


    Right now, she lay on her back with her hands folded behind her head on a pallet made of leaves and grass. ¡°Are the stars living souls?¡±


    ¡°The stars are fire.¡± The old sorcerer often sat late with her, silent or talkative depending on his mood. ¡°If they have souls and consciousness, I do not know.¡±


    ¡°What of the creatures who brought me here?¡±


    Here in the country of the Aoi, there was never a moon, but the stars shone with such brilliance that she could see him shake his head. ¡°These spirits you speak of burn in the air with wings of flame and eyes as brilliant as knives. They move on the winds of aether, and now and again their gaze falls like the strike of lightning to the Earth below. There, it sears anything it touches, for they cannot comprehend the frailty of Earthly life.¡±


    ¡°If they aren¡¯t the souls of stars, then what are they?¡±


    ¡°They are an elder race. Their bodies are not bodies as we know them but rather the conjoining of fire and wind. In their bodies it is as if the breath of the fiery Sun coalesces into mind and will.¡±

 Page 25

    ¡°Why did they call me child, then?¡±


    He was always making rope, or baskets, always weaving strands into something new. Even in the darkness, he twined plant fiber into rope against one thigh. ¡°The elder races partake of nothing earthly but only of the pure elements. We are their children inasmuch as some portion of what we are made of is derived from those pure elements.¡±


    ¡°So any creature born on Earth is in some way their child.¡±


    ¡°That may be,¡± he said, laughing drily. ¡°Yet there is more to you than your human form. That we speak each to the other right now is a mystery I cannot explain, because the languages of humankind are unknown to me, and you say that the language of my people is not known to you. But we met through the gateway of fire, and it may be that the binding of magic lies heavier over us than any language made only of words.¡±


    ¡°It seems to me that with you I speak the language known to my people as Dariyan.¡±


    ¡°And to me, it is as if we speak in my own tongue. But I cannot believe that these two are the same. The count of years that separates my people from your land must span many generations of humankind. Few among humankind spoke the language of my people when we dwelt on Earth. How then can it be that you have remembered my people¡¯s language all this time?¡±


    It was a good question, and deserved a thoughtful answer. ¡°Long before I was born, an empire rose whose rulers claimed to be your descendants, born out of the mating of your kind and humankind. Perhaps they preserved your language as their speech, and that is why we can speak together now. But truly, I don¡¯t know. The empresses and emperors of the old Dariyan Empire were half-breeds, so they claimed. There aren¡¯t any Aoi on Earth any longer. They exist there only as ghosts, more like shades than living creatures. Some say there never were true Aoi on Earth, that they¡¯re only tales from the dawn time of humankind.¡±


    ¡°Truly, tales have a way of changing shape to suit the teller. If you wish to know what the spirits meant when they addressed you as ¡®child,¡¯ then you must ask them yourself.¡±


    The stars scintillated so vividly that they seemed to pulse. Strangely, she could find not one familiar constellation. She felt as if she had been flung into a different plane of existence, yet the dirt under her feet smelled like plain, good dirt, and many of the plants were ones she remembered from her childhood, when she and Da had traveled in the lands whose southern boundary was the great middle sea: silver pine and white oak, olive and carob, prickly juniper and rosemary and myrtle. She sighed, taking in the scent of rosemary, oddly comforting, like a favorite childhood story retold.


    ¡°I would ask them, if I could reach them.¡±


    ¡°To reach them, you must learn to walk the spheres.¡±


    The arrow came without warning. Pale as ivory, it buried its head in the trunk of a pine. Grabbing her quiver, Liath rolled off her pallet and into the cover of a low-lying holm oak. The old sorcerer remained calmly sitting in his place, still rolling flax into rope against his leg. He hadn¡¯t even flinched. Behind him, the arrow quivered and stilled, a stark length of white against drought-blighted pine bark.


    ¡°What is that?¡± she demanded, still breathing hard. In the four days since she had come to this land, she had seen no sign of any other people except herself and her teacher.


    ¡°It¡¯s a summons. When light comes, I must attend council.¡±


    ¡°What will happen to you, and to me, if your people know I¡¯m here?¡±


    ¡°That remains to be seen.¡±


    She slept restlessly that night, waking up at intervals to find that he sat in trancelike silence beside her, completely still but with his eyes open. Sometimes when she woke, half muddled from an unremembered and anxious dream, she would see the stars and for an instant would recognize the familiar shapes of the constellations Da had taught her; but always, in the next instant, they would shift in their place, leaving her to stare upward at an alien sky. She could not even see the River of Heaven, which spanned the sky in her own land. In that river, the souls of the dead swam toward the Chamber of Light, and some among them looked down upon the Earth below to watch over their loved ones, now left behind. Was Da lost to her? Did his spirit gaze down upon Earth and wonder where she had gone?


    Yet was she any different than he was, wondering what had become of those left behind? Da hadn¡¯t meant to die, after all. She had left behind those she loved of her own free will.


    At night, she often wondered if she had made the right decision. Sometimes she wondered if she really loved them.


    If she¡¯d really loved them, it shouldn¡¯t have been so easy to let them go.

 Page 26

    Twilight had little hold on this place. Day came suddenly, without the intervening solace of dawn. Liath woke when light brushed her face, and she watched as the old sorcerer¡¯s expression passed from trance to waking in a transition so smooth that it was imperceptible. He rose and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs as she sat up, checking to see that her bow was ready and arrows laid out. Her sword lay within easy reach, and she always slept with her knife tucked in its sheath at her belt.


    ¡°Go to the stream,¡± he said. ¡°Follow the flower trail to the watchtower. Do not come out unless you hear me call to you, nor should you wander, lest others come upon you. Remember to take care, and do nothing to cut yourself or let any blood fall.¡± He began to walk away, paused, and called to her over his shoulder. ¡°Make good use of the time! You have not yet mastered the tasks I set you.¡±


    That these tasks were tedious beyond measure was evidently part of the training. She belted on her sword and fastened her quiver over her shoulders. She had become accustomed to fasting for a good while after she woke; it helped stave off hunger. She took the water jug with her, slung over her shoulder by a rope tied to its handles.


    As she walked down the path, she noted as always how parched the ground was. The needles on the pine trees were dry, and perhaps a quarter were turning brown, dying. Few other trees were hardy enough to survive here: white oak, olive, and, increasingly, silver pine. Where dead trees had fallen, carob grew up, shadowing buckthorn, clematis, and spiny grass. She never saw any rodents. Despite the isolation of their living circumstances, she had seen no deer, aurochs, wolves, or bears¡ªnone of the great beasts that roamed plentifully through the ancient forests of Earth. Only rarely did she hear birds or see their fluttering flight in the withered branches.


    The land was dying.


    ¡°I am dying,¡± she whispered into the silence.


    How else could she explain the calm, the sense of relief, she¡¯d fallen into since she had arrived in the country of the Aoi? Maybe it was only numbness. It was easier not to feel than to confront all the events that had led her to this place. Was her heart as stony as Anne¡¯s, who had said: ¡°We cannot let affection cloud our judgment¡±?


    With these words, Anne had justified the murder of her husband. No faceless enemy had summoned and commanded the spirit of air that had killed Bernard. His own wife, the mother of his child, had done so.


    Anne had betrayed Da, and she had betrayed Liath not just by killing Da without a scrap of remorse but by making it clear that she expected Liath to behave in exactly the same way.


    And hadn¡¯t Liath abandoned her own husband and child? She had not crossed through the burning stone of her own volition, but once here, in the land of the Aoi, she had had a choice: to stay and learn with the old sorcerer, or to return to Sanglant and Blessing.


    Hadn¡¯t she also let judgment override affection? Hadn¡¯t she chosen knowledge over love? Hadn¡¯t it been easy to do so?


    ¡°I¡¯m no use to Sanglant or to anyone until I master my own power,¡± she muttered. ¡°I can¡¯t avenge Da until I know what I am.¡±


    Her words fled on the silent air and vanished like ghosts into the eerie silence of the drought-stricken land. Even the rage she¡¯d nurtured toward Anne since the moment she¡¯d discovered the truth about Da¡¯s death felt cold and lifeless now, like a clay statue clumsily formed.


    With a sigh, she walked on.


    The stream had once been a small river. She picked her way over river rocks coated with a white rime of dried scum, until she reached the narrow channel that was all that remained of the watercourse. Water trickled over rocks, sluicing down from highlands glimpsed beyond the sparse forest cover. She knelt to fill the pot, stoppered it carefully. In this land, water was more precious than gold.


    Holding the full vessel hard against one hip, she leaped from stone to stone over the stream to its other side. Algae lay exposed in intricate patterns like green paint flaking off the river stones. Grass had invaded the old riverbed, but even it was turning brown. Climbing the steep bank, she found herself at a fork in the path. To the right the path cut through a thicket of chestnut that hugged the shore before, beyond the chestnut grove, beginning a precipitous climb to higher ground. To the left lay a remarkable trail through a low-lying meadow lush with the most astoundingly beautiful flowers: lavender, yellow rue, blood-red poppies, delicate gillyvor, fat peonies, pale dog roses, vivid marigolds, banks of irises like earthbound rainbows, all intermixed with a scattering of urgently blue cornflowers.


    This flowery trail wound up away from the river like a dream, unheralded, unexpected, and unspeakably splendid in a land so faded to browns and leached-out golds. It was difficult not to linger in this oasis of color, and she did for a while, but eventually she had to move on.

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    The meadow came to an abrupt end where a finger of pine woods thrust out along the hillside. The drought had taken its toll here as well, and the wood quickly degraded into a grassy heath. At the height of the hill stood a tumble of worked stone that had once been a lookout station. She climbed to the highest safe point, where she crouched on a ledge, bracing herself against what remained of the rock wall, and looked out over the land.


    The hillside fell away precipitously, as if the watchtower had once looked over a valley, but in fact there was nothing to be seen below except fog.


    According to the old sorcerer, this was the outer limit of the land. Nothing lay beyond the mist. She stared at it for a long time. Above, the sky shaded from the merciless blue of drought-stricken country into an oddly vacant white, more void than cloud.


    The silence oppressed her. Out here, at the edge of the world, she didn¡¯t even hear birds, nothing except a solitary cricket. It was as if the land were slowly emptying out, as if the heart and soul of it were leaching away into the void. Like her own heart.


    Setting quiver and sword aside, she settled down cross-legged. She clapped once, a sound to split away the ordinary world from the world where magic lived, or so the old sorcerer had taught her. With patterns he had shown her, she stilled her mind so that, below the clutter of everyday thoughts, she could listen into the heart of the world: the purl of air at her neck, the slow shifting of stone, the distant babble of water, and beneath all those, the nascent stirring, like a flower about to bloom, of vast power held in check by its own peculiar architecture.


    ¡°Humankind was crippled by their hands,¡± the old sorcerer had said. ¡°They came to believe that the forces of the world could only succumb to manipulation. But the universe exists at a level invisible to our eyes and untouchable by our hands, but comprehensible by our minds and hearts. That is the essence of magic, which seeks neither to harm nor to control but only to preserve and transform.¡±


    In every object, all the pure elements mix in various proportions. If she could calm her own breathing, draw her concentration to such a narrow point that it blossomed into an infinite vista, then she could illuminate the heart of any object and draw out from it those elements which might be of use to her in her spells.


    In this way, the daimones who had enfolded her within their wings had called fire even from stone, even from the very mountains. This was the magic known to the Aoi.


    But she had a long way to go to master it.


    At last she ascended through levels of awareness and clapped her hands four times, a sharp sound that brought her squarely back to the ordinary world. One of her feet had fallen asleep. She scratched the back of her neck, tickled by a withered leaf, and blinked a mote of dust out of one eye. Slinging her quiver over her shoulder, she clambered back down, testing each stone as she went, bypassing those that rattled or shifted under her probing foot.


    In the shade at the base of the tower, she drank sparingly and finally allowed herself to eat: some desiccated berries, a coarse flat bread made palatable by being fried in olive oil, the sugary, withered carob pods she gathered every day, and today¡¯s delicacy, a paste of fish-meal and crushed parsnip flavored with onion and pulped juniper berries. There was something so desperate about each meal here that she had quickly learned that the old sorcerer would neither watch her eat nor let her watch him.


    After she had licked every crumb off her fingers, she turned to her coil of rope. Twisting fiber into rope was the most tedious of the tasks the old sorcerer had set her but one he insisted she master. She had amassed a fair length of rope. She measured it out against an outstretched arm: forty cubits worth. It would have to be enough.


    Tying one end around her waist, she cinched it tight and, with her weapons slung about her, walked to the edge of the fog. She tied the other end of the rope to the trunk of a pine tree, tugging to test the knot, before she swept her gaze along the hillside. Nothing stirred. A bug crawled through the dry grass at her feet, startling because it was the only sign of movement except for the swaying of trees in a delicate wind.


    She walked cautiously into the fog. In five steps she was blind. She could not even see where the rope left the fog. She could not see her hands held out in front of her face, although blue flashed from her finger: the lapis lazuli ring given to her by Alain which, he had promised her, would protect her from evil.


    She wasn¡¯t sure what to expect: the edge of an abyss? A barricade? A dead land drowned in cloying mist?


    In another five steps, she walked out onto a ridgeline. At her back drifted the wall of fog. Right in front of her grew a dense tangle of thorny shrubs. As she jerked sideways to avoid them, her trailing hand brushed a thorn. A line of red welled up on her skin. She stuck the scrape to her mouth and sucked. A serpent hissed at her from the shelter of the thornbush and she sidled away slowly as superstitious dread clutched at her heart.

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    ¡°Even a single drop of your blood on the parched earth will waken things better left sleeping,¡± the old sorcerer had said, ¡°and every soul left in this land will know that you are here.¡±


    The bleeding subsided, the serpent slithered away deeper into the thorns, but her thoughts continued to scatter and drop.


    He meant to keep her a secret. But whether he thought she was a threat to his people, or they to her, she could not tell. As the salty tang of blood mixed with saliva on her tongue, she wondered what would happen when her monthly courses came in another hand¡¯s span of days, or if they even would, without the influence of the moon upon her body.


    Wind stirred the rope hanging loose behind her. The sun beat down, hot and heavy, on her back. The fog had led her not to the end of the world but simply to an unknown place not markedly different from the highland forest.


    She stood at the edge of a plunging hillside. A broad valley ringed by highlands opened before her. On the far side of the valley¡¯s bowl rose a saw-toothed mountain range. High peaks, denuded of snow, towered above the wide valley. A road ran along the valley floor below her, leading into a magnificent city that spanned a dried-up lakebed. It was the largest conglomeration of buildings she had ever seen, greater even than the imperial city of Darre. From this vantage point, and through air so clear that she could see the ridgelines in each of the distant peaks, she traced the city¡¯s layout as though it were an architect¡¯s study rolled out on a table.


    Plazas, pyramids, and platforms, great courtyards flanked by marketplaces, houses arranged like flowers around rectangular pools, all of these were linked together by sludge-ridden waterways that had once, perhaps, been canals. Tiered stone gardens and islets lay desolate, furrowed by untended fields. Bridges spanned inlets and narrow straits that divided the island city into districts. Three causeways stretched across the dead lakebed, marking roads into the city.


    Bleached like bone, the buildings had been laid out in an arrangement so harmonious that she wondered whether the city had been built to conform to the lake¡¯s shallows and bays, or the lake dug and shaped to enhance the city. From this distance the city appeared deserted, empty buildings set in a vast wasteland of drained, cracking ground.


    At that moment, she became aware of a solitary figure moving slowly along the road below her. It halted, suddenly, and turned as if it had felt her breath on its neck, although she stood far beyond any normal range of hearing. Its hand raised, beckoning to her, or gesturing with a curse.


    The ground lurched under her feet. Stumbling backward, she pulled the rope in tight as she forged back into the fog. White swam around her, static and empty. Her foot hit a rock, and she reeled sideways, found herself up to her thighs in water. Salt spray stung her lips. Waves soughed on a pebbly shoreline, sucking and sighing over the rocks. Grassy dunes humped up beyond the beach. A gull screamed. Turning, she tugged hard on the rope and reeled herself in, one fist at a time, through the blinding fog.


    When she staggered out onto the hillside, the watchtower rose before her and she fell to her knees in relief, gasping hard. Water puddled out from her soaked leggings, absorbed quickly into the parched soil.


    ¡°You are a fool, Eldest Uncle,¡± said a woman¡¯s harsh voice. ¡°You know the stories. They cannot help themselves. Already she has broken the small limits you set upon her. Already she gathers intelligence for her own kind, which they will use against us.¡±


    The old sorcerer had a curt laugh. Although he was not a cynic, certainly he was not patient with anything he considered nonsense; this much she had learned about him in their short time together. ¡°How can they use the knowledge of the borders against us, White Feather? There is but one human standing here among us. None but she has crossed through the gateways in all this time. Why do you suppose others intend to? Nay, she is alone, as I have told you. She is an outcast from her own kind.¡±


    ¡°So she would have you believe.¡±


    ¡°You are too suspicious.¡±


    ¡°Should I not be suspicious of humankind? You are too trusting, Eldest Uncle. It was those of our people who trusted humankind who laid down the path that brought us here. Had we not taught human magicians our secrets, they would not have gained the power to strike against us as they did.¡±


    ¡°Nay.¡± Liath saw them now, standing on her favorite ledge halfway up the ruined watchtower, looking down upon her like nobles passing judgment on their followers. ¡°It was the shana-ret¡¯z-eri who corrupted humankind, not us.¡±


    ¡°They would have overwhelmed us no matter what we had done,¡± agreed the woman. She wore a plain linen cloak, yellowed with age, that draped over her right shoulder and lapped her knees. Underneath, she wore a shift patterned with red lozenges and dots. A strap bound her brow; at the back, where her hair fell freely down her back, the strap had been ornamented with a small shield of white feathers. A heavy jade ring pierced her nose. ¡°Humankind breeds offspring like to the mice, and disease in the manner of flies. We cannot trust them. You must bring her along to the council ground. The council will pass judgment.¡±

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    With that, she vanished from Liath¡¯s view, climbing back down the ruined watchtower. The old sorcerer clambered down as well, appearing at the base of the tower, although White Feather was not with him. Liath rose to shake water out of her soaked leggings.


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t trust me,¡± Liath said, surprised at the intensity of the woman¡¯s emotions. ¡°I don¡¯t think she liked me either. Is that the kind of judgment the council will pass? I see no point in standing before them if they¡¯re just going to condemn me.¡±


    ¡°Not even I, who am eldest here, the only one left who remembers the great cataclysm, knows what judgment the council will pass.¡±


    ¡°How can you remember the great cataclysm? If the calculations of the Seven Sleepers are correct, then that cataclysm took place over two thousand and seven hundred years ago, as humankind measures time. No one can be that old.¡±


    ¡°Nor am I that old, as humankind measures years. The measure of days and years moves differently here than there. I know what I lived through. What has passed in the world of my birth in the intervening time I have seen only in glimpses. I know only that humankind has overrun all of the land, as we feared they would.¡±


    None of this made much sense to Liath. ¡°What of the burning stone, then?¡± She would not make the same mistake she had made with the Seven Sleepers, to wait with resigned patience as they taught her in spirals that never quite got to the heart of what she needed to learn. ¡°If it¡¯s a gateway between my world and this one, can you call it at will? Might it be better for me to escape back to Earth rather than stand before the council?¡±


    He considered her words gravely before replying. ¡°The burning stone is not ours to call. It appears at intervals dictated by those fluxes that disturb the fabric of the universe. It is the remnant of the great spell worked on us by your ancestors, although I do not suppose that they meant it to appear. But a few among us have learned how to manipulate it when it does appear.¡±


    ¡°How might I do so?¡±


    ¡°Learn to call the power of the stars, and the power that lies in the heart of every object. The first you have some knowledge of, I think. The second is not a discipline known to humankind.¡± He paused to smile wryly. He had faint scars around his mouth and others on the lobes of his ears, on his hands, and even a few marking his heels with old white scar lines. ¡°You must not fear the power of blood, which binds all things. You must learn to use it, even when it causes pain. I do not think you should retreat. It is rarely wise to run.¡±


    That Anne considered this ancient sorcerer and all his kind the sworn enemy of humankind, and of her own cause, inclined Liath to take their part. But in the end it was his words that swayed her. How different he sounded from Da, who had always found it prudent to run. Who had taught her to run.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go with you to the council,¡± she said finally.


    ¡°Heh.¡± The grunt folded into that curt laugh which seemed to encompass all he knew of amusement. ¡°So you will. Do not think I am unaware of the honor you give to me by granting me your trust. It has been a long time since any of your kind have trusted mine.¡±


    ¡°Or your kind, mine,¡± she retorted. The tart answer pleased him. He liked a challenge, and didn¡¯t mind sharp questions.


    ¡°Get what you need, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve everything I came with.¡±


    He waited while she coiled the rope.


    ¡°It¡¯s well made.¡± The praise warmed her, but she only smiled. He had little enough on his own person for their journey. She had finally gotten used to his clothing, the beaded loincloth, the decorated arm and leg sheaths, and the topknot made of his black hair, ornamented by feathers. He was more wiry than skinny, although he did not look one bit well fed. He took the coiled rope from her and slung it over a shoulder before fishing out an arrow from her quiver. As always, he fondled the iron point for a moment, his expression distant.


    ¡°I fear what your kinfolk have become,¡± he said at random, ¡°to make arms such as this arrow, and that sword.¡± But he only offered her the fletched end of the arrow to hold. ¡°Grasp this. Do not let go as we walk into the borderlands.¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we tie ourselves to the tree? What if we fall off the edge? You said yourself that this fog marks the edge of your lands.¡±


    He chuckled. ¡°A worthy idea, and a cautious plan that speaks well of you. But there is no danger in the borderlands. We are prisoners in our own land, because all the borders fold back on themselves.¡±


    ¡°Except through the burning stone.¡±

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    ¡°Even so.¡± He led her into the fog.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± she called, but the mist deadened all sound. She could not even see him, a step ahead of her, only knew he was there by the pull of the arrow¡¯s shaft against her palm.


    He knew where he was going. In six steps she stumbled onto a stone step, bruising her shin. She stood on a staircase lined by monsters¡¯ heads, each one carved so that it seemed to be emerging from a stone flower that bore twelve petals. The monster was the head of a snake, or that of a big, sleek cat with a toothy yawn, or some melding of the two: she couldn¡¯t tell which. Some had been painted red and white while others had golden-brown dapplings and succulent green tongues, lacy black curling ears or gold-petaled flowers rayed out from their circular eyes. On either side of the staircase lay the broad expanse of a vast pyramidal structure, too steep to climb, that had simply been painted a blinding white, as stark as the fog. Here and there, paint had chipped away to reveal gray stone beneath.


    She followed the old sorcerer up the steps. Despite everything, this staircase up which they toiled nagged at her. It seemed familiar, like a whispered name calling from her memory.


    They walked up out of the fog on a steep incline, surrounded by those ghastly, powerful faces. The stair steps went on, and on, and on, until she had to stop to catch her breath. She unsealed the water jug and sipped, cooling her parched throat, but when she offered the jug to the old sorcerer, he declined. He waited patiently for her to finally get up and go again. At last, they came to the top of the pyramid.


    At her back, below and beyond, lay the dense bank of fog. Before her lay another city, somewhat smaller than the magnificent city by the lake but no less impressive for its courtyards and platforms laid out in tidy harmony. An avenue lined by buildings marched out from the plaza that lay at the base of the huge pyramid they now stood on. Every stone surface was painted with bright murals: giant spotted yellow cats, black eagles, golden phoenix, burning arrows clutched in the jaws of red snakes crowned by feathered headdresses. The city lay alive with color and yet was so quiet that she expected ghosts to skirl down its broad avenues, weeping and moaning.


    Wind brushed her. Clouds boiled over the hills that marked the distant outskirts of the city, and she saw lightning. Thunder boomed, but no rain fell. She couldn¡¯t even smell rain, only dust on the wind and a creeping shiver on her skin. Her hair rose on the nape of her neck.


    ¡°It¡¯s not safe so high where lightning might strike,¡± remarked the old sorcerer.


    He descended at once down stair steps so steep that she only dared follow him by turning around and going down backward. Behind, the fog simply sliced off that portion of the city that lay beyond the great pyramid, a line as abrupt as a knife¡¯s cut.


    Thunder clapped and rolled. Lightning struck the top of the pyramid, right where they¡¯d been standing. Her tongue buzzed with the sting of its passing. Her foot touched earth finally, dry and cool.


    She knew where she was.


    Long ago, when she was a child, when she and Da had fled from the burning villa, he had brought her through an ancient city. In that city, the wind had muttered through the open shells of buildings. Vast ruins had lain around them, the skeleton of a city that had once claimed the land. Along the avenues, she had seen the faded remnants of old murals that had once adorned those long walls. Wind and rain and time had worn the paint from those surfaces, leaving only the tired grain of ancient stone blocks and a few scraps of surviving murals, faded and barely visible.


    The ruins had ended at the shoreline of the sea as abruptly as if a knife had sheared them off.


    Da had muttered words, an ancient spell, and for an instant she had seen the shadow form of the old city mingling with the waves, the memory of what once had been, not drowned by the sea but utterly gone. Wonder bloomed in her heart, just as it had on that long-ago day.


    ¡°This is that city,¡± she said aloud.


    The old sorcerer had begun to walk on, but he paused.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen the other part of this city,¡± she explained. ¡°The part that would have lain there¡ª¡± She pointed toward the wall of fog.


    ¡°But the ruins were so old. Far older than the cities built by the Dariyans. That was the strangest thing.¡±


    ¡°That they were old?¡±


    ¡°Nay, nay.¡± Her thoughts had already leaped on. ¡°That the ruins ended so abruptly. As if the land was cut away from the Earth.¡±


    He smiled sadly. ¡°No memory remains among humankind of the events of those days?¡±


    She could only shake her head, perplexed by his words.


    ¡°Come,¡± he said.

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    At the far end of the avenue rose a second monumental structure, linked to the great pyramid by the roadway. Platforms rose at intervals on either side. It was hard to fathom what kind of engineering, or magic, had built this city. The emptiness disturbed her. She could imagine ancient assemblies crowding the avenue, brightly-clothed women and men gathered to watch spectacles staged on the platforms or to pray as their holy caretakers offered praise to their gods from the perilous height of the great pyramid. Yet such a crowd had left no trace of its passage, not even ghosts.


    It was a long walk and an increasingly hot one as the storm rolled past and dissolved into the wall of fog. Not one drop of rain fell. She had to stop twice to drink, although the old sorcerer refused a portion both times.


    The other temple was also a four-sided pyramid, sloped in stair steps and chopped off short. At the top loomed the visage of a huge stone serpent. An opening gaped where the serpent¡¯s mouth ought to have been, framed by two triangular stacks of pale stone.


    Flutes and whistles pierced the silence. Had the ghosts of the city come to haunt her? Color flashed in the distance and resolved into a procession of people dressed in feathered cloaks and beaded garments, colors and textures so bright that they would have been gaudy against any background, although the vast backdrop of the city and the fierce blue of the sky almost swallowed them. At the head of the procession bobbed a round standard on a pole, a circular sheet of gold trimmed with iridescent green plumes as broad across as a man¡¯s arms outstretched. It spun like a turning wheel. Its brilliance staggered her.


    The procession wound its way in through the serpent¡¯s mouth, vanishing into the temple.


    They came to the stairs, where Eldest Uncle paused while she caught her breath and checked each of her weapons: her knife, her good friend Lucian¡¯s sword, and Seeker of Hearts, her bow. A wash of voices issued out through the serpent¡¯s mouth like the voices of the dead seeping up from the underworld.


    ¡°They will not be friendly,¡± he said. ¡°Be warned: speak calmly. In truth, young one, I took you on because I fear that only you and I can spare both our peoples a greater destruction than that which we are already doomed to suffer.¡±


    His words¡ªdelivered in the same cool matter-of-fact tone he might have used if he were commenting on an interesting architectural feature¡ªchilled her. The long avenue behind her lay wreathed in a heat haze. Wind raised dust. The great pyramid shone in uncanny and massive splendor.


    ¡°I faced down Hugh,¡± she said at last. ¡°I can face down anyone.¡±


    They climbed the steps toward the serpent¡¯s head. Coming up before it, Liath found herself face-to-face with those two flanking little pyramids of stone, except they weren¡¯t stone at all.


    They were stacks of grinning skulls.


    ¡°What are those?¡± she demanded, heart racing in shock as vacant eyes stared back at her.


    ¡°The fallen.¡± A half-dozen bows and quivers lay on a flat stone placed in front of the serpent¡¯s mouth, and a dozen or more spears rested against the stone. All of the weapons had stone tips. The only metal she saw came from three knives, forged of copper or bronze.


    ¡°Set your weapons here on the peace stone.¡±


    ¡°And walk in there unarmed?¡±


    ¡°No weapons are allowed on the council grounds. That is the custom. That way no blood may be shed in the heart of the city.¡±


    She hesitated, but the sight of so many other weapons made it easier to acquiesce. She did not know their powers, but she knew how to call fire, if necessary. She set down her weapons, yet he stopped her before she passed the threshold.


    ¡°Water, too, has been forbidden. Even a sip might be used as a bribe. Let us drink deep now. It may be many hours before we emerge from the tomb of the ancient mothers.¡±


    The water was brackish by now, warmed by the sun¡¯s heat. But it was water and therefore miraculous beyond words to one who is thirsty.


    Talcing the half-empty jug, he hid it among the skulls. Their dry, grinning faces had lost their horror. They weren¡¯t even ghosts, just the memory of folk who had once lived and bled as she did. What fate had led them to this end?


    ¡°Come.¡± The old sorcerer gestured toward the serpent¡¯s maw.


    It seemed very dark inside. Even the whispering of distant voices had stilled, as if in expectation of their arrival.


    She had faced down Hugh, she had learned courage, but she still murmured a prayer under her breath. ¡°Lord, watch over me now, I pray you. Lady, lend me your strength.¡±


    Somewhere, in another place, Sanglant surely wondered what had become of her, and maybe Blessing cried, fretting in unfamiliar arms. It seemed to her, as she stepped into the dark opening as though into a serpent¡¯s mouth, that she had a long way to go to get back to them.

 Page 32

    2


    NORTH of the Alfar Mountains the ground fell precipitously into a jumble of foothills and river valleys. At this time of year, that place where late summer slumbered into early autumn, the roads were as good as they¡¯d ever be and the weather remained pleasant except for the occasional drenching thunder-shower. They kept up a brisk pace, traveling as many as six leagues in a day. There were just enough day laborers on the road looking for the last bits of harvest work that their little group didn¡¯t seem too conspicuous, as long as they didn¡¯t draw attention to themselves.


    It was a silent journey for the most part.


    When they passed folk coming from the north, Sanglant asked questions, but the local folk, when he could understand their accent, claimed to have no knowledge of the movements of the king. Nor was there any reason they should have. But he heard one day from a trio of passing fraters that the king and his entourage had been expected in Wertburg, so at the crossroads just past the ferry crossing over the eastern arm of the Vierwald Lake, they took the northeast fork that led through the lush fields of upper Wayland toward the Malnin River valley. In such rich countryside, more people were to be found on the roads, going about their business.


    Still, it was with some surprise that, about twelve days after the conflagration at Verna and less than seven days¡¯ travel past the lake crossing, they met outriders at midday where forest gave way to a well-tended orchard.


    ¡°Halt!¡±


    A zealous young fellow seated on a swaybacked mare rode forward to block the road. He held a spear in one hand as he looked them over. No doubt they appeared a strange sight: a tall, broad-shouldered man outfitted like a common man-at-arms and carrying a swaddled baby on his back but riding a noble gelding whose lines and tackle were fit for a prince, and a woman whose exotic features might make any soldier pause. The pony and the goat, at least, were unremarkable. Luckily, the young man couldn¡¯t see Jerna, who had darted away to conceal herself in the boughs of an apple tree.


    He stared for a bit, mostly at the woman, then found his voice. ¡°Have you wanderers come to petition the king?¡±


    ¡°So we have,¡± said Sanglant, keeping his voice calm although his heart hammered alarmingly. ¡°Is the king nearby?¡±


    ¡°The court¡¯s in residence at Angenheim, but it¡¯s a long wait for petitioners. Many have come¡ª¡±


    ¡°Here, now, Matto, what are these two?¡± The sergeant in charge rode up. His shield bore the sigil of Wendar at its center, Lion, Eagle, and Dragon, marking him as a member of the king¡¯s personal retinue. He had the look of a terrier about him: ready to worry any stray rat to pieces.


    ¡°They come up the road like any others,¡± protested Matto.


    ¡°So might the devil. They might be the Enemy¡¯s cousins, by the look of their faces. As foreign as you please, I¡¯ll thank you to notice, lad. I¡¯d like to know how they come by that fine nobleman¡¯s horse. We¡¯re looking for bandits, Matto. You¡¯ve got to stay alert.¡±


    ¡°Trouble, Sergeant?¡± asked another soldier, riding over.


    There were half a dozen men-at-arms in sight, scattered along the road. None were soldiers Sanglant recognized. New recruits, maybe, given sentry duty. They looked bored.


    Boredom always spelled trouble, and it wasn¡¯t only these men-at-arms who were bored. Sanglant glanced at his mother. Even after twelve days in her company, he still found her disconcerting. She gazed at young Matto with the look of a panther considering its next meal, and she even licked her lips thoughtfully, as though the air brought her a taste of his sweet flesh.


    Sanglant knew how to make quick decisions. If he didn¡¯t recognize these men, then it was likely they¡¯d come to court after he and Liath had left so precipitously over a year ago and so wouldn¡¯t recognize him in their turn. He turned to the sergeant. ¡°Take me to Captain Fulk, and I promise you¡¯ll be well rewarded.¡±


    ¡°Huh!¡± grunted the sergeant, taken aback. ¡°How¡¯d you know Captain Fulk returned to the king¡¯s progress just a fortnight ago?¡±


    ¡°We were separated.¡± Sanglant leaned sideways so that the man could see Blessing¡¯s sweet little face peeping from the swaddling bound to his back.


    ¡°Ah.¡± The sergeant¡¯s gaze was drawn to Sanglant¡¯s mother, but he looked away as quickly, as though something in her expression unsettled him. As well it might. ¡°This is your wife, then?¡±


    Sanglant laughed sharply, not without anger. ¡°Nay. This woman is¡ª¡± He could not bring himself to speak a title she had not earned. ¡°This woman is a relative to me, a companion on the road. She¡¯s a foreigner, as you see. My father is Wendish.¡±

 Page 33

    ¡°What happened to your wife, then?¡±


    Grief still chafed him as bitterly as any chains. ¡°My wife is gone.¡±


    The sergeant softened, looking back at the infant. ¡°May the Lord and Lady watch over you, friend. Need you an escort? There¡¯s another sentry post some ways up the road, nearer to the palace, and then the palace fortifications to talk your way through. I¡¯ll send a soldier to vouch for you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take one with thanks. If you¡¯ll give me your name, I¡¯ll see that it¡¯s brought to the king¡¯s attention.¡±


    The sergeant chuckled while his men looked at each other in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re as sure of yourself as the rooster that crows at dawn, eh? Well, then, when you take supper with the king, tell him that Sergeant Cobbo of Longbrook did you a favor.¡± He slapped his thigh, amused at his joke. ¡°Go on, then. Matto, be sure you escort them all the way to Captain Fulk, and give him over to none other. The captain will know what to do with them if they¡¯ve lied to us.¡±


    Matto was a talkative soul. Sanglant found it easy to draw him out. They rode on through the orchard and passed into another tangle of forest, where Jerna took advantage of the dappled light to drop down from the trees and coil around Blessing¡¯s swaddling bands. He could sense her cool touch on his neck and even see the pale shimmer of her movement out of the corner of his eye, but Matto, like most of humankind, seemed oblivious to her. He chattered on as Sanglant fed him questions. His mother was a steward at a royal estate. His father had died in the wars many years ago, and his mother had married another man. Matto seemed young because he was young. He and his stepfather hadn¡¯t gotten along, and he¡¯d left for the king¡¯s service as soon as he turned fifteen.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been with the king¡¯s court for fully six months now,¡± he confided. ¡°They put me to work as a stable hand at first, but even Sergeant Cobbo says I¡¯ve got a knack for weapons, so I was promoted to sentry duty three months ago.¡± He glanced back toward Sanglant¡¯s mother, perhaps hoping she¡¯d be impressed by his quick rise, but nothing about humankind interested her, as Sanglant had discovered.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a hankering to see battle, haven¡¯t you, lad?¡± Sanglant felt immeasurably ancient riding alongside this enthusiastic youth, although in truth he wasn¡¯t even old enough to be the lad¡¯s father.


    Matto sized him up. ¡°You¡¯ve seen battle, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°So I have.¡±


    ¡°I guess you were part of the group that went south to Aosta with Princess Theophanu. It was a miracle that Captain Fulk kept as much of his company together as he did, wasn¡¯t it? What a disaster!¡±


    ¡°Truly.¡± Sanglant changed the subject before Matto discovered that he hadn¡¯t the least idea what disaster had befallen Theophanu¡¯s expedition in Aosta. ¡°Why so wide a sentry net?¡±


    Matto puffed up considerably, proud to know something his companion did not. ¡°The court attracts petitioners, and petitioners attract bandits.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t these Duke Conrad¡¯s lands? I¡¯d have thought he¡¯d have put a stop to banditry.¡±


    ¡°So he might, if he were here. He hasn¡¯t even come to the king¡¯s feast and celebration! The Eagle sent to his fortress at Bederbor said he wasn¡¯t in residence. No one knows where he¡¯s gone!¡±


    What was Conrad up to? No doubt the duke was capable of almost anything. But he could hardly ask this lad that kind of question. They came to a stream and slowed for their mounts to pick their way across. Where a beech tree swept low over pooling water, he let Resuelto drink while he waited for his mother. Although she had the pony for a mount, she refused to ride. Still, she caught up quickly enough; she was the strongest walker he¡¯d ever met. The goat balked at the water¡¯s edge, and his mother dragged it across the rocky shallows impatiently. She had formidable arms, tightly muscled. With the sleeves of Liath¡¯s tunic rolled up, the tattooed red snake that ran from the back of her hands up her arms seemed to stretch and shudder as she hauled the goat up the far bank. Matto stared at her. Sanglant couldn¡¯t tell if the boy had been afflicted with the infatuation that strikes youth as suddenly as lightning, or if he had suddenly realized how truly strange she was.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Matto blurted suddenly.


    She looked up at him, and he blanched and stammered an apology, although it wasn¡¯t clear what he was apologizing for. Her reply was cool and clear. ¡°You will call me ¡®Alia.¡¯¡±


    Sanglant laughed curtly before reining Resuelto around and starting down the road again. ¡®Alia¡¯ meant ¡®other¡¯ in Dariyan.

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    Alia walked up beside him. The goat had decided to cooperate and now followed meekly behind the pony, with Matto bringing up the rear. ¡°Why are you not telling those soldiers who you are,¡± she asked in a low voice, her accent heavy and her words a little halting, ¡°and demanding a full escort and the honor you deserve?¡±


    ¡°Since they don¡¯t know me, they would never believe I am a prince of the realm. In truth, without a retinue, I¡¯m not really a nobleman at all, am I? Just a landless and kinless wanderer, come to petition the king.¡± He hadn¡¯t realized how bitter he was, nor did he know who he was angriest at: fate, his father, or the woman walking beside him who had abandoned him years ago. Blessing stirred on his back and cooed, babbling meaningless syllables, attuned to his tone. ¡°Hush, sweetheart,¡± he murmured. Resuelto snorted.


    ¡°Look!¡± cried Matto. The road was wide enough that he trotted past them easily. He had a hand at his belt, where hung a knife, a leather pouch, and a small polished ram¡¯s horn.


    Up ahead where the ground dipped into a shrubby hollow, the stream looped back and crossed the road again. In the middle of the ford stood a hag, bent over a staff. Strips of shredded cloth concealed her head and shoulders. The ragged ends of her threadbare robe floated in the current, wrapping around her calves.


    ¡°A coin or crust of bread for an old woman whose husband and son fight in the east with Her Royal Highness Princess Sapientia?¡± she croaked.


    Matto had already begun to dismount, fumbling at the pouch he wore at his belt. Perhaps he was a kindhearted lad, or perhaps he was only eager to impress Alia.


    But despite its high-pitched tone, the hag¡¯s voice was certainly not that of a woman. This was one thing in which Sanglant considered himself an expert. He reined in. A moment later, from the dense thicket that grew up from the opposite bank, he heard rustling.


    The arrow hit Sanglant in the shoulder, rocking him back. The point embedded in his chain mail just as a second arrow followed the first from a shadowed thicket. He jerked sideways as Jerna uncoiled and with her aery being blew the arrow off course. It fluttered harmlessly into the branches of a tree.


    Alia already had her bow free and an arrow notched. She hissed, then shot, and there came a yelp of pain from the thicket.


    The hag hooked Matto¡¯s leg and dumped the youth backward into the water. The quick motion revealed the burly shoulders of a man hidden beneath the rags. With a loud cry, the robber brought the staff down on Matto¡¯s unprotected head and pummeled him. The boy could only cower with arms raised to fend off blows.


    More arrows flew. Jerna became wind, and two arrows stopped dead in midair before Resuelto¡¯s neck even as Sanglant spurred the gelding forward. The horse went eagerly into battle. He knew what to expect and, like his master, had been trained for this life. Leaping the brook, Sanglant struck to his left, severing the hand of the first bandit before the man could let another blow fall on Matto. Alia¡¯s second arrow took the ¡°hag¡± in the back as he turned to run.


    Men screamed the alert from their hiding place, but Sanglant had already plunged forward into the thicket, crashing through the foliage into a clear hollow where a knot of men, armed variously with staves, knives, an ax, and a single bow, stood ready. Easily his sword cleaved through branch, haft, and flesh. The bowman drew for a final shot as Sanglant closed on him.


    Jerna leaped forward as on a gust. The arrow rocked sideways just as the bowman let it fly. The bow, too, spun from the bandit¡¯s grasp, and he grabbed for it frantically, caught the arrow point on his foot, and stumbled backward into a thick growth of sedge and fern.


    Was that a voice, thin and weak, crying for mercy? Surely it was only the whine of a gnat. Sanglant brought his sword down, and the man fell, his skull split like a melon.


    From the road he heard another shriek of pain, followed by a frantic rustling, growing ever more distant, that told of one nay, two survivors who would be running for some time.


    A horn blatted weakly, nearby, and after a pause sounded again with more strength.


    Blessing whimpered. Her voice brought him crashing back to himself. Amazed, he stared at the corpses: six men as ragged as paupers and as poorly armed as common laborers in want of a hire. He hadn¡¯t realized there were so many. He hadn¡¯t thought at all, just killed. One man still thrashed and moaned, but his wound was deep, having been cut through shoulder and lung, and blood bubbled up on his lips. After dismounting, Sanglant mercifully cut his throat.


    Matto hobbled through the gap in the thicket made by Resuelto¡¯s passage and staggered to a stop, staring. ¡°By our Lord!¡± he swore. The horn dangled from its strap around one wrist.

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    ¡°Your arm is broken,¡± said Sanglant. He left the corpses and led Resuelto out to the road. The pony stood with legs splayed to resist the tugging of the tethered goat, who was trying to get to water. Alia had vanished. He heard her whistling tunelessly and saw the flash of her movement on the other side of the road, where another group of the bandits had been hiding behind a shield of slender beech trees. Her shadowed figure bent over a sprawled body. She tugged and with a grunt hopped backward with arrow in hand. To her left, another archer had been hiding right up against the trunk of a tree. His body was actually pinned to the tree by an arrow embedded in his throat. Blood had spilled down the trunk. That was the uncanniest sight of all: The obsidian point of the arrow was sticking out from the back of the man¡¯s neck, while the fletchings were embedded in the tree itself, as if a hole had opened in the tree to allow the arrow to pass through and then closed back up around the shaft at the instant the point found its mark.


    Matto stumbled back to the path, still cradling his broken arm in his other hand. He was trying valiantly not to sob out loud.


    ¡°Let me see that,¡± said Sanglant.


    The youth came as trusting as a lamb. He sat down where Sanglant indicated, braced against a log, while the prince undid the boy¡¯s belt and gathered the other things he¡¯d need: moss, a pair of stout sticks. He crouched beside the boy and fingered around the red lump swelling halfway along the forearm while Matto hissed hard through his teeth and tears started up in his eyes. It seemed to be a clean fracture, nothing shattered or snapped. The arm lay straight, and no bone had broken through the skin.


    ¡°No shame in crying, lad. You¡¯ll get worse if you stay with Henry¡¯s army.¡±


    ¡°I want to stay with you, if you¡¯ll let me serve you,¡± whispered the lad with that awful glow of admiration in his eyes, augmented by the glistening tears. ¡°I want to learn to fight the way you do.¡±


    Perhaps he tightened his hand too hard on the injured arm. Matto cried out, reeling. Alia appeared suddenly and gripped the lad¡¯s shoulders to keep him still as Sanglant cradled the lump with moss and used the belt to bind the sticks along the forearm and hand. When he finished, he got the boy to drink, then rose and walked to the middle of the road where he threw back his head, listening. The bandits were all dead, or fled. A jay shrieked. The first carrion crow settled on a branch a stone¡¯s throw away. In the distance, he heard the ring of harness as horsemen approached.


    Alia came up beside him. ¡°Who¡¯s that coming? Do we leave the boy?¡±


    ¡°Nay, it¡¯ll be his company, the ones we just passed. The horn alerted them. We¡¯ll wait.¡± He undid the sling that bound his daughter to his back, and swung her around to hold to his chest, careful that her cheeks took no harm from the mail. Jerna played in the breeze above the baby¡¯s head, carefree now that danger was past. Blessing babbled sweetly, smiling as soon as she saw her father¡¯s face.


    ¡°Da da,¡± she said. ¡°Da da.¡±


    Ai, God, she was growing so swiftly. No more than five months of age, she looked as big as a yearling and just yesterday at the fireside she had taken a few tottering steps on her own.


    ¡°How did that arrow go through the tree?¡± he asked casually as he smiled into his daughter¡¯s blue-fire eyes.


    His mother shrugged. ¡°Trees are not solid, Son. Nothing is. We are all lattices made up of the elements of air and fire and wind and water as well as earth. I blew a spell down the wind with the arrow, to part the lattices within the tree, so that the arrow might strike where least expected.¡±


    She walked over to the tree and leaned against it. She seemed to whisper to it, as to a lover. His vision got a little hazy then, like looking through water. With a jerk, Alia pulled the arrow free of the wood. The body sagged to the ground. Blood gushed and pooled on fern. The crow cawed jubilantly, and two more flapped down beside it on the branch.


    Sergeant Cobbo arrived with his men. They exclaimed over the carnage and congratulated Sanglant heartily as Matto stammered out an incoherent account of the skirmish.


    ¡°I can see Captain Fulk was sorry to have left you behind,¡± said the sergeant with a great deal more respect than he¡¯d shown before.


    But Sanglant could only regard the dead men with distaste and pity. In truth, he despised berserkers, the ones who let the beast of blood-fury consume them in battle. He prided himself on his calm and steadiness. He had always kept his wits about him, instead of throwing them to the winds. It was one of the reasons his soldiers respected, admired, and followed him: Even in the worst situations, and there had been many, he had never lost control of himself in battle.

 Page 36

    But Bloodheart and Gent had left their mark on him. He thought he had freed himself of Bloodheart¡¯s chains, but the ghost of them lingered, a second self that had settled down inside him and twisted into another form. He was so angry sometimes that he felt the beast gnawing down there, but whether it was anger that woke and troubled the beast, or the beast that fed his anger, he didn¡¯t know. Fate had betrayed him: his own mother had used and discarded him, his father had cherished him but only as long as it served his purpose. He had sworn enemies he¡¯d never heard tell of, who hated him because of his blood and who would have watched his beloved daughter starve to death without lifting a finger to help. Liath had been torn from him, and despite Alia¡¯s explanation that the creatures who had kidnapped her had been daimones, fire elementals, he didn¡¯t actually know what had happened to her or whether she was alive or dead.


    Still cradling Blessing, he watched as Sergeant Cobbo¡¯s men stripped the bandits of their belongings and clothes, such as they were, and dug a shallow grave. They came to the bowman finally, and he heard their exclamations over the power of the blow that had smashed the dead man¡¯s head in. They glanced his way at intervals with a kind of sunstruck awe, although thank the Lord they had not been stricken with the babbling reverence with which Matto now regarded him.


    They hadn¡¯t heard the bowman begging for mercy as he had scrambled away. He hadn¡¯t heard it either, not really. He hadn¡¯t been listening because he¡¯d simply been furious enough to kill anything that stood in his path or threatened Blessing. It was only afterward that he realized what he¡¯d heard. And now it was too late.


    Maybe the pity he felt wasn¡¯t truly for these poor, dead wretches. They would have killed him, after all. The Lord and Lady alone knew what they would have done to Blessing, had she fallen into their hands. Maybe the pity he felt was for that weak, unheeded voice in his own soul, the one that, before, might have listened and might have heard. The one that might have stayed his hand and let mercy, not rage, rule him.


    With a grunt of displeasure, he acknowledged the men¡¯s fawning comments as they came back to the road. Alia was ready to leave. The sergeant helped Matto onto his mare while Sanglant kissed Blessing and settled her on his back again.


    ¡°I think that¡¯ll have taken care of the bandits,¡± said Sergeant Cobbo with a smirk. He had taken the severed hand of the ringleader, the one who¡¯d dressed as a hag, to bring as proof of the victory. ¡°Don¡¯t you want anything? You have first choice of the booty.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Perhaps it was his expression, or his tone, but in any case although they all fell in as escort around him, not one, not even Matto, addressed a single question to him as they rode on. The silence suited him very well.


    The next line of sentries lay within sight of Angenheim Palace. Sergeant Cobbo did all the talking and got them through the sentry ring quickly enough. Two of the soldiers on this sentry duty recognized him: He could tell by their startled expressions, like men who¡¯ve seen a bear walk in dressed in a man¡¯s clothing. But their company rode on before either soldier could say anything.


    So many petitioners had come in the hope of being brought before the king or one of his stewards that the fields around Angenheim swarmed with them. The fetid odor of sweat, excrement, and rotting food hung heavily over the fields. Common folk hurriedly got out of the way as Cobbo pressed his detachment through the crowd of onlookers.


    Like most of the royal palaces, Angenheim had fortifications, although it wasn¡¯t as well situated as the palace at Werlida had been, placed as it was on a bluff above a river¡¯s bend. Angenheim boasted earthen ramparts and a double ring of wooden palisades surrounding the low hill on which the palace complex lay.


    The court spilled out beyond the fortifications and into the fields where the petitioners had set up tents and shelters. Pasture had been ground into dirt and mud. Fires burned. Peddlers called out their wares; beggars coughed as they held out their begging bowls. Pit houses, dug out in a previous generation, had been cleaned out and inhabited by various wagoners and other servants who needed a place to stay while the king remained in residence. A small monastic estate lay beyond the fortified palace, but it, too, seemed to have been swamped by the influx of visitors. Sanglant had a moment to pity the brothers who were no doubt overwhelmed by the burden of providing hospitality to the king and his massive court. Then the party came to the final gate.


    As luck would have it, Captain Fulk himself had been given gate duty this late afternoon. He stepped forward and called Cobbo to a halt, exchanged a few jocular complaints with him, and, in mid-sentence, saw Sanglant.

 Page 37

    His face paled. He dropped to his knees, as though felled. In the wake of that movement, the five soldiers with him knelt as well. All of them were men who had pledged loyalty to Sanglant on that fateful night fourteen months ago when he and Liath had fled the king¡¯s progress.


    ¡°You¡¯ve returned to us, Your Highness.¡± Fulk began to weep with joy.


    Sanglant dismounted and indicated that the soldiers should stand. ¡°I have not forgotten your loyalty to me, Captain Fulk.¡± He could remember as clearly as yesterday the name and home village of each of the men kneeling before him, which they had confided to him on that dark night: Anshelm, Everwin, Wracwulf, Sibold, and Malbert. He offered Resuelto¡¯s reins to Fulk. ¡°I would ask you now to see to my horse. The lad there needs tending by a healer.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Your Highness!¡± They leaped up eagerly while Sergeant Cobbo and his men gaped, and Matto looked ready to fall off his horse either from pain or exhilaration. Cobbo asked a question of someone in the gathering crowd, and a servingwoman said scornfully, ¡°Don¡¯t you know who that is, Cobbo? For shame!¡±


    ¡°Where is my father?¡± Sanglant asked his captain, ignoring the spate of talk his arrival had unleashed.


    ¡°Why, at the wedding feast, of course, Your Highness. Let me take you there, I beg you.¡± Fulk gave the reins to Sibold and only then saw Alia and, a moment later, the baby strapped to Sanglant¡¯s back.


    ¡°I thank you.¡± Sanglant was suddenly apprehensive, but he had to go on. ¡°I wish to see him right away.¡±


    It took a moment for Fulk to shake free of amazement and curiosity. With a self-conscious cough and a good soldier¡¯s obedience, he led Sanglant to the great hall which lay in the center of the palace complex. A steady stream of servants laden with trays of meat and flagons of wine hurried in and out of the hall, passing through the throng of hangers-on and hopeful entertainers and petitioners who crowded around the doors.


    They parted like soft butter under a knife at the sight of Fulk, Sanglant, and Alia. For some reason, Alia was still leading the pony and goat. If she was as nervous as Sanglant had suddenly become, she betrayed nothing of it in her expression or posture. If anything, she looked remarkably grim. Her cold expression emphasized the inhumanity of her features.


    He strode in through the doors into the shadow of the hall, hot with feasting and overflowing with a lively and boisterous crowd. The hall stank of humanity. He had spent more of his life on campaign than in court, out in the open air, and he had forgotten what five hundred bodies pressed together and all eating and farting and belching and pissing smelled like.


    Angenheim¡¯s hall had the breadth and height of a cathedral. Unshuttered windows set into the upper walls at the far end allowed light to spill over the king¡¯s table, where Henry, laughing at the antics of a trio of jugglers, shared a cup of wine with a pretty young woman who looked a few years younger than Sanglant. She wore a crown. A banner hung on the wall beside that of Wendar: the sun of Aosta.


    ¡°Whose wedding feast?¡± he demanded of Fulk, but he could not be heard above the noise of the feasting.


    He strode forward through the ranks of trestle tables with Fulk at his back. Whippets slunk away from him. Servants leaped aside, and then cried out, seeing Alia behind him. Ladies and lords, seated at table, were struck dumb at his passage, or perhaps Alia had cast a spell on them that stole their voices. What couldn¡¯t she do, who could cause an arrow to pierce the wood of a tree?


    Silence spread in their wake.


    An open space had been cleared in front of the king¡¯s table to give the entertainers room to perform their tricks as well as a space where those petitioners lucky enough to have gotten this far could kneel while they waited for the king¡¯s notice. The petitioners crouching along the edge of that empty space did not notice him because they were so intent on the king. Sanglant got a good look at the king for the first time, his view blocked only by the antics of the jugglers. Henry looked remarkably hearty, even a little flushed, as the young noblewoman laughed while gold and silver balls flashed in the air between the three jugglers. Sanglant used his boots to discreetly nudge a raggedly-dressed man out of his way. The man glanced up, startled, and scuttled to one side, causing a cascade as all the petitioners scrambled for new places. Princess Theophanu, seated at the king¡¯s right hand, noticed the movement and tracked it back to its source. Her expression did not change, although it may have whitened a little, and her hands tightened on the cup she was in the act of lifting to her lips. The cleric standing behind her chair staggered backward, as if he had been kicked in the back of the knees.

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    A path opened through the throng, blocked only by the jugglers, who remained intent on the balls tossed between them. Sanglant ducked under the flying path of one shiny ball, caught another in his right hand, and was through their net just as Fulk swore under his breath. A ball hit the captain on the shoulder, fell, and shattered on a circle of ground swept clean of rushes that the jugglers had marked out for their tricks. The pony, hauled in this far and perhaps lulled by the stink and the carpet of rushes and tansy laid down on the floor into thinking it had come into a stable, chose this moment to urinate, loud and long.


    Henry rose with easy grace. At that moment, as Henry looked him over, Sanglant realized that his father had noticed him as soon as he had entered the hall. As might a captain laying a counter ambush against bandits hiding in the forest, the king had simply chosen to pretend otherwise.


    ¡°Prince Sanglant,¡± he said with a cool formality that tore at Sanglant¡¯s heart. ¡°You have not yet met my wife, Queen Adelheid.¡±


    Obviously, Henry was still furious at his disobedient son, since this was the very woman whom his father had so desperately wanted him to marry. She was pretty, certainly, but more importantly she had that energy about her that is common to women who find pleasure in the bed. No doubt that, together with the Aostan crown she wore, accounted for the becoming blush in his father¡¯s cheeks and the smile that hovered on his lips as he regarded his disgraced son, come limping back scarcely better than a beggar.


    Who was laying an ambush for whom?


    Adelheid had the audacity, and the rank, to look him over as she would a stallion. ¡°Handsome enough,¡± she said clearly, as if he had caught them in the middle of a conversation, ¡°but I have no reason to regret my choice. You¡¯ve proved your fitness as regnant many times over, Henry.¡±


    Henry laughed. Made bold by the king¡¯s reaction, some among the audience felt free to chuckle nervously or snicker in response, by which time certain men had made their way through the crowd to throw themselves at Sanglant¡¯s feet.


    ¡°Your Highness!¡±


    ¡°Prince Sanglant!¡±


    He recognized Fulk¡¯s men, who had evidently been serving at table or standing guard throughout the hall. Heribert arrived, pressing through the knot of petitioners who were crowded closest to the king¡¯s table, and knelt before him, grasping Sanglant¡¯s hand and kissing it.


    ¡°Sanglant!¡± he said triumphantly, as out of breath as if he¡¯d been running. ¡°My lord prince! I feared¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nay, friend,¡± said Sanglant, ¡°never fear. I pray you, rise and stand beside me.¡±


    ¡°So I will,¡± said the young cleric, though he wobbled a little as he got to his feet.


    ¡°Who are these, who have come forward?¡± asked Henry. ¡°Does Brother Heribert not serve Theophanu?¡±


    Theophanu still clutched her cup. Old Helmut Villam, seated beside her, leaned to whisper to her, but she was obviously not listening to him. She merely nodded, once, curtly, to Sanglant, before setting down the wine cup.


    ¡°This is my retinue, Your Majesty,¡± said Sanglant at last. ¡°These are men who have pledged loyalty to me.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t I feed them?¡± asked Henry sweetly. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had the lands and wherewithal to maintain a retinue, Son. Certainly you scorned those that I meant to honor you with. I don¡¯t even see a gold torque at your throat to mark you as my son.¡±


    But Sanglant had his own weapons, and he knew how to counterattack. He stepped aside to reveal his mother.


    She stood in a spray of light cast from the high windows. The light made bronze of her hair, burnished and finely-woven into a tight braid as thick as her wrist. She had rolled down the sleeves of Liath¡¯s tunic and belted it in the usual manner around her hips, although even with a length of material caught up under the belt the embroidered hem still lapped her ankles. Yet despite the unexceptionable appearance of the clothing, she blazed with strangeness as alien as a sleek leopard glimpsed running with thundering aurochs.


    She said nothing. She didn¡¯t have to.


    ¡°Alia!¡± Henry paled noticeably, but he had been king for too many years not to know when to retreat. The mask of stone crashed down over his expression, freezing the merriment in the hall as thoroughly as any magic could have. The goat baaed, followed by complete silence. No one seemed to notice the flutter of wind moving through the robes and cloaks of the seated nobles as Jerna explored the hall.


    Finally, Alia spoke. ¡°I come back, Henri,¡± she said, pronouncing his name in the Salian way, ¡°but I am not believing that you cared for the child as you promised to me you would.¡±

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    III


    TWISTING THE BELT


    1


    THE seeds of conflict bloomed at such odd times that it was often easy to forget that they had been sown long before, not risen spontaneously out of fallow ground. Rosvita of North Mark had been a cleric and adviser at court for twenty years. She knew when to step back and let matters take their course, and when to intervene before a crisis got out of hand.


    Although King Henry now stood, the rest of the assembly still sat in astonished, or anticipatory, silence, staring at the confrontation unfolding before them. Even wily old Helmut Villam, seated to her left at the king¡¯s table, seemed stunned into immobility, mouth parted and fingers tightly gripping the stem of the wine cup he shared with Princess Theophanu, which the princess had just set down.


    Rosvita gestured to Brother Fortunatus to pull back her chair so that she, too, could rise. He hurried forward at once. Although like everyone else in the hall he could scarcely keep his gaze from the father, mother, and child whose battle was about to play out on this public stage, he had also been trained by Rosvita herself. There were many traits she could tolerate in the clerics who served her, but to be unobservant was not one of them.


    ¡°This is the woman we¡¯ve heard so much about!¡± he murmured in her ear as she rose. ¡°God preserve us!¡±


    His gaze had fastened on the Aoi woman. He was not the only person in the hall ogling her. Her features were striking but not beautiful, and although admittedly her hair had the glamour of polished bronze, she wore it caught back in a complicated knot that made her look peculiar rather than regal. Her gaze was fierce and commanding, even combative. She was not afraid to look Henry in the eye, and her proud carriage suggested that she considered herself the regnant and Henry her subject.


    ¡°I come back, Henri,¡± she said, pronouncing his name in the Salian way with an unvoiced ¡°h¡± and a garbled ¡°ri,¡± ¡°but I am not believing that you cared for the child as you promised to me you would.¡±


    ¡°I pray you, Your Majesty,¡± said Rosvita smoothly into the shocked silence that followed this outrageous accusation, ¡°let chairs be brought so that our visitors may sit and eat. Truly, they must have a long journey behind them. Food and drink are always a welcome sight to the traveler. Indeed, let Prince Sanglant¡¯s mother abide in my own chair, and I will serve her.¡±


    Henry stared so fixedly at the foreign woman he had once called ¡°beloved,¡± and whom it was popularly believed he would have married had he been permitted to, that finally Queen Adelheid rose with cool aplomb and indicated Rosvita¡¯s seat to the right of Helmut Villam. It was not actually Adelheid¡¯s prerogative, but Adelheid was neither a fool nor a quitter.


    ¡°Let a chair be brought for Prince Sanglant so that he may be seated beside me,¡± she said in her high, clear voice. ¡°Let his lady mother be honored as is her right and our obligation, for it was her gift of this child to my husband which sealed his right to rule as regnant in Wendar and Varre.¡±


    Sanglant stepped forward. ¡°I have a child.¡± His voice had a hoarse scrape to it, as though he were afflicted with pain, but his voice always sounded like that. Years ago he had taken a wound to the throat in battle.


    He untied a bundle from his back, uncoiled linen cloth, and a moment later held in his arms a yearling child, as sweet a babe as Rosvita had ever seen, with plump cheeks, a dark complexion, and bright blue eyes. ¡°Da da!¡± she said in the ringing tones of imperious babyhood. He set her on the ground and she took a few tottering steps toward the king, swayed, lost her balance, and sat down on her rump. Lifting a hand, she pointed toward Henry and said, with despotic glee, ¡°Ba! Ba!¡±


    Sanglant swept her up, strode forward and, by leaning over the feasting table, deposited her in Henry¡¯s arms. The king did not even resist. Many yearling babies would have shrieked in rage or fear, but the tiny child merely reached up, got a bit of the king¡¯s beard between her fingers, and tugged.


    ¡°Ba!¡± she exclaimed, delighted.


    ¡°Jugglers!¡± said Henry hoarsely. He sat and downed the contents of his wine cup in one gulp while the baby tried to climb up to his shoulder to get hold of the gleaming coronet of gold he wore on his brow¡ªnot the king¡¯s crown of state, too heavy and formal to wear at a feast, but his lesser crown, a slender band of gold worn when circumstances called for a lesser degree of formality.


    Prince Sanglant¡¯s smile was sharp. Turning, he tossed the silver ball to the nearest juggler. The poor man jerked, startled, but his hand acted without his mind¡¯s measure and he caught the ball. The hall came alive then, as dawn unfolds: people recalled the food on their platters; the jugglers returned to their show of skill and daring; the soldiers who had come forward to publicly and thus irrevocably mark their allegiance to Prince Sanglant rose and waited for his command. Sanglant spoke quietly to Captain Fulk, after which the good captain dispersed his men efficiently, obtained the lead lines of the pony and the goat, and, leading the two animals, retreated from the hall while Sanglant came forward to take his place at Adelheid¡¯s left. The young cleric, Heribert, who had appeared so mysteriously in the Alfar Mountains, stuck close by Sanglant¡¯s side. It was he who took over serving the prince, although before he had served Theophanu. The princess¡¯ expression remained as blank as stone. She rose and went to kiss Sanglant, once on either cheek, and he caught her closer and whispered something which, amazingly, brought a whisper of a smile to her face, seen and gone as swiftly as the flutter of a swallow¡¯s wing.

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    ¡°Go to Princess Theophanu,¡± Rosvita said to Fortunatus in an undertone. He hastened away to stand behind the princess¡¯ chair so that she would have a person of fitting rank to serve her now that Brother Heribert had, evidently, defected to her half brother.


    Sanglant turned his attention to charming Adelheid while Henry had his hands full of clambering, enthusiastic baby. Something fundamental had changed in the prince in the fourteen months he had been gone from the king¡¯s progress. Rosvita had seen battle joined on the field, and she had seen skirmishes played out in the subtler fields of court, but never before had she seen Sanglant maneuvering, as he obviously was now, in the political arena. Of course, before he hadn¡¯t had a child and a wife.


    Where was Liath?


    ¡°You I will be thanking, woman,¡± said the one known as Alia, who came up beside her. ¡°You are one of the god-women, are you not?¡±


    It took Rosvita a moment to translate the strange phrase. ¡°Yes, I am a cleric. My service is devoted to God and to King Henry. I pray you, Lady, sit here, if you please. Let me pour you some wine.¡±


    But the foreign woman remained standing, examining Rosvita with a stare that made her feel rather like what she supposed an insect felt before the hand of fate slapped down upon it. She was shorter than Rosvita and powerfully built, with the same kind of leashed energy common to warriors forced into momentary stillness. Alia did not smile, but abruptly the tenor of her expression changed. ¡°You spoke in the way of an elder,¡± she said abruptly, ¡°when you rose to offer guesting rights. For this short time, there will be no fighting between Henri and his son.¡±


    ¡°So I hope,¡± agreed Rosvita, but in truth the observation surprised her. She did not know what to expect from the Aoi woman. She did not know anything, really, about the Aoi except for legends half buried in ancient manuscripts and tales told around hearths at night in the long halls of the common people. Like many, she had begun to believe the Aoi were only a story, a dream fostered by old memories of the ancient Dariyan Empire, but it was impossible to deny the evidence of her own eyes. ¡°Sit, I pray you.¡± At times like this, one fell back on basic formality. ¡°Let me pour you wine, if you will, Lady.¡±


    ¡°To you,¡± said Alia without making any movement toward the chair, ¡°I will give my spoken name, because you are wise enough to use it prudently. I am known among my people as Uapeani-ka-zonkansi-a-lari, but if that is too much for your tongue, then Kansi-a-lari is enough.¡±


    Rosvita smiled politely. ¡°With your permission; then, Lady, I will address you as Kansi-a-lari. Is there a title that suits you as well? I am unaccustomed to the customs of your people.¡±


    ¡°Kansi-a-lari is my title, as you call it.¡± With that, she sat, moving into the confines of the chair with the cautious grace of a leopard slinking into a box that might prove to be a cage.


    The feast ground on, lurching a little, like a wagon pulled over rough ground, but entertainers took their turns, platters of beef, venison, and pork were brought hot from the outdoor cookhouses, and wine flowed freely. Petitioners shuffled forward in waves and were sent on their way with a judgment or a coin or a scrap from the king¡¯s platter for their pains. A poet trained in the court chapel of the Salian king sang from a lengthy poem celebrating the virtues and fame of the great emperor, Taillefer, he who had risen from the kingship of Salia to the imperial crown of Darre. Emperor Taillefer stood alone in the ranks of the great princes, for no regnant from any land in the one hundred years since his death had gained enough power to duplicate his achievement. None until Henry, who had now, through marriage to Adelheid, allied his kingdom of Wendar and Varre with the country of Aosta, within whose borders lay the holy city of Darre. Of course the poet meant to praise the dead Emperor Taillefer while flattering the living king, Henry, whose ambition to take upon himself the title ¡°Holy Dariyan Emperor¡± was no secret to his court.


    ¡°Look! The sun shines no more brightly than the emperor, who illuminates the earth with his boundless love and great wisdom. For although the sun knows twelve hours of darkness, our regnant, like a star, shines eternally.¡±


    The entrance of Prince Sanglant and his mother, while never forgotten, was subsumed into the familiar conviviality of the feast. And anyway, it gave everyone there something to gossip about as the banquet, and the poet, wore on.


    ¡°He enters first among the company, and he clears the way so that all may follow. With heavy chains he binds the unjust and with a stiff yoke he constrains the proud.¡±


    After all, it was the fifth day of feasting, and even the heartiest of revelers might be forgiven for growing restless after endless hours of merriment and gluttony. In an odd way, Rosvita was grateful to serve rather than sit. She attended to Alia as unobtrusively as possible, so as not to startle her or give her any reason to feel spied upon or threatened.

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    ¡°He is the fount of grace and honor. His achievements have made him famous throughout the four quarters of the earth.¡±


    The Aoi woman did not invite conversation. Young Lord Fride-braht, seated to her right, was certainly too much in dread of her strange appearance and fierce gaze to speak one single word to her. Even old Villam, who had known Alia those many years ago in her brief time at court and who certainly had never before lacked the spirit or courage to flatter an attractive woman, attempted only a few comments before, in the face of her disinterest, he gave up. Alia watched the king, the court, and occasionally her son. She ate and drank sparingly. In this way, the feast continued without further incident.


    The poet finished his panegyric at last, and a cleric came forward to give a pleasing rendition of ¡°The Best of Songs,¡± the wedding song taken from the ancient Essit holy book.


    ¡°My beloved is mine, and I am his.


    Let me be a seal upon your heart,


    like the seal upon your hand.¡±


    The king¡¯s favored Eagle, Hathui, beckoned to Rosvita. ¡°His Majesty will take his leave of the hall now.¡±


    ¡°What make you of this turn of events?¡± asked Rosvita. Although Hathui was only a common-born woman, she had a keen eye and the king¡¯s confidence.


    ¡°It is unexpected.¡± Hathui laughed at the absurdity of her own statement. Henry had gotten the baby settled on his knee and was now feeding her the choicest bits, mashed into a porridgelike consistency, from the platter he shared with his queen. ¡°I believe the king would be better served if he sorts it out in the king¡¯s chambers, in some manner of privacy, away from the assembly.¡±


    Almost as if he had overheard the Eagle¡¯s statement, Sanglant rose to toast the newly married couple. Despite his common clothing, he had the carriage of a prince and the proud face of a man who expects loyalty and obedience in those who follow him. He knew how to pitch his voice to carry over the buzzing throng.


    ¡°Let many blessings attend this union,¡± he said to cheers. When the hurrahs tailed off, he went on. ¡°But let me call before you one blessing, in particular, that is held by our blessed regnant and my beloved father, King Henry.¡±


    The hall quieted. The guards at the doors strained forward to hear. Even the servants paused in their tasks.


    At the sound of her father¡¯s voice, the baby stood up in Henry¡¯s lap and sang out, ¡°Da! Da!¡± in a voice surely meant someday to ring out above the clash of battle. Henry laughed as many in the assembly chuckled appreciatively or murmured to each other, wondering what the prince was about. Bastards siring children was nothing unknown, alas, but it wasn¡¯t customary to bring such a left-handed lineage to the attention of the entire court.


    A fly buzzed annoyingly by Rosvita¡¯s ear. As she slapped it away, Sanglant continued.


    ¡°King Henry holds in his arms my daughter, whom I have named Blessing, as was my right as her father.¡±


    ¡°And a blessing she truly is, Son,¡± replied Henry. Despite the shock of Sanglant¡¯s and Alia¡¯s arrival, Henry had mellowed under the influence of the child. Or so it seemed. He was a subtle campaigner, and in such circumstances it was easy to forget that his wrath, once kindled, was slow to burn out. ¡°In your place, with such responsibilities, it is wise for you to come seeking forgiveness of me. You cannot hope to feed and clothe a retinue in this guise you have taken, garbed something like a common soldier and without even the gold badge of your royal lineage about your neck. Surely your daughter deserves more than this journeyer¡¯s life.¡±


    Adelheid¡¯s smile sharpened as she looked at Sanglant to see how he would respond to this thrust.


    The prince downed his cup of wine in a single gulp and, with a flush staining his bronze-dark cheeks, replied with an edge in his voice. ¡°I ask for nothing for myself, Your Majesty. I thought I made that plain when I returned to you the belt of honor which you yourself fastened on me when I was fifteen. What I wear now I have earned through my own efforts. Nay, I return to court not for my own benefit.¡±


    They were like two dogs, growling before they bit.


    ¡°If you do not come seeking my forgiveness, then why are you here?¡± demanded Henry.


    ¡°I come on behalf of my daughter, Blessing. I ask only for what is due her as the last legitimate descendant of the Emperor Taillefer.¡±


    Taillefer. Dead these hundred years and his lineage died with him, for no child sired by his loins had reigned after him and his empire had fallen apart soon after his death.


    Rosvita understood, then, everything that hadn¡¯t been plain to her before: the puzzle of the pregnant Queen Radegundis, who had fled to the convent after her husband Taillefer¡¯s death; the mystery of Mother Obligatia and the cryptic words of Brother Fidelis; and most of all, the inexplicable luster that made Liath appear to be far more than the simple king¡¯s messenger she supposedly was.

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    ¡°So many show such an interest in a common Eagle,¡± the king had said once, over a year ago, when she had been brought before him to face his judgment. But a child born of Taillefer¡¯s line would surely retain some of Taillefer¡¯s legendary glory, the corona of power that cloaked him at all times.


    Henry stared at his son. ¡°Do you mean to suggest that the Eagle you ran off with is descended from Taillefer?¡±


    Sanglant¡¯s answer was pitched not to carry to his father but rather to the entire assembly of nobles and serving-folk. ¡°Who here will witness that I made a legitimate and binding union of marriage with the woman called Liathano?¡±


    Soldiers stepped forward from their stations beside the door. ¡°I will witness, Your Highness!¡± one called, and a second, and a third and fourth, echoed him. As their shouts died away, Captain Fulk came forward. His steadiness was well known, and he had gained renown for his service to Theophanu on the disastrous expedition to Aosta in the course of which they had, despite everything, rescued Adelheid from the clutches of Lord John Ironhead.


    ¡°I witness, Your Highness,¡± he cried, ¡°that you freely stated your intention before God and freeborn witnesses to bind yourself in marriage to the woman Liathano.¡±


    ¡°Then there is no impediment,¡± said Sanglant triumphantly. ¡°Liathano is the great granddaughter of Taillefer and Radegundis, born out of legitimate unions and therefore herself legitimate, not a bastard. That is why she now wears the gold torque that I once wore at my throat. In this way, I honored her royal lineage and her right to claim descent from Taillefer.¡± He looked neither at his mother or father as he said this, only at the crowd. Some of the assembly had stood, trying to see better, and that had caused others at the back to stand on their benches or even on the tables. The air in the hall and the very attitude of the crowd snapped with the reverberant energy that precedes a thunderstorm.


    Queen Adelheid¡¯s smile had gained a fixed look, and for an instant she looked really angry.


    ¡°This is unbelievable,¡± said Henry. ¡°Taillefer died without a legitimately born son to succeed him, as was the custom in those days in Salia. He has no descendants.¡±


    ¡°Queen Radegundis was pregnant when Taillefer died.¡± Sanglant gestured toward the hapless poet who had entertained the feasting multitude with Taillefer¡¯s exploits and noble qualities. ¡°Is that not so, poet?¡± The poor man could only nod as Sanglant threw back into the hall lines that Rosvita had once read from her precious Vita of St. Radegundis, which she had received from the hands of Brother Fidelis. ¡°¡¯Still heavy with child, Radegundis clothed herself and her companion Clothilde in the garb of poor women. She chose exile over the torments of power.¡¯ And took refuge in the convent at Poiterri. What became of the child Radegundis carried, Your Majesty?¡±


    ¡°No one knows,¡± said Hathui suddenly, speaking for the king. ¡°No one knows what became of the child.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± Rosvita stepped forward. Was it disloyal to speak? Yet she could not lie or conceal when so much was at stake. She owed the truth for the sake of Brother Fidelis¡¯ memory, if nothing else. ¡°I know what became of the child born to Radegundis and Taillefer, for I spoke to him in the hour of his death in the hills above Hersford Monastery. He was called Brother Fidelis, and except for a single year when he lapsed from his vows for the sake of the love of a young woman, he spent his life as a monk in the service of God. Fidelis wrote these words in his Life of St. Rade-gundis: ¡®The world divides those whom no space parted once.¡¯¡±


    She paused to make sure that every person there had time to contemplate the hidden meaning in his words. ¡°Truly, can it not be said that before a baby is born, it and its mother are of one body, of a single piece? What God divides in childbirth can be split asunder by the world¡¯s intrigues as well.¡±


    When their murmuring died away, she went on. ¡°I spoke as well to the woman whom he married and who bore a child conceived with his seed. She is an old woman now, and she lives in hiding out of fear of those who seek her because of the secret she carries with her. I believe that her story is true, that she was briefly married to Fidelis¡ªthe son of Taillefer and Radegundis¡ªand that her union with Fidelis produced a daughter. It is possible that the daughter lived, and survived, and in her turn bore a child.¡±


    ¡°She lived and she survived,¡± said Sanglant in a grim voice. ¡°A daughter was born to her, gotten in legitimate marriage with a disgraced frater who had studied the lore of the mathematici. He named the child Liathano. The rest you know.¡±

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    ¡°Where, then, is Liath?¡± Henry gestured toward the hall as if he expected her to step forward from a place of concealment. ¡°Why have you returned to me, with this astounding claim, without her?¡±


    It fell away, then, the pride and the anger and the confidence. Sanglant began to weep silently, a few tears that slid down his cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away. Weeping, after all, was a man¡¯s right and obligation.


    ¡°Dead, or alive, I cannot say,¡± he whispered hoarsely. ¡°She was stolen from me. I do not know where she is now.¡±


    2


    AS Liath descended the staircase the light faded quickly, yet where it grew dimmest she could still distinguish walls and steps with her salamander eyes. The old sorcerer matched her step for step even though she stood half a head taller. It grew markedly cool. At intervals, the murmuring of voices swept up the staircase like a wind out of the Abyss.


    They walked down for a long time. At some point she stopped feeling the regular seams of worked stone and touched only the seamlessly rough walls of excavated earth. Eventually the staircase leveled out, and they walked down a short tunnel so round that a rod might have punched it out to make a circle within the rock. The tunnel opened into a broad chamber whose walls were illuminated by a small opening far above them. Plants had grown through the opening; roots dangled into empty air and twined along the ceiling, trying to gain purchase against the rock. Dust motes danced along the roof before they swirled into shadows.


    The smooth floor descended down two high steps to an oval hollow that marked the meeting place, where the council members had congregated. They wore a bewildering variety of strange clothing: shifts stamped with colored patterns, feathers adorning their hair, sheaths studded with beads and colored stones bound around forearms and calves. Most of them wore some kind of cloak, pinned at one shoulder and draping down to mid-thigh. Each of the women wore a heavy jade ring piercing her nose, all except one.


    They had exotic faces, broad across the cheekbones, reddish or bronze in their complexions. They looked nothing like the Wendish, but she could see Sanglant¡¯s heritage in every face there. There were not more than thirty, waiting for her in a chamber obviously large enough to command an audience of hundreds, yet somehow the chamber felt crowded, as if the shades of those who had stood here in the past and who would stand here in the future filled the empty spaces.


    Silence reigned.


    She stood beneath the wings of an eagle whose semblance had been carved out of the stone archway above the tunnel. Every person seated or standing within the chamber examined her. Yet when she compared their stern and even hostile expressions to Hugh¡¯s poisonous gaze, she could not fall into helpless terror. She had walked through the fire and survived.


    Eldest Uncle shifted behind her, coughing gently.


    In the center of the oval, seated on an eagle literally carved out of the stone floor, sat a very pregnant woman with a gloriously feathered cloak draped around her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in a topknot. Alone of all the women, she wore no jade ring in her nose. Behind her stood the golden wheel, no longer turning because in this stone womb there was no wind. The emerald feathers trimming the wheel glowed with a light of their own. Feather Cloak lifted a hand and beckoned Liath to come forward.


    ¡°I am here,¡± Liath said in response to that languid gesture. She took a big step down, and then the second, to stand at the same level as the others. Lifting her hands, she opened them to show her palms out, empty. ¡°I come unarmed, as is your custom. Eldest Uncle comes with me, to show that I mean no harm to your people. In the language of my people, I am called Liathano, and I seek knowledge¡ª¡±


    That brought them to life.


    ¡°Let her be cast out!¡± shouted White Feather, the woman who had come to see Eldest Uncle. ¡°How dares she bring the name of our ancient enemy into this chamber?¡± The distinctive shield of white feathers bound into her hair shook as if in response to her anger, and her words unleashed the others, a chorus of discordant views, too rapid an exchange for Liath to see immediately which one spoke what words.


    ¡°It¡¯s treachery! Kill her at once!¡±


    ¡°Nay, I would hear her speak!¡±


    ¡°We cannot trust any child born of humankind¡ª¡±


    ¡°We are few, and they are many. If we do not seek understanding now, then we will surely all perish.¡±


    ¡°I want to know what Eldest Uncle means by bringing her here without the permission of the council. The human woman is nothing to us, however evil her name. It is Eldest Uncle who must stand before our judgment.¡±


    One stepped forward belligerently, hard to ignore because he was a strikingly attractive man clothed only in a cunningly-tied loincloth and a plain hip-length cloak and adorned by nothing more than a wooden mask carved into the shape of a snarling cat pushed back on top of his cropped hair. He had a powerful baritone. ¡°I say this to you, sisters and brothers: Let her blood be the first we spill. Let it, and the memory of the one who helped to ruin us, be used to strengthen us as we prepare to fight to take back what was once ours.¡±

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    ¡°Silence.¡± They fell silent at once. Feather Cloak did not rise from her stone seat. Her crossed legs cradled her huge belly, which was half concealed by the stone eagle¡¯s head thrusting up from the floor. The feather cloak pooled over the wings of the bird, giving the woman the appearance of a creature both humanlike and avian. Under her light shift, her breasts were swollen in the way of pregnant women, round and full, and Liath was struck by such a sharp jab of envy that she had to blink back tears.


    Where was Blessing now? Who was caring for her?


    Feather Cloak curved a hand around her belly. ¡°Remember that this child will be the first born on Earth since our exile. Shall it be born to know only war, or to know peace as well?¡±


    ¡°You have taken the Impatient One¡¯s counsel to heart!¡± snarled Cat Mask. ¡°She threw away her loyalty to her own people to go walking among humankind. You know what she did there!¡±


    ¡°You are only angry that she tossed your spear out of her house!¡± cried another young man, laughing unkindly after he spoke. He wore a mask carved in the shape of a lizard¡¯s head, elaborated with a curly snout. ¡°Very proud you are of that spear, and it galls you to think that another man¡ªnot just another man but a human man might have been allowed to bring his spear into her house!¡±


    This insult triggered a flurry of mocking laughter among some of the others and a clash, like rams locking horns, between the two men that was only halted when a stout older man stepped between them.


    Dressed more conservatively than the other men, with his chest covered by a tunic in the manner of the women, he made for an unsettling sight with a necklace of mandibles hanging at his chest and earrings fashioned to resemble tiny skulls dangling from either ear.


    ¡°The Impatient One chose negotiation over war.¡± With a single finger on the chest of each of the young men, he pushed them apart as though they weighed no more than a child.


    ¡°We cannot negotiate with humankind,¡± objected White Feather.


    ¡°What do you mean us to do?¡± asked an elderly woman in a deceptively sweet voice. ¡°We have dwindled. How many children are left to us, and how many among us remain capable even of bearing or siring a child? Where once our tribes filled cities, now we eke out a living in the hills, on the dying fields. If there is one left where ten stood before, then I am counting generously. We will be weak when we stand on Earth once more. We must seek accommodation.¡±


    Cat Mask gave a barking laugh of disgust. ¡°Accommodation is for fools! We have enough power to defeat them, even if we are few and they are many.¡±


    ¡°So speaks the Impulsive One,¡± retorted the old woman. She had a scar on her left cheek, very like a wound taken in battle. Her short tunic ended at her waist and below that she wore a ragged skirt, much repaired, striped with rows of green beads. Little white masks, all of them grinning skull faces, hung from her belt. ¡°I ask you, The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat, let the human woman walk forward and speak to us. I, for one, would hear what she has to say.¡±


    ¡°Come forward,¡± said Feather Cloak.


    Liath walked forward cautiously. The council members moved as she walked, shifting position so that they stood neither too close nor too far, yet always able to see her face.


    ¡°Stand before me.¡± Feather Cloak looked serious but not antagonistic. Liath felt it safe to obey her, under the circumstances. ¡°Closer. There.¡± Closing her eyes, Feather Cloak rested a hand on Liath¡¯s hip. The touch was probing without being intrusive. Even through her tunic, Liath felt the cool smoothness of her hand, almost as if it melted into her.


    And she was thrown, abruptly, into the trance she had learned from Eldest Uncle. She slid into it without warning, into that place where the architecture of existence dissolves into view. Dust motes dance, surrounded by empty space, yet those motes are arranged in perfect order, a latticework of being that in its parts makes up all of her and yet, because it is invisible to the naked eye, seems to be nothing of what she actually is. In her mind¡¯s eye, the city of memory bloomed into view, on the hill, on the lake, and at its core burned the blue-white fire that consumes mountains¡ª


    Feather Cloak jerked back with a gasp as her eyelids snapped open. ¡°She is not what she seems! More than one essence weaves itself within her.¡± Her gaze flashed past Liath to Eldest Uncle.


    ¡°There is even something of you in her, Eldest Uncle. How can this be so?¡±


    He merely shrugged.


    ¡°So often you refuse to answer me!¡± But Feather Cloak¡¯s frown seemed born as much of resigned amusement as irritation. Given the advanced stage of her pregnancy, Liath could well imagine that the Aoi woman might simply be exhausted. She spoke again to Liath. ¡°So, then, You-Who-Have-More-Than-One-Seeming, why have you come here?¡±

 Page 45

    Liath displayed her empty palms. ¡°I hold no secrets here. I came to learn what I am.¡±


    ¡°What are you?¡±


    ¡°In my own land, I am known as the child of mathematici, sorcerers who bind and weave the light of the stars¡ª¡±


    Nothing, not even their reaction to her name, could have prepared her for the uproar that greeted these words.


    ¡°Daughter of the ones who exiled us!¡±


    ¡°Heir to the shana-ret¡¯zeri, cursed may they be.¡±


    ¡°Kill her!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± roared Feather Cloak. For an instant she seemed actually to expand in size and to take on the features of the eagle, so that as her person swelled and her features sharpened it seemed she might transform into a creature that would fill the entire chamber and swallow those who disobeyed it.


    Silence swept down like wings. Liath blinked. In the next instant Feather Cloak appeared to be nothing more than a very pregnant woman with lines of exhaustion around her mouth and the habit of command in her voice. ¡°What do you say to these accusations?¡±


    ¡°In truth, honored one, the story of your people is lost to me. None among humankind knows it now. Our legends say that your kind lived on Earth once, but that you left because of your war with humankind. It is said that you left Earth in order to hoard your power, so that when you returned, you could defeat humankind and make them your slaves.¡± Hastily she gestured to show that she had not yet done, because Cat Mask, for one, seemed eager to throw speech back at her, like a spear. ¡°These are the stories and legends told by my people. I do not know how much truth there is in them. It happened so long ago that all memory of the truth is lost to us.¡±


    ¡°But not to us!¡± cried Cat Mask. ¡°We recall it bitterly enough!¡±


    ¡°Let her speak,¡± shouted Lizard Mask. Like a lizard, he threw his breath into his chest, all puffed out. Little white scars, like lines marking the phases of the moon, scored his dark skin. All at once, she realized why the men seemed so like Sanglant: not one of them had a beard.


    ¡°How can none remember it?¡± asked elderly Green Skirt. ¡°My mother and aunts suffered through the cataclysm, and I can recite their stories of that time as easily as I breathe. How can it be forgotten? We were at war with the shana-ret¡¯zeri and their human allies for generations. It cannot have passed so easily even from human memory.¡±


    Others murmured in agreement.


    ¡°No,¡± said Liath. ¡°If the measure of days and years moves differently here than there, then more time has passed for those living on Earth than for you, here in this country. According to the calculations I know, your tribe has not walked on Earth for almost two thousand and seven hundred years. That is over a hundred generations, as measured by human lives. All we have left from, those days are ancient memories shrouded in tales that make little sense to us now, as well as the remains of what the ancient people built. Yet fallen buildings cannot speak.¡±


    ¡°One hundred generations!¡± Even the hostile White Feather seemed struck by this fact. ¡°My mother¡¯s mother died in the Sundering. I had the story from my aunt and my mother¡¯s brother. No more time than this has passed, here.¡±


    ¡°Then I pray you, tell me the story,¡± said Liath. ¡°Tell me what happened in those days and how you came to this country.¡±


    ¡°Beware how much you tell her,¡± murmured Skull Earrings.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you the one who advises accommodation with the human tribes?¡± retorted Cat Mask gleefully.


    ¡°Accommodation, but not surrender! That is why some among us agreed when the Impatient One told us her plan. If we tell this one too much, and it can be used against us¡ª¡±


    ¡°I will speak.¡± Feather Cloak¡¯s words, as always, silenced the others. ¡°How can the truth harm us? I can only recount the deeds of that time as they were given to me by my aunt, who wore the serpent skirt and danced below the altar of She-Who-Will-Not-Have-A-Husband. Alone among us all, Eldest Uncle remains. He witnessed. Perhaps he will again tell us the tale.¡±


    He was hesitant. ¡°It is nothing I desire to remember.¡± He looked at Liath as he said the words. ¡°Yet worse will come if we do not remember.¡±


    The council members, even those who had spoken in the most hostile way before, moved back respectfully as he descended to the council ground. Behind the standard, raised on a squat column of stone and concealed up to this moment from Liath¡¯s sight by the arrangement of the standing councillors, lay a carving rather like that of the eagle on which Feather Cloak sat. This one resembled a huge cat, lionlike but scarred with lines that seemed to indicate dapplings or lesions upon its stone coat. Its head, tail, and paws thrust up from the stone as if it had been caught in the instant before it fully emerged out of the rock. Eldest Uncle clambered up on this high seat and settled himself cross-legged on the curving back.

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    When all were quiet and at rest, he began to speak.


    ¡°Hu-ah. Hu-ah. Let my words be pleasing to She-Who-Creates. In those days, we called ourselves The-Ones-Who-Have-Understanding. Our people became alive in the place known as Gold-Is-Everywhere. We were the children of the Fourth Sun, which was born after the waters flooded the world and destroyed the Third Sun. In that place known as Gold-Is-Everywhere, we built cities and gave offerings to the gods. But He-Who-Burns became angry with our people. He sent forth his sons and they burned the cities with their fire. After this, there was no peace among the tribes.


    ¡°Thirteen of the clans built ships and sailed boldly west over the great water. The moon three times hid her face before land was sighted. Here they found many goats and the pale ones who looked like people but acted like dogs.


    ¡°¡®This is not a good country,¡¯ said The-One-Who-Counts. The council listened to her words, and they left that place.


    ¡°After much wandering, the thirteen clans came to the middle sea. Here, also, the pale ones lived, but these pale ones acted like people, not beasts. The council met, and The-One-Who-Counts said to them: ¡®This is a better country.¡¯


    ¡°They made a harbor there and built cities in the place known after that as Abundance-Is-Ours-If-The-Gods-Do-Not-Change-Their-Minds. Into this land the clans settled and made new homes. ¡°None of the offerings were forgotten, and in this way rain fell at the proper time and sun shone at the proper time. There were many children. In this land, the people called themselves The-Ones-Who-Have-Made-A-New-Home.


    ¡°Some of the pale ones, who called themselves humankind, came as friends to our people. Others came from the south, who had skin as black as charcoal, and some from the east, who were the color of clay. Some among humankind walked together with our people and painted the clan marks on their bodies. In this way, they became part of the clans, and their blood and our blood mixed.


    ¡°Many Long Years passed. The counting-women walked on the temples and counted the rising and setting of the stars. At the end of every four Long Years, which marks a Great Year, they ascended the Hill of the Star and watched to see if the Six-Women-Who-Live-Upriver would pass the zenith. In this way, the counting-women would know that the movements of the heavens had not ceased and that the world would not come to an end.


    ¡°Hu-ah. Hu-ah. Let She-Who-Creates be pleased as my story continues.


    ¡°The time of four omens began in the year of 1-Mountain. In the season of Dry Light, the people saw a strange wonder. A column of flame appeared in the sky. Like a great wound, it bled fire onto the earth, drop by drop. The people cried out all together in wonder and in dread, and as was the custom, they clapped their hands against their mouths. They asked the counting-women what it could mean, the counting-women answered that the stars spoke of a great cataclysm, the rising of the Fifth Sun, under which the whole world would suffer. That year, there were many offerings to the gods.


    ¡°In the year of 12-Sky, fire ran like a river through the sky at daybreak. It split into three parts and the three parts became wind. One part of wind rose up to the Hill of the Stars and smashed the House of Authority. The other two parts lashed the waters of the Lake of Gold until the waters boiled. Half of the houses of the city fell into the boiling waves. Then the waters sank back to their rightful place.


    ¡°In the year of 9-Sky, a whirlwind of dust rose from the earth until it touched the sky. Out of the whirlwind came the voice of the crying woman, and she cried, ¡®We are lost! Let us flee the city.¡¯ After that, the sky inhaled the whirlwind, but the crying woman was left behind, and she would often be heard in the middle of the night.


    ¡°The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat sent out the most gifted seers and sorcerers to see what was happening, but everywhere they went their human neighbors greeted them with stones and spears, violence and battle. The men who speak for peace went out among humankind, but they were killed.


    ¡°The shana-ret¡¯zeri were on the move, and they had allied with the human tribes. Even those whom we had taught and taken into our own towns turned against us. The long enmity between our peoples could not be healed. At this time the year 2-Sky came to an end, and the counting-women tallied the beginning of the year 1-Sky with offerings. Thirteen times had the full count of Great Years run to completion, which meant that the Long Count had come full circle. This was the time of greatest danger, for at the end of each Long Count, the gods gained the power to destroy the sun.


    ¡°It came to pass that on the two hundredth day of 1-Sky, two of the fisherfolk captured a heron in the waters of the lake. The bird was so marvelous and strange that none of them could describe it, so they took it to The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat. She had gone already to the Hall of Night to celebrate the evening banquet.

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    ¡°A crown of stars was set on the head of the bird. The-One-Who-Sits-In-The-Eagle-Seat said, ¡®Within the crown I see a mirror, and the mirror shows me the heavens and the night sky. In the mirror, I see the stars we call the Six-Women-Who-Live-Upriver, but they are burning.¡¯ Now she was very afraid, because it seemed to her that this was not only strange and wondrous, but a particularly bad omen.


    ¡°She looked a second time into the mirror. She saw the human sorcerers standing within their stone looms and weaving a spell greater than any spell known before on Earth. Then the seers and the counting-women of my people understood the intent of the shana-ret¡¯zeri and their human allies.


    ¡°Too late had we discovered the danger. Our enemies had already woven the net to catch us.¡±


    Abruptly, the old sorcerer could not go on. He faded as the sun fades beneath the hills, losing all power, and his body bent over his crossed knees as though he had fainted.


    ¡°I will not speak of the suffering,¡± he said in a whisper that nevertheless penetrated the entire chamber, ¡°or of the ones we lost. Only this. By means of the spell woven by the human sorcerers and their allies, our land was torn away from Earth. Here in exile we have lingered. The land dies around us as all plants die in time, when they are uprooted. We have dwindled. We would die were we to remain in this exile forever.¡±


    He straightened up. The fire of anger flashed in his gaze again, the stubbornness of a man who has seen a sight worse than death but means to survive longer than his enemies. He looked directly at Liath. ¡°But what is born out of Earth returns to Earth. This truth our enemies did not comprehend. They thought to rid themselves of us forever, but they only exiled us for a time.¡±


    ¡°How can that be?¡± demanded Liath. ¡°If they flung you and your homeland away from Earth, then surely it must be your own sorcerers who are bringing your land back to Earth.¡±


    ¡°Give me your belt.¡±


    She undid her leather belt and walked forward with her tunic lapping her calves. The council members had fallen into a profound silence, whether out of respect for Eldest Uncle and his memories, or out of sorrow for what had been lost, she could not know.


    He took the belt and held it by the buckle so that the other end dangled loose toward the floor. Grasping the other end, he brought it up to touch the buckle.


    ¡°Here is a circle.¡± He placed a finger on the buckle. ¡°If I were to walk on the surface of this belt, where would I end up?¡± He let her draw her finger from the buckle around the outside flat of the belt, until she returned to where she had started.


    ¡°So,¡± he agreed, because she was nodding, ¡°think of the buckle of this belt as Earth. When the human sorcerers wove their spell, they meant to throw my people and the land in which we dwelt off of Earth, to a different place, so¡ª¡± He moved her finger from the buckle to the underside of the buckle. ¡°Now the one is separate from the other. Even if I walk on this side of the belt, I will not come back to Earth. Do so.¡± She ran her finger along the inside flat of the belt and, truly, although she remained close to the other side of the belt, although she passed underneath the buckle that represented Earth, she never returned to it. The two sides were eternally separate, having no point of connection.


    He let the end of the belt dangle loose again, holding only the buckle. ¡°But it seems they overlooked a quality inherent in the nature of the universe.¡± Taking the end of the belt, he gave it a half twist and then brought it up to the buckle. ¡°Now, you see, if I walk the belt, I pass one time around and circle underneath the buckle but I remain on the same surface and continue once more around the belt until I return to the buckle itself.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± said Liath, fascinated at once. She traced the surface of the belt all the way around twice without lifting her finger from the leather, and the second time she came back to the buckle, where she had started.


    ¡°I never thought of that!¡± she cried, amazed and intrigued. ¡°The universe has a fold in it.¡±


    ¡°So you see,¡± said Eldest Uncle approvingly. ¡°Although our land was flung away from Earth, the fold in the universe is bringing us back to where we started.¡±


    He rose unsteadily, as if his knees hurt him. Extending an arm, he addressed the council. ¡°On Earth, the measure of days and years moves differently than it does here. Soon, the full count of Great Years will have again run to completion thirteen times on Earth. The ending point will becoming the starting point, and we will come home.¡±


    Cat Mask seemed about to blurt out a comment, but Eldest Uncle¡¯s gaze stilled the words on his tongue. Ponderously, Feather Cloak pushed up to her feet. No one moved to help her, until Liath finally stepped toward her but was brought up short by Skull Earrings. The elderly man raised a hand, palm out, to show that she must not aid the pregnant woman who sat in the Eagle Seat.

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    Panting a little, Feather Cloak steadied herself and surveyed the council. Standing, she looked even more enormously pregnant, so huge that it seemed impossible she hadn¡¯t burst. ¡°We will come home,¡± she agreed. ¡°Yet there remains a danger to us. We will come home unless the human sorcerers now on Earth use their magic to weave a second spell like the first. Then they could fling us back into the aether, and we would surely all perish, together with our land.¡±


    Pain cut into Liath¡¯s belly. She tucked, bending slightly, reflexively, but the pain vanished as swiftly as it had come¡ªit was only the memory of her labor pains the day her mother had told her the story of the Great Sundering, and the threat of the Aoi return.


    ¡°The only one who can stop them is you,¡± Anne had said.


    Had Da known all along? Was this the fate he had tried to hide her from¡ªserving as Anne¡¯s tool? Pain stabbed again, but this time it was anger. Da hadn¡¯t helped her at all by hiding the truth from her. He¡¯d only made it harder. Ignorance hadn¡¯t spared her, it had only made her weak and fearful.


    ¡°To use magic in such a way seems like the act of a monster,¡± she said at last, measuring her words, aware of the anger burning in the pit of her stomach. ¡°But I have heard of a story told by my people of a time known as the Great Sundering, when the Aoi¡ª¡±


    ¡°Call us not by that name!¡± cried Cat Mask. ¡°If you come in peace, as you claim, why do you keep insulting us?¡±


    ¡°I do not intend to insult you!¡± she retorted, stung. ¡°That is the name my people call you.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you know what it means?¡± asked Green Skirt.


    ¡°No.¡±


    Cat Mask spat the words. ¡°¡®Cursed Ones.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What do you call yourselves, then?¡±


    They all broke out talking at once.


    Feather Cloak lifted a hand for silence. ¡°In our most ancient home, we called ourselves The-Ones-Who-Have-Understanding. After our ancestors left that place and came over the sea, we called ourselves The Ones-Who-Have-Made-A-New-Home. Now we call ourselves The-Ones-In-Exile, Ashioi, which also means, The-Ones-Who-Have-Been-Cursed.¡±


    ¡°Ashioi,¡± murmured Liath, hearing the word she knew¡ª¡°Aoi¡± ¡ªembedded within it. Was that how ancient knowledge survived, only in fragments like the florilegia Da had compiled over the years? Surely Da had understood the true purpose of the Seven Sleepers. What had he been looking for in these notes and scraps of magical knowledge? Had he wondered how a spell as powerful as the Great Sundering could come to be? She had to work it through in order to understand the whole. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it also be true that if such a huge region of land fell to Earth again, it would make a terrible cataclysm?¡±


    ¡°Maybe so,¡± said Eldest Uncle, ¡°yet if this land approaches close by Earth and is flung away again by a spell woven by human sorcerers, that act, too, will cause manifold destruction. The tides of the universe spare no object, for even when bodies do not touch, they influence each other. If you are trained in the craft of the stars, then you understand this principle. No part of the shore is safe from a high tide, or an ebb tide. Either way, Earth will suffer.¡±


    Twilight came suddenly; the gap in the ceiling darkened so quickly that spinning dust motes caught in shafts of light simply vanished as shadow spread. For a moment, it was too dark for even Liath to see. Then the Eagle Seat and the Jaguar Seat began to glow, illuminating the two figures who stood on their backs: Feather Cloak and Eldest Uncle. In that gleam, the shells and beads decorating their cloaks and arm sheaths took on new colors, roots of scarlet and viridian that shuddered deep within.


    His final words, like an arrow, were aimed at her heart. ¡°The only choice is whether my people perish utterly, or whether we will be given a chance to live.¡±


    In her mind¡¯s eye she saw the ruined city that ended at a shoreline so sharp and straight that a knife might have shorn it off. A knife¡ªor a vast spell whose power beggared the imagination and left her a little stunned¡ªmight have sheared off the land so, cutting it cleanly as one slices away a piece of meat from the haunch.


    To contemplate the power of such a spell, such a sundering, left her sick to her stomach and profoundly dizzy. She went hot all over. Her blood pounded in her limbs, and the hot taste of fire burned on her lips as a wind roared in her ears.


    Who would perish, and who would live? Who had earned the right to make that choice?


    The room blazed with heat. The council members cried out as fire blossomed at the heart of the Eagle Seat, engulfing Feather Cloak entirely. Liath staggered at its brilliance, yet within the archway of leaping flames shadows writhed.

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    Hanna riding in the train of a battered army across a grassy landscape mottled with trees and low hills.


    Hugh seated at a feast in the place of honor next to a laughing man who wears a crown of iron, yet as she takes in her breath sharply, horrified to see Hugh¡¯s beautiful face, he looks up, startled, just as if he has heard her. He turns to speak intently to the veiled woman seated at his right hand.


    Wolfhere walking with bowed shoulders down a forest path. She forms his name on her lips, and abruptly he glances up and speaks, audibly: ¡°Liath?¡±


    Lamps burn in a chamber made rich by the lush tapestries hanging on its walls. People have gathered around King Henry¡ªshe recognizes him at once¡ªbut as though a lodestone drags her, her vision pulls past him to that which she most seeks:


    Ai, God, it is Blessing! The baby is crying, struggling in Heribert¡¯s arms as she reaches out for her mother.


    ¡°Ma! Ma!¡± the infant cries.


    Blessing can see her!


    ¡°Blessing!¡± she cries. Then she sees him, emerging out of a shadowed corner. Maybe her heart will break, because she misses him so much. ¡°Sanglant!¡±


    He leaps forward. ¡°Liath!¡± But a figure jerks him back.


    They were gone.


    ¡°Look!¡± shouted Cat Mask.


    Through the fading blaze, Liath saw a sleeping man. His head was turned away from her, but two black hounds lay on either side of him, like guardians. He stirred in his sleep. That fast, fire and vision vanished, and the flames settled like falling wings to reveal Feather Cloak standing unharmed.


    Liath sank down to the floor, shaking so hard she could not stand.


    ¡°Let this be a sign,¡± said Feather Cloak sternly. ¡°Who among you saw the Impatient One and the man who must be her son, who partakes both of our blood and of human blood?¡±


    But the others had not seen the vision made of fire, and Liath was too shaken to speak.


    ¡°She must leave,¡± said Feather Cloak to Eldest Uncle. ¡°She bears an ill-omened name. Her power is too great, and like all of humankind, she does not understand it. I have spoken.¡±


    ¡°So be it,¡± said Eldest Uncle.


    Cat Mask jumped forward. ¡°Let her blood be taken to give us strength!¡±


    They all began arguing at once as Liath leaped to her feet. ¡°Is this what you call justice?¡± she cried.


    ¡°Silence,¡± said Feather Cloak in a voice so soft that it seemed more like an exhaled breath, and yet silence fell. A wind blew outside, making the roots at the ceiling tick quietly against each other in its eddy. ¡°She must leave unmolested. I will not risk her blood spilled while we are still so weak.¡±


    ¡°Yet I would have her walk the spheres before she goes,¡± said Eldest Uncle as congenially as if he wished to offer an honored guest a final mug of ale before departure.


    White Feather hissed. Skull Earrings made a sharp protest, echoed by others. Only Cat Mask laughed.


    Feather Cloak regarded Liath coolly. She had eyes as dark as obsidian and a gaze as sharp as a knife. ¡°Few can walk the spheres. None return unchanged from that path.¡±


    ¡°This I have seen,¡± said Eldest Uncle, ¡°that if we would live, we must help her discover what she is.¡±


    The glow illuminating the Eagle Seat dimmed until it had the delicate luminescence of a seashell. With dimness came a sharpening of smell: dry earth, sour sweat, the faint and distracting scent of water, and the cutting flavor of ginger on her tongue. Liath felt suddenly weary, cut to the heart by that glimpse of Sanglant and Blessing, as if her shell of numbness had been torn loose, exposing raw skin.


    ¡°Let her return here no more,¡± said Feather Cloak, ¡°but if she can mount the path to the spheres, I will not interfere. When one day and one night have passed, I will send Cat Mask and his warriors in search of her. If they find her in our country, then I will look the other way if they choose to kill her. I have spoken.¡±


    ¡°So be it,¡± murmured Eldest Uncle, and the others echoed him as Cat Mask grinned.


    IV


    JUDGEMENT IN HASTE


    1


    ¡°SHE isn¡¯t at all what I remember.¡±


    King Henry stood with his granddaughter in his arms at an unshuttered window in the royal chambers, attended only by Rosvita, Hathui, four stewards, six guards, and Helmut Villam. Princess Theophanu and four of her ladies sat in the adjoining chamber, playing chess, embroidering, and discussing the tractate Concerning Male Chastity, written by St. Sotheris, which had only recently been translated by the nuns at Korvei Convent from the original Arethousan into Dariyan. Their voices rang out merrily, seemingly immune from care.


    Queen Adelheid had escorted Alia and Sanglant outside to show them the royal garden, with its rose beds, diverse herbs, and the aviary that the palace at Angenheim was famous for. Standing beside Henry at the window, with her fingers clamped tight on the sill, Rosvita saw Adelheid¡¯s bright gown among the roses. A moment later, she saw Sanglant on his knees by one of the herb plots, fingering petals of comfrey. Brother Heribert knelt beside him and they spoke together, two heads bent in convivial conversation. The contrast between the two men could not have been bolder: Sanglant had the bulk and vitality of a man accustomed to armor and horseback and a life lived outdoors, while Heribert, in his cleric¡¯s robes, had a slender frame and narrow shoulders. Yet his hands, too, bore the marks of manual labor. How had they met? What did Heribert know that he had not told them?

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    ¡°She isn¡¯t anything like what I remember.¡± Henry¡¯s expression grew pensive. ¡°It¡¯s as if that time was a dream I fashioned in my own mind.¡± Blessing had fallen asleep on his shoulder.


    ¡°Perhaps it was,¡± observed Rosvita. ¡°Youth is prey to fancy. We are adept at building palaces where none exist.¡±


    ¡°I was very young,¡± he agreed. ¡°In truth, Sister, I find it disturbing. I recall my passion so clearly, but when I look at her now, I fear I made a mistake.¡±


    A stiff breeze stirred the leaves in the herb bed next to the prince. Laughing, Sanglant stood as Heribert leaped up, startled. The outside air and Heribert¡¯s presence had restored the prince to good spirits, yet now he glanced back toward the open window where his father stood. Had he heard them? Surely they stood too far away for their conversation to be overheard.


    ¡°Was it a mistake. Your Majesty?¡± She nodded toward the prince.


    ¡°Nay, of course not. Perhaps I am only a little surprised that memory has not served me as well as you have.¡± He smiled with the craft of a regnant who knows when to flatter his advisers, but Rosvita sensed tension beneath the light words.


    ¡°You were very young, Your Majesty. God grant us all the privilege of change and growth, if we only use it. You are a wiser man now than you were then, or so I have heard.¡±


    He smiled, this time with genuine pleasure. The baby stirred, coming awake. She yawned, looked around, and said, quite clearly: ¡°Da!¡± After this unequivocal statement, she frowned up at Henry. She had a clever little face, quite charming, and mobile expressions. ¡°Ba!¡± she exclaimed. She seemed to have no other mode of speech than the imperious.


    ¡°The months do not count out correctly,¡± said Henry. ¡°Nine months for a woman to come to her time, and even if she deliver early, no child will survive before the seventh month. Sanglant and the Eagle left fourteen months ago, yet this child is surely a yearling or even older. But her coloring is like that of the Eagle¡¯s, if I am remembering correctly.¡±


    ¡°Do not doubt your memory on this account. I also believe the child resembles its mother in some ways. Look at the blue of her eyes! But you are right, Your Majesty. Even if she were a seven months¡¯ child, born early, she could therefore be only seven months of age now.¡±


    ¡°Come.¡± Henry carried the baby out to the garden, heading for his son, but as soon as he stepped outside the beauty of the autumn foliage and late flowers distracted the child. Rosvita watched as the king surrendered to her imperial commands: each time Blessing pointed to something that caught her eye, he obediently hauled her to that place, and then to another, lowering her down to touch a flower, prying her fingers from a thorny stem, stopping her from eating a withered oak leaf blown over the wall, lifting her up again to point at a flock of geese passing overhead.


    He was besotted.


    Sanglant had wandered to the garden by the wall where he spoke privately to Brother Heribert. What intrigue might he be stirring up? Yet had Sanglant ever been one for intrigue? He had always been the most straightforward of men.


    Still, he made no move to interfere with the capture of his father: Blessing worked her will without obstacle. Queen Adelheid had gone into the aviary. Rosvita had to admire the young queen: either she was determined to turn Alia into an ally, or else she intended to divert all suspicion while she concocted a plan to rid herself of her rival. It was hard to tell, and even after months of sharing the most difficult of circumstances in Adelheid¡¯s company, Rosvita didn¡¯t know her well enough to know which was more likely.


    But as Rosvita watched Henry dandle the child, her heart grew troubled.


    Twilight finally drove them back inside. Adelheid and her attendants came from the mews, Sanglant and Heribert from the garden. Alia lingered outside, alone, to smell the last roses. No one disturbed her. By custom, the feast would continue into the night, but neither Henry nor any in his party seemed inclined to return to the great hall. Too much remained unspoken.


    Blessing went to Sanglant at once. She had begun to fuss with hunger. A spirited discussion ensued among the attendants on the efficacy of goat¡¯s milk over cow¡¯s milk to feed a motherless child. He took her outside.


    Rosvita went to the window. A cool autumn breeze, woken by dusk, made her shiver. Sanglant avoided his mother and settled down out of her sight on the far side of the old walnut tree.


    Adelheid came to stand beside Rosvita. The queen smelled faintly of the mews and more strongly of the rose water she habitually washed in. She had such a wonderful, vividly alive profile that even in the half light of gathering dusk her expressions seemed more potent than anything around them, as bright as the waxing moon now rising over wall and treetops.

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    ¡°You have acted most graciously, Your Majesty,¡± said Rosvita.


    ¡°Have I? Do you think I am jealous of the passion he once felt for her? That was many years ago. Truly, she looks marvelously young for one as old as she must be, but until she explains her purpose here, it is not obvious to me that she possesses anything he now desires or lacks.¡± The young queen¡¯s tone had a scrape in it, as at anger rubbing away inside.


    ¡°And you do?¡±


    ¡°So I did,¡± she replied bitterly. ¡°As you yourself know, Sister Rosvita, for you came with my cousin Theophanu to seek me out in Vennaci. Yet did you not just see Henry holding in his arms the living heir to Taillefer¡¯s great empire? If it is true, what need has Henry for a queen of my line?¡±


    ¡°What manner of talk is this, Your Majesty? Your family¡¯s claim to the Aostan throne is without rival.¡±


    Adelheid smiled faintly, ironically. ¡°It is true that no noble Aostan family holds a better claim. Certainly the skopos will support me if she can, since she is my aunt. Yet how did my lineage help me after the death of my mother and my first husband, may God have mercy on them? Which of the nobles of Aosta came to my aid when I was besieged? My countryfolk abandoned me to Lord John¡¯s tender mercies. I would have become his prisoner, and no doubt his unwilling wife, had you and Princess Theophanu not arrived when you did. What would have happened if Mother Obligatia had not taken us in despite the hardship it placed upon her and the nuns in her care? What if she hadn¡¯t allowed Father Hugh to use sorcery to aid our escape?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± But trouble, like a swift, may stay aloft for a very long time once it has lifted onto the wind.


    ¡°I had no rivals before. Now I do.¡±


    ¡°Henry has legitimate children, it is true.¡±


    ¡°None of whom can claim descent from Emperor Taillefer. Nay, it is clear that Henry favors Sanglant, Sister Rosvita. Henry would have seen me married to Prince Sanglant, had he been given his way a year ago.¡±


    Since it was true, Rosvita saw no reason to reply beyond a nod.


    ¡°If that was his plan, then he must have hoped that by marrying me, Sanglant would be crowned as king of Aosta. It is understood, I believe, that only a regnant strong enough to claim the regnancy of Aosta can hope to claim the imperial title of Holy Dariyan Emperor as well. Henry hoped to give Sanglant that title. Or so I assume.¡±


    ¡°Henry has never hidden his ambitions. He hopes to take that title for himself.¡±


    ¡°Certainly he is now entitled to be crowned king of Aosta because he is my husband. But Ironhead still reigns in Darre. Do you not see my position?¡±


    Rosvita sighed. Adelheid was young but not one bit naive. Yet Rosvita could not bring herself to speak one word that might seem unfaithful to Henry. ¡°You are troubled, Your Majesty,¡± she said instead, temporizing, hoping that Adelheid would not go on. But the one trait of youth Adelheid had not yet reined in was impetuousness.


    ¡°Let us imagine that it is true that this child is the legitimately born heir to Taillefer, his granddaughter two generations removed. I brought Henry the crowns of Aosta. But her claim to Aosta¡¯s throne, and to the Crown of Stars Taillefer wore as Holy Dariyan Emperor, is far greater than anything I can confer.¡±


    Rosvita glanced back into the room. Two stewards stood by the door, looking bored as they guarded the wine. Various tapestries depicting the life of St. Thecla hung from the whitewashed walls: witnessing the Ekstasis; debating before the empress; writing one of her famous epistles to far-flung communities; accepting the staff that marked her as skopos, holy mother over the church; the stations of her martyrdom.


    Henry had gone with Villam into the adjoining chamber to oversee the chess playing, Hathui sticking close to him rather like a falcon on a jess. Villam leaned with a hand on the back of the chair inhabited by one of Theophanu¡¯s favorites, the robust Leoba. Even at his age, he was not above flirting. Indeed, he was currently unmarried and despite his age still an excellent match. Leoba let him move a chess piece for her, Castle takes Eagle.


    The game brought Rosvita back to the moves being enacted here and now. ¡°Surely, Your Majesty, you do not believe that King Henry would put you aside on such slender evidence?¡±


    Adelheid had the grace to blush. ¡°Nay, Sister, do not think me selfish. In truth, I have no fear for myself. I am fond of Henry, and I believe he is fond of me. He is well known for being pious and ¡®obedient to the church¡¯s law. He will not break a contract now that it has been sealed. But if God are willing and grant us Their blessing, I will have children with him. What is to become of them?¡±

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    Now, finally, she saw the battle lines being drawn. ¡°How can I answer such a question, Your Majesty? At best, I may hope that the king hears my voice, and my counsel. I do not speak for him.¡±


    ¡°You saved my life and my crown, Sister. I trust you to do what is right, not what is expedient. I know you serve with an honest heart, and that you care only for what benefits your regnant, not for what benefits yourself. That is why I ask you to consider carefully when you advise the king. Think of my position, I pray you, and that of the children I hope to have.¡± She smiled most sweetly and moved away to meet Alia by the door. Beckoning to the stewards, she had a cup of wine brought for the Aoi woman.


    ¡°Was that a plea, or a warning?¡±


    Rosvita jumped, scraping a finger on the wooden sill. ¡°You startled me, Brother. I did not see you come up beside us.¡±


    ¡°Nor did the queen,¡± observed Fortunatus. ¡°But she has observed a great deal else. Henry already has grown children who will be rivals to whatever children she bears. Yet she does not fear them as she fears Sanglant.¡±


    Rosvita set her hands back on the sill, then winced at the pain in her finger.


    ¡°You¡¯ve caught a splinter,¡± said Fortunatus, taking her hand into his. He had a delicate touch, honed by years of calligraphy.


    As he bent over her hand, working the splinter loose, she lowered her voice. ¡°Do you think she fears Sanglant?¡±


    ¡°Would you not?¡± he asked amiably. ¡°Ah! There it comes.¡± He flicked the offending splinter away and released her hand. She sucked briefly at the wound as he went on. ¡°He is the master of the battlefield. All acknowledge that. He returns rested and fit, with soldiers already kneeling before him, although only God know when they pledged loyalty to him, who has nothing.¡±


    ¡°Nothing but the child.¡±


    ¡°Nothing but the child,¡± Fortunatus agreed. The privations of their journey over the mountains to Aosta and their subsequent flight from Ironhead had pared much flesh from Fortunatus¡¯ frame. Leanness emphasized his sharp eyes and clever mouth, making him look more dour than congenial, when in fact he was a man who preferred wit and laughter to dry pronouncements. In the last few weeks on the king¡¯s progress he had been able to eat heartily, as was his preference, and he was putting on weight. It suited him. ¡°I would say he is the more dangerous for having nothing but the child. He isn¡¯t a man who desires things for himself.¡±


    ¡°He desired the young Eagle against his father¡¯s wishes.¡±


    ¡°I pray God¡¯s forgiveness for saying so, Sister, but surely he desired her more like a dog lusts after a bitch in heat.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true it is the child who has changed him, not the marriage. You are right when you say he desires no thing for himself, for his own advancement. But what he desires for his child is a different matter.¡±


    ¡°Do you think it will come to a battle between him and Queen Adelheid?¡±


    She frowned as she gazed out into the foliage. Wind whipped the branches of the walnut tree under which Sanglant sheltered with Blessing, although no wind stirred the rest of the garden. It seemed strange to her, seeing its restlessness contrasted so starkly with the autumnal calm that lay elsewhere. The prince rose abruptly. Heribert, beside him, asked for the baby and, with reluctance evident in the stiffness of his shoulders, Sanglant handed her over. She was splayed out with that absolute limpness characteristic of a sleeping child. The prince and the frater stood together under the writhing branches, talking together while the baby slept peacefully. Finally, Sanglant looked up and seemed to address a comment to the heavens. Surely by coincidence, at that very instant, the breeze caught in the branches of the walnut tree ceased.


    ¡°What does Prince Sanglant know but war? Did Henry not fight against his own sister? Why should we expect otherwise in the next generation?¡±


    ¡°Unless good counsel and wiser heads prevail,¡± murmured Fortunatus.


    Behind them, voices raised as the company who had been seated in the adjoining chamber flooded into the one in which Rosvita and Fortunatus still stood. Rosvita moved away from the window just as Hathui came up to her.


    ¡°I pray you, Sister Rosvita,¡± said the Eagle, ¡°the king wishes you to attend him, if you will.¡±


    ¡°I would speak with you in private council,¡± Alia was saying to Henry as she looked around the chamber.


    Henry merely gestured to the small group of courtiers and nobles and servants attending him, no more than twenty-five people in all. ¡°My dear companions and counselors Margrave Villam and Sister Rosvita are privy to all my most private councils.¡± Deliberately, he extended a hand to invite Adelheid forward. She came forward to stand beside him with a high flush in her cheeks and a pleased smile, quickly suppressed, on her lips. ¡°Queen Adelheid and my daughter, Theophanu, of course will remain with me.¡± He glanced up then, looking around the room. He marked Hathui with his gaze. She needed no introduction nor any excuse; she simply stood solidly a few paces behind him, as always. The others slid back to the walls, making themselves inconspicuous, and he ignored them. ¡°If Sanglant chooses to hear your words, I am sure he will come in from outside.¡±

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    ¡°You have changed, Henri,¡± Alia replied, not with rancor but as a statement of fact. ¡°You have become the ruler I thought you might become in time. I am not sorry that I chose you instead of one of the others.¡±


    He rocked back on his heels as at a blow. Adelheid¡¯s small but firm hand tightened on his. ¡°What do you mean? Chose me instead of one of the others? What others?¡±


    She seemed surprised by his outburst. ¡°Is it not customary among humankind to be making alliances based on lineage, fertility, and possessions? Is this not what you yourself are doing, Henri?¡± She indicated Adelheid. ¡°When first I am coming back to this world, many of your years ago, I go seeking the one whose name is known even to my people. That is the man you call Emperor Taillefer. But he is dead by the time I am walking on Earth, and he has left no male descendants. I cannot be making an alliance with a dead man. It is to the living I must look. I am walking far in search of the living. Of all the princes in these lands it is in the Wendish lineage I am seeing the most strength. Therefore I am thinking then that your lineage is the one I seek.¡±


    Henry had color in his cheeks, the mark of anger, but his voice betrayed nothing of the irritation that sparked as he narrowed his eyes. ¡°I seem to have misunderstood our liaison. I had thought it was one of mutual passion, and that you were gracious enough to swear that the child you and I got together was of my making as well as yours. So that the child would seal my right to rule as regnant after my father. Do I understand you instead to say that you had another purpose in mind? That you actively sought me or any young prince of a noble line and chose me over the others because of the strength of the kingdom I was meant to rule?¡±


    ¡°Is it different among you, when you contract alliances?¡± Alia seemed genuinely puzzled. ¡°For an undertaking of great importance, are you not sealing bargains and binding allies who will be bringing the most benefit to your own cause?¡±


    Henry laughed sharply. ¡°Had you some undertaking in mind, Alia, when first you put yourself in my way in Darre? How well I recall that night!¡±


    She gestured toward the garden, dark now except for the light of moon and stars. Inside, the stewards had gotten all the lamps lit. St. Thecla¡¯s many figures on the tapestries shimmered in the golden light; her saint¡¯s crowns had been woven with silver threads, and the lamplight made them glimmer like moonglow.


    ¡°What other undertaking than the making of the child? Was this not our understanding?¡±


    ¡°Truly, it was my understanding. I understood why I needed to get a child, even if the getting of the child came second to my passion for you. But never did I understand that you wanted a child as well.¡± He spoke bitterly. ¡°You abandoned the two of us easily enough. What could you have wanted a child for if you were willing to walk away from him when he was still a suckling babe?¡±


    She walked forward full into the light from the four dragon-headed lamps that hung from hooks in the ceiling to illuminate the center of the chamber. Despite her tunic, she could not look anything but outlandish, foreign, and wildly unlike humankind. ¡°In him, my people and your people become one.¡±


    ¡°Become one?¡±


    ¡°If there is one standing between us who carries both my blood and yours, then there can be hope for peace.¡±


    Fortunatus stirred beside Rosvita, and she pressed a hand to his wrist, willing him to remain silent while, around them, Henry¡¯s attendants whispered to each other, puzzling over her words.


    How could Alia¡¯s people seek peace when they no longer lived on Earth, and perhaps no longer lived at all? Of all their fabled kind, Alia alone had walked among them once, some twenty-five years ago, and then vanished utterly, only to reappear now looking no older for the intervening years.


    But the years had not left Henry unscarred. He pulled out a rust-colored scrap of cloth and displayed it with angry triumph. Alia recoiled with a pained look on her face, as if the sight of the scrap physically hurt her.


    ¡°I held this close to my heart for all these years as a reminder of the love I bore for you!¡± In those words Rosvita heard the young Henry who, coming into his power, had not always known what to do with it, and not the mature Henry of these days who never lost control. ¡°You never loved me at all, did you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± His outburst might have been foam flung against a sea wall for all the impact it had. ¡°I made a vow before the council of my own people that I would sacrifice myself for this duty, to make a child who would be born with the blood of both our peoples.¡±


    Finally, as if his voice had at last reached his ears, he schooled his expression to the haughty dignity worthy of the regnant. ¡°For what purpose?¡±

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    ¡°For an alliance. A child born of two peoples has the hope to live in both their tribes. We are hoping that the boy will be the bridge who will be bringing your people into an alliance with mine. We knew you would not be trusting us. That is why I left him with you, so that you and your people would come to love him. I was thinking he would be raised to be the ruler after you, in the fashion of humankind. In this way our task would be made easy. Now I return and I find him as an exile. Why were you not treating him as you promised to me?¡±


    ¡°I raised him as my own!¡± cried Henry indignantly. ¡°No man treated a son better! But he was a bastard. His birth gave me the right to the crown, but it granted him nothing save the honor of being trained as a captain for war. I did everything I could, Alia. I would have made him king after me, though everyone stood against me. But he threw it back in my face, all that I offered him, for the sake of that woman!¡± He was really angry now, remembering his son¡¯s disobedience.


    Sanglant walked in from the garden. Folk parted quickly to let him through their ranks. He came to rest, standing quietly between the king and the Aoi woman, and all at once the resemblance showed starkly: his father¡¯s forehead and chin and height, his mother¡¯s high cheekbones and coloring and broad shoulders: two kinds blended seamlessly into one body. But he had nothing of Alia¡¯s inhuman posture and cold, harsh nature. In speech and gesture he was entirely his father¡¯s child.


    ¡°Liath is the great granddaughter of the Emperor Taillefer.¡± Without shouting, Sanglant pitched his voice to carry strongly throughout the long chamber. ¡°Now, truly, my father¡¯s people, my mother¡¯s people, and the lineage of Emperor Taillefer, the greatest ruler humankind has known, are joined in one person. In my daughter, Blessing.¡± He indicated Brother Heribert, who had come in behind him carrying Blessing. ¡°Is that not so?¡±


    Henry lifted a hand, a slight movement, and his Eagle stepped forward to answer the prince. ¡°What proof have you that the child is born of Taillefer¡¯s lineage?¡± Hathui asked.


    ¡°Do you accuse me of lying, Eagle?¡± he asked softly.


    ¡°Nay, Your Highness,¡± she replied blandly. ¡°But you may have been misled. Sister Rosvita believes that a daughter was born to Taillefer¡¯s missing son. Any woman might then claim to be the lost grandchild of Taillefer.¡±


    ¡°Who would know to claim such a thing?¡± He shook his head impatiently. ¡°This is an argument that matters little. If proof you will have, then I will get proof for you, and after that no person will doubt Blessing¡¯s claim.¡±


    ¡°Son.¡± How strange to hear Alia¡¯s voice speaking that word. It made Sanglant seem a stranger standing among them, rather than a beloved kinsman. ¡°It is true that I was hoping when first I crossed through the gateway into this country to make a child with a descendant of Taillefer. But it was not to be. That you have done so¡ª¡± She had a fatalistic way of shrugging, as if to say that her gods had worked their will without consulting her. ¡°So be it. I bow to the will of She-Who-Creates. Let proof be brought and given if humankind have no other way of discerning the truth. But proof will be mattering little if all of you are dead because of the great cataclysm that will fall upon you.¡±


    Most of Henry¡¯s retinue still seemed to be staring at Blessing, who had stirred in Heribert¡¯s arms, yawning mightily and twisting her little mouth up as she made a sleepy face and subsided again.


    But Henry was listening. ¡°What cataclysm do you mean?¡± He regarded her intently.


    ¡°You are knowing an ancient prophecy made by a holy woman among your people, are you not? In it is she not speaking of a great calamity?¡±


    Rosvita spoke, unbidden, as words came entire to her mind. ¡°¡®There will come to you a great calamity, a cataclysm such as you have never known before. The waters will boil and the heavens weep blood, the rivers will run uphill and the winds will become as a whirlpool. The mountains shall become the sea and the sea shall become the mountains, and the children shall cry out in terror for they will have no ground on which to stand. And they shall call that time the Great Sundering.¡±¡¯


    ¡°Are you threatening my kingdom?¡± asked Henry gently.


    ¡°By no means,¡± retorted Alia with a rare flick of anger. ¡°Your people exiled mine ages ago as you know time, and now my people are returning. But the spell woven by your sorcerers will rebound against you threefold. What a cataclysm befell Earth in the long ago days is nothing to what will strike you five years hence, when what was thrown far returns to its starting point.¡±

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    ¡°Like the arrow Liath shot into the heavens,¡± said Sanglant in a soft voice. He seemed to be speaking to himself, mulling over a memory no one else shared. ¡°Shot into the sky, but it fell back to earth. Any fool would have known it would do that.¡±


    ¡°What mean you by this tale?¡± demanded Henry. ¡°What do you intend by standing before me now, Alia?¡±


    Alia indicated her own face, its bronze complexion and alien lineaments. ¡°Some among my people are still angry, because the memory of our exile lies heavily on us. After we have returned to Earth, they mean to fight humankind. But some among us seek peace. That is why I came.¡± She stepped forward to rest a hand on Sanglant¡¯s elbow. ¡°This child is my peace offering, Henri.¡±


    Henry laughed. ¡°How can I believe these wild prophecies? Any madwoman can rave in like manner, speaking of the end times. If such a story were true, then why do none of my studious clerics know of it? Sister Rosvita?¡±


    His outflung hand had the force of a spear, pinning her under his regard. ¡°I do not know, Your Majesty,¡± she said haltingly. ¡°I have seen strange things and heard strange tales. I cannot be sure.¡±


    Theophanu spoke up at last. ¡°Do you mean to say, Sister Rosvita, that you believe this wild story of cataclysms? That you think the legendary Aoi were sent into a sorcerous exile?¡±


    ¡°I recall paintings on the wall at St. Ekatarina¡¯s Convent. Do you not remember them, Your Highness?¡±


    ¡°I saw no wall paintings at St. Ekatarina¡¯s save for the one in the chapel where we worshiped,¡± replied Theophanu with cool disdain. ¡°It depicted the good saint herself, crowned in glory.¡±


    ¡°I believe the story,¡± said Sanglant, ¡°and there are others who believe it as well. Biscop Tallia, the daughter of Emperor Taillefer, spent her life preparing for what she knew would come.¡±


    ¡°She was censored by the church at the Council of Narvone,¡± pointed out Theophanu.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stubborn, Theo,¡± retorted Sanglant. ¡°When have I ever lied to you?¡± The barb caught her, but she recovered quickly, smoothing her face into a passionless mask as Sanglant went on. ¡°Biscop Tallia instructed the woman who raised Taillefer¡¯s granddaughter and trained her as a mathematici. Taillefer¡¯s granddaughter gave birth to Liath. She already works to drive away the Lost Ones again, and to destroy them.¡±


    Henry spread his hands wide. ¡°How can it be that Taillefer¡¯s granddaughter has not made herself known to the great princes of these realms? How can she live in such obscurity that we have never heard any least rumor of her existence?¡±


    ¡°She is a mathematici,¡± Sanglant observed. ¡°The church condemned such sorcery at the Council of Narvone. Why should she reveal herself if it would only bring her condemnation?¡± He nodded at Theophanu.


    ¡°Where is this woman now?¡± continued Henry relentlessly. ¡°Where is your wife, Sanglant?¡±


    ¡°Ai, God!¡± swore Sanglant. ¡°To tell the whole¡ª!¡±


    ¡°How can I believe such a story if I do not hear the whole?¡± asked Henry reasonably. ¡°Wine!¡± He beckoned, and a steward brought twin chairs, one for Henry and one for Adelheid. ¡°I will listen patiently for as long as it takes you to tell your tale, Son. That is all I can promise.¡±


    2


    THERE was to be no more feasting that night, although servants brought delicacies from the kitchen and folk ate as Prince Sanglant told his story haltingly, backtracking at times to cover a point he had missed. He was more disturbed than angry, impatient in the way of a man who is accustomed to his commands being obeyed instantly. A wind had got into the chamber, eddying around the lamps so that they rocked. Shadows juddered on the walls and over the tapestries like boats bobbing on water.


    The silence and the jittery shadows made Sanglant¡¯s tale spin away into fable. A woman calling herself Anne had approached Liath at Werlida, claiming to be her mother. He and Liath had left with Anne. They had traveled by diverse means and in the company of servants who had no physical substance, no earthly body, to a place called Verna, hidden away in the heart of the Alfar Mountains. There, Liath had studied the arts of the mathematici.


    ¡°Condemned sorcery,¡± said Henry, his only comment so far.


    ¡°It is her birthright,¡± retorted Sanglant. ¡°You cannot imagine her power¡ª¡± He broke off, seeing their faces. Too late, he remembered, but Henry had not forgotten. Henry still had not forgiven Liath for stealing his son.


    ¡°The Council at Autun, presided over by my sister Constance, excommunicated one Liathano, formerly an Eagle in my service, and outlawed her for the practice of sorcery,¡± said Henry in his quietest and therefore most dangerous voice. ¡°For all I know, she has bewitched you and sent you back to me with this tale of Taillefer¡¯s lost granddaughter to tempt me into giving her daughter a privilege and honor the child does not deserve.¡± He did not look at the sleeping Blessing as he said this.

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    ¡°What of me?¡± asked Alia, who had listened without apparent interest. ¡°I am no ally of this Liathano, whom I do not meet or know. I am no ally of these womans who are sorcerers, who mean to do my people harm. That is why I come to you, Henri, to ally against them.¡±


    Henry drained his cup of wine and called for another. Beside him, Adelheid sat with the composure of stone. Only her hair moved, tickled by a breeze that wound among the lamps hung from the ceiling. ¡°If I send an embassy to your people, then we can open negotiations.¡±


    Alia¡¯s jaw tightened as she regarded him with displeasure. ¡°None among your kind can pass through the gateway that leads to our country.¡±


    ¡°So you say. But you are here.¡±


    She opened her left hand, palm out, to display an old scar cut raggedly across the palm. ¡°I am what you call in your words a sorcerer, Henri.¡±


    ¡°Do we not already harbor mathematici among us? They might travel as you did. We are not powerless.¡±


    ¡°Father!¡± protested Theophanu, although she glanced toward Adelheid, ¡°you would not allow condemned magic to be worked for your advantage¡ª?¡±


    Henry lifted a hand to stop her. She broke off, looked at Rosvita, then folded her hands in her lap and regarded the opposite wall¡ªand the tapestry depicting St. Thecla¡¯s draught of the holy cup of waters¡ªwith a fixed gaze.


    ¡°You do not understand the structure of the universe, Henri. I was born in exile, and for that reason I can travel in the aether. I have walked the spheres. None among you would survive such a journey.¡±


    Sanglant¡¯s lips moved, saying a word, but he made no sound.


    Henry shook his head. ¡°How can I believe such a fantastic story? It might as well be a fable sung by a poet in the feast hall. I and my good Wendish army are marching south to Aosta to restore Queen Adelheid to her throne. You may march with us, if you will. A place at my table is always reserved for you, Alia.¡± He turned to regard Sanglant, who stood with hands fisted and expression pulled down with impatience. Hereby lay the danger in giving a man command for all his young life; soon he began to expect that no person would gainsay him, even his father. ¡°You, Son, may march with my army as well, if you will only ask for my forgiveness for your disobedience. I will show every honor due to a grandchild of my lineage to your daughter, as she deserves. There is a place for you in my army. If you ask for it.¡±


    ¡°You believe none of it,¡± said Sanglant softly.


    Henry sipped at his wine, then spun the empty cup in his fingers as he contemplated his son in the same manner he might a rebellious young lord. ¡°How can I believe such an outrageous story? I am regnant. We had this discussion before. If you wish my forgiveness, you must ask for it. But you know what obligations your duty to me entails.¡±


    ¡°Then I will look elsewhere for support.¡±


    The words struck the assembly like lightning.


    Villam stepped forward. ¡°Prince Sanglant, I beg of you, do not speak rash words¡ª¡±


    ¡°I do not speak rashly,¡± said Sanglant harshly. ¡°You have not seen what I have seen. You do not understand Anne¡¯s power nor her ruthlessness.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, brother?¡± asked Theophanu. She had distanced herself so completely from Rosvita after the escape from St. Ekatarina¡¯s that Rosvita could no longer even guess what might be going on in her mind. ¡°If your words and the words of your mother are true, then it would appear to me that this woman, Anne, seeks to protect Earth from the Aoi. Why, then, would you act against her unless you have thrown in your lot with your mother¡¯s people? This might all be a diversion to aid them.¡±


    Blessing woke up crying. She struggled in Heribert¡¯s arms, but she wasn¡¯t reaching for her father. She was reaching for the middle of the room, tiny arms pumping and face screwed up with frustration.


    ¡°Ma! Ma!¡± she cried, wriggling and reaching so that Heribert could barely keep hold of her as she squirmed.


    The air took on form.


    Mist congealed at the center of the chamber, in the space ringed by the hanging lamps. Like a window being unshuttered, pale tendrils of mist acted as a frame. Rosvita staggered, made dizzy by this abrupt displacement of what she knew and understood while all around her the people in the room leaped backward or fled into the other chamber, sobbing in fright. Adelheid rose to her feet. Henry remained seated, but his hand tightened on one of the dragon heads carved into the armrests of his chair.


    ¡°Ma!¡± cried the baby.


    There came a voice in answer, faint and so far off that it might have been a dream.

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    ¡°Blessing!¡± Changing, made hoarser by pain or sorrow, that disembodied voice spoke again. ¡°Sanglant!¡±


    Sanglant leaped forward. ¡°Liath!¡± he cried.


    Alia grabbed him by the elbow and jerked him back, hard. Her strength was amazing: Sanglant, who stood a good head and a half taller than her, actually staggered backward.


    Blessing twisted out of Heribert¡¯s arms. Henry cried out a warning as she fell, and Sanglant flung himself toward the baby, but he was too far away to catch her.


    But some thing was already under her.


    Blessing sank into folds of air that took on a womanlike form, a female with a sensuous mouth, sharp cheekbones, a regal nose, a broad and intelligent forehead, and a thick fall of hair. She was not a human woman but a woman formed out of air, as fluid as water, made of no earthly substance. A veil of mist concealed her womanly parts, but she was otherwise unclothed, and she had the ample breasts of a nursing woman. In her arms, Blessing calmed immediately, and she turned her head to nurse at that unworldly breast.


    Henry¡¯s face whitened in shock as he rose. ¡°What obscenity is this? What manner of creature nurses the child?¡±


    Sanglant stationed himself protectively in front of the creature. ¡°Liath was too ill to nurse her after the birth. Blessing wouldn¡¯t even take goat¡¯s milk. She would have died if it had not been for Jerna.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± murmured Theophanu. Her ladies, clustered behind her, looked frightened and disgusted, but Theophanu merely regarded the scene with narrowed eyes and a fierce frown.


    Everyone backed away except Heribert. Adelheid¡¯s hands twitched, and she leaned forward, quite in contrast to Theophanu¡¯s disapproving reserve, to stare at the nursing aetherical with lips parted. Hathui remained stoically behind Henry¡¯s chair.


    ¡°It is a daimone, I believe,¡± said Rosvita. Fortunatus, at her back, whistled under his breath. He had not deserted her. ¡°One of the elementals who exists in the aether, in the upper spheres.¡±


    ¡°Do such creatures have souls?¡± asked Adelheid.


    ¡°The ancient writers believed they did not,¡± murmured Rosvita reflexively. A collective gasp burst from the people pressed back against the far walls. No one spoke. The baby suckled noisily as everyone stared. Ai, Lady! What manner of nourishment did it imbibe from a soulless daimone?


    ¡°It is true, then.¡± The mask of stone crashed down to conceal Henry¡¯s true feelings. ¡°You have been bewitched, Sanglant, as Judith and her son said. You are not master of your own thoughts or actions. Lavastine was laid under a spell by Biscop Antonia. Now you are a pawn in the hands of the sorcerer who stole you from me. Where is Liathano? What does she want?¡±


    ¡°I pray you, Your Majesty,¡± cried Rosvita, stepping forward. She knew where such accusations would lead. ¡°Let us make no judgment in haste! Let a council be convened, so that those best educated in these matters can consider the situation with cool heads and wise hearts.¡±


    ¡°As they did in Autun?¡± replied Sanglant with a bitter grimace. He eased Blessing out of the grip of the daimone. The baby protested vigorously, got hold of one of his fingers, and proceeded to suck on it while she stared up at his face. The daimone uncurled herself; Rosvita knew no other way to explain it¡ªthe creature simply uncurled into the air and vanished from sight. Just like that.


    With a deep breath to steady himself, Henry took a step back and sat. ¡°I will call a council when we reach Darre. Let the skopos herself preside over this matter.¡±


    ¡°You expect me to bide quietly at your side?¡± demanded Sanglant.


    ¡°Once you would have done what I asked, Son.¡±


    ¡°But I am not what I was. You no longer understand what I have become. Nor do you trust me. I have never abandoned this kingdom, nor will I now. I know what needs to be done, and if you will not support me, then I will find those who will act before it is too late.¡±


    ¡°Is this rebellion, Sanglant?¡±


    ¡°I pray you,¡± began Rosvita, stepping forward to place herself between the two men, because she could see the cataclysm coming, the irresistible force dashing itself against the immovable object.


    ¡°Nay, Sister,¡± said Henry, ¡°do not come between us.¡± She had no choice but to fall silent. She saw in the king certain signs of helplessness before the son he had loved above all his other children, the way his lips quirked unbidden, the tightness of his left hand on the throne¡¯s armrest, his right foot tapping on the ground in a rapid staccato. ¡°Let him answer the question.¡±


    Sanglant had never been a man to let words get in the way of actions. ¡°Heribert!¡± He gathered his daughter more tightly against him and strode to the door with Heribert following obediently at his heels. At the door, he turned to regard his sister. ¡°Theo?¡±

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    She shook her head. ¡°Nay, Sanglant. You do not know what I have witnessed. I will not follow you.¡±


    ¡°You will in the end,¡± he said softly, ¡°because I know what is coming.¡± His gaze flicked over the others, resting briefly on Rosvita, but to her he only gave a swift and gentle smile. ¡°Counsel wisely, Sister,¡± he said in a low voice. He bowed toward Adelheid, and left.


    The lamps swayed. One of the lamps blew out abruptly, with a mocking hwa of air, like a blown breath, and an instant later a second flame shuddered and then was extinguished. All was still.


    If not quiet. Everyone began whispering at once.


    ¡°I pray you,¡± said Henry in a voice so stretched that it seemed ready to break.


    They gave him silence.


    ¡°You do not go with him,¡± observed Henry to Alia. She stood by the door that led into the gardens.


    She smiled, not a reassuring expression. Lifting a hand, she murmured something under her breath and gestured. At once, the two doused lamps caught flame. As the folk in the room started nervously at this display of magic, she smiled again in that collected way a cat preens itself after catching a particularly fat and juicy mouse.


    ¡°He is young and hot-tempered. What I am not understanding is why you are not listening to me, Henri. Is so much knowledge lost to humankind that you refuse to believe me? Do you truly not remember what happened in the long-ago days? I come as¡ªwhat would you say?¡ªwalking as an emissary, from my people to yours. To tell you that many of us are wanting peace, and not wanting war.¡±


    ¡°Where are your people? Where have they been hiding?¡±


    She gave a sharp exhalation of disappointment. ¡°I am offering you an alliance now, when you are in a position of strength. Many among our council argued against this, but because I gave of my essence to make the child, I was choosing to come now and they could not be stopping me. I was choosing to give you this chance.¡± She walked to the door and paused by the threshold. ¡°But when I appear before you next, Henri, you will be weak.¡±


    She walked out of the chamber. No one tried to stop her.


    There came then a long silence. Fortunatus brushed a hand against Rosvita¡¯s elbow. From somewhere beyond the garden, she heard a woman¡¯s laugh, incongruous because of its careless pleasure. The lamplit glow made the chamber like the work of an ancient sculptor, every statue wrought in wood or ivory at the artisan¡¯s pleasure:


    There sat the regnant with his dark eyes raging in a face as still as untouched water. There stood the queen whose high color could be seen in the golden light of burning lamps. The old lord rubs habitually at the empty sleeve of his tunic, as though at any moment a breath of sorcery will fill it again with his lost arm. The princess has turned away, ivory face in profile, jewels glittering at her neck, and a hand on the shoulder of one of her ladies, caught in the act of whispering a confidence.


    The King¡¯s Eagle had folded her arms across her chest and she seemed thoughtful more than shocked, as was every other soul. As were they all, all but Henry, whose anger had congealed into the cold fury of a winter¡¯s storm. St. Thecla went her rounds on the tapestries, caught forever in the cycle of her life and martyrdom, an ever-present reminder of the glory of the Word. Villam coughed.


    The king rose. He glanced at his Eagle and made a small but significant gesture. The Eagle nodded as easily as if he had spoken out loud, then left the chamber on an unknown errand.


    ¡°I will to my bed.¡± Henry took two strides toward one of the inner doors before he paused and turned back toward Adelheid, but the young queen did not move immediately to follow him.


    ¡°Do you believe it to be an impossible story, Sister Rosvita?¡± she asked.


    At first, Rosvita thought she had forgotten how to talk. Her thoughts scattered wildly before she herded them in. ¡°I would need more evidence. Truly, it is hard to believe.¡±


    ¡°That does not mean it cannot be true.¡± Adelheid glanced toward the garden. The cool wind of an autumn night curled into the room, making Rosvita shudder. What if it brought another daimone? ¡°We have seen strange sights, Sister Rosvita. How is this any stranger than what we have ourselves witnessed?¡± She beckoned to her ladies and followed Henry into the far chamber.


    ¡°You have won Queen Adelheid¡¯s loyalty,¡± said Theophanu to Rosvita. ¡°But at what cost? And for what purpose?¡±


    ¡°Your Highness!¡±


    Theophanu did not answer. She retreated with her ladies into the chamber where they had been playing chess, and where beds and pallets were now being set up for their comfort.


    How had it come to this?

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    ¡°Do not trouble yourself, Sister,¡± whispered Fortunatus at her back. ¡°I do not think Princess Theophanu¡¯s anger at you will last forever. She suffers from the worm of jealousy. It has always gnawed at her.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, Brother?¡±


    ¡°Do you not think so?¡± he replied, surprised at her reaction. ¡°Nay, perhaps I am wrong. Certainly you are wiser than I am, Sister.¡±


    Servants and guards dispersed to their places, but Villam lingered and, at last, came forward, indicating that he wished to speak to Rosvita in complete privacy. Fortunatus moved away discreetly to oversee the night¡¯s preparations.


    ¡°Do you believe their story?¡± Villam asked her. The lamplight scoured the wrinkles from his face so that he resembled more than ever his younger self, hale and vigorous and handsome enough to attract a woman¡¯s gaze for more reason than his title and his estates. Hadn¡¯t she looked at him so, when she had been a very young woman come to court for the first time and dazzled by its splendors? In her life, few men had tempted her in this manner, for God had always kept a steadying hand on her passions, and Villam respected God, and the church, and a firm ¡®No.¡¯ They had shared a mutual respect for many years.


    ¡°I cannot dismiss it out of hand, Villam. Yet it seems too impossible to believe outright.¡±


    ¡°You are not one to take fancies lightly, Sister, nor do you succumb to any least rumor. What will you advise the king?¡±


    ¡°I will advise the king not to act rashly,¡± she said with a bitter laugh. ¡°Villam, is it possible you can go now and speak to Prince Sanglant?¡±


    ¡°I will try.¡± He left.


    The king¡¯s particular circle of clerics, stewards, and servingfolk had the right to sleep in his chambers, and Rosvita herself had a pallet at her disposal. Despite this comfortable bed, she spent a restless night troubled by dreams.


    A pregnant woman wearing a cloak of feathers and the features of an Aoi queen sat on a stone seat carved in the likeness of an eagle. Behind her, a golden wheel thrummed, spinning her into a cavern whose walls dripped with ice. Villam¡¯s lost son Berthold slept in a cradle of jewels, surrounded by six attendants whose youthful faces bore the peaceful expression known to those angels who have at last seen God. But the golden calm draped over their repose was shattered when a ragged band of soldiers blundered into their resting hall, calling out in fear and wonder. Ai, God, did one of those frightened men have Ivar¡¯s face? Or was it Amabilia, after all, come to visit her again?


    Amabilia was dead. Yet how could it be that she could still hear her voice?


    ¡°Sister, I pray you, wake up.¡±


    Fortunatus bent over her. A faint light limned the unshuttered window and open door that led out into the garden. Birds trilled their morning song.


    Soldiers had come to wake the king. Henry emerged from his bedchamber with a sleepy expression. He was barefoot. A servingman fussed behind him, offering him a belt for his hastily thrown on tunic.


    ¡°Your Majesty! Prince Sanglant just rode out of the palace grounds with more than fifty men-at-arms and servants in attendance. He took the road toward Bederbor, Duke Conrad¡¯s fortress.¡±


    Henry blinked, then glanced at Helmut Villam, who at that moment walked into the room. ¡°Did no one make any effort to stop him?¡±


    The sergeant merely shrugged helplessly, but Villam stepped forward. ¡°I spoke to him.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    Villam shook his head. ¡°I advise you to let it rest for now.¡±


    ¡°Bring me my horse,¡± said Henry.


    Before the others could rouse, he was off. Rosvita made haste to follow him, and she reached the stables just in time to commandeer a mule and ride after him. Besides a guard of a dozen soldiers, he rode alone except for Hathui, whom he engaged in a private conversation. When Rosvita caught up with the group, he glanced her way but let her accompany him without comment.


    At first, she thought he meant to pursue his son, but once past the palace gates they took a different track, one that led past the monastery and into the forest, down a narrow track still lush with summer¡¯s growth.


    The path wound through the forest. Alder wood spread around them, leaves turning to silver as the autumn nights chilled them. A network of streams punctuated the thick vegetation, low-lying willow and prickly dewberry amid tussocks of woundwort and grassy sedge. A rabbit bounded away under the cover of dogwood half shed of its leaves. The hooves of the horses made a muffled sound on the loamy track. Through a gap in the branches, she saw a buzzard circling above the treetops.


    The track gave out abruptly in a meadow marked by a low rise where a solemn parade of hewn stones lay at odd angles, listing right or left depending on the density of the soil. One had fallen over, but the main group remained more or less intact.

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    ¡°Here?¡± asked Henry.


    ¡°This far.¡± Hathui indicated the stone circle. ¡°She went in. She did not come out, nor have I seen any evidence she walked through the stones and on into the forest beyond. There isn¡¯t a path, nothing but a deer track that¡¯s mostly overgrown.¡±


    He beckoned to Rosvita. ¡°Your company passed through one of these gateways, Sister. Could it not be that the Aoi have hidden themselves in some distant corner of Earth, biding their time?¡±


    ¡°It could be, Your Majesty. But with what manner of sorcery I cannot know.¡±


    ¡°Yet there remain mathematici among us,¡± he mused, ¡°who may serve us as one did Adelheid.¡±


    She shuddered, drawing in a breath to warn him against sorcery, but he turned away, so she did not speak. Light spread slowly over the meadow, waking its shadows to the day, and these rays crept up and over the king until he was wholly illuminated. The sun crowned him with its glory as he stared at the silent circle of ancient stones. A breeze stirred his hair, and his horse stamped once, tossed its head, and flicked an ear at a bothersome fly. He waited there, silent and watchful, while Hathui made a final circuit of the stones.


    ¡°What news of the mountains?¡± he asked as the Eagle came up beside him at last.


    ¡°Most reports agree that the passes are still clear. It¡¯s been unseasonably warm, and there is little snow on the peaks. If God will it, we will have another month of fair weather. Enough to get through the mountains.¡±


    On the ride back he sang, inviting the soldiers to join in. Afterward, he spoke to them of their families and their last campaign. At the stables, a steward was waiting to direct him to the chapel where Adelheid, Theophanu, and their retinues knelt at prayer.


    Henry strode in like fire, and Adelheid rose to greet him with an answering strength of will. Theophanu waited to one side with inscrutable patience as the king made a show of greeting his fair, young queen. But he did not neglect his daughter. He kissed her on either cheek and drew her forward so that every person, and by now quite a few had crowded into the chapel, would note her standing at his right side.


    ¡°Theophanu, you will remain in the north as my representative.¡± He spoke with the king¡¯s public voice, carrying easily over the throng. The news carried in murmurs out the door and into the palace courtyard, where people gathered to see how Henry would react to the news of Sanglant¡¯s departure.


    What Theophanu¡¯s expression concealed Rosvita could no longer guess. Was she glad of the opportunity or angry to be left behind again? She only nodded, eyes half shuttered. ¡°As you wish, Father.¡±


    Henry extended an arm and took Adelheid¡¯s hand in his, drawing her forward to stand by his left side, as he would any honored ally. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± he said, addressing the court with a sharp smile, ¡°we continue our march south, to Aosta.¡±


    3


    LIGHT lay in such a hard, brilliant sheen over the abandoned city that Liath had to shade her eyes as she and Eldest Uncle emerged out of the cave into heat and sunlight. The stone edifices spread out before her, as silent as ghosts, color splashed across them where walls and square columns had been painted with bright murals. She retrieved her weapons from the peace stone and the water jar from the pyramid of skulls. Her hands were still unsteady, her entire soul shaken.


    She and Da had run for so many years, hunted and, in the end, caught. She had been exiled from the king¡¯s court, yet had not found peace within her mother¡¯s embrace. Now this place, too, was closed to her. Was there any place she would ever be welcome? Could she ever find a home where she would not be hounded, hunted, and threatened with death?


    Not today.


    The huge carved serpent¡¯s mouth lay empty, although she heard the incomprehensible sound of the councillors¡¯ distant conversation, muted by the labyrinthine turnings of the passageway, each one like a twist of intrigue in the king¡¯s court, muffling words and intent.


    ¡°I have been given a day and a night,¡± she said to the old sorcerer. She had learned to keep going by reverting to practical matters. ¡°Can I walk the spheres in that length of time?¡±


    ¡°Child, the span of days as they are measured on Earth has no meaning up among the spheres. You must either return to Earth, or walk the spheres.¡±


    ¡°Or wait here and die.¡±


    He chuckled. ¡°Truly, even with such meager powers of foretelling as I possess, I do not predict that is the fate which awaits you.¡±


    ¡°What fate awaits me, then?¡±


    He shrugged. Together they walked back across the city toward the bank of mist. ¡°You are new to your power,¡± he said finally. ¡°The path that leads to the spheres may not open for you.¡±

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    ¡°And the burning stone may remain hidden. What then? Will Cat Mask choose to hunt me down?¡±


    ¡°He surely will. Given the chance.¡±


    ¡°Then I must make sure he is not given the chance.¡± The silence hanging over the abandoned city made her voice sound like nothing more than the scratch of a mouse¡¯s claws on the stone paving of a vast cathedral. ¡°I could return to Earth.¡±


    ¡°So you could,¡± he replied agreeably. He whistled, under his breath, a tune that sounded like the wandering wind caught among a maze of reed pipes.


    ¡°Then I would be reunited with my husband and child.¡±


    ¡°Indeed you would, in that case.¡±


    ¡°My daughter is growing. How many days are passing while we speak here together? How many months will pass before I see her again?¡± Her voice rose in anger. ¡°How can I wait here, how can I even consider a longer journey, when I know that Sister Anne and her companions are preparing for what lies ahead?¡±


    ¡°These are difficult questions to answer.¡±


    His calm soothed her. ¡°Of course, if this land does not return to its place, there might be other unseen consequences, ones that aren¡¯t as obvious as a great cataclysm but that are equally terrible.¡±


    ¡°So there might.¡±


    ¡°But, in fact, no one knows what will happen.¡±


    ¡°No one ever knows what will happen,¡± he replied, ¡°not even those who can divine the future.¡±


    She glanced at him, but could not read anything in his countenance except peace. He had a mole below one eye, as though a black tear had frozen there. ¡°You¡¯re determined to agree with me.¡±


    ¡°Am I? Perhaps it is only that you¡¯ve said nothing yet that I can disagree with.¡±


    They walked a while more in silence. She pulled one corner of her cloak up over her head to shade her eyes. The somber ranks of stairs, the platforms faced with skull-like heads and gaping mouths or with processions of women wearing elaborate robes and complicated headdresses, the glaring eye of the sun, all these wore away at her until she had an ache that throbbed along her forehead. The beat of her heart pulsed annoyingly in her throat. When they came to the great pyramid, she sank down at its foot, bracing herself against one of the monstrous heads. She set a hand on a smooth snout, a serpent¡¯s cunning face extruding from a petaled stone flower. Sweat trickled down her back. Heat sucked anger out of her. She would have taken off her cloak, but she needed it to keep her head shaded. The old sorcerer crouched at the base of the huge staircase, rolling his spear between his hands.


    ¡°Did you use magic to build this city?¡± she asked suddenly.


    His aged face betrayed nothing. ¡°Is the willingness to perform backbreaking labor a form of magic? Are the calculations of priests trained in geometry and astronomy more sorcery than skill? Perhaps so. What is possible for many may seem like magic when only a few contemplate the same amount of work.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired,¡± said Liath, and so she was. She shut her eyes, but under that shroud of quiet she could not feel at peace. She saw Sanglant and Blessing as she had seen them through the vision made out of fire: the child¡ªgrown so large!¡ªsquirming toward her and Sanglant crying out her name. ¡°I¡¯m so tired. How can I do everything that is asked of me?¡±


    ¡°Always we are tied to the earth out of which we came whether we will it or not. What you might have become had you the ability to push all other considerations from your heart and mind is not the same thing that you will become because you can never escape your ties to those for whom you feel love and responsibility.¡±


    ¡°What I am cannot be separated from who I am joined to in my heart.¡±


    He grunted. She opened her eyes just as he gripped the haft of his spear and hoisted himself up to his feet. A man ran toward them along the broad avenue with the lithe and powerful lope of a predator. As he neared, she felt a momentary shiver of terror: dressed in the decorated loincloth and short cloak ubiquitous among the Aoi males, he had not a human face but an animal one. An instant later she recognized Cat Mask. He had pulled his mask down to conceal his face. In his right hand he held a small, round, white shield and in his left a wooden sword ridged with obsidian blades.


    She leaped up and onto the stairs, grabbed her bow, slipped an arrow free, and drew, sighting on Cat Mask. Eldest Uncle said nothing, made no movement, but he whistled softly under his breath. Oddly enough, she felt the wind shift and tangle around her like so many little fingers clutching and prying.


    Cat Mask slowed and, with the grace of a cat pretending it meant to turn away from the mouse that has escaped it, halted a cautious distance away. ¡°I am forbidden to harm you this day!¡± he cried. The mask muffled his words.

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    ¡°Is that meant to make me trust you?¡± She didn¡¯t change her stance.


    After a moment he wedged the shield between arm and torso and used his free hand to lift his mask so that she could see his face. He examined her with the startled expression of a man who has abruptly realized that the woman standing before him has that blend of form and allurement that makes her attractive. She didn¡¯t lower her bow. Wind teased her arrow point up and down, so she couldn¡¯t hold it steady. With an angry exclamation she sought fire in the iron tip and let it free. The arrow¡¯s point burst into flame. Cat Mask leaped backward quite dramatically.


    Eldest Uncle laughed outright, hoisting his spear. The bells tied to its tip jangled merrily. ¡°So am I answered!¡± he cried. He frowned at Cat Mask. ¡°Why have you followed us, Sour One?¡±


    ¡°To make you see reason, Old Man. Give her over to me now and I will make sure that she receives the fate she deserves. Humankind are not fit for an alliance with us. They will never trust us, nor any person tainted by kinship to us.¡±


    ¡°Harsh words,¡± mused Eldest Uncle as Liath kept Cat Mask fixed in her sight while the arrow¡¯s point burned cheerfully. ¡°Is it better to waste away here? Do you believe that your plans and plots will succeed even if nothing hinders our return? Have we numbers enough to defeat humankind and their allies, now that they are many and we are few?¡±


    ¡°They fight among themselves. As long as they remain divided, we can defeat them.¡±


    ¡°Will they still quarrel among themselves when faced with our armies? Do not forget how much they hated us before.¡±


    ¡°They will always hate us!¡± But even as he said those words, he glanced again at Liath. She knew the expression of men who felt desire; she had seen it often enough to recognize it here. Cat Mask struggled with unspoken words, or maybe with disgust at his own susceptibility. Like Sanglant, he had the look of a man who knows how to fight and will do so. He was barely as tall as Liath but easily as broad across the shoulders as Sanglant, giving him a powerful, impressive posture. ¡°And we will always hate them!¡±


    His expression caught in her heart, in that place where Hugh still presided with his beautiful face and implacable grip.


    ¡°Hate makes you weak.¡± Her words startled him enough that he met her gaze squarely for the first time. ¡°Hate is like a whirlpool, because in the end it drags you under.¡± With each word, she saw more clearly the knots that bound her to Hugh, fastened first by him, certainly, but pulled tighter by her. ¡°That which you allow yourself to hate has power over you. How can you be sure that all humankind hates your people still? How can you be sure that an envoy offering peace won¡¯t be listened to?¡±


    He snarled. ¡°You can never understand what we suffered.¡±


    The flame at the tip of the arrow flickered down and snapped out, leaving the iron point glowing with heat. With deliberate slowness, to make it a challenge, she lowered the bow. ¡°You don¡¯t know what I can or cannot understand. You are not the only one who has suffered.¡±


    ¡°Ask those who are dead if they want peace with humankind. How can we trust the ones who did this to us?¡±


    ¡°The ones who did this to you died so long ago that most people believe you are only a story told to children at bedtime.¡±


    He laughed, not kindly, and took a step forward. ¡°You are clever with words, Bright One. But I will still have your blood to make my people strong.¡±


    Resolve made her bold and maybe reckless as she gestured toward the heavens with Seeker of Hearts. ¡°Catch me if you can, Cat Mask. Will you walk the spheres at my heels, or do you prefer to face me after I have returned from the halls of power, having learned the secret language of the stars?¡±


    Cat Mask hissed in surprise, or disapproval. Or maybe even fear.


    Eldest Uncle set down his spear with a thump. ¡°So be it.¡± He raised the spear and shook it so the bells rattled, as though to close the circle and end the conversation. ¡°Go,¡± he said to Cat Mask. It was a measure of the respect granted him as the last survivor, the only Ashioi who had seen the great cataclysm personally, that when he spoke a single command, a warrior as bold as Cat Mask obeyed instantly.


    They watched him jog away down the length of the avenue. When he was distant enough that he posed no immediate threat, Eldest Uncle set foot on the stairs. Liath followed, using her bow to steady herself as they climbed higher on those frighteningly narrow steps. She caught her breath at the broad platform that defined its height before they descended the other side and passed into the mist, traversing the borderlands quickly and emerging at the lonely tower.

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    The unnatural silence of the sparse grassland, with its thorny shrubs and low-lying pale grasses, tore at her heart. Like a mute, the land could no longer speak in the many small voices common to Earth. The stillness oppressed her. Light made gold of the hillside as they walked up and over the height, bypassing the watchtower. She was grateful to come in under the scant shade afforded by the pines. Even the wind had died. Heat drenched them. A swipe of her hand along the back of her neck came away dripping.


    She halted at the forest¡¯s edge, such as it was, breaking from pine forest into scrub and giving way precipitously to the hallucinatory splendor of the flowering meadow.


    Under the shadow of the pines she slid her bow back into its case and let the spray of color ease her eyes. Eldest Uncle stood beside her without speaking or moving, beyond the thin whistle blown under his breath and an occasional tinkle of bells as he shifted the haft of his spear on the needle-strewn ground.


    ¡°How do I walk the spheres?¡± she asked finally, when Eldest Uncle seemed disinclined to move onward or to say anything at all. ¡°Where do I find the path that will lead me there?¡±


    ¡°You have already walked it.¡± He gestured toward the flower trail that led down to the river. ¡°Why do you think I bide here, out of all the places in our land? This place is like a spring, the last known to us, where water wells up from hidden roots. Here the land draws life from the universe beyond, because the River of Light that spans the heavens touches our Earth at this place.¡±


    Wind stirred the flowers. Cornflowers bobbed on their high stalks, and irises nodded. The breeze murmured through crooked rows of lavender that cut a swathe of purple through tangles of dog roses and dense clusters of bright peonies. Marigolds edged the trail, so richly gold that sunlight might have been poured into them to give them color.


    The view humbled her. ¡°I thought you camped here because of the burning stone.¡± She gestured toward the river, and the clearing that lay beyond it, where she had first crossed into this land.


    ¡°There are many places within our land where a gateway may open at intervals we cannot predict. It is true that the clearing in which I wait and meditate is one of those. But it is this place that I guard.¡±


    ¡°Guard against what?¡±


    ¡°Go forward. You have walked this trail many times in these last days.¡±


    Wind cooled the sweat on her forehead and made the flowers dance and sway in a delirious mob of colors. Why hesitate?


    Reflexively, she checked her gear, all that she had brought with her, everything and the only things she now possessed: cloak and boots, tunic and leggings; a leather belt, small leather pouch, and sheathed eating knife; her good friend Lucian¡¯s sword; the gold torque that lay heavily at her throat; the gold feather that Eldest Uncle had once given to her, now bound to an arrow¡¯s haft; the griffin quiver full of strong iron-pointed arrows and her bow, Seeker of Hearts; the lapis lazuli ring through which Alain had offered her his protection. The water jar did not belong to her, so she set it down on the path. When she stepped forward, crossing from shadow into sun, the blast of the sun hit her so hard she staggered back, raising a hand to shield herself.


    Something wasn¡¯t right. Hadn¡¯t she learned more than this, even in her short time here in the country of the Aoi? Every spell, drawn out of an interaction with the hidden architecture of the universe, must be entered into correctly and departed from correctly, just as all things have a proper beginning and a proper ending.


    By what means did a sorcerer ascend into the spheres? How could any person ascend into the heavens in bodily form, because the heavens were made up of aether, light, wind, and fire? Mortal substance was not meant to walk there.


    Would she have to study many days and weeks and even months more, before she could walk the spheres and seek out her true power? Even if she ought to, she could not wait.


    On Earth, days and weeks passed with each breath she exhaled here in this country. In the world beyond, her child grew and her husband waited, Anne schemed and Hugh flourished and Hanna rode long distances at the mercy of forces greater than herself. What of the Lions who had befriended her? What of Alain, whom she had last seen staggering, half dead, through the ruins of a battlefield? Where was he now? How could she leave them struggling alone? How much longer would she make them wait for her?


    In one day and one night, as measured in this country, Cat Mask and his warriors would come hunting her.


    It was time for her to go.


    Yet how did one reach the heavens?


    With a ladder.


    She shut her eyes. Wind curled in her hair like the brush of Da¡¯s fingers, stroking her to sleep. Ai, God, Da had taught her exactly what she needed, if she had only believed in him.

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    She knelt to set her palm against the earth. As she rested there for the space of seven breaths, she let her mind empty, as Eldest Uncle had taught her. Dirt lay gritty against her skin. When she let her awareness empty far enough, she actually felt the pulse of the land through her hand, thin and fragile, worn to a thread. But it was still there. The land was still, barely, alive.


    With a finger, she traced the Rose of Healing into the dirt, brushing aside dried-up needles and desiccated splinters of pine bark so that the outline made a bold mark on the path. Heat rose from that outline, and she stood quickly to step over it and into the sunlight.


    At first her voice sounded hesitant and weak, a frail reed against the ocean of silence that lay over the land.


    ¡°By this ladder the mage ascends: First to the Rose, whose touch is healing.¡± She took two more steps before bending to trace the next sigil into the dirt. ¡°Then to the Sword, which grants us strength.¡±


    Three steps she forged forward now, and either perhaps the heat had increased or maybe only the strong hammer of the sun was making her light-headed, because some strange disturbance had altered the air around her so that the air resisted her passage as porridge might, poured down from the sky.


    She crouched, and drew. ¡°Third comes the Cup of Boundless Waters.¡±


    When she straightened, the flowers flowing out from either side of the trail had taken on a shimmering, unearthly cast, as though they bloomed with something other than material substance. Poppies flared with impossible scarlet richness. Lilacs lay a tender violet blush over swaying green stalks, shading into the complicated aftertones seen at sunset, although the sun still rode high above her.


    She pressed forward four steps as a hazy glamour rose off the path like mist. Through this soft fog she reached, searching for the ground at her feet. It was hard now to see the path beneath her, but the dirt felt the same. Into the cool soil she traced the next pattern.


    ¡°Fourth lies the blacksmith¡¯s Ring of Fire.¡±


    Fog billowed up along the path, swirling around her knees as she took five steps forward. Ahead, through the hazy shimmer that now lay over the meadow, she saw the river. A figure stood on the far bank, caught in a moment of indecision among the rocks at the ford. Even from this distance, Liath recognized the stocky body and distinctive face of one of the Ashioi, but the woman was dressed so strangely, in human clothing, with human gear. She looked utterly out of place and yet entirely familiar as she gazed at the scene unfolding before her.


    The fragrance of roses surrounded Liath, so dense it made her woozy.


    Was it dizziness? Or was that Ashioi woman actually wearing Liath¡¯s other tunic, the one she had folded away into the saddlebags thrown over Resuelto¡¯s back just before she and Sanglant and the baby had tried to make their escape from Verna?


    It was too late to stop now. She couldn¡¯t pause to find out the answer. She had to go on.


    She knelt, and drew. Rising, she spoke as she walked. ¡°The Throne of Virtue follows fifth.¡±


    The field of flowers expanded around her as though the clearing had breached the bounds holding it to the earth and had begun to spread up actually into the sky. Cornflowers burned with a pale blue-fire luminescence, blazing lanterns, each one like a shard of the burning stone cracked and shattered and strewn among the other flowers. Through this dizzying terrain she took six steps. It was both hard to keep to the path and yet somehow impossible to step off of it.


    ¡°Wisdom¡¯s Scepter marks the sixth.¡±


    She was almost to the river. Ahead, the flower trail melded and became one with the river itself, but the river no longer resembled an earthly river, bound by its rock bed. Like the River of Heaven, it streamed up into the sky, a deep current pouring upward, all blue and silver. Vaguely, beyond it, or below it, she saw the shadows of those things that still stood on the land: a pale figure more shade than substance, algae-covered rocks whose chaotic patterns nevertheless seemed to conceal unspoken secrets, withered trees so dark that they seemed lifeless.


    She must not pause to look back. Her feet touched the water, yet it was not water that swirled around her calves as she took seven steps forward. She waded into a streaming river of aether that flowed upward to its natural home. When she thrust her hand into its depths, the currents pooled around her, swift and hot.


    She traced the outlines of the final sigil, the crown of stars. Where her hand drew, the blue-silver effluence surged away with sparks of gold fire.


    ¡°At the highest rung seek the Crown of Stars, the song of power revealed.¡±


    She climbed the River of Light.


    The path opened before her, the great river spoken of by so many of the ancient writers. Was it the seam that bound together the two hemispheres of the celestial sphere, as Theophrastus wrote? Or was the theory of Posidonos the correct one, that by its journey through the heavens it brought heat to the cold reaches of the universe?

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    Or was it only the ladder linking the spheres? She toiled upward, the current pushing her on from behind. Beneath her feet the land dropped away into darkness. Above, stars shone and yet began to fade into a new luminescence, one with a steely white light like that of a great, shining wall, the boundary that marked the limit of the lowest sphere. Low, like the delicate thrumming of plucked harp strings, she heard an eerie music more pulse than melody.


    Rivulets sprang away from the main stream, so that the river itself became a labyrinth winding upward. On the currents of aether, insubstantial figures shaped in a vaguely humanlike form but composed of no mortal element danced in the fields of air through which these rivulets ran. The daimones of the lower sphere, those that lived below the Moon. If they saw her, they gave no sign. Their dance enraptured them, caught in the music of the spheres.


    The thin arch of a gateway manifested in the shining wall that marked the limit of the sky. With a shock like the sight of a beloved kinsman thought dead but standing alive before her, she recognized this place. She had known it all along. Da had trained her in its passages, in the spiraling path that led ever upward. Although the way seemed obscure and veiled before her, she had a feeling very like that of homecoming as she ascended to the first gate, the gate she knew so well from the city of memory in whose architecture Da had trained her.


    Had he known that the city of memory reflected, like a hazy image in a pond, the true structure of the universe? Or had he merely taught her what others had taught him, and by this means passed on to her what had remained hidden to generations of magi before him?


    No matter.


    She knew where she was going now. Each gate was part of the crossroads that linked the worlds.


    As though her thought itself had the power of making, an archway built of aether and light flowed into existence against the shining wall. Before it stood a guardian, a daimone formed out of the substance of air and armed with a glittering spear as pale as ice.


    ¡°To what place do you seek entrance?¡± Its voice was as soft as the flow of water through a grassy side channel.


    ¡°I mean to cross into the sphere of the Moon,¡± she replied, determined not to quail before this heavenly creature.


    ¡°Who are you, to demand entrance?¡±


    She knew well the power of names. ¡°I have been called Bright One.¡±


    It stepped back from her, as though the words had struck it like a blow, but kept its spear fixed across the gateway. ¡°Child of Flame,¡± it whispered, ¡°you have too much mortal substance. You are too heavy to cross. What can you give me to lighten your load?¡±


    Even as it spoke, she felt the truth of its words. Her belongings dragged on her and, in another instant, she would plunge back to earth¡ªor into the Abyss, falling forever. She had no wings.


    Swiftly, she tugged off her boots and unpinned her cloak. As they fell away, she rose. A breath of aether picked her up bodily, and the guardian faded until she saw it only as a spire of ice sparkling by the gateway.


    The way lay open.


    She did not look back as she stepped over the threshold.


    PART TWO


    QUEENS¡¯ GRAVE


    V


    IN THE AFTERLIFE


    1


    PROBABLY he was dead.


    But when the fish twisted and slipped out of his hands to escape back into the river, it acted like a living fish. The men who laughed uproariously around him sounded lively enough, and the stocky man who had yesterday threatened him with an ax had certainly looked alarmingly alive.


    He knew what death felt like. Just yesterday he had held a newborn infant in his hands that was blue with death, but he¡¯d learned the trick from Aunt Bel that sometimes newly reborn souls needed chafing to startle them into remembering life. Just yesternight he¡¯d stumbled through a battlefield with his own life leaking from him in flowering streams of blood.


    It was hard to believe that he was alive now, even standing up to his hips in the cold river as the tug of the current tried to drag him downstream. It was easier to believe that he was dead, even if the fish in the baskets up on the shore churned and slithered, bright sunlight flashing on their scales. His companion, Urtan, clapped him on the shoulder and spoke words, none of which meant anything but which sounded cheerful enough. Maybe death wouldn¡¯t prove onerous as long as God granted him such good company.


    The other men, Tosti and Kel, had started splashing each other as soon as the last weir had been hauled into the shallows and emptied of its bounty. Now Kel stoppered up the weir with a plug of sodden wood and flung it back into the river, and they swam a little, laughing and talking and with gestures making him welcome to join them.


    He let the current jostle him off his feet as he lay back into its pull. Didn¡¯t death claim its victims in exactly this manner? Perhaps he was only streaming upward on the River of Heaven, making his way toward the Chamber of Light through a series of way stations. But as the water closed over his face, he heard the hounds barking. Just as he heaved himself over and stood, Sorrow bounded out into the river, paddling madly, while Rage yipped anxiously from the shore.

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    ¡°Nay, nay, friend,¡± he said, hauling Sorrow by his forelegs back to the shallows, ¡°I¡¯ll bide here in this place for a while yet, if God so will it.¡± His companions swam closer, unsure of his intent. They smiled cautiously as he shook out his wet hair, then laughed when Sorrow let fly a spray of mist as the hound shook himself off.


    The village lay just beyond the river. Towering behind sod-and-timber houses rose the huge tumulus with its freshly raised earthworks and the gaunt circle of giant stones at the flat summit. In many ways, the tumulus reminded him of the battlefield where he had fallen, but the river had run on a different course there, and the forest hadn¡¯t grown as thickly to the north and west, and the tumulus itself had been so very ancient. Nor had there been a village lying in its shadow. This couldn¡¯t be the same place where he had died.


    ¡°But it¡¯s a good place,¡± he assured Sorrow, who regarded him reprovingly. Rage padded over for a pat and a scratch. ¡°Yet doesn¡¯t it seem strange to you that there should be no iron in the afterlife? They carry daggers of flint, and their ploughs are nothing but the stout fork of a tree shaped so that one length of it can turn the soil. It seems strange to me that God would punish common folk by making their day-to-day work harder in the other world.¡±


    So Aunt Bel would have said. But of course, she wasn¡¯t his aunt any longer; he had no family, orphaned child of a dead whore.


    ¡°Alain.¡± Urtan gestured toward the baskets, which needed two men each to hoist.


    Perhaps he had no family, but in this land they needed him, even if only for as humble a task as carrying a basket of fish up to the village. Hadn¡¯t he given everything else to the centaur woman? Maybe at this way station of the journey toward the Chamber of Light, he had to learn to forget the life he had once lived.


    They hauled the baskets up the slope. Children shrieked and exclaimed over the fish, and after much good-natured jesting he realized that it wasn¡¯t so hard after all to learn a few words: ¡°fish,¡± ¡°basket,¡± ¡°knife,¡± and a word that meant ¡°child,¡± applied equally to boys and girls.


    It was a good idea to learn as much as he could, since he didn¡¯t know how long he would bide here, or where he would end up next.


    By the gates he saw Adica. Without the gold antlers and spiral waistband that had made her presence awe-inspiring up among the stones, she looked like any young woman, except for the lurid burn scar on her cheek. She watched them as they hauled the baskets through the gate, and he smiled, unaccountably pleased to see her, but the spark of pleasure reminded him of last night, when she had gestured toward the bed in her house. Her movement as she smiled in response made her corded skirt sway, revealing the length of her bare thighs.


    He flushed and looked away. He had made vows to Tallia, hadn¡¯t he? If he must abjure them, if he must admit that he and Tallia were no longer husband and wife, then hadn¡¯t he long before that been promised to the church? He ought not to be admiring any woman.


    Yet as they came to the big house that stood at the center of the village, he glanced back toward the gates, lying below them. Adica still stood there beside the elderly headwoman, called Orla. Hadn¡¯t he given up all the vows and the promises, the lies and the secrets? Hadn¡¯t the centaur woman taken his old life and left him as naked as a newborn child in a new world?


    Perhaps, like the infant yesterday, he needed to learn how to breathe again. Perhaps that was the secret of the journey, that each way station taught you a new lesson before you were swept again downstream toward the obliterating light of God.


    At the big house, children of varying ages swarmed up and, by some pattern he couldn¡¯t quite discern, Urtan doled out the fish until a small portion was left for Tosti and Kel.


    ¡°Come, come,¡± said Kel, who had evidently been stung at birth by the bee of impatience. He and Tosti were close in age, very alike except in temperament. They led Alain through the village to the only other big house. It had a stone foundation, wood pillars and beams, a thatched roof, and pungent stables attached at one end, now empty except for the lingering aroma of cattle. Inside, Kel showed him a variety of furs and sleeping mats woven of reeds rolled up on wooden platforms ranged under the sloping walls. The young man showed him a place, mimed sleeping, and made Alain repeat five times the word which perhaps meant ¡°sleep¡± or else ¡°bed.¡± Satisfied, he led Alain outside. Setting the guts aside for the stew pot, they lay the cleaned fish out to dry on a platform plaited out of willow branches. It took Alain a few tries to get the hang of using a flint knife, but he persevered, and Tosti, at least, was patient enough to leave him alone to get the hang of it.

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    There were other chores to be done. As Aunt Bel used to say, ¡°work never ceases, only our brief lives do.¡± Work helped him forget. He set to willingly, whether it was gutting fish or, as today, felling trees for a palisade. He learned to use a stone ax, which didn¡¯t cut nearly as well as the iron he was used to and, after a number of false starts, got the hang of using a flint adze.


    Could it be that God wished humankind to recall that war had no place in the Chamber of Light? War sprang from iron, out of which weapons were made. After all, it was with an iron sword that the Lady of Battles had dealt the killing blow.


    Yet if these people didn¡¯t know war, then why were they fortifying their village?


    Kel got impatient with the speed at which Alain trimmed bark from the fallen tree, and by gestures showed him that he should go back to felling trees while Kel did the trimming. Tosti scolded Kel, but Alain good-naturedly exchanged adze for ax. He and Urtan examined a goodly stand of young beech and marked four particularly strong, straight trees for felling.


    Alain measured falling distance and angle, and started chopping. His first swing got off wrong, and he merely nicked the tree and had to skip back to avoid hitting his own legs. A man appeared suddenly from behind and with a curse gave a hard strike to the tree. Chips flew and the ax sank deep.


    Startled, Alain hesitated. The man turned, looking him over with an expression of disgust and challenge. It was the man who had threatened him yesterday, who went by the name Beor. He was as tall as Alain and half again as broad, with the kind of hands that looked able to crush rocks.


    The men around grew quiet; two more, whose faces he recognized, had appeared from out of the forest. Everyone waited and watched. No one moved to interfere. Once, with senses sharpened by his blood link to Fifth Son, who had taken the name Stronghand, he would have heard each least crease of loam crushed under Beor¡¯s weight as the other man shifted, readying to strike, and he would have tasted Beor¡¯s anger and envy as though it were an actual flavor. But now he could not feel Stronghand¡¯s presence woven into his thoughts; the lack of it made his heart feel strangely empty, distended, and limp. Had he given that blood link to the centaur sorcerer, too, or had he only lost the link to Stronghand because blood could not in fact transcend death?


    Yet envy and anger are easy enough to read in a man¡¯s stance and in his expression. Rage padded forward to sit beside Alain. She growled softly.


    Alain stepped forward and jerked the ax out of the tree. He offered it to Beor who, after a moment¡¯s hesitation, took it roughly out of his hands. ¡°You¡¯ve great skill with that ax,¡± Alain said with defiant congeniality, ¡°and I¡¯ve little enough with a tool I¡¯m unaccustomed to, but I mean to fell this tree, so I will do so and thank you to stand aside.¡±


    He deliberately turned his back on the man. The weight of the other workers¡¯ stares made his first strokes clumsy, but he stubbornly kept on even when Beor began to make what were obviously insulting comments about his lack of skill with the ax. Why did Beor hate him?


    Behind him, the other men moved away to their own tasks. Beor¡¯s presence remained, massive and hostile. With one blow, he could strike Alain down from behind, smash his head in, or cripple him with a well-placed chop to the back.


    It didn¡¯t matter. Alain just kept on, fell into the pattern of it finally as the wedge widened and the tree, at last, creaked, groaned, and fell. Beor had been so intent on glowering that he had to leap back, and Urtan made a tart comment, but no one laughed. They were either too afraid or too respectful of Beor to laugh at him.


    It was well to know the measure of one¡¯s opponents. That was why he had lost Lavas county to Geoffrey: he hadn¡¯t understood the depth of Geoffrey¡¯s envy and hatred. Could he have kept the county and won over Tallia if he had acted differently?


    Yet what use in rubbing the wound raw instead of giving it a chance to heal? Lavas county belonged to Geoffrey¡¯s daughter now. Tallia had left him of her own free will. He had to let it go.


    Kel began trimming the newly fallen beech, and Alain started in on the next tree. Eventually, Beor faded back to work elsewhere, although at intervals Alain felt his glance like a poisoned arrow glancing off his back. But he never dignified Beor¡¯s jealousy with an answer. He just kept working.


    In the late afternoon, they hitched up oxen to drag the trimmed and finished poles back toward the village. Sweat dried on his back as he walked. The other men wore simple breechclouts, fashioned of cloth or leather. The tunic Adica had given him looked nothing like their clothing. It had a finer weave and a shaped form that was easy to work and move in, even when he dropped it off his shoulders and tied it at his hips with a belt of bast rope. The men of the village had stocky bodies, well muscled and quite hairy. They had keen, bright faces and were quick to laughter, mostly, but they didn¡¯t really resemble any of the people he knew or had ever seen, as if here in the afterlife God had chosen to shape humankind a little differently.

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    Unlike his kinsman Kel, Urtan had the gift of patience, and he fell back to walk beside Alain to teach him new words: the names of trees, the parts of the body, the different tools and the type of stone they were made of. Beor strode at the front with various companions walking beside him. Now and again he shot an irate glance back toward Alain. But unlike an arrow, a glance could not prick unless you let it. Beor might hurt and even kill in a fit of jealous rage, but he could never do any other harm because he hadn¡¯t any subtlety.


    The village feasted that evening on fish, venison, and a potage of barley mush flavored with herbs and leaves from the forest, sweetened by berries. Urtan ate with his family, his wife Abidi and his children Urta and a toddler who didn¡¯t seem to have an intelligible name, leaving Alain to eat with the unmarried men, all of them except Beor little more than youths. Adica ate by herself, off to one side, without companionship, but when Alain made to get up to go over to her, Kel grabbed him and jerked him back, gesturing that it wasn¡¯t permitted. Adica had been watching him, and now she smiled slightly and looked away. The burn scar along her cheek looked rather like a congealed spider¡¯s web, running from her right ear down around the curve of the jawline to fade almost at her throat. The tip of her right ear was missing, so cleanly healed that it merely looked misshapen.


    Beor rose abruptly and began declaiming as twilight fell. Like a man telling a war story, he went on at length. Was he boasting? Kel and Tosti started to yawn, and Adica rose suddenly in the middle of the story and walked right out, away into the village. Alain wanted to follow her, but he wasn¡¯t sure if such a thing was permitted. At last, Beor finished his tale. It was time for bed. Alain¡¯s friends had given him a place to sleep beside them but at the opposite end of the men¡¯s house from Beor. He was tired enough to welcome sleep, but when he rolled himself up in the furs allotted him, stones pressed into his side. He groped and found the offending pebbles, but they weren¡¯t stones at all but some kind of necklace. It hadn¡¯t been there earlier.


    At dawn, when he woke, he hurried outside to get enough light to see: someone had given him a necklace of amber. Kel, stumbling out sleepily behind him, whistled in admiration for the handsome gift, and called out to the others, and they teased Alain cheerfully, all but Beor, who stalked off.


    Down by the village gates, Adica was already up, performing the ritual she made every day at the gateway, perhaps a charm of protection. As if she heard their laughter, she glanced up. He couldn¡¯t see her face clearly, but her stance spoke to him, the way she straightened her back self-consciously, the curve of her breasts under her bodice, the swaying of her string skirt as she walked from the gates over the plank bridge. It was difficult not to be distracted by the movement of her hips under the revealing skirt.


    Kel and Tosti laughed outright and clapped him on the shoulder. He could imagine what their words meant: gifts and women and longing looks. Some things didn¡¯t change, even in the afterlife.


    He had come a long way. He no longer wore the ring that marked him as heir to the Count of Lavas. He no longer had to honor the vows pledged between him and Tallia. He no longer served the Lady of Battles. With a smile, he put on the amber necklace, although the gesture made his friends whoop and laugh.


    That day they hoisted the poles they¡¯d cut the day before into place in the new palisade. Once, Beor neglected to brace while Alain was filling in dirt around a newly upright pole, and the resultant tumble caused two poles to come down. Luckily no one was hurt, but Beor got a scolding from one of the older men.


    Alain went down with Kel and Tosti to the river afterward to wash. ¡°Come!¡± shouted Kel just before he dove under the water. ¡°Good!¡± he added, when he came up for air. ¡°Good water. Water is good.¡±


    Alain was distracted by the sight of the tumulus. Here, upstream from the village, the river cut so close below the earthworks that the ramparts rose right out of the water except for a thin strand of pebbly beach from which the men swam. He couldn¡¯t see the stone circle from this angle, but something glinted from the height above nevertheless, a wink like gold. The twisting angle of the earthworks reminded him of the battle where he had fallen. He heard Thiadbold¡¯s cries as if a ghost whispered in his ear. The past haunted him. Did the bones of their enemies lie up there? Two days ago, he had wandered off the height in a daze, following Adica. He hadn¡¯t really looked.


    Stung by curiosity and foreboding, he began to climb. His companions shouted after him, good-humoredly at first, then disapprovingly and, finally, as he got over the first earthwork and headed for the next, with real apprehension. But no one followed him. At the top a wind was rising and he heard the hoot of an owl, although the sun hadn¡¯t yet set. Where it sank in the west, clouds gathered, diffusing its light. The stones gleamed. He ran, with the hounds beside him, sure he would see his comrades, the Lions, fallen beside their Quman enemies, whose wings would be scattered and molting, melting away under wind and sun.

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    As soon as he crossed into the stone circle, mist boiled up, drowning him, and he floundered forward. Was that the ring of battle in the distance? If he walked far enough, would he stumble back to the place he¡¯d come from?


    Did he want to?


    He struck full against the altar stone, banging his thighs, and held himself up against the cold stone. The ringing had a gentle voice, not weapons at all but the click of leaves on the bronze cauldron.


    ¡°Why come you to the gateway?¡± said a voice he recognized from his dream.


    He looked up but could see only a shape moving in the mist and the spark of blue fire, quickly extinguished.


    ¡°Why am I here? Where am I?¡±


    ¡°You have not traveled far as humankind measures each stride of the foot,¡± she answered. ¡°I brought you off the path that leads to the Other Side. Has it not been told to you that you are to be the new husband of the Hallowed One of this tribe?¡±


    He touched the amber necklace at his neck, remembering the way Adica had invited him to sleep beside her. He had been angry, then, because he felt his desire was shameful. ¡°None here speak in a language I understand, nor can they understand me. How is it that we can speak together, you and I, while 1 speak as a foreigner would with the others? You aren¡¯t even human.¡±


    ¡°By my nature I am bound to what was, what is, and what will be, and so my understanding is alive in the time to come as well as the time that is and the time that was.¡± Abruptly her tone changed, as though she were speaking to someone else. ¡°Listen!¡± Her voice became faint. He heard the soft percussion of her hooves on the ground, moving away. ¡°I am called. Adica comes looking.¡± Fainter still: ¡°Beware. Guard the looms. The Cursed Ones walk!¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you give me the gift of speech?¡± he called, but she was already gone.


    ¡°Alain!¡±


    The mist receded as suddenly as it had come. Adica hurried to meet him as twilight settled over the stones. He sat down, worn out by labor and by strangeness.


    Adica stopped before him and looked him over, both alarmed and concerned and, maybe, just a little irritated. She was handsome rather than pretty, with a wickedly sharp gaze and a firm mouth. This close, he had the leisure to study her body: she had the pleasing curves of a woman who usually gets enough to eat, but she had a second quality about her, an intangible strength like the glow off a hidden fire. In a funny way, she reminded him of Liath, as if magic threw a cloak over its wielders, seen as a nimbus of power.


    Her next words reproved him, although he couldn¡¯t be sure for what. Abruptly, she saw the line of the amber necklace where it lay concealed under his linen tunic.


    Reproof vanished. She brushed a finger along the ridge the string of amber made under the soft fabric, then flushed.


    ¡°You gave this to me, didn¡¯t you?¡± he asked, lifting it on his fingers to display it.


    She smiled and replied in a tone half caressing and half flirtatious.


    ¡°Ai, God, I wish I could understand you,¡± he exclaimed, frustrated. ¡°Is it true I¡¯m to be your husband? Are we to come to the marriage knowing so little of each other? Yet I knew nothing of Tallia on the day we were taken to the wedding bed. Ai, Lady, so little did I know of her!¡± He could still feel the nail in his hand, proof of her willingness to deceive.


    Mistaking his cry, or responding to it, Adica took hold of his hand and pulled him to his feet. For an instant, he thought she would kiss him, but she did not. In silence, she led him back to the village. The clasp of her hand made his thoughts swim dizzyingly until they drifted up at last to the centaur shaman¡¯s last words. Who were the Cursed Ones? What were the looms? And how could he tell Adica, when they had no language in common?


    2


    ¡°COME, up, to morning sun!¡± Kel prodded Alain awake. ¡°To work!¡± He made an expansive gesture that included himself, Tosti, and Alain. ¡°We go to work.¡±


    Three more days had passed in the village. It was a prosperous place, twelve houses and perhaps a hundred people in all. They had about a fourth of the outer palisade raised and today headed back to the forest to fell trees. Work made the day pass swiftly.


    During one leisurely break, Kel finished carving a stout staff out of oak, ornamenting each end with the face of a snarling dog. When next Beor hoisted his ax near Alain with a surly and threatening grimace, Kel made a great show of presenting the newly carved staff to Alain and even got Tosti to stand in for a demonstration of how the snarling dogs could ¡°nip¡± at a man¡¯s most delicate parts.


    The men¡¯s laughter came at the expense of Beor this time, and he grunted and bore it, since to stalk off into the forest would have made him look even more ridiculous. Grudgingly, he let Alain work in peace as the afternoon wore on.

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    But that evening they returned home to a somber scene. During the day, a child had died. By the stoic look on the faces of the dead child¡¯s relative, they¡¯d known it was coming. Alain watched as women wrapped the tiny body in a roughly-woven blanket, then handed the limp corpse to the father. He laid it in a log split in half and gouged out to make a coffin. After the mother placed a few trinkets, beads, feathers, and a carved wooden spoon beside its tattooed wrist, other adults sealed the lid. Together, they chanted a singsong verse that sounded like prayer.


    A strange half-human creature emerged from Adica¡¯s house, clothed in power, with gold antlers and a gleaming torso. It took him two breaths to recognize Adica, dressed in the garments of power she had been wearing when he had first arrived.


    She blessed the coffin with a sprinkling of scented water and a complicated series of gestures and chants. Four men carried it out of the village as Adica sealed their path, behind them, with more charms and chants. The entire village walked in silent procession to the graveyard, a rugged field marked by small mounds of earth, some fresh, some overgrown with nettles and hops. Male relatives laid the coffin in a hole. The mother cut off her braid and threw it on top of the coffin, then scratched her cheeks until blood ran. The wailing of the other women had a kind of ritual sound to it, expected, practiced; the mother did not weep, only sighed. She looked drained and yet, in a way, relieved.


    Maybe the child had been sick a long time. Certainly Alain had never seen this one among the children who ran and played and did chores in the village all day.


    The grave was filled in and the steady work of piling and shaping a mound over the dead child commenced. In pairs and trios, people returned to the village, which lay out of sight beyond a bend in the river. Alain remained because Adica had not yet left. Sorrow and Rage flopped down, resigned to a long wait.


    Twilight lay heavily over them. Even in the five days he had been here, he noticed how it got darker earlier every night as the sun swept away from midsummer and toward its midwinter sleep. By the harvest and the weather, he guessed it was late summer or early autumn.


    A few men worked steadily, bringing sod in a wheelbarrow shaped all of wood, axle, wheel, supports, and plank base. He pitched in to help them while Adica stood by, arms raised, silently watching the heavens or praying in supplication. In her hallowing garb she seemed as much alarming as wondrous, a spirit risen out of the earth to bring help, or harm, to her petitioners.


    Dusk blurred the landscape to gray. Other men brought torches and set them up on stout poles so the work could continue, as it did steadily as night fell and the moon rose, full and splendid. Adica shone under its rays, a woman half deer and half human, a shape changer who might at any moment spring away four-footed into the dark forest and run him a merry chase.


    He saw them, suddenly, as starlight pricked holes in the blindness that protects mortal kind: he saw the ghosts and the fey spirits, half-seen apparitions clustering around the living people who sought to inter the dead. Was that the child¡¯s soul, clamoring for release, or return? Sobbing for its mother, or screaming that it had been betrayed into death?


    Yet the spirits could not touch the living, because Adica in her garb of power had thrown up a net, as fine as spider¡¯s silk, to keep them away. It shone under the moonlight as though touched with dew fallen from the fiery stars. No hungry spirit could pass through that net. Inside its invisible protection, the men labored on, a little nervous in the darkness in the graveyard, but trusting. They understood her power, and no doubt they feared her for it.


    Sorrow whined.


    That fast, the vision faded, but her lips continued to move as she chanted her spells. The moon rose higher and began to sink. Very late the mound was finished, a little thing, lonesome and forlorn in the deathly-still night. The father wiped his eyes. They gathered their tools and headed back toward the village, not without apprehensive looks behind them.


    But Alain lingered, waiting. Adica paced an oval around the tiny mound. Her golden antlers cut the heavens as she strode. Now and again she tapped her spiraling bronze waistband with her copper bracelets. The sound sang into the night like the flight of angels.


    Yet what could Adica know of angels? None here wore the Circle of Unity. He had seen their altars and offerings, reminding him of customs done away with by the fraters and deacons but which certain stubborn souls still clung to. Her rituals did not seem like the work of the Enemy, although perhaps he ought to believe they were.


    She fell silent as she came to a halt on the west side of the fresh mound. That quickly, she was simply Adica, with her frightfully scarred cheek, the woman whom he had heard in a dream ask the centaur shaman if Alain was to be her husband. She had spoken the words with such an honest heart, with such simple longing.

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    ¡°Alain!¡± She looked surprised to see him. With practiced movements she took off her sorcerer¡¯s garb and wrapped them up with staff and mirror into a leather skin, not neglecting certain charms and a prayer as if to seal in their magical power.


    Slinging the bundle over her back, she began walking back to the village. He fell in beside her, finding room on the path as the hounds ambled along behind. His staff measured out the ground as they walked. The moon marked their way straight and bright.


    They passed through a narrow belt of forest and emerged west of the village. The moon¡¯s light made silver of the river. Beyond the village rose the tumulus. Nearer, the sentry¡¯s watch fire burned red by the village gates. Closer still lay the birthing house, and from within its confines he heard a baby cry fretfully. A nightingale sang, and ceased. The thin glow heralding dawn rimmed the eastern sky as the moon sank toward the horizon in the west. Birds woke, trilling, and a flock of ducks settled in a rush in the shallows of the river. In the distance, a wolf howled.


    Adica took his hand. She leaned into him, and kissed him. Her lips were sweet and moist. Where her body pressed against his, his own body woke hungrily. His hand tangled in the strings of her skirt, and beneath the wool cording he touched her skin.


    A small voice woke in the back of his head. Hadn¡¯t he made vows? Hadn¡¯t he promised celibacy to Tallia, to honor God? Oughtn¡¯t he to remember his foster father¡¯s promise that he would cleave to the church and its strictures?


    He let the oak staff fall to the ground as he tightened his arms around Adica. Her warmth and eagerness enveloped him. He¡¯d given all that away when he had come into this country. Now he could do as he pleased, and what he pleased right now was to embrace this woman who desired him.


    Once, perhaps, in those long ago days when he had been joined to Stronghand in his dreams, Alain would have heard the shouting first. Now, because he was lost in the urgency of her embrace, the blat of a horn startled him so badly he jumped. Sorrow and Rage began barking. Adica pulled away and threw back her head to listen.


    The sun hadn¡¯t yet risen, but light glinted at the height of the tumulus, lying to the east. Distant thunder rolled and faded.


    She exclaimed out loud, words he could not understand. As she bent to grab her leather bundle off the ground, an arrow passed over her back, right where she had just been standing up straight. He dove and knocked her down. A flight of arrows whistled harmlessly past, pale shafts skittering to a halt on the ground beyond.


    Figures sprang out of the forest. The horn sounded again, and a third time, shrill and urgent.


    The masked attackers who rushed out of the forest swarmed toward the birthing house, where Weiwara sheltered with her infant twins. Adica was already up, staff in hand, leaving her bundle behind. Sorrow and Rage bolted forward in her wake, and Alain, fumbling, got hold of his staff and raced after her.


    But no matter how fast they ran, the bandits got to the birthing house first even as he heard Adica scream out Weiwara¡¯s name. Too late.


    Weiwara shouted from the house. There came a shriek of anger, followed by the solid thunk of a heavy weight hitting wood. Two figures darted from the house, each carrying a small bundle. Adica got near enough to strike at one with her staff, hitting him forcefully enough at the knees so he stumbled. The other raced on, back to the forest, as the first turned and, with the child tucked under one arm, thrust out his sword. Dawn made fire of the metal as he cut. Adica danced aside. The rising light played over the man¡¯s face, since he, unlike the other two, wasn¡¯t masked. Nor was he human: he had a dark complexion, with black hair and striking features that reminded Alain of Prince Sanglant.


    Another Aoi warrior emerged from the birthing hut, this one a young woman clad, like the others, in a bronze breastplate fitted over a short tunic. The feathers woven into her hair gave her a startling crest, and her mask had been carved into a peregrine¡¯s hooked beak. She carried a small round shield and a short spear.


    Alain struck with his staff. She barely had time to parry. Her companion, hampered by the infant, contented himself with thrusting again, but Adica¡¯s reflexes were too good. She sprang back and swung her staff hard around, aiming for the woman instead of the man, and caught the Aoi warrior a glancing blow to the jaw. Blood dribbled out from the young warrior¡¯s neck as she bit back a yelp of pain. Alain circled right to close the two against the wall of the birthing house. He heard shouts from behind, Kel¡¯s voice, and suddenly Kel and his brother came running with their spears ready.


    The Aoi man dropped the infant and bolted for the trees, following his companion; Alain clipped the woman as she tried to follow, and she fell heavily. Adica stepped back Kel and Tosti shrieked with glee as the Aoi woman rolled over, lifting her shield to protect herself.

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    ¡°No!¡± cried Alain, for truly, she was helpless before them, and it would be more merciful to take her captive. But they hated her kind too much. He winced as they pinned her to the ground with angry spear thrusts. Her blood ran over the dirt.


    The baby wailed.


    ¡°Weiwara!¡± cried Adica, dashing inside.


    He looked away from the dying warrior thrashing on the ground. Tosti had run inside after Adica. Kel wrenched his spear free and grabbed Alain by the shoulder.


    He shouted a word, indicating the woman. Beyond, fire sparked and caught in the thatched roof of one of the village houses.


    ¡°Come! Come!¡± Kel stooped to pick up the screaming baby.


    About ten Aoi warriors fitted in bronze armor and wielding weapons forged of metal emerged from the last bend in the earthworks.


    ¡°Come!¡± cried Kel with more urgency, gesturing toward the village and its closed gates. A man lay prone by the outer ditch. Farther out, five of the enemy clustered behind the shield of a ruined hut. From this shelter they shot flaming arrows toward the village, an easy target over the low stockade.


    Adica and Tosti appeared at the door with Weiwara¡¯s limp body between them. Blood ran down the side of her face, and a nasty bruise discolored her left cheek, but she breathed.


    ¡°The other baby!¡± cried Alain. He pointed to the shrieking infant and then to the forest.


    ¡°No!¡± said Adica, indicating the threat to the village.


    The horn rang out again. Armed adults sallied out from the village, yelling defiantly. Beor led them; Alain recognized him by his height and his shoulders, and by the bronze spear he carried. A half dozen split off from the main group to hurry toward the birthing house, among them Weiwara¡¯s husband and Urtan.


    ¡°Go!¡± said Alain, because it was a word he knew, and because help was coming. ¡°I go get baby.¡±


    Kel shrieked with glee and shoved the infant into Tosti¡¯s arms. He grabbed the dead woman¡¯s bronze spear from the ground. ¡°I go!¡± He struck his own chest with a closed fist, and then Alain¡¯s. ¡°We go!¡±


    There wasn¡¯t time to argue. The ones they sought had already gotten a head start, and Alain wasn¡¯t going to let that baby be stolen, not when God had welcomed him to this village by granting it the blessing of living twins on the day he had arrived.


    He grabbed the shield off the corpse and ran for the forest as the sun split the horizon behind them. Adica called after him, but the clamor of battle drowned out her voice. They hit the shadow of the trees, and he raised a hand for silence as he and Kel and the hounds came to a halt. They heard the headlong flight of the other two as cracks and rustles in the forest ahead. Rage bounded away, so they followed her trail as she pelted through the trees.


    Alain saw the two Aoi when he burst out of the woods at the border of the burial field. Sorrow and Rage loped after them, big bodies closing the gap. They hit the man limping behind without losing momentum and he tumbled to the ground beneath them. Kel reached him first. Before Alain could shout for mercy, Kel stuck him through the back. As the bronze leaf-blade parted the man¡¯s skin, Kel screamed in triumph.


    The sound shook Alain to his bones, made bile rise in his throat. He had known for a long time that he couldn¡¯t serve the Lady of Battles by killing. But he could save the child.


    The hounds matched him stride for stride as he ran after the third warrior, the one who carried the crying infant under his arm. The warrior cut left, and then right, as if expecting to dodge arrows. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Alain and the hounds and that made him run harder, although he seemed to be grinning like a madman, caught in an ecstasy of flight and fury. But Alain knew fury, too, rising in his heart, goaded by the memory of a tiny body coming to life beneath his hands.


    By now they had moved well away from the river, but a stream cut down from a hill on the eastern side of the burial field. When the other man tried to head up the stream, he found himself boxed in by the hillside and by a cliff down which a cataract fell, not more than twice a man¡¯s height but too rugged to climb without both hands.


    The warrior was no fool. He kept hold of the baby and brandished his spear threateningly as he sprang back to put the rock wall behind him. The baby hiccupped in infant despair, exhausted by its own screaming, and fell silent. Far behind, Kel shouted Alain¡¯s name.


    He threw down shield and staff as Sorrow and Rage stalked forward on either side of him. ¡°Give me the child, or strike me down, I care not which you choose.¡±


    The warrior¡¯s eyes widened in fear or anger, flaring white, all that could be seen of his face behind the grinning dog mask he wore.

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    Alain took another step forward, showing his empty hands but keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent. ¡°Just give me back the child. I want nothing else from you.¡±


    The warrior shied nervously, keeping his spear raised, and he made a testing thrust toward Alain, who did not step back but instead came forward once again.


    ¡°As you see, I do not fear dying, because I am already dead. Nothing you can do to me frightens me. I pray you, give me the child.¡±


    Maybe it was Kel, shouting as he came up from behind. Maybe it was the silent hounds. Maybe the warrior had simply had enough.


    He set down the child, turned, and scrambled as well as he could up the cliff face. Alain sprang forward to grab the infant just as the warrior lost hold of his spear and it sailed down to land in the cataract with a splash. The haft spun, rode the cascade, and lodged up between two rocks as water roared over it. With an oath, the man vanished over the lip. Pebbles spattered down the cliff face, then all trace of him ceased.


    Kel whooped as he came up behind Alain. The baby whimpered, more a croak than a cry. Kel waded out to fetch the spear and offered it to Alain.


    ¡°Nay, I won¡¯t take it!¡± Alain snapped. Kel flinched back, looking shaken. ¡°Here,¡± said Alain more gently, giving him the man¡¯s shield. With a hand free again, he took up his oak staff.


    They went swiftly back, but cautiously, skirting the corpse sprawled in the burial field and taking a deer trail through the forest, not knowing what they might find at the village or if they would need to fight when they got there. Luckily, the newborn fell into an exhausted sleep.


    Easing out from the forest cover, they saw the village with the first slant of morning sun streaming across it and figures moving like ants, in haste, scurrying here and there. As they watched, trying to understand what they saw, a cloud covered the sun and the light changed. Thunder rumbled softly. Rain shaded the southeastern hills.


    ¡°Beor!¡± said Kel softly, pointing.


    Alain saw Beor walking down through the earthworks with a spear in his hand, his posture taut with battle anger. At least fifteen adults accompanied him, all armed, some limping. Smoke striped the sky, rising from the village, but it had the cloudy vigor of a newly doused fire. A few corpses lay evident, some clad in bronze and one, alas, the body of a villager. It seemed strange that these people would strike with such determined ferocity and swiftness only to retreat again, like a thunderstorm opening up overhead with fury and noise that, as suddenly, blows through to leave fresh puddles and cracked or fallen branches in its wake.


    Halfway between the river path and the birthing house, Alain saw a lump on the ground. Fear caught in his throat. He ran, only to find, as he feared, Adica¡¯s leather bundle bulging open on the ground right where she¡¯d dropped it when she first ran for Weiwara¡¯s house. It seemed wrong that rain should fall on the gold antlers. As he wrapped up the bundle, he found her polished mirror lying beneath.


    Adica never went any where without her mirror. At that moment, the same choking helplessness gripped him that had strangled hope on the night when Lavastine had been trapped by Bloodheart¡¯s revenge behind a locked door.


    Voices called from the village. He slung the bundle over his shoulder and rose just as Kel hurried up with a scared look on his face.


    ¡°No. No,¡± he repeated, over and over, pointing to the bundle. Alain ignored him and hurried on. He had to find Adica.


    Weiwara had been taken to the council house and settled upon furs there together with the other wounded folk, not more than six, although six was too many. When Alain gave the lost infant into her arms, she burst into tears. Both Urtan and Tosti were among the wounded. Urtan had taken a blow to the head and he lay unconscious, with his young daughter Urta moistening his mouth with a damp cloth. Tosti drifted in and out of awareness, moaning; he had two nasty wounds in his right shoulder and left hip. Kel dropped down beside him, keening, scratching his chest until it bled.


    Mother Orla shuffled in, leaning heavily on her walking stick as she surveyed the injured. She called for her daughter, Agda, who brought potions and poultices. Exhaustion swept Alain, but as he tried to make his way to the door, to find Adica, Mother Orla stopped him, her expression grim. He heard voices outside, but it was Beor who entered, not Adica.


    The moment Beor saw Alain, he spat on the floor. It took Mother Orla herself, raising her walking stick, to restrain him from charging through the crowd and attacking. The hounds, waiting outside, barked threateningly.


    Although Beor was almost beside himself with a warrior¡¯s hot anger, he contented himself with a hard glance at Alain before launching into an involved and desperate tale. Certainly something far more serious than a man¡¯s jealousy had afflicted the village this day. As Beor spoke, Mother Orla¡¯s stern features showed not one sign of weakness even as those around her and the ones who crowded outside set up a moan in response to his words.

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    Thunder cracked and rolled, bringing a moment¡¯s silence in its wake. It began to rain.


    ¡°Where be Adica?¡± Alain demanded, swinging down the bundle containing her holy garments so that they all could see that he had recovered it for her.


    Beor roared like a wounded bear, overcome by fury. The others wailed and cried out. Although they had few words in common, it didn¡¯t take Alain long to understand.


    Adica was gone, stolen by the raiders.


    VI


    A COMPANY


    OF THISTLES


    1


    ON the roads traveling north from the Alfar Mountains, following the trail of the prince, Zacharias found it easy enough to ask innocuous questions when opportunity arose and to make himself inconspicuous when necessary. After an unfortunate detour to escape a pack of hungry wolves, in the course of which he lost one of his two goats and picked up a nagging infection in his left eye, he found himself among a trickle of petitioners and pilgrims walking north to see the king. Some of these humble souls had heard tell of a noble fighter who had single-handedly vanquished a pack of bloodthirsty bandits.


    ¡°Truly, he must have been a prince among men,¡± he said more than once to the folk he met, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. At last one fellow agreed that he had heard from a steward riding south that indeed Prince Sanglant had returned to the king¡¯s progress.


    When he came to the palace complex at Angenheim and found the court in the throes of making ready to leave, he hoped to press forward among the many plaintiffs come to beg alms or healing or justice from the king. He didn¡¯t look that different from the filthy beggars and poor farmers camped out in the fields and woodland outside of the palace fortifications. Most people liked to gossip. Surely no one would take any special notice of a few innocent questions put to the guards.


    But after seven years as a slave among the Quman nomads and a year traveling as an outcast through the lands of his own people, Zacharias had forgotten that his ragged clothing, disreputable appearance, and easterner¡¯s accent might cause people to distrust rather than simply dismiss him.


    In this way, he found himself hauled up past the impressive fortifications and into the palace grounds themselves. Once they had taken away his goat and searched his battered leather pack for weapons, guards marched him through the handsomely carved doors of one of the noble residences. By prodding him with the butts of their spears, they tried to make him kneel before an elderly lord seated on a bench with a cup of wine in one hand and a robust and handsome young woman next to him.


    The old lord handed the cup to her and looked Zacharias over with a frown as he tapped his fingers on a knee. ¡°He refuses to kneel.¡± He had a touch of the east about his voice, blurred by the hard stops and starts characteristic of the central duchies.


    ¡°I mean no offense, my lord,¡± said Zacharias quickly. ¡°I am a frater and sworn to kneel before none but God.¡±


    ¡°Are you, then?¡± As the lord sat back, a slender, middle-aged servant circled around to whisper in his ear. When the guardsman had finished, the lord shifted forward. ¡°Do you know who I am?¡±


    ¡°Nay, I do not, my lord, but I can hear by your speech that you¡¯ve spent time in the east.¡±


    The lord laughed, although not as loudly as his young companion, who gestured toward the embroidered banner hung on the wall behind a table laden with gold and silver platters and bowls. The profusion of food made Zacharias¡¯ mouth water¡ªapples, pears, bread, cheese, leeks, and parsley¡ªbut the sigil on the banner made his blood run cold and his mouth go dry with fear. It was only then that he noticed that the lord had only one arm; one sleeve had been pinned back so that it wouldn¡¯t get in his way.


    ¡°The silver tree is the sign of the house of Villam, my lord,¡± he said, cursing himself silently. That had been his mistake among the Pechanek tribe: he had let those in power notice him, because in those days he had still believed in the God of the Unities and thought it his duty to bring their worship to the benighted, those who dwelt in the darkness of ignorance. ¡°Can it be that you are Margrave Villam? I crave your pardon, my lord, for truly he was an old man in my youth, so it was said, and I thought the old margrave must be dead by now and the margraviate gone to his heirs.¡±


    ¡°I pray to God you are not dead yet,¡± said the woman boldly. ¡°I trust you have enough youth in you to play your part on our wedding night.¡±


    Villam had an honest smile. ¡°They say a horse may die if ridden too hard.¡±


    She was, thank God, not a giggler, but she laughed in a way that made Zacharias uncomfortable because it reminded him of what Bulkezu had cut from him. ¡°I hope I have not chosen a mount that will founder easily.¡±

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    ¡°Nay, fear not on my account, for I¡¯m not in my dotage yet.¡± He took the cup of wine from her and gestured to a servant to refill it. ¡°I pray you, beloved, let me speak to this man alone.¡±


    ¡°Is this intrigue? Do you fear I will carry tales to Theophanu?¡±


    If her youthful teasing irritated him, he did not show it. ¡°I do not wish the king disturbed on any account, since he means to leave in the morning. If I am the only man to hear this tale, then I can assure myself that it will go no farther than me.¡±


    She did not retreat easily from the field. ¡°This frater¡ªas he calls himself¡ªmay carry tales farther than I ever would, Helmut. He has a tongue.¡±


    The horrible fear that they, who had the power, would take from him the one thing he prized above all else caught Zacharias like a vise. His legs gave out and he sank to his knees. It was hard not to start begging for mercy.


    ¡°So have we all a tongue, Leoba,¡± replied Villam patiently. ¡°But I will have solitude in which to interview him.¡±


    Although clearly a woman of noble station, Leoba was young enough to be Villam¡¯s granddaughter and therefore, whatever equality in their stations in life, had to bow to the authority that age granted him. She rose graciously enough, kissed him modestly on the cheek, and left. The old man watched her go. Zacharias recognized the gleam in his eyes. The sin of concupiscence, a weakness for the pleasures of the flesh, afflicted high- and lowborn alike.


    Once she was gone, the old margrave returned immediately to the matter at hand. ¡°I do not wish to know your name, but it has been brought to my attention that you have been asking questions of the guards regarding the whereabouts of Prince Sanglant.¡±


    ¡°You seem to me a reasonable man, my lord. Now that I am thrown into the lion¡¯s den, I may as well make no secret of my quest. I seek Prince Sanglant. Is he here?¡±


    ¡°Nay, he is not. He has as good as declared open revolt against King Henry¡¯s authority. I feel sure that a man of your learning understands what a serious offense that is.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± said Zacharias, for a moment at a loss for words. But he had always had a glib tongue, and he knew how to phrase a question to protect himself while, perhaps, gaining information. ¡°Yet a man, even a prince, cannot revolt alone.¡±


    ¡°Truly, he cannot.¡± Villam knew this ploy as well. ¡°Do you mean to join his retinue, such as it is?¡±


    ¡°Nay, my lord. I have not followed him with any such intention, nor have I at any time known of any plan to revolt. My interests lie not in earthly struggles but with the composition of the heavens and the glory of creation. In truth, my lord, I have never spoken with the prince.¡±


    ¡°Then why did you come to Angenheim asking about his whereabouts?¡±


    ¡°I merely come to ask a boon of him.¡±


    Villam laughed delightedly. ¡°I am smothered in words. Yet you trouble me, frater, with your talk of the heavens. Do you know what manner of man Prince Sanglant is?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, my lord?¡±


    ¡°I pray you, do not play the innocent with me. You look rather less artless and more disreputable, and you speak with a cunning tongue. Prince Sanglant is no man at all but a half blood, born of a human father and an Aoi mother. What manner of aid might you wish to ask from such a creature?¡±


    This struck Zacharias as dangerous ground. Nor had Villam betrayed any knowledge of Kansi-a-lari¡¯s whereabouts, even though Zacharias knew she had walked north with her son.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he said after a long silence. ¡°I shall tell you the truth. I walked east to bring the word of God to the Quman tribes, but instead they made me a slave. I dwelt among them for seven years and at long last escaped. This is the tale I bring to you: the Quman are massing an army under the leadership of the Pechanek begh, Bulkezu, and they mean to strike deep into Wendish territory. Already raiding parties burn villages and murder and mutilate our countryfolk. You know how the Quman treat their victims. I have seen many a corpse without a head. Your own lands in the east are at risk, my lord.¡±


    ¡°Princess Sapientia was sent east with an army together with that of her new husband, Prince Bayan of Ungria.¡±


    ¡°That I had not heard, my lord.¡±


    ¡°Yet we¡¯ve had no news from them, so perhaps it goes ill with their campaign, although I pray that is not the case. This chieftain, Bulkezu, has plagued Wendish lands before. Yet why seek Prince Sanglant? Here is the king and his court. Surely your plea is best voiced before the king.¡±


    ¡°Truly, it is,¡± said Zacharias, thinking fast. ¡°But I have heard much talk during my travels about the king¡¯s ambitions in Aosta. The king cannot march both south and east. At the same time, I have heard many stories about Prince Sanglant¡¯s prowess in battle. Is the regnant¡¯s bastard firstborn not raised to be captain of the King¡¯s Dragons? If the king himself cannot take the field against the Quman, then it would take such an army, commanded by a man second only to the king in courage and reputation, to defeat them.¡±

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    ¡°A fine tale. It is true that you speak with the accent of the eastern border, and certainly you look as if you¡¯ve walked a long way with nothing more than the clothes on your back and, so I hear, a goat. But a fine tale may be nothing more than a brightly woven tapestry thrown up on the wall to conceal an ugly scar which lies hidden behind it. The Quman brand their slaves with a mark.¡±


    Shaking, Zacharias stood. He turned, pulling the torn shoulder of the robe down to reveal his right shoulder blade and the brand, healed badly enough that skin still puckered around it, marking him as slave of the Pechanek begh. Releasing the cloth, he turned back to confront the margrave. ¡°So stands the mark of the snow leopard¡¯s claw, my lord.¡±


    ¡°A desperate man can have himself cut to lend credence to his story,¡± remarked Villam pleasantly.


    ¡°Would a man cut himself in this manner, merely to lend credence to his tale?¡± Zacharias demanded, boldly lifting his robe.


    At the sight of Zacharias¡¯ mutilated genitals, Villam actually gasped out loud, lost color, and groped for his wine cup. He gulped it down, and then signaled to his steward, the slender man who had stationed himself at the door. ¡°Bring wine for this man, if you please. He must be desperately thirsty.¡±


    Zacharias drank deeply. The wine was very good, and he saw no reason to waste it. Perhaps the shock of his mutilation would throw Villam off the scent.


    But the margrave was too old and too crafty, he had played the game for too long, to be thrown off his attack even by such a vicious strike. Once he had taken a second cup of wine, he gestured to his servant. ¡°Humbert, bring me the man¡¯s pack.¡±


    Resigned, Zacharias watched as Villam emptied the pouch and, of course, picked up the one thing that would condemn any man. He displayed, for Zacharias¡¯ edification, the parchment scrap covered with Liath¡¯s writing, the scribblings of a mathematici.


    Zacharias drained the last of his wine, wondering what he would get to drink when he languished in the skopos¡¯ prison damned as a heretic. ¡°You¡¯re holding it upside down, my lord,¡± he observed after Villam said nothing.


    Villam turned the scrap over and studied it again. ¡°It means even less to me this way.¡± He looked up with the sharp gaze of a man who has seen a great deal of grief and laughter and trouble in his time. He was getting impatient. ¡°Are you a sorcerer?¡±


    No such interrogation could end happily, but Zacharias refused to collapse in fear as long as his tongue seemed safe. ¡°Nay, my lord, I am not.¡±


    ¡°Truly, you do not resemble one, for I have always heard it said that a sorcerer has such magnificent powers that she will always appear sleek and prosperous, and you, my friend, do not appear to be either. Why are you seeking the prince?¡±


    ¡°To find out where that parchment came from, my lord. I have reason to believe that he knows who made those marks on that parchment. That person must know some portion of the secret language of the stars. I have no wish to be a sorcerer, my lord. But I was vouchsafed a vision of the cosmos.¡± He could not keep his voice from trembling. The memory of what he had seen in the palace of coils still tormented him; he dreamed at night of that billowing cosmos, rent by clouds of dust and illuminated by resplendent stars so bright that, like angels, they had halos. His loss of faith in the God of Unities no longer troubled his sleep, because the desire to understand the workings of the universe, a dazzling spiral wheel of stars hanging suspended in the midst of a vast emptiness, had engulfed his spirit and consumed his mind. ¡°That is all that I fear now, my lord: that I might die before I understand the architecture of the universe.¡±


    That I might die before I see another dragon. But that thought he dared not voice out loud.


    Villam stared at him for a long time. Zacharias could not interpret his expression, and he began to fidget nervously, waiting for the margrave¡¯s reply. He had told the truth at last. He had no further to retreat except to reveal the one thing which would damn him most: that he had traveled as a servant with the Aoi sorcerer and witnessed her humbling and frightening power. Once they discovered that, they would not care that she had, in the end, discarded him as thoughtlessly as she would a walking stick she had no further use for.


    ¡°I am at your mercy, my lord margrave,¡± he said finally, when he could bear the silence no longer.


    ¡°So we come to her again,¡± murmured Villam. ¡°Can it be true, what the prince said of her ancestry? Is it not said of the Emperor Taillefer that ¡®God revealed to him the secrets of the universe?¡¯ The virtues of the parent often pass to the child.¡±

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    ¡°I do not understand you, my lord,¡± he stammered, temporizing. Villam would mention Kansi-a-lari¡¯s name in the next sentence, and the trap would be sprung.


    ¡°Do you not?¡± asked Villam, looking honestly surprised. ¡°Did Prince Sanglant not marry the woman named Liathano?¡±


    Relief hit like a fist to his gut. ¡°I do not know her, my lord.¡±


    Villam smiled wryly. ¡°Had you seen her, you would not so easily forget her.¡±


    ¡°That one! Was she young and beautiful, my lord, not in the common way of beauty but like a foreign woman with skin of a creamy dark shade? Had she a child in her or newly born?¡±


    ¡°That one.¡± Villam sighed, considered his wine cup, and took a hank of bread to chew on. ¡°What became of her?¡±


    ¡°You do not know? Angels took her up into the heavens.¡±


    ¡°Angels?¡±


    ¡°We might also call them daimones, my lord.¡±


    ¡°I do not know what to make of these tidings,¡± said Villam thoughtfully, looking troubled. ¡°Is she an agent of the Enemy, or that of God? Is she of humble origins, or of the noblest birth? Did she bewitch the prince, or is her favor, bestowed upon him, a mark of his fitness to rule?¡±


    ¡°My lord margrave,¡± said the servant Humbert so sharply that Villam blinked, thrown out of his reverie by those words. ¡°The King¡¯s Eagle waits outside. She bears a message for you.¡±


    Villam said nothing for a while, although as he mused he drew his fingers caressingly over the curve of an apple. ¡°I will need a rider to carry a message to my daughter,¡± he said at last, ¡°a trustworthy and loyal man, one from the home estates. Waldhar, perhaps. His father and uncle served me well against the Rederii, and his mother is a good steward of the Arvi holdings. Let him make ready to leave and then come to me.¡±


    The servant nodded. He had a tidy manner, efficient and brisk. ¡°Will you need a cleric, my lord margrave, to set the message down on parchment?¡±


    ¡°Nay. It is to go to my daughter¡¯s ears alone. Give him an escort of three riders as well.¡±


    ¡°I would recommend six, my lord margrave, given the news of Quman raids.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Villam had been margrave for many years, with the habit of command and the expectation that his servants would run to do his bidding at once, and effectively. ¡°See that this frater is given food and drink and then send him on his way. Best that it be done quietly.¡±


    ¡°So will it be done, my lord margrave.¡± Humbert looked Zacharias over with a look compounded half of curiosity and half of disdain. ¡°Would you prefer that those who serve him are like to gossip or to remain silent about which direction the prince rode out in three days ago?¡±


    ¡°Alas, people are so wont to chatter. That is why I keep a discreet man like yourself as my steward, Humbert.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my lord margrave.¡± Humbert gestured to Zacharias. He did not have a kindly face, but he looked fair. ¡°Come, Brother. You will not want to linger long here at the king¡¯s court, for it will go hard with you, I am sure, should your quest become generally known.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for your hospitality, my lord,¡± said Zacharias, but Villam had already forgotten him as the doors opened and a woman strode in. She wore fine clothing and, over it, a cloak trimmed with red and pinned at one shoulder with a brass brooch shaped as an eagle.


    Zacharias knew her at once, that familiar, fierce expression, her hawk¡¯s nose, and the way she had of sauntering with a little hitch in her stride, noticeable only because he knew to look for it, that she had developed after falling from an apple tree when she was a child.


    He hurriedly stepped sideways into shadow, hoping his hood would obscure his face. She had the habit of a good messenger, looking around swiftly to mark the chamber and its inhabitants. When she saw him, she faltered, puzzling over his shadowed face. He knew her well enough to interpret her expression, for it was one she¡¯d worn as a child: seeing something that she knew was familiar but could not quite put her finger on.


    Annoyance and curiosity tightened her mouth, and she seemed about to speak when Villam spoke instead.


    ¡°Eagle, you bring me a message from the king?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Margrave Villam,¡± said Hathui, her well-loved voice deepened by maturity and altered by a woman¡¯s confidence and pride. At once, she turned her attention to the margrave.


    How different their fates had turned out to be, the admired elder brother and the doting young sister. She had become a respected Eagle, standing beside the king¡¯s chair, while he had been marked forever as a slave, hunted and desperate.

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    He slipped out the doors before her attention drifted back to him. He was so ashamed. He didn¡¯t want her to recognize him, to see what a poor wretch he had become, no longer a man at all, used and discarded many times over. He remembered the pride shining in her face on that day years ago when he had left their village to walk as a missionary into the east. She must never know what had really happened to him. Better that she believe he was dead.


    He took the food and drink offered to him, took his goat and his worn pack and left the palace complex as quickly as he could in case she should come looking, to assuage her curiosity. West, Humbert told him, the road toward Bederbor.


    So he walked, alone, nursing his despair. What he had seen, what had been done to him, what he had himself acquiesced to, had opened a chasm between him and his family that could never be bridged. All that was left him was the secret language of the stars, the clouds of black dust and the brilliant lights, the silver-gold ribbon that twisted through the heavenly spheres, the beauty of an ineffable cosmos in whose heart, perhaps, he could lose himself if only he could come to understand its mysteries.


    Determined and despondent, he trudged west on the trail of the prince.


    2


    USING a stout stick as his sword, Sanglant beheaded thistles one by one, an entire company hewn down by savage whacks.


    ¡°You¡¯re in a foul mood,¡± observed Heribert. The slender cleric sat on a fallen log whittling the finishing touches into the butt of a staff. He had carved the tip into the likeness of a fortress tower surmounted by a Circle of Unity. Behind them, half concealed by a copse of alder, Captain Fulk supervised the setup of a makeshift camp among the stones of an ancient Dariyan fort long since fallen into ruin.


    ¡°The king was right.¡± Sanglant kept decapitating thistles as he spoke. He could not bear to sit still, not now, with frustration burning through him. He felt as helpless as the thistles that fell beneath his sharp strokes. ¡°How can I support a retinue without lands of my own?¡±


    ¡°Duke Conrad¡¯s chatelaine made no protest. She put us up in the hall at Bederbor for a full five days.¡±


    ¡°And Conrad did not return, nor would she tell us where he had gone or when she expected him back. Thus leaving us to go on our way. We¡¯re dependent on the generosity of other nobles. Or on their fear.¡±


    ¡°Or their respect for your reputation, my lord prince,¡± said Heribert quietly.


    Sanglant lifted his free hand in a gesture of dismissal. He did not stop whacking. The thistles made good enemies, plentiful and easy to defeat. ¡°Nevertheless, my reputation cannot feed my retinue forever. Nor will my cousins and peers feed me forever, knowing it may bring my father¡¯s wrath down upon them. He could accuse them of harboring a rebel and call them to account for disloyalty.¡±


    ¡°Then it will only bring his anger down on them twofold if they listen to your words. What are you speaking if not of rebellion, my friend?¡±


    These words brought his hand to a halt. Battered thistles swayed and stilled. What, indeed? He turned to consider Heribert.


    ¡°What is it you want?¡± Heribert continued. ¡°What is it you intend? You know I will follow you no matter where your path leads you, but it seems to me that you had better know in your own mind where you are going before you walk any farther down this road.¡±


    Just in this way, a wineskin full to bursting could be emptied with a single precise hole stabbed into its side. He sank down onto the log beside Heribert. ¡°Thus am I reminded of the burdens of ruling,¡± he remarked bitterly as Heribert continued his carving. ¡°It was easier to do what I was told, back when I was captain of the Dragons.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always easier just to do what you¡¯re told,¡± murmured Heribert. His hands stilled as he lifted his eyes to regard the distant trees, looking at a scene hidden to everyone but himself.


    Sanglant hadn¡¯t the patience to wallow in self-pity. It made him too restless. He jumped up and began pacing. ¡°If Eagles came with a report of a great invasion, and my father did not believe them, it would be left to me to counter that invasion, would it not?¡±


    Heribert¡¯s gaze shifted abruptly back to the prince. ¡°Would it? If you could find safety for yourself and your people¡ª¡±


    Sanglant beheaded seven thistles with one blow. Then he laughed. ¡°Nay, friend, you know me better than that. How can I rest if Wendar is in danger? I swore to guard the realm and every soul who lives under my family¡¯s rule.¡±


    Heribert¡¯s smile was soft, but he did not reply.


    ¡°But I also have a duty to my mother¡¯s people. My mother claims the Aoi who were exiled will all die if they do not return to Earth. Yet Sister Anne wants to deny them their rightful return.¡±

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    ¡°Sister Anne claimed that the Aoi would bring in their wake a great cataclysm.¡±


    ¡°Sister Anne claimed many things, but she also would have let Blessing starve to death. She spent years hunting down her own husband, and in the end she killed him because she wanted to get her daughter back. No one has ever explained to my satisfaction why a man like Bernard would run away with Liath in the first place, or hide her so desperately. What if he knew something we do not? Nay, Sister Anne may say many things, and twist the truth to serve her own purposes, and in the end we cannot know what is truth and what is falsehood, only that she is heartless when it comes to those she would use to advance her own objectives.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll hear no argument from me on that score,¡± murmured Heribert. ¡°I built her a fine hall, yet I do not doubt that she would have disposed of me without a second thought once I was of no further use to her.¡± He sighed suddenly and sheathed his knife. Running his fingers over the finely carved tower which now crowned his oak staff, a crenellation, arrow slits, a suggestion of stonework etched into the wood, and the Circle of Unity rising from the center, he spoke softly, his voice shifting in tone. ¡°All ruined, so you said.¡±


    ¡°Everything. The hall burned like kindling.¡± He lowered his stick and set a companionable hand on Heribert¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You can¡¯t imagine their power.¡±


    ¡°The power of Anne and her sorcerers?¡±


    ¡°Nay, although truly Sister Anne commands powers greater than anything I can understand or have ever seen before. I spoke of the fire daimones who stole Liath away. Everything their gaze touched burst into flame. Even the mountains burned.¡± Just as his anger burned, deep in his heart, fueled by helplessness and frustration. The words came unbidden. ¡°I could do nothing to stop them.¡± Grief made his voice hoarse, but then, after the wound to the throat he¡¯d taken in battle five years ago, his voice always sounded like that.


    A breeze had come up in the trees. He listened but could not make words out of their rustling: they were not spirits of air, such as Anne had commanded, but only the wind. Yet that sound of wind through autumn leaves reminded him that he still had hope. In the palace at Angenheim, he had seen a gateway opening onto a place veiled by power and distance and the mysteries hidden in the architecture of the universe as Liath would have said. He had heard Liath¡¯s voice. ¡°She¡¯s still alive,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°It is amazing anyone survived.¡±


    Sanglant hefted the stick in his hand, weighed it, eyed the ragged thistles and, choosing mercy, lowered the stick again. ¡°I know Sister Anne survived the maelstrom. How many of her companions did as well, I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Sister Venia survived,¡± said Heribert grimly.


    ¡°How can you know?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s the type who does survive, no matter what.¡±


    ¡°You would know that better than I. She was your mother, and the one who raised you.¡±


    ¡°Like a dog on a leash,¡± muttered Heribert. Sanglant watched with interest as that smooth cleric¡¯s amiability peeled off to reveal an ancient resentment, nurtured secretly for many years. But, like a dog, the young cleric shook himself after a moment and put the veil back on. His expression cleared, and he glanced up at Sanglant with a cool smile. ¡°Where might such sorcerers go, burned out of their home? Would they try to rebuild at Verna?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t stay there, not after daimones of such power had come calling. There¡¯s a mystery here, Heribert. Those daimones were looking for Liath. Bernard fled from Anne and her company because he feared that the Seven Sleepers might twist Liath to their purpose. But maybe he also feared the daimones. Nay, there is much I cannot explain. What I know is this: Anne will not rest. She will look for Liath, and even if she cannot find her, she will still try to stop the exiles from returning. She hoped that Liath would prevent the Aoi from returning, but just because Liath is gone, Anne won¡¯t give up. I have to stop Sister Anne and her companions. I have to make sure the exiles can return.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± said Heribert, gesturing toward the camp rising among the ruins. ¡°You, and a cleric under ban, and seventy men, and a baby, and one aery sprite. That¡¯s a weak army to take against a sorcerer as powerful as Sister Anne.¡±


    ¡°So it is.¡± He bent to pick up one of the thistle heads, cut off raggedly just below the crown. It prickled and stung his palm, but at least pain muted the anger and bitterness swelling in his heart. ¡°I suppose this is how a loyal hound must feel when its mistress abandons it at the side of the road. I actually thought my mother¡ª¡± He cursed, shaking off the thistle as his skin pulsed from its bite. ¡°I actually thought¡ª¡±

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    He could not go on and had to just stand there, struggling to control himself, while Heribert watched compassionately. Distantly he heard the baa of the goat, and then a goatish reply in a higher pitch. The voices in the trees seemed to mock him, even if it was only the wind.


    ¡°The more fool I. Did she ever treat me any differently than she did the pony who carried her pack?¡±


    Heribert seemed about to object but thought better of it.


    ¡°Once I was of no more use to her, she abandoned me again, just as she did when I was an infant.¡±


    ¡°Nay, Sanglant, don¡¯t judge her harshly yet. Perhaps the king detained her.¡±


    ¡°The king could not detain a sorcerer with her powers. She could have followed us if she had chosen to. But she did not. I no longer serve any useful purpose in her plotting, now that I am, as you say, as good as a rebel against my father¡¯s authority. That was all she cared for.¡±


    ¡°Nay, friend, I am sure there is a greater part for you to play if these prophecies come true.¡±


    ¡°But will I play the part they wish me to play? I¡¯m not captain of the King¡¯s Dragons anymore, a piece to be moved about in their chess game.¡± He frowned abruptly, shading his eyes as he stared westward at the camp. A commotion had arisen. He heard voices but couldn¡¯t quite make out the words. Was that two goats complaining, when they only had one? Yet Captain Fulk could deal with it. He had other battles to fight.


    Resolve came swiftly, and with all its sweet savor. Knowing that he knew what had to be done and that he was the one to do it cleared his mind of doubts and despairs. A man who doubted fared poorly in battle, so he had long ago trained himself not to doubt.


    ¡°The Seven Sleepers must be stopped, Heribert. If my father won¡¯t believe me, and won¡¯t act, then I must act.¡± He knew he was right, just as he knew in battle when it was time to turn a flank or call the charge. He¡¯d only been wrong once, defeated by Bloodheart¡¯s illusions. He didn¡¯t intend to be wrong again. ¡°Consider what my mother did, and why I am here at all. She never cared for Henry. She didn¡¯t become his lover out of lust or passion or love. She did so in order to give birth to me, so that I would be a bridge between his people and hers. We walked for twelve days together, fleeing Verna, and during that time when she spoke at all she told me about the Aoi council and how it is broken into factions. Some of them hate humankind still and hope to conquer all human realms, while some seek compromise and alliance.¡±


    ¡°Alas, not even the fabled Aoi are immune from intrigue.¡±


    ¡°Even animals mark their territories and who comes first and who last in their herds. If that faction of the Aoi who still hate humankind comes to power after the return, then some prince born of human blood must prepare for war. If my father will not do so, then I must.¡±


    Heribert coughed lightly. ¡°My lord prince. My good friend. If you did not trouble Anne, and let her work her sorcery, then the Aoi would not return at all. And Wendar would remain at peace.¡±


    Sanglant looked away. ¡°And all my kin would be dead. Nay. I cannot. I can¡¯t turn my back on my mother¡¯s people. I will not let them all die.¡±


    ¡°Will you instead be the unwitting tool by which they conquer humankind? You said yourself that they showed little enough interest in you. In truth, Sanglant, you might be better served to ask your father¡¯s forgiveness and help him restore the Aostan throne to Queen Adelheid. With Aosta in his grasp, he has power enough to be crowned Holy Dariyan Emperor, like Taillefer before him. Such power would give him the strength to meet any Aoi threat, should the events you speak of come to pass.¡±


    The image of Bloodheart¡¯s chains rose in his mind¡¯s eye. Those chains still weighed on him. They always would. ¡°I won¡¯t ask for my father¡¯s forgiveness because I did nothing wrong except marry against his wishes.¡±


    ¡°Had you married Queen Adelheid, as your father wished you to, you would have been king in Aosta and heir to your father. Then you would have had the strength to do what needed to be done.¡±


    Sanglant turned, stung into fury, only to see Heribert jump to his feet, half laughing, in the way of folk who seek to appease an armed man whom they have inadvertently insulted. He knew the look well enough. The cleric held his staff out before him, as if to protect himself, although he hadn¡¯t any skill with arms.


    ¡°I only speak the truth, Sanglant. I would offer you nothing less.¡±


    Sanglant swore vigorously. But following the strong words came a harsh laugh. ¡°So you do, and so you do well to remind me. But I won¡¯t seek my father¡¯s forgiveness.¡±

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    ¡°So be it,¡± agreed Heribert, lowering the staff. ¡°I know what it is to be unable to forgive. But it is well to understand the road you walk on, and what brought you to it.¡±


    ¡°Hush.¡± Sanglant lifted a hand, hearing his name spoken in the camp. ¡°Come.¡± Heribert hastened to follow him as he strode toward the ruins. He had gotten about halfway when the youth Matto came jogging toward them.


    ¡°You see there, Heribert, a lesson to you. I need counselors who are not blinded by their admiration for my many fine qualities.¡±


    Heribert laughed. ¡°You mean by your ability to fight. Forgive him, my lord, for he is young.¡±


    ¡°I fear that if he persists in following me, he will not get much older.¡±


    ¡°Do not say so, may God forgive you!¡± scolded Heribert. ¡°We cannot know the future.¡±


    Sanglant did not reply because the youth ran up then. His broken arm still hung in a sling, but it didn¡¯t pain him much anymore. His cheeks were flushed now with excitement, and he still seemed likely to cast himself on the ground at Sanglant¡¯s feet, hoping for a chance to kiss his boots. Luckily, he had learned from the example of Fulk and his soldiers. Drawing himself up smartly, he announced his message as proudly as if he were a royal Eagle.


    ¡°Your Highness! Captain Fulk begs you to come at once. A frater¡¯s come into camp seeking you.¡±


    Entering camp, Sanglant sought out Blessing first; she was safely asleep in a sling tied between an old stone pillar and a fresh wooden post, rocking gently in a breeze made by Jerna. As the baby took more and more solid food and less of the daimone¡¯s milk, Jerna¡¯s substance had thinned as well. He could barely make out her womanly shape as a watery shimmer where the late afternoon sun splashed light over the pillar. Just as well. Those womanly curves increasingly bothered him in his dreams, or when he woke at night, or when he had any reason to pause and let his mind wander. Better that he not be able to see her at all than be tempted in this unseemly way.


    It was a relief to have distraction. He turned his attention to the stranger. It took him a moment to recognize the ragged man dressed in robes that had once, perhaps, been those of a frater. The man came attended by a fractious goat which was at this moment trying to crowd the other goat out of a particularly lush patch of thistles. A dozen of Fulk¡¯s men, as well as Fulk himself, watched over him, not standing too close.


    ¡°You¡¯re the man who traveled with my mother,¡± said Sanglant, looking the man up and down. He was an unprepossessing sight, dirty, with an infected eye. He stank impressively. ¡°She said you were dead.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps she thought I was,¡± said the man.


    ¡°Address Prince Sanglant properly,¡± said Captain Fulk sharply. ¡°Your Highness, he is to you. He¡¯s a prince of the realm, son of King Henry.¡±


    ¡°Your Highness,¡± said the ragged frater ironically. ¡°I am called Brother Zacharias.¡± He glanced at the prince¡¯s entourage, the soldiers now come to stand around and watch since there was nothing of greater interest this fine evening to attract their attention. What he thought of this makeshift retinue he did not say, nor could Sanglant make sense of his expression. Finally, the man met his gaze again. He had a stubborn stare, tempered with weariness. ¡°I followed you, Your Highness.¡±


    ¡°Which is more than my mother did,¡± said Sanglant in an undertone, glancing at Heribert before gesturing to the frater. ¡°So you did, Brother. Is there something you want of me?¡±


    Zacharias drew a smudged roll of parchment out of a battered cook pot that dangled from his belt, held there by a well-worn string of leather. He unrolled the battered parchment tenderly, with the greatest solicitude, to reveal a torn scrap marked with numbers and ciphers and diagrams, eccentricities, epicycles, and equant points, and pinpricks representing stars.


    Sanglant recognized that impatient scrawl at once. He took the paper from the frater without asking permission, nor did the man protest with more than a mild blurt of surprise, quickly cut off as he eyed the soldiers surrounding him.


    ¡°Liath.¡± Sanglant pressed the scrap to his cheek as if some essence of her might reside in those hastily scrawled numbers and circles, a lingering tincture of her soul and heart that he could absorb through his skin.


    ¡°Know you who wrote these calculations, Your Highness?¡± asked the frater, with rising excitement. His cheeks flushed, and he blinked his infected eye so rapidly that tears oozed along the swollen lids.


    After a long silence, Sanglant lowered the parchment. They were only markings, after all. He knew the names she had called them, but he didn¡¯t really know what they meant. ¡°My wife.¡±

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    ¡°Then she is the one I seek!¡± cried the frater triumphantly. He extended a hand, trembling a little, wanting the scrap back.


    With some reluctance, Sanglant handed it over. ¡°You saw what became of her, surely. She was stolen by fire daimones.¡±


    The soldiers had heard the story before, but they murmured among themselves, hearing the words spoken so baldly. At times, it amazed Sanglant that they rode with him despite his defiance of his father and regnant, despite the reputation of his wife, who had been excommunicated by a church council for the crime of sorcery and had vanished under mysterious circumstances from Earth itself. Despite the inhuman daimone who attended him as nursemaid to his daughter.


    ¡°Ah.¡± Zacharias considered the goats, who had resolved their dispute by pulling to the limits of their ropes where they had found satisfaction in a bramble. His profile seemed vaguely familiar to Sanglant, but he couldn¡¯t place him. Had he seen him before? He did not think so, yet something about the man rang a resonance in his heart. The frater had a bold nose, a hawk¡¯s nose, as some would have been wont to say, and a vaguely womanlike jawline, more full than sharp. He had the thinness of a man who has eaten poorly for a long time, and a shock of dark hair tied back at his neck. Like a good churchman, he had no beard. But his gaze was clear and unafraid. ¡°Do you believe she is lost to you, Your Highness?¡±


    ¡°I will find her.¡±


    Zacharias considered the words, and the tone, and finally nodded. ¡°May I travel with you, then, my lord?¡±


    Oddly, the question irritated Sanglant. ¡°Why do you seek her?¡±


    . ¡°So that she may explain to me these calculations. She, too, seeks an understanding of the architecture of the universe, just as I do. She must know something of the secret language of the stars¡ª¡±


    ¡°Enough.¡± The man spoke so like Liath that Sanglant could not bear to hear more of it. Ai, God, it reminded him of the conversation he had overheard between Liath and Sister Venia: Hugh could read, could navigate the night sky, could plot the course of the moon; Hugh had a passion for knowledge, and Sanglant did not. Would Liath like Zacharias¡¯ company better than his? She lived at times so much in her mind that he wondered if she ever noticed that with each step her feet touched the ground. Maybe her feet no longer touched Earth at all, not now. Perhaps all the secrets of the stars had been revealed to her on some distant sphere, and she need never return to the Earth he understood and lived on.


    Heribert coughed slightly, and Sanglant realized that every man there was waiting for him. ¡°You may travel with us, Brother, as long as you abide by my orders and make no trouble.¡±


    ¡°I have a wretched tongue, Your Highness,¡± said the frater, ¡°and it has gotten me into trouble before.¡± He spoke bitterly, and made a kind of gesture with his hand, toward his hips, quickly cut off, as though he hadn¡¯t meant to make any such gesture at all.


    ¡°A little honest gossip is common to men accustomed to the soldiering life, Brother, but I don¡¯t tolerate lies or betrayal. Nor do I punish men for speaking the truth.¡±


    ¡°Then you are an unusual prince, my lord.¡±


    ¡°So he is,¡± interposed Fulk. The good captain regarded the dirty frater with suspicion. ¡°You¡¯ll do your share of the camp work, I trust?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m humbly born, Captain,¡± retorted the frater tartly. ¡°I do not fear hard work, and have done my share, and more than my share, in the past. I survived seven years as a slave among the Quman.¡±


    The soldiers murmured on hearing this boast.


    ¡°Is that so?¡± demanded Sanglant. ¡°What tribe took you as a slave, and what was their chieftain¡¯s name?¡±


    The frater¡¯s grin had the beauty of a hawk¡¯s flight, swiftly seen and swiftly vanished. ¡°I walked into the east to bring the light of God to their lost souls. But the Kirakit tribe, whose mark is the curve of an antelope¡¯s horn, scorned me. They traded me to the Pechanek tribe as part of a marriage agreement. You can see it on my back, if you will: the rake of a snow leopard¡¯s claw, to mark me as the slave of their begh Bulkezu.¡±


    ¡°Bulkezu,¡± echoed Sanglant.


    Zacharias shuddered. Even spoken so softly, and at such a distance, names had power.


    Sanglant touched his throat, felt the scar of the wound that ought to have killed him, but had not. ¡°I fought against him once, and neither of us won in that encounter.¡± He smiled grimly. ¡°I will take you gladly, Brother, for it seems to me that a man who can survive seven years as a slave of the Quman will not falter easily.¡±

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    ¡°Nor will I,¡± agreed the frater, ¡°although I was hoping for a wash.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s on water duty, Captain?¡±


    Fulk had been regarding the frater with surprised admiration. Now he turned to the prince. ¡°I had meant to bring the matter to your attention, Your Highness. The ruins make a good defense, but there is no nearby water source. I¡¯ve got the men carrying in buckets, enough for the night. Brother Zacharias may go down to the stream, if he wishes.¡±


    ¡°Nay, wait a moment, Captain.¡± Heribert stepped forward. ¡°This is a Dariyan fort, is it not?¡± He surveyed the ruins with the eye of a man familiar with ancient buildings.


    Sanglant had camped in old Dariyan forts before. Well built, they had usually weathered time and war so well that their walls still provided a good defensive position, and Sanglant had fought for too many years to pitch camp even in peaceful territory without an eye to defense. This fort, like all the others, had square walls and two avenues, one crossing the other, that split the cramped interior into four quarters, with four gates. Fulk had posted sentries along the outer walls and had placed the camp in the central square, itself ringed by a low wall. Heribert crossed to that inner wall and began a circuit, bending now and again to brush accumulated dust from the reliefs of eagle-headed soldiers and women with the muzzles of jackals that adorned the walls, a parade etched into stone that ringed the entire square.


    Abruptly, Heribert struck at the ground with his staff, then called over a soldier. With a spear¡¯s haft and a shovel, they dug and levered and, that suddenly, got a stone lifted. A cloud of moisture billowed up.


    ¡°Sorcery!¡± murmured one of the soldiers.


    ¡°A miracle!¡± said a second.


    Heribert returned in time to hear this comment. ¡°Nay, there¡¯s no sorcery or miracles involved,¡± he said, somewhat disgustedly. ¡°All Dariyan forts were built to the same plan. One cistern always lies in the central square, marked by a woman dressed in a skirt hung all around with lightning bolts and carrying a water lily. Usually, in forts that were inhabited for a lengthy period, an entire network of rain spouts and channels leads rainwater into that central cistern, and¡ª¡±


    Because he seemed ready to go on indefinitely, caught up by his passion, Sanglant interrupted him. ¡°Let me taste the water first.¡±


    A rope and bucket were found. When a soldier brought him the half-full bucket, Sanglant dipped a hand in the cool water, sipped, and let the taste of it wash over him. No taint of poison or foulness burned him. The water smelled fresh, and had been covered for so long and so tightly that no animal had fallen in to poison it. ¡°I judge it safe to use, Captain.¡±¡®


    ¡°Truly, that will save us labor, Brother,¡± said Fulk, eyeing Heribert with new respect. Captain and cleric went aside, and Heribert began pointing out to him certain features of the fort. Zacharias left camp to wash himself in privacy. Blessing stirred and woke from her nap, and Sanglant unwound her from the sling as the soldiers built up a good fire and brought out their equipment for mending torn cloaks and tunics. The cooks roasted the six deer they¡¯d shot in the course of their march that day.


    In this manner, they settled down for the night. Sanglant fed Blessing a paste made of pulses and goat¡¯s milk, sweetened with honey that the soldier Sibold had stolen from a bee¡¯s nest two days ago, although the poor man still had swollen fingers, the price he¡¯d paid for this prize.


    ¡°Da da!¡± Blessing said in her emphatic way. ¡°Da ma ba! Wa! Ge! Ge!¡± She wriggled out of his lap and grabbed his fingers, wanting to walk. In the past ten days she¡¯d gotten so steady on her legs that she could now run, and did, whenever he wasn¡¯t holding on to her or she wasn¡¯t in her sling. She was so used to the soldiers that she would run, screaming with excitement, to any one of them, as her father chased her, and hide behind their legs. This had become part of the nightly ritual of the war band. Once she had exhausted them in this way, she presided, from her father¡¯s lap, over the singing that followed dinner. Every man there knew a dozen tunes or twenty or a hundred. Blessing babbled along enthusiastically, and although she couldn¡¯t quite clap her hands together to keep time, she waved them vigorously.


    When she finally slumped into her father¡¯s chest, eyes half closed, he called Brother Zacharias over to him and questioned him closely about Bulkezu and the Quman. The frater had managed to wash the worst of the dirt off him, although his clothing still stank. He had the accent of a man born and bred in the east among the free farmers, those who had settled in the marchlands in exchange for land of their own and the protection of the king. Of the Quman, Zacharias had a slave¡¯s knowledge, incomplete and sketchy, but he noticed details and he knew how to talk.

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    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s best we ride east,¡± said Sanglant finally as Fulk and Heribert listened. ¡°Sapientia will not like this news of our father¡¯s marriage to Queen Adelheid.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a long road to the east,¡± observed Heribert.


    ¡°All roads are long roads.¡± Blessing had fallen asleep on his chest. He bundled her up in the sling, off the ground so no crawling creature could bite her. The others rolled themselves up in their blankets. From farther off he heard sentries pacing on their rounds, their footfalls light on packed earth. He could not sleep. His hand still smarted from the prick of the thistle.


    Jerna¡¯s aetherical form fluttered down beside him, rippling like water. She curled herself as a veil of protection around the sleeping bundle that was Blessing. Perhaps, like an amulet, she did protect the baby. Blessing had not taken sick for even one day since Jerna began suckling her, nor was the baby troubled by fly or mosquito bites like the rest of them. Hot sun did not make her dusky skin break out in a rash, nor did she seem to mind the cold. She was growing so fast that every man there knew it was uncanny and abnormal, although none spoke a word out loud.


    Maybe he was a fool for letting an abomination nurse her. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t wise. But what else could he have done? He had made the only choice open to him.


    So be it.


    3


    AS King Henry¡¯s army lurched and toiled up the pass, Rosvita found herself for the fifth time that day at a standstill behind a wagon. This one had gotten stuck where its wheels had broken through an icy crust to bog down in mud beneath.


    Fortunatus reined his mule up beside hers, and sighed. ¡°Do you think it was wise of King Henry to cross the mountains this late in the year?¡±


    ¡°Speak no ill of the king, I pray you, Brother. He marches at God¡¯s bidding. You see, the sun still shines.¡±


    So it did, however bleak and wan its light seemed against a backdrop of dark clouds, cold mountainside, and a cutting wind. Soldiers and servants hurried forward with planks and sticks to coax the wagon out of its mire. Soon a dozen of them had gathered around the stricken wagon, arguing with each other in the tone of men who have had their endurance tested to the limit.


    ¡°Shall I speak to them, Sister?¡±


    ¡°Nay, let them be unless it comes to a fistfight. But you may take the reins of my mule, if you please.¡± As she had done the other times they had halted in this manner, she dismounted from her mule to give a few words of comfort to a wagon¡¯s load of soldiers so stricken with the flux that they were too weak to walk.


    ¡°Let us pray, friends,¡± she said as she approached the wagon, although in truth most of the soldiers were too delirious with fever to hear her words. The wagon stank of their illness, for these were the poor souls who no longer had the strength to hoist themselves off the wagon and stagger off the path before voiding their bowels.


    It took her perhaps four steps to walk from her mule to the wagon. Only for that long did she turn her back to the pass up which the army struggled.


    The wagon driver had a cloth tied over most of his face to mask the stench of sickness, but even so, she saw his eyes widen in terror as he looked past her. She heard it first as a rumble, a crackling thrumming roar that obliterated distant shrieks and warning calls.


    ¡°Sister!¡± cried Fortunatus. ¡°Ai, God, we are overtaken!¡±


    She turned back. She hadn¡¯t turned away for longer than it would take to count to ten, but in that brief span the sun had vanished under a curtain of white descending off the mountains. For an instant, the sight so disoriented her that she imagined them overwhelmed by a deluge of white flower petals.


    The blizzard hit without warning. She had time only to grab at the wagon¡¯s side, to brace herself. Fortunatus flung himself down from his mount and yanked on the reins of her mule. Then the storm swallowed him, and smashed into her.


    She could not even hear the moans of the ill soldiers. Wind lashed her and snow blasted her. Pebbles caught up by the wind peppered her back as though a giant was hurling them against its enemies. She groped her way along the wagon until she shouldered up against the protecting bulk of the oxen. Luckily, she wore gloves, but even so her fingers stiffened where they clutched at wood and harness. She had to keep her back to the wind in order to breathe.


    For an endless time, as the warmth ebbed out of her, she just held on.


    By the time the wind slackened enough that she dared look up, snow drifted knee-deep around her legs and her feet had gone numb. Through the furious snow she could barely make out shapes staggering along the road. They were no longer marching south, up the pass toward Aosta. Now they fled north, down the pass, back the way they had come.

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    ¡°Ai, God!¡± swore the driver, shouting to be heard above the screaming wind. ¡°I¡¯ve got to turn around now or the wheels¡¯ll be stuck in the snow!¡±


    She waved down a trio of soldiers retreating with their backs to the storm. With their help they wrenched the wagon around, although it was a tricky business on the narrow road, with the land falling away steeply on one side and rising precipitously on the other. There was nothing she could do to help the wagon ahead of them, still stuck in the mud.


    ¡°Sister!¡± Fortunatus had miraculously kept hold of both mules, although he had been forced very close to the edge. He laboriously tied the reins of the mules to the back of the wagon, his fingers clumsy with cold. By walking beside and clinging onto their mules, they followed the wagon back down the pass.


    The storm made white of the world. Shapes stumbled past them, and sometimes they passed knots of soldiers stopped to help a fallen comrade. The wagon ground down the old road with fresh snow squeaking under its wheels. The wind pressed them along as though it were glad to be rid of them. She stumbled on rocks and found she¡¯d drifted off the road. Fortunatus hauled her back, and with her lips set tight and her energy flagging, she hung onto her stirrup and concentrated on taking one step at a time.


    Faintly, above the howl of the wind, horns signaled the passage of the king.


    Soon enough, the king¡¯s party overtook them. Henry had by sheer strength of will managed to stay mounted on his sturdy warhorse. Queen Adelheid rode bravely beside him, swathed in a fur cloak coated with so much snow that she looked dusted with ice. As he passed, he shouted encouragement to the soldiers staggering along.


    Despite the storm, he recognized Rosvita and hailed her. ¡°Sister Rosvita! Need you a wagon?¡±


    ¡°Nay, Your Majesty. These ill soldiers need it more than I.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll come soon enough to the hostel where we quartered last night.¡±


    He moved on, vanishing quickly into the streaming snow. After an interminable while in which she only knew she was walking because her legs moved, they came to a thrusting ridge that cut off the worst of the wind. Snow still swirled all around them, soft and abundant as it blanketed the ground.


    The hostel had a main hall, crudely built but adequate enough for a sizable party of merchants, stables enough for some forty beasts, and a half dozen outbuildings and sheds. But it couldn¡¯t house a king¡¯s army. Last night they had staked out their camp under the open sky in balmy autumn weather, with not a finger of snow on the ground, confident that the weather would hold for the five days it would take them to pass over the summit and begin their descent into Aosta.


    The wagon driver was barely able to maneuver his team in beside a dozen others, crowded together just off the road. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he swung down from the seat. A Lion hurried up and helped him cover the oxen¡¯s backs with a blanket. Then, with some of his fellows, he hunkered down in the lee of the wagon. There was nowhere else for the servants to go. Soldiers and clerics moved among the sick, helping those who could still walk into the stables. Of the dozen men languishing in the back of the wagon, three were already dead. She murmured a brief prayer over them through lips stiff with cold.


    ¡°Alas,¡± murmured Fortunatus where he huddled beside her. ¡°I fear none of these sick men can survive the cold.¡±


    ¡°If God will it, these poor souls will survive. If not, they¡¯ll gain a just reward.¡±


    ¡°Truly, so shall it be,¡± echoed Fortunatus.


    When all was said and done, there was nothing she could do. ¡°Come,¡± she said to Fortunatus. ¡°Let us attend the king.¡±


    Henry and his nobles had taken refuge in the hall. The press of bodies made the place warm, although there were only two fires going in the hearths built into either end of the structure. Smoke raked her throat raw. So many people had crushed into the hall to escape from the storm that it was difficult to make her way to the king.


    Henry had given pride of place in front of each of the hearths to certain captains and nobles who had taken sick with the flux and to a few common soldiers known to him, Lions or members of his personal guard. With a ring of advisers he stood in the center of the hall holding court, discussing their desperate situation together with the wizened nun who was mother of the order who ran the hostel. As he drank ale straight out of a pitcher, he listened to the old woman, whose words were translated by a second nun.


    ¡°Nay, Your Majesty, when a storm comes sudden-like this time of year, it¡¯s not likely it¡¯ll clear up soon. When it does in a day or three, you¡¯ll find the snow too deep to cross.¡±

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    Helmut Villam stood beside the king. He looked exhausted, worn through by the struggle to get out of the storm. Just a week ago he had shone with youth at the betrothal feast celebrated for him and his bride, young Leoba. Now he looked as old as he was, a full sixty years, as though the youthful vigor that had always before animated him had been sucked out of him by the bitter cold.


    ¡°But there was so little snow here this morning,¡± he protested. ¡°Surely if we wait this out, we can make one more attempt to cross the pass before winter descends in earnest.¡±


    ¡°That you may,¡± agreed the nun. ¡°That you may. But I¡¯ve served in these parts for well on thirty years, my lord. I know these storms. You¡¯ll not get across now until late spring. If you try, it¡¯ll go hard on your army, Your Majesty.¡±


    Henry took another quaff of ale as he considered these tidings. Abruptly Rosvita¡¯s feet began to hurt so horribly, as though a thousand tiny knives were cutting into her soles, that she staggered and would have fallen had Fortunatus not caught her.


    Henry saw her. He sent one of his Lions to open up a stool for her to sit on. Ale was brought, and she drank gratefully. For a while, as the murmur and flow of disparate conversations swirled around her as thickly as the snow had done outside, she sat with her head bowed, catching her breath and gritting her teeth as pain flared and subsided in her feet.


    After a while, a servant unwrapped her leggings and uncovered her feet. Her toes felt frozen through. Fortunatus knelt before her and chafed her feet between his hands until tears ran down her cheeks.


    Through the haze of pain, she heard Henry speaking.


    ¡°Nay, we can¡¯t risk it. The season is late. To be defeated by the mountains is no dishonor to us. We can¡¯t stay here since there isn¡¯t shelter enough for everyone. We must retreat to Bederbor and live off Conrad¡¯s bounty for the winter.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll give that grudgingly,¡± remarked Villam.


    ¡°So he will,¡± agreed Henry. ¡°We¡¯ll make good use of his hospitality to remind him of the loyalty that is due to his regnant. But this way we can keep the army strong. When the passes clear next year, we¡¯ll march south and catch Ironhead unawares. Yet surely, Helmut, you¡¯ll be glad of one more winter in the north. We¡¯ll send for your bride, and she can keep your bed warm!¡±


    Laughter followed this sally, and the mood in the hall lightened considerably. Such was the king¡¯s power.


    Her feet prickled mightily, as though stung by a hundred bees. ¡°I pray you, Brother, that is enough!¡±


    Fortunatus regarded her with a grim smile. ¡°Better than losing your toes, Sister, is it not? Can you ride?¡±


    She flexed her feet and found that although they still hurt, she could move them and even set her weight upon them without undue pain.


    ¡°This is ill news,¡± she said to him, ¡°that we must wait until next year to march to Aosta. Where is the queen?¡±


    Henry had moved away toward the door to direct his captains to start an orderly retreat toward Bederbor. Rosvita got to her feet and tested them gingerly, but found them sound enough. Through the milling crowd she caught sight of Adelheid in a corner, sitting on one of the beds built in under the rafters. She was vomiting into a basin held by a servingwoman.


    ¡°Your Majesty!¡± Rosvita hastened forward, alarmed. Just in this way did the flux first afflict its victims. But as she reached Adelheid¡¯s side, the young queen straightened up with a wan smile and allowed a servant to wipe her face.


    ¡°Nay, it¡¯s nothing dangerous.¡± The queen reached out to grasp Rosvita¡¯s hands. Adelheid¡¯s hands were warm despite the cruel storm raging outside which she had so recently escaped. Her grip had unusual strength, and her eyes held a gleam of triumph as she glanced past Rosvita toward her husband, whose head could be seen above the others in the crowd. ¡°I believe that I am pregnant.¡±


    4


    ONE ruined Dariyan fort looked much like any other. Sanglant led his men north through Wayland following the ancient trail of the Dariyan invasion, laid down hundreds of years ago. The forts had lasted far longer than the empire.


    This night, as every night, after he made sure Blessing slept, he walked the perimeter to greet each soldier standing sentry on first watch. A jest exchanged with Sibold, a comment on the weather by Everwin, an astute observation about the landscape from Wracwulf, and he moved on. By the time he returned to the campfire, both Zacharias and Heribert were asleep, rolled up tightly in their cloaks under cover of a half fallen roof. Heribert had shoved aside broken tiles to make space for Sanglant, but the prince was, as usual, too restless to sleep. He sat brooding by the fire.

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    A quiet wind brushed all the clouds away. Under the clear sky cold crept in, chasing away the dregs of summer. The bitter stars reminded him of Liath, for she would have loved a night such as this, so clear and cold that the stars seemed twice as bright and a hundred times more numerous than usual. The three jewels, Diamond, Citrine, and Sapphire, burned overhead as the Queen drove the Guivre down into the western horizon. The River of Souls streamed across the zenith. Did Liath walk there now? Could she see him? But when he spoke her name softly onto the breeze, he heard no answer.


    They kept their secrets well.


    After a while the waning moon rose to wash the sky with silver light. He heard them before the sentries did: a muffled yip, softly signaling, and the brush of fur against dry leaves, perhaps a tail dragged along a bush. He jumped up to his feet just as Jerna unwound herself from Blessing¡¯s sling and shot away into the air. With sword in hand, he followed the aery daimones¡¯ form, a shimmering streak against the night sky, to the fort¡¯s wall, which stood chest-high. Wracwulf greeted him briefly, alert enough to notice how Sanglant¡¯s gaze ranged over the forest cover. The soldier, too, turned to survey the woodland.


    Three wolves emerged from the undergrowth in that silence known only to wild things. The sentry hissed, but Sanglant laid a stilling hand on the soldier¡¯s arm. A fourth wolf ghosted out of the trees a stone¡¯s throw to the left. They came no closer, only watched. Their amber eyes gleamed in moonlight.


    Wracwulf raised his spear. A bowstring creaked from farther down the wall, where Sibold stood watch.


    ¡°Don¡¯t shoot!¡± cried Sanglant.


    Shouts and the alarm broke out in camp. The wolves vanished into the trees. Sanglant spun and, drawing his sword, sprinted back to camp to find the soldiers risen in agitation, whispering like troubled bees. They had gathered near Blessing¡¯s sling, but the commotion had not troubled her; she slept soundly.


    ¡°Your Highness!¡± Captain Fulk leveled his spear at a dark figure which stood next to the sleeping baby.


    ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± demanded Sanglant, really angry now, because fear always fueled anger.


    The man stepped out of the shadows. His hair had the same silvery tone as the moonlight that bathed him in its soft light. ¡°When I realized it was you, Prince Sanglant, I had to see the child.¡±


    ¡°Wolfhere!¡±


    The old Eagle looked tired, and he walked with a pronounced limp. His cloak and clothing were neat enough, but his boots were scuffed and dirty. An overstuffed pack lay on its side on the ground behind him.


    ¡°Your Highness.¡± He examined the soldiers surrounding him with a smile so thin that Sanglant could not tell whether he were amused or on the point of collapse. ¡°I feel as welcome as if I¡¯d jumped into a bed of thistles.¡±


    Fulk did not lower his spear. The point hovered restlessly near the Eagle¡¯s unprotected belly. ¡°This man is under the regnant¡¯s ban.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± asked Sanglant amiably.


    ¡°Alas, so it is,¡± Wolfhere admitted cheerfully enough. ¡°I left court without the king¡¯s permission. When my horse went lame, I was unable to commandeer another.¡±


    ¡°Sit down.¡± Now that any immediate danger to Blessing was past, Sanglant could enjoy the irony of the situation. ¡°I would be pleased to hear your tale. In any case it seems you are now in my custody. It is well for you, I suppose, that I do not currently rest in the king¡¯s favor either.¡±


    ¡°Nay, so you do not. That much gossip, at least, I heard on the road here.¡± Wolfhere¡¯s mask of sage detachment vanished as he spoke again, a remarkable blend of anxiety and agitation flowering on that usually closed face. ¡°Where is Liath?¡±


    ¡°Captain Fulk,¡± said Sanglant, ¡°have a fire built over by the well. I would speak with the Eagle alone. Set a double guard over my daughter.¡±


    Most of the soldiers went back to their rest. The prince led Wolfhere over to a freshly built fire, snapping brightly in a niche laid into the stone wall that had once, perhaps, held an idol, or weapons set ready for battle.


    Wolfhere sighed sharply as he sat down, grateful for a cup of ale and a hunk of bread. ¡°I¡¯m not accustomed to walking,¡± he said, to no one in particular. ¡°My feet hurt.¡±


    As Sanglant settled down on a fallen stone, opposite Wolfhere, Heribert hurried up, rubbing his eyes. Wolfhere glanced at him, seeing only the robe, and then looked again, a broad double take that would have been comical had he not leaped up with an oath and tipped over the precious ale.


    ¡°How came he here?¡± he demanded.

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    ¡°He¡¯s my counselor, and my friend.¡± Sanglant gestured to Heribert to sit beside him. Because Wolfhere did not sit, Heribert did not either, hovering beside Sanglant rather like a nervous bird about to flap away.


    ¡°You¡¯re aware of what manner of man this is?¡± Wolfhere asked.


    ¡°Very much so. I would trust him with my life. And with my daughter¡¯s life, for that matter.¡±


    ¡°Condemned by a church council for complicity in acts of black sorcery! The bastard son of Biscop Antonia!¡±


    ¡°Then, truly, I would be first to condemn him, being a bastard myself.¡± Sanglant grinned sharply but, glancing at Heribert, he saw that the cleric had gone as stiff as a man who expects in the next instant to receive a mortal blow. ¡°That argument holds no water for me, Wolfhere. Heribert has long since honored me with the truth about his birth and upbringing, although I admit that he¡¯s never known who his father was.¡± Wolfhere began to speak, but Sanglant lifted a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t try to turn me against him. I know far more of Heribert¡¯s inner heart and loyalties than I do of yours!¡±


    Wolfhere¡¯s usually calm facade cracked even further to reveal indignation and a glimpse of wrenching pain. ¡°Is it true that Biscop Antonia has gone to Anne and been taken into the Seven Sleepers?¡±


    ¡°So I swear by Our Lady and Lord,¡± murmured Heribert, ¡°for I was with Biscop Antonia when we escaped your custody, Eagle, as you well remember. When we came to Verna by various complicated paths, Anne took my mother¡¯s pledge to serve as¡ª¡± He broke off to stifle a giggle as a child might when it came to laughing over a much-hated adult¡¯s discomfiture. ¡°¡ªas seventh and least of her order.¡±


    Distantly, a wolf howled. Jerna whispered above the prince, sluicing down on the breeze to curl protectively around his shoulders. Her touch was soft and cool. Two sentries bantered over by the outer wall as they changed watch.


    At that moment, Sanglant understood the whole. As if sensing his growing anger, Jerna slipped away into the air. He rose slowly, using his height to intimidate. ¡°You know them, then, Anne and the others.¡± He didn¡¯t need to make it a question. ¡°You¡¯ve been one of them all along, and never loyal to my father, or to his father before him. Never loyal to your Eagle¡¯s oath.¡±


    This was too much for Wolfhere. ¡°Don¡¯t mock what you don¡¯t understand, my lord prince! King Arnulf trusted me, and I served him until the day he died. I never betrayed Wendar.¡± Agitated, he continued in a choked voice as he sank down onto the stone block with the weariness of a man who has walked many leagues only to find his beloved home burned to the ground. ¡°Ai, Lady! That it should come to this! That Anne should be willing to use evil tools in a good cause. Have I misjudged her all this time?¡±


    ¡°Does this surprise you?¡± demanded Sanglant. ¡°Liath and I were her prisoners for many months. It does not surprise me.¡±


    ¡°You were not her prisoners! Liath was¡ª¡± Here Wolfhere halted, breaking off with an anguished grimace.


    Sanglant finished for him. ¡°Her tool. Even her daughter was only a tool to her. Did Anne ever love her?¡±


    Wolfhere covered his eyes with a hand. The pain in his voice was easy to hear. ¡°Nay, Anne never loved her. Bernard was the one who loved her.¡±


    ¡°Anne killed him in order to get Liath back.¡±


    ¡°Bernard took what wasn¡¯t his to have! It may even be possible he meant well, but he was horribly and dangerously misguided and full of himself, never listening to any voice but his own. He damaged Liath by hiding her from those who understood what she is and the power that is her birthright. We had no choice but to do what we did to get her back!¡±


    Hands in fists, he rose and paced to the fire, staring into it as though he could see memories within the flames. At last he looked up. ¡°Liath isn¡¯t here, is she?¡± The old Eagle seemed ready to strangle on the words. ¡°Verna lay abandoned when I reached it, everything in ruins, and Anne had left already with the survivors.¡±


    ¡°You did not follow her?¡±


    ¡°Crossing the mountains on foot at this time of year? I haven¡¯t the skills to travel as Anne may, walking the stones. God¡¯s mercy, Prince Sanglant, where is Liath?¡±


    Sanglant had to close his eyes to shut away the memory. He could not speak of it; the pain still burned too deep and if he spoke he knew he would break down into sobs.


    Heribert touched him, briefly, on the arm before stepping forward. ¡°I had already left,¡± he said softly, ¡°so I did not witness the conflagration myself, but my lord prince has told me that unearthly creatures with wings of flame walked into the valley through the stone circle and took Liath away with them.¡±

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    ¡°Even the stone burned,¡± whispered Sanglant hoarsely. The sight of the mountains washed in flame had stamped itself into his mind, so that even with his eyes shut he gained no respite. Splendid and terrible, the creatures had destroyed Verna without seeming even to notice that it was there.


    ¡°Ai, God.¡± Wolfhere¡¯s sigh cut the silence. He simply collapsed like a puppet whose strings have gone lax, folding down to sit cross-legged on the dirt with the fire casting shadow and light over his lined face and pale hair.


    Sanglant waited a long time, but Wolfhere still did not speak. After a bit, the prince called to Matto and had the boy fill the empty cup with ale. Wolfhere took the cup gratefully and drained it before devouring a second wedge of bread and a corner of cheese. After Matto retreated, Heribert finally sat down. His movement released the words that Wolfhere had clearly been holding back.


    ¡°All those years, Anne and I, raised together in the service of a common goal. I was taken from my parents as a child of six to serve her. I thought I knew her better than any other could, even Sister Clothilde, who was never privy to all of Anne¡¯s youthful dreams and wishes, not like I was. Anne was always more pure and exalted than the rest of us. I never thought she would league herself with a maleficus like Antonia, who raised galla out of the stones with the blood of innocents, fed living men to a guivre, and did not scruple to sacrifice her own loyal clerics to further her selfish aims.¡± Heribert winced at these words but said nothing, and Wolfhere¡ªwho wasn¡¯t looking at him¡ªwent on. ¡°We were not raised to use such means and to league ourselves with the minions of the Enemy! How can Anne have taken such a person into her confidence, and given her even greater powers?¡±


    ¡°Such are the chains binding those who rule,¡± retorted Sanglant. ¡°The great princes use whatever sword comes to hand. Isn¡¯t this merely quibbling? If your plan succeeds, then all of the Aoi will die anyway. What matters it what tools you use, when killing is your goal?¡±


    ¡°It matters that the cause be just. It matters that our enemies are wicked. It matters that our efforts be honorable and that our hearts do not turn away from holiness.¡±


    ¡°Drowning an infant is honorable and holy? You¡¯ve never denied that you tried to murder me when I was just a suckling baby.¡±


    ¡°I did what I thought was right at the time.¡±


    Sanglant laughed angrily. ¡°It gladdens my heart to hear you say so! Why, then, do you suppose that I will let you dwell even one night near my daughter, whom you might feel called upon to attempt to murder in her turn! Anne would have let her starve to death. How are you any better than that? You are welcome to leave, and return to Anne who, I am sure, will be glad enough to see you.¡±


    The moonlight washed Wolfhere¡¯s face to a striking pallor. ¡°It was easy enough to drown an infant before I knew what it was to love one. You must believe me, my lord prince. I cared for Liath as much as I was allowed to, when she was a child. But Anne did not think it right that we love her, that we weaken ourselves or her in such a manner. Only Bernard did not heed her. Bernard never heeded her.¡± He turned his head sharply to one side as though he had just been slapped. ¡°I gave Anne everything, my life, my loyalty. I never married or sired children. I never saw my family again. What did faithless Bernard care for all that? He stole everything I loved.¡±


    Examining Wolfhere¡¯s face, Sanglant simply could not tell whether he was acting, like a poet declaiming a role, or sincere. Did the outer seeming match the inner heart?


    ¡°This is a touching confession, but I am neither cleric nor frater to grant you absolution.¡± Sanglant let the irony linger in his voice as Wolfhere regarded him, calmer now that the flood of words had abated but still agitated. ¡°Many things have been said of you, but I have never heard it said that you are gullible, or naive.¡±


    ¡°Nay, I was most gullible of all. It troubled me that Anne made no effort to love the child, but I refused to let myself think on what it might mean about her heart. But now I fear my doubts were justified. Anne is not the person I thought she was.¡±


    The prince lifted both hands in disgust, crying surrender as he began to laugh. ¡°I am defenseless against these thrusts. Either you are the most shameless liar I¡¯ve ever encountered or you have come to your senses at last and can see that Anne cannot be trusted. What she plans is wrong. She is the wicked one. How can you or I know what the Lost Ones intend? Do they want peace, or war? Have they plotted long years to get their revenge, or were they the victims of human sorcery long ago, as my mother claimed? Anne intends some spell to defeat them. Tell me what she means to do.¡±

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    For a long time Wolfhere regarded the moon. Its light bathed the wall behind them until the stone shone like marble, revealing flecks of paint, red, blue, and gold, and the malformed figures common to old Dariyan forts: creatures with the bodies of women and the heads of hawks or snakes or lions. A wolf howled in the distance, as a companion might call out advice to one in need. ¡°I cannot. My gifts are few. Nor have I ever been privy to the deepest councils, or understood the full measure of the mathematici¡¯s art. I am not nobly born as you are, my lord prince.¡± Was that sarcasm, or only the cutting blade of truth? ¡°I was raised to serve, not to rule.¡±


    ¡°Then why follow me instead of Anne, after you saw what transpired at Verna? What do you want from me?¡±


    Wolfhere considered the question in silence. It was a mark of his sagacity that he could not be hurried, although by now Sanglant felt the urge to pace itch up and down his legs. Finally he gave in to it, taking two strides to the wall and tracing the attractive curve of a woman¡¯s carven body with a finger. He had reached such a pitch of excitement that each grain of stone seemed alive under his touch. He noticed what he was doing, that his fingers rested on the bulge of a breast, and quickly pulled back his hand and trapped it under his other arm.


    At last, Wolfhere shook himself as a wolf might, emerging from water. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I want to find Liath, my lord prince.¡±


    ¡°As do I. But what do you mean to do with her, should you find her? Take her back to Anne? Is that what Anne commanded you to do?¡±


    ¡°Nay. I was meant to follow Anne and the others from Verna, but I could not bring myself to, not after what I had seen there. So much destruction! The monks at the hostel had seen a man fitting your description walking north. It was easy enough to follow you and your mother, although not so easy to avoid the notice of the king¡¯s soldiers as King Henry and his army marched south.¡±


    ¡°Where did Anne go?¡±


    Wolfhere hesitated.


    The prince took a half step forward. An arm¡¯s length was all that separated the two men now: the old Eagle, and the young prince who had once been a Dragon. ¡°Tell me the truth, Wolfhere, and I¡¯ll let you travel with me if that¡¯s your wish. I¡¯ll let you help me look for Liath, for you must know that there is nothing I want more than to find her.¡±


    Wolfhere examined him. The firelight played over his expression, brushing light and dark across his features as if one never quite overpowered the other. ¡°How do you mean to look for Liath, my lord prince, when it took eight years for Anne and me to find her before? With what magic do you intend to seek out a woman stolen away by unearthly creatures who fly on wings of flame?¡±


    ¡°If she loves me and the child,¡± said Sanglant grimly, ¡°she¡¯ll find a way back to us. Won¡¯t she? Isn¡¯t that the test of love and loyalty?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. But what do you intend to do meanwhile? You didn¡¯t ride south with your father¡¯s army. Had you done so, you would discover soon enough that Anne and the others traveled south to Darre.¡±


    ¡°Ah! Is that why Anne sent you? To spy on me? Very well. I¡¯ll take up her challenge, because I mean to defeat her now that I understand what she is and what she means to do to my mother¡¯s kin.¡± As usual, now that Sanglant knew what his objective was, a plan unfolded before him. ¡°I¡¯ll need griffin feathers and sorcerers to combat her magic. And an army.¡±


    ¡°All of which will be useless, my lord prince.¡± Wolfhere was far too old and wily to be won over by the excitement of such a bold plan; no doubt he expected a full-grown eagle, not just a fledgling. ¡°You do not understand her power. She is Taillefer¡¯s granddaughter, and a mathematicus of unequaled strength and mastery.¡±


    ¡°I respect her power. But you forget that I am married to her daughter, and that her granddaughter bides in my care. Blessing is half of my making. I am not without rank and power in my own right.¡±


    ¡°You no longer wear the gold torque that marks your royal lineage.¡±


    ¡°Liath wears the torque that once was mine, as is her right. My daughter wears one.¡±


    ¡°But will you wear one again? Or have you turned your back on what Henry gave you, as was his right as your father?¡±


    The cool words irritated him. ¡°I will take what I need and deserve when I am ready, not before! My father does not own me.¡± But irritation could be turned into something useful, just as anger makes splitting wood go faster. ¡°Help me restore Taillefer¡¯s line to its rightful place, Wolfhere, in preparation for the return of the Aoi, so that we can face them from a position of strength. Help me find Liath. Help me defeat Anne. In truth, your experience would prove valuable to me.¡±

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    ¡°You would risk your precious daughter so near to me, my lord prince?¡± Yet was there a glimmer of vulnerability in the old Eagle¡¯s expression as he leaned forward to stir the fire with a stick? Sparks drifted lazily up into the night, flicking out abruptly where they brushed against the stone.


    ¡°I can¡¯t trust you, it¡¯s true. This might all be a ruse on your part. But my daughter is well guarded by a creature that never sleeps, and who will soon know what manner of threat you pose. And it seems to me, my friend, that when we first met this night you had snuck into my camp without being seen. You were close enough to my daughter to kill her, had that been your intent. A knife in the dark offers a quick death. Yet she lives, despite my carelessness.¡±


    Was that a tear on Wolfhere¡¯s cheek? Hard to tell, and the heat of the fire wicked away all moisture.


    Sanglant smiled softly and glanced at Heribert, who only shrugged to show that, in this case, he had no advice to offer. ¡°Travel with me and my company of thistles, Wolfhere. What better option do you have? You don¡¯t trust Anne. King Henry has pronounced you under ban. At least I can protect you from the king¡¯s wrath.¡±


    Wolfhere smiled mockingly. ¡°It isn¡¯t the king¡¯s wrath I fear,¡± he said, but he raised no further objection.


    VII


    A DEATH SENTENCE


    1


    STRONGHAND had seen in his dreams that it was the habit of humankind to make their festivals an interlude of excess and self-gratification. They let fermented drink addle their minds. They ate too much. Often they became noisy, contentious, and undisciplined, and they spent their resources extravagantly and as though their cup of plenty ran bottomless.


    Even the chieftains of his own kind had grown into the habit of celebration after each victory. They might command their warriors to parade treasure before them, or they might lay bets on fights staged between slaves and beasts. By such means, and in the company of their rivals, they boasted of their power.


    He had no need of such displays. The ships of his dead rivals lay beached on his shores and now swelled the numbers of his fleet. Weapons he hoarded in plenty, and the ironsmiths of twenty or more tribes hammered and forged at his order. The chieftains of twenty tribes had come to Rikin Fjord at his command to lay their staffs of authority at his feet. They had accepted him¡ªsome willingly¡ªas ruler over all the tribes: first among equals, as the humans styled the regnant who reigned over those who called themselves princes and lords. He had named himself Stronghand, by the right of naming given by the OldMother of his tribe. He was, after all, the first chieftain to unite all the tribes of the RockChildren under one hand.


    But he felt no thrill of triumph, no ecstasy of power. He had no wish to celebrate. He nursed in his heart and mind only the chill knife of ambition and the cold emptiness that marked the absence of the one whom he had known as a brother in his heart: Alain, son of Henri, now vanished utterly from mortal lands.


    Stronghand no longer dreamed. This lack was a nagging source of bitterness and sorrow.


    But dreams were not all of his life. He did not need his dreams. He had thought through his desires with all due calculation. Not even the loss of his heart would divert him from his purpose. After all, ambition and will serve best the one who is heartless.


    From his chair, staff in hand, he surveyed the assembly gathered before him: a host of RockChildren spread out on the gently sloping land that descended toward the strand that marked the water¡¯s edge. Twenty-two staffs lay at his feet, and the chieftains who had surrendered their staffs to his authority stood at a respectful distance. The warriors of Rikin tribe stood behind them, intermingling with those warriors who had sailed to Rikin with their war leaders. Beached on the strand and anchored farther up and down the fjord lay at least eighty ships, each one manned with no less than fifty warriors. Yet even this large assembly represented only a portion of the army he could call on now.


    They were many, and more waited in the fjords that were home to the other tribes. But the humans still had greater numbers in their own country than all of the RockChildren leagued together.


    That was what Bloodheart and the old chieftains had always failed to understand. The humans might be weaker in body, but they had the implacable strength of numbers.


    The assembly waited. Distantly, wind sang down from the fjall, where the WiseMothers conferred in the silence that is the privilege of stone. Behind, the SwiftDaughters shifted restlessly. They did not have the patience of their mothers and grandmothers. Not for them the slow measure of eternity. Like their brothers and cousins, they would tread the Earth for no more than forty or so winters before dissolving under the press of time.

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    Rikin¡¯s OldMother stood at the entrance to her hall, witnessing, as was her right and obligation. He felt her respiration on his neck, although she neither spoke nor made any sign.


    This was his day. After all, even when she relinquished the knife of authority to the YoungMother and began her slow trek up to the fjall, she would live far longer than any of her children. His great endeavor must seem to her like the sport of young ones, briefly fought and briefly won.


    Yet he intended to make of it as much as he could.


    Hakonin¡¯s chief came forward, last of all, and laid his staff atop the careful pile, last to come because Hakonin¡¯s OldMother had been first to understand the scope of Stronghand¡¯s ambition and to offer alliance. Then Hakonin¡¯s chief, too, stepped back to wait at the fore of the assembly, beside Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter, Stronghand¡¯s helmsman and captain, his own litter mate.


    Stronghand rose. First, he cut into the haft of each staff the doubled circle that signified his rule. He stained these cuts with ocher to make each incision clearly visible. None spoke as he confirmed his authority in this manner: the staffs of these chieftains would be permanently marked with the sigil of Stronghand¡¯s overlordship.


    When he had finished, after each chieftain had come forward to receive his staff, he stared out over the fjord. The waters ran cold and still. Nothing broke that calm surface.


    Nothing broke the hush cast over the assembly.


    Let them wonder at his lack of expression. Let them fear him because he did not howl in triumph, as any of them would have. What need had he for howling and shrieking, yammering and outcry? Let those he struck against cry and wail. Silence was his ally, not his enemy.


    While they watched, he walked through their ranks down to the shoreline. From the water¡¯s edge, he threw a stone into the water. The stone, like any action, created ripples. What his allies did not know was that he had prearranged this signal.


    They burst from the quiet waters all at once, more than he could count. Arching upward, thrust there by the pumping strength of their hindquarters, the merfolk twisted in the air and spun down. Those waiting up by the hall saw only silvery bodies, a brief glimpse of fearsome heads and hair that slithered and twined in the air, then the massive splash as the heavy bodies of the merfolk hit the water. With a resounding slap of their tails, the merfolk vanished. Water churned, stilled, and lay as calm as a mirror again. On that surface he saw the reflection of trees and a single, circling hawk. A thread of smoke streaked the sky: the watchfire set on the bluff that guarded the mouth of Rikin Fjord.


    A murmur swept the ranks of the assembly, and died away. They all knew how his last enemy, the powerful Nokvi, had met his end. After losing his hands and his victory, he was thrown into the sea to be devoured by the merfolk. It was not a glorious death.


    Stronghand walked back to his chair and hoisted his staff. He had no need to shout: let the wind carry his words as far as it was able and let those in the back strain to hear him.


    ¡°Hear my words. Now we will act. Already my ships hunt down those of our kind who refuse to stand with us. Yet none of us can rest while others do this work. We must build and make ready.¡±


    Along the high slopes of the valley, scars in the forest cover marked where his human slaves had opened up new land for farming. Not much, truly, but enough to give plots to each one of the slave families that were part of his original slave-holding. He had plans for them as well. War was not the only way to create an empire.


    Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter called out the necessary question. ¡°For what do we make ready?¡±


    ¡°Can it be that we will turn our backs on the tree sorcerers of Alba, who thought to make one of our own chieftains into their puppet and slave?¡± Stronghand let his gaze span the crowd. ¡°They made a fool and a corpse of the one who called himself Nokvi. Are we to let these tree sorcerers believe that we are no better than Nokvi and his followers? Or will we take revenge for the insult?¡±


    They roared out their answer in a thousand voices. He let it die away until silence reigned again. At his back, the steady presence of Rikin¡¯s OldMother weighed on his shoulders.


    ¡°Go home to your valleys. During this autumn and winter, fit out your ships and forge your weapons. When the winter storms have blown out their fury, we will strike at the island of Alba. In the summer to come, I ask this of you: strike hard and strike often. Hit where you can. Take what you want. One sixth of your plunder deliver to me, and bring me word when you meet the tree sorcerers. I will find them and root them out, and when that time comes, the island of Alba and its riches will belong to our people. This is how it begins.¡±

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    They hailed him loudly and enthusiastically, with the howls and shouts appropriate to a ready and dangerous host. Best of all, they dispersed swiftly and with an efficiency brought about by anticipation and forethought. Already they moved less like a bestial horde intent on momentary satisfaction and more like thinking beings who could plan, act, and triumph.


    He turned, to approach the OldMother, but she had gone back inside her hall. Her door was shut. She had no need to interfere, after all. She had already made her pronouncement on the day she had allowed him to take a name: ¡°Stronghand will rise or fall by his own efforts.¡±


    He gestured, and Tenth Son came forward. ¡°When our allies have all left the fjord, let the ones assigned as reavers go forth to harry in Moerin¡¯s lands. Let them make sure that none of those who once gave allegiance to Nokvi still live. But let a few skiffs patrol the coast, and let some of our brothers, the quiet and wily ones, travel where they can. They must listen. It may even be that some who claim to be our allies now will talk against us. I must know who they are.¡±


    ¡°It will be done.¡± Tenth Son beckoned, and certain of his trusted lieutenants hurried forward to carry away Stronghand¡¯s chair. ¡°Are there any you trust less than the others?¡±


    Stronghand considered. ¡°Isa. Ardaneka¡¯s chief, because he came only when he saw that all the others had allied with me. A Moerin pup will need to be found, to groom as chieftain over what remains of that tribe. But send on this expedition those who can walk with their eyes open.¡± A thought occurred, and he turned it over and around, examining it, before he spoke it out loud. ¡°Let them take slaves with them, ones who are both strong and clever. There may be much that can be discovered from among the slaves of the other tribes.¡±


    Of all his people, only Tenth Son had ceased being surprised when Stronghand made use of his slaves in unexpected ways. Tenth Son canted his head to one side, in the way of a dog listening, and looked thoughtful. ¡°It will be done,¡± he agreed. ¡°There is another way to look for the tree sorcerers. News of them must surely come to the merchants who sail from port to port. Although Bloodheart lost the city of Hundse¡ª¡± What the humans called Gent. ¡°¡ªmuch treasure still came to our tribe by his efforts. Some of these treasures we could trade, and the ones who trade could listen and seek news in that way.¡±


    The words afflicted him as mightily as would the sun¡¯s brightness, shorn of cloud cover. He had not expected his brother to think so cleverly. ¡°I must consider what you say.¡±


    The SwiftDaughters moved away about their own errands, those things that mattered most: the continuation of the life of the tribe. No wonder that they left him to work alone, unremarked. In their eyes, such enterprises as raiding and plunder, fighting and conquest, were insignificant and trivial. In a thousand winters the rock would remain much as it always had, while his bones, and his efforts, would have long since been ground into dust.


    With chieftain¡¯s staff in hand, he took the long walk up to the fjall. Long halls gave way to abandoned slave pens, empty except for a few ragged slaves too stupid to leave their confines. Always, as he passed, he would first smell and then see a half dozen or more scraping mindlessly at the dirt or rocking from side to side in the ruins of their old shelters. The decrepit lean-to barracks in which the slaves had once wintered had been torn down and the wood and stone reused to build decent halls. Deacon Ursuline and her people had been industrious in the weeks since he had taken the chieftainship of Rikin.


    Fields spread everywhere along the lower slopes, fenced in by low rock walls. The human slaves once owned by his vanquished brothers had been given a measure of freedom under the strict supervision of his own warriors and those of his slaves whom he trusted. Now they toiled to grow crops where crops were suited to the soil and drainage. Higher up, half-grown children shepherded flocks of sheep and goats and the herds of cattle on which the RockChildren depended. Slaves at work in field and pasture noticed him pass, but none were foolish enough to stop working or to stare.


    Fields gave way to meadow and meadowlands to a sparse forest of spruce, pine, and birch. As the path banked higher, the forest opened up, shedding the other trees until only birch grew with a scattering of scrub and heather shorn flat by wind. The last of the stunted trees fell away as he emerged onto the high fjall, the land of rock and moss and scouring wind. The wind whipped at his staff, making the bones and iron rods tied to the crosspiece clack alarmingly. His braided hair rustled and twined along one shoulder, as if it retained a memory of the living hair grown by the merfolk.

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    A rime of frost covered the ground. The youngest WiseMother had made some progress on the trail since he had last come this way. He brought her an offering, as he always did: this day, a dried portion of the afterbirth from a slave. Let it serve as a symbol of life¡¯s transience, and his impatience. He did not stay to speak with her, since even a brief exchange might take hours. Instead, he walked on along the trail toward the ring of WiseMothers. At first they appeared like stout pillars but as he closed in, careful to avoid stepping on the snaking lines of silvery sand that marked the trails made by the deadly ice wyrms, the WiseMothers¡¯ shapes came into focus. Although they had all but stiffened entirely into stone, the curve of limbs and heads remained apparent, a vestige of their time among the mobile.


    The WiseMothers congregated in a circle at the rim of the nesting grounds. Here he paused, checking the stones gathered into his pouch, watching the smooth hollow of sand that lay before him. Only the WiseMothers knew what they were incubating under that expanse of silver sand.


    One stone at a time, he made his careful way out to the hummock that bulged up in the center of the hollow. The smooth, rounded dome radiated warmth and smelled faintly of sulfur, but once he was standing on it, he was safe from the ice wyrms that inhabited the glimmering hollow around which the WiseMothers gathered. There, in the solitude afforded him by the perilousness of his surroundings, he contemplated the path he had walked so far, the place he stood now, and the journey that still lay before him.


    A stray leaf fluttered over the hollow and came to rest, so lightly, on the sand. A gleaming, translucent claw thrust up from beneath the sands, hooked the leaf, and yanked it under. All was still again. The wind sighed around his body. He heard a distant rockfall as a low rumble, so far away that it might have been a dream. But when he closed his eyes to slide into the resting trance, the same blank emptiness met him, dull and gray.


    Alain was still gone, their link shattered.


    He was utterly alone.


    Night fell. Standing as still as any ancient stone lost under the canopy of stars, he heard the WiseMothers speaking.


    Move. South. Press. East. Shift. The. Fire. River¡¯s. Flow. Westward. Ten. Lengths.


    The. Sea. Waters. Will. Rise.


    Listen.


    Earth. Cries. For. Earth.


    What. Was. Torn. Asunder. Returns.


    Make. Room.


    His were not the only new ideas. Others among his people were learning to think. The words of Tenth Son rose in his memory: ¡°We could trade. We could seek news in the ports of humankind.¡±


    In the old days, before the rise of the warring chieftains in the time of Bloodheart¡¯s own sire, the RockChildren had traded with the human tribes and, of course, with the fisherfolk. The wars for supremacy had changed all that. The rich harvest brought by slaving, the ease of plunder, and the joy of raiding had altered the old ways. What need to trade for what you could take for nothing?


    Yet every stone thrown into calm water casts ripples. Just as tribes that warred incessantly among themselves could never truly grow strong, no clan which built its power solely on plunder had any hope of long-lasting success. The store of riches Bloodheart had amassed would serve Stronghand, but by themselves these treasures were just objects. They had only what worth others set on them. Of course that was a kind of worth he could exploit. War had its uses, yet it alone could not achieve all things.


    He stood in the center of the nesting grounds and listened to the waking ¡°awks¡± of gulls. The horizon paled toward dawn. Any one life span mattered little in the long unwinding of the world¡¯s life, whose span was measured by the conversations of the WiseMothers and not the transitory and quickly forgotten struggles, as brief as those of the mayflies, of mortal creatures. That he thought and planned did not make him any more consequential than the least of Earth¡¯s creatures. But maybe it gave him more freedom to act.


    A ruler who controls trade controls the passage of goods, controls taxes laid upon those goods, controls who gets what and what goes where. There was more than one way to stretch the hand of rulership over the ruled.


    With dawn, the WiseMothers settled into their daylight stupor. One stone at a time, he made his way back across the sands of the nesting grounds. The day, shortening as autumn overtook them, was half gone by the time he reached the safety of solid ground. He retrieved his staff from its hiding place in the crack of a towering rock and started down the path that led off the fjall and into the valley. Passing the youngest WiseMother, he laid a sprig of moss in her rough grasp, and walked on.


    An arrow of honking geese passed overhead. A kestrel skimmed a distant rise. Stronghand crossed from fjall to birch forest and down into the denser pine and spruce woodlands. In the distance ax blows rang to a steady rhythm. The chopping ceased, and a man called a warning. The sound of a tree cracking and falling splintered the air. The thud of its impact shuddered along the wind, and that same voice shouted orders.

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    Curious, he took the side path that led to the upper meadows. In a clearing, his slaves were building their church.


    It was rising fast. One among them had devised a cunning way of working with northern trees, many of which were too slender to be split into planks. Log-built, the structure had a squat, ungainly look. A few half-grown slaves, lackwits by the look of them, hung around at the clearing¡¯s edge and stared, jabbering in bestial cries. These weak-minded beasts even got in the way of the laborers trimming branches from downed trees or scraping off bark or planing logs with stone adzes and axes.


    Deacon Ursuline saw him and hurried over, followed by the male who acted as chieftain among the slaves, although he only called himself Papa Otto. A gull circled above the clearing, no doubt searching for scraps of food. Its ¡°awk¡± was harsh and nagging, and soon a second gull coasted into view, hanging back along the tree line.


    ¡°My lord.¡± Ursuline used terms familiar to humankind, and he accepted them from her. Even though she was only human and therefore very like to the beasts, she was still owed some measure of the authority and respect granted to OldMother. Because she alone of all his slaves was no longer afraid of him, she spoke frankly. ¡°You have treated fairly with us, my lord, as we both know. Although God enjoin that none should be held as slaves, both you and I know that slaves exist both among the Eika and among humankind. Because of that, we who were made captive still live captive to your will. But let me ask you this: Was it your will that some among us were taken away this morning with Rikin war parties?¡±


    ¡°So it was.¡± Although Alain no longer inhabited his dreams, he retained the fluent speech he had learned in that dreaming. ¡°A few of your kind who are strong and clever have been taken to act as spies. They will travel with my own warriors to see if any of my new allies speak with a different voice when I do not stand before them. Those of your kind can speak with the human slaves among the other tribes, for it may be that the slaves those who have wit will have heard things that would otherwise remain concealed from us.¡±


    ¡°Why should the slaves of other tribes tell the truth?¡± demanded Papa Otto.


    ¡°Surely in this way word will spread,¡± observed Stronghand. ¡°They will have hope of gaining such freedom as you have earned, as long as the Eika remain under my rule.¡±


    ¡°There is truth in what you say,¡± said Ursuline. She glanced at Otto, and an unspoken message¡ªunreadable to any creature except another human¡ªpassed between them.


    ¡°Who are these working here?¡± Stronghand indicated the folk who, having paused in their labors to stare when he entered the clearing, had now self-consciously gone back to work.


    ¡°Have you any complaints of our labor?¡± asked Ursuline gently. ¡°Has any task been left undone that you or your captains have requested? Is any animal untended? Are any fields left to the wild? Is there not firewood enough for the winter, and charcoal for the forges?¡±


    ¡°You are bold,¡± said Stronghand, but he admired her for it.


    She smiled, as if she knew his thoughts. ¡°You have no complaint, because we have worked harder now that you have fulfilled your share of the bargain laid between you and me.¡±


    ¡°Yet I am still troubled by these among you who roam as do the animals and yet provide neither work nor meat. They are only a burden. With the hardships of winter coming on, they must be disposed of.¡±


    ¡°How are we to choose among them, my lord?¡± asked Papa Otto.


    ¡°Kill the ones who remain animals. I see them here and there about the valley, no better than pigs roaming in the forest and quite a bit filthier. They are vermin. They are of no possible use to me, nor to you.¡±


    ¡°None of them are animals, my lord,¡± retorted Otto. He was a strong chief for the human slaves, but weak because he feared killing. ¡°It is only that they have been treated as animals, and bred and raised as animals by your people. They have forgotten the ways of humankind.¡±


    ¡°That makes them useless to us, does it not?¡±


    ¡°Nay, my lord,¡± said Ursuline quickly. She laid a hand on Otto¡¯s arm, a gesture which served to stop the words in his mouth. ¡°It may be true that those of the slaves born and raised in the slave pens for many generations without benefit of the church¡¯s teaching will never be able to work and speak as we do. But they are still of use to you.¡±


    ¡°In what way?¡±


    ¡°They can breed. Their children can be raised by those of us who were not crippled by the slave pens, and those children will serve you as well as any of us do. As long as you treat them as you do us. Perhaps those children will serve you better than we can, for they will only know loyalty and service to you. They will not recall another life, as we do.¡±

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    Truly, she was a clever person. He knew that she used words to coax and cozen. In his dreams¡ªwhen he had had dreams¡ªhe had seen that lying and cheating ran rife among humankind. A knife is a knife, after all, a tool used for cutting or killing. No need to give it pretty words to pretend that it was something other than what it was. Yet perhaps they could not help themselves. Perhaps, like cattle chewing their cud, they twisted words and flattered and deceived because it was part of their nature.


    ¡°What you say may even be true. Yet it seems to me that there are many from the slave pens who will not breed and who can never learn. I have no use for tools that are broken. In two months my men will cull the herds for the winter. At that time any among the slaves who cannot speak true words to me will be culled along with the rest of the animals.¡±


    ¡°Two months is not very long,¡± objected Otto. ¡°Even in our own lands a child will not speak for two years or even three, and truly five or six years must pass before any child can speak like to an adult.¡± Otto had fire in him, a passion for life and what humankind called justice. That was what had brought him to Stronghand¡¯s attention in the first place. ¡°Surely if we must teach them to speak as we do, as well as to obey the simple commands they already know, we need as much time as it would take to teach a child of our own people to speak.¡±


    ¡°I weary of this debate. Now you will listen to what I command.¡± He stretched his claws, letting them ease out of their sheaths, sharp tips grazing the air. ¡°Rikin tribe will not carry useless burdens. We have far to go, and everything we carry must be useful. I will allow no argument on this matter.¡±


    He paused, but neither of them replied. Otto¡¯s age lay heavily on him. Deep lines scored his face. The harsh winter wind and bright summer sun had weathered his skin. Even his hair had turned color, washing brown to white, so that in a way he seemed to be mimicking the coloring of his Eika masters, even though Stronghand understood that this happened to be the way age marked humankind. Deacon Ursuline simply listened, face composed and silent.


    ¡°In two months, the herds will be culled. If you cannot or do not choose among the slaves, then I will. My choice will fall heavier than yours would, so accept now the responsibility or give it back to me and abide by my decision.¡±


    Ursuline was as persistent as she was patient. ¡°Let me ask one boon of you, then, my lord.¡±


    He was tired of bargaining. He was tired of the sight of mewling, whimpering, dirty slaves, who were of less use to him than the scrawniest of his goats and cattle because their flesh was too sour to eat. He cut off her words with a sharp gesture. Turning, he lifted a foot to walk away¡ª


    Confined within white walls, it pushes restlessly against its prison, but it is too weak to do more than nudge up against its prison wall before the bath of warm liquid in which it floats soothes it back into lassitude. Awareness flickers dimly. Hunger smolders. Shapes, or thoughts, spin and twirl in its mind before dissolving. It remembers ancient fire, and a great burning. Is it not the child of flame, that all creatures fear? Voices whisper, but it cannot understand the meaning behind such sounds, and within moments it has forgotten what a voice is. Memory dies. The waters of forgetfulness rock beneath it. It sleeps.


    Stronghand¡¯s foot hit the ground, jolting him back to himself.


    He had to blink, because the weak autumn sun seemed so strong that his eyes could not adjust. Stark terror flooded him, surging like a tide through his body. In the spawning pools of every tribe, the nests of the RockChildren ripened. Once he, too, had been a mindless embryo bathed in the waters of forgetfulness, seeking nothing more than his next meal. In the nesting pools, those hatchlings lived who devoured their nest brothers rather than being devoured themselves. Those that ate matured into men, and those that simply survived instead of being eaten remained dogs.


    Yet before Alain freed him from Lavastine¡¯s cage, he had been, like his brothers, a slave to the single-minded lust for killing and war and plunder that still afflicted most of his kind. How close had he come to being a dog instead of a thinking man? How close was any creature to unthinking savagery, forgetting what it was?


    With effort, he forced the fear back. He had not bathed too long in those waters. He had clawed his way free. Alain had freed him from his cage, and he meant to remain the way he was. He would not let memory sleep, and instinct rule.


    Slowly, the world came clear around him and he could see again. He tightened his grip on his staff. Deacon Ursuline and Papa Otto had averted their eyes, careful not to be seen noticing his weakness. But even so, they looked startled, utterly amazed.

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    Let them not believe he had changed, or faltered.


    ¡°This is my decision. It is true that these half-wits are your family just as the dogs who swarm around our halls are my brothers. If you can take care of these half-wits, and if it does not interfere with your labors, then I will not touch them. But I lay the same obligations on you that I did when we agreed to the bargain over your god¡¯s house. As long as their presence among you does not interfere with the tasks set for you by your masters, then you may deal with them as you see fit. If I am dissatisfied, then I will act swiftly.¡±


    ¡°We cannot ask for more than that,¡± said Deacon Ursuline, quick to seal the bargain.


    ¡°No¡±, he agreed, ¡°you cannot.¡±


    Before he could make any more rash bargains, he walked away, still shaken. Yet because of his keen hearing, he heard them as they spoke to each other in low voices.


    ¡°These slaves served the Eika for many years in such tasks as cleaning out the privies. We ought not to waste the labor of those who are clever on that kind of mindless work when they could be doing other things like tanning or building. Surely we can find a place for each person to do some task, even the ones who act little better than dogs.¡±


    Deacon Ursuline did not reply right away. He heard her suck in her breath, as at a blow to the stomach. Where the path knifed into the forest, he paused to listen. Her words drifted to him as faintly as a sigh.


    ¡°I served a lord in Saony who was less just than this one.¡±


    Papa Otto made no reply.


    Silently, Stronghand followed the path into the forest. There was wisdom in what Papa Otto said, of course. By releasing the strong from tasks that could be as easily done by the weak, all would prosper.


    He had acted too hastily in this matter of the half-witted slaves. A wise leader gives enough rope to those clever enough to use it well, as he would need to pay out rope to Tenth Son. Do not keep the loyal ones lashed up too tightly; their obedience is bought by trust, not by fear.


    His slaves had not failed him yet, even if they thought, now and again, of rebellion and of freedom. He had no need to say more, or to act other than he had just done. They knew what the consequences would be if they failed him, and they knew what would happen to them if his rule over Rikin Fjord ended.


    It was in their interest to keep him strong.


    2


    ¡°IT¡¯S uncanny, it is,¡± said Ingo that night at the campfire in the tone of a man who has said the same thing the day before and expects to repeat himself tomorrow. ¡°Rain behind but never before. At least my feet are dry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s that weather witch,¡± said Folquin impulsively. ¡°She¡¯s making it rain on the Quman army and not on us.¡± His comrades shushed him violently, glancing around as though they feared the wind itself might carry their words to the powerful woman about whom he spoke.


    Hanna cupped her hands around a mug in a desperate attempt to keep them warm, for although it was dry, the wind out of the northwest stung like ice. ¡°Have a care, Folquin. Prince Bayan¡¯s mother has an eye for good-looking young men to be her slave bearers, and she might take a liking to you if you come to her attention.¡±


    Ingo, Leo, and Stephen laughed at her jest, but perhaps because Folquin wasn¡¯t the kind of young man girls flocked around, her words stung him. ¡°The way Prince Bayan has an eye for you, Eagle?¡±


    ¡°Hush, now, lad,¡± scolded Ingo. ¡°It isn¡¯t any fault of Hanna¡¯s that the Ungrians think her light hair a sign of good luck.¡±


    ¡°No matter,¡± said Hanna quickly as Folquin seemed ready to fall all over himself apologizing for his wretched tongue. ¡°Mind you, Prince Bayan¡¯s a good man¡ª¡±


    ¡°And no doubt would be a better one if he could only keep his hands to himself,¡± said Folquin with an appeasing grin.


    ¡°If a roving eye is the worst of his faults, then God know, he¡¯s better than the rest of us,¡± replied Ingo. ¡°I¡¯ve no complaints about his leadership in battle. We¡¯d all be heads dangling from Quman belts if it weren¡¯t for his steely nerves at the old high mound last month.¡±


    ¡°If it had been Prince Sanglant leading us,¡± said taciturn Leo suddenly, ¡°we¡¯d have won, or we¡¯d not have engaged at all, seeing that the odds were against us.¡±


    ¡°Ai, God, man!¡± exclaimed Ingo with the sneer of a soldier who has seen twice as much battle as his opinionated comrade, ¡°who was to know that Margrave Judith would fall dead like that, and her whole line collapse? She had a third of our heavy cavalry. With her Austrans routing we hadn¡¯t a chance. Prince Bayan made the best of a bad situation.¡±

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    ¡°It could have been much worse,¡± agreed Stephen, but since he was accounted a novice, having survived only one major battle, his opinion was passed over in silence.


    The fire popped. Ashy branches settled, gleaming briefly before Leo set another stick on the fire. All around them other campfires sparked and smoked as far as Hanna could see up along the cart track that the army followed as it retreated toward Handelburg. But the sight of so many fires did not make her feel any safer. She sipped at the hot cider, wishing it would warm the chill that constantly ate away at her heart.


    Ivar was missing. She¡¯d searched up and down through Bayan¡¯s retreating army and not found a trace of him. She hadn¡¯t even found anyone who remembered seeing him on the day of the battle except the injured prince, Ekkehard, who was so vexed at having lost his favorite, Baldwin, that he couldn¡¯t be bothered to recall where and when he¡¯d last seen Ivar.


    ¡°Only God can know the outcome of battles in advance,¡± she said at last, with a sigh. ¡°It¡¯s no use worrying over what¡¯s already happened.¡±


    ¡°Have you any milk to spill?¡± asked Ingo with a laugh, but he sobered, seeing her grief-stricken expression. ¡°Here, have more cider. You look cold, lass. What¡¯s the news from the prince¡¯s camp?¡±


    ¡°Princess Sapientia has taken a liking to Lord Wichman, now that he¡¯s recovering from his wounds, and you know how Prince Bayan humors her in everything. But that Wichman and his lordly friends¡ª¡± She hesitated, but she could see by their expressions that her comments would shock no one here. ¡°Truly, I¡¯d as soon run with a pack of wormy dogs. Sometimes I think the princess¡ªwell, may God bless her and I¡¯ll say no more on that score. But she¡¯d be better served in attending to her poor brother.¡±


    ¡°He still can¡¯t use his spear arm?¡± asked Ingo.


    ¡°For all I know he¡¯ll never regain use of it, for he was sorely wounded. Lord Wichman is insufferable precisely on that account, for he was the one who rescued Prince Ekkehard from the Quman prince who was about to cut him down.¡±


    ¡°I tell you truly,¡± said Folquin in a low voice, ¡°and not meaning to speak ill of the princess, may God bless her, but I wonder does she know what Prince Ekkehard does in the evening here in camp?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± demanded Hanna.


    Folquin hesitated.


    ¡°You¡¯d better show her,¡± said Ingo. ¡°There¡¯s been some fights about it already, in the ranks, and an army in our position can hardly afford to be fighting among itself.¡±


    ¡°Come on,¡± said Folquin reluctantly.


    Hanna drained her mug and gave it to Ingo. The four Lions had stationed their campfire where wagons had been lined up in a horseshoe curve to form a barrier between the rear guard and the outlying sentries. The wooden cart walls gave some protection against the winged riders who dogged them persistently as they retreated north just ahead of the most astoundingly bad weather. There always seemed to be a rainstorm following at their heels, and as Hanna followed Folquin she could hear it like a storm front breaking in front of her. Wind and rain agitated the woodland behind them, but no rain ever touched Bayan¡¯s army. The dry ground they walked on surely was churned to muck behind them, hindering their pursuers so badly that the main mass of the Quman army had never been able to catch up and finish them off.


    Such was the power of Prince Bayan¡¯s mother, a formidable sorcerer, princess of the dreaded Kerayit people.


    But even with her magic to aid them, they had had a miserable month following their defeat by Bulkezu¡¯s army at the ancient tumulus. The Ungrians had a saying: a defeated army is like a dying flower whose falling petals leave a trail. Every dawn, when they moved out, the freshly dug graves of a few more soldiers, dead from wounds suffered at the battle, were left behind to mark their path. Only Prince Bayan¡¯s steady leadership had kept them more-or-less in one piece.


    But even his leadership had not been enough to save Ivar.


    The Lions formed the rear guard together with the stoutest companies of light cavalry left to Bayan, now under the captaincy of Margrave Judith¡¯s second daughter and her admired troop of fighters. Lady Bertha was the only one of Judith¡¯s Austran and Olsatian commanders who hadn¡¯t lost her troops to rout when the margrave had lost her head on the battlefield. A popular and unquenchable rumor had spread throughout the army that Lady Bertha had so disliked her mother that the margrave¡¯s death had emboldened rather than disheartened her. It was to the fringe of her bivouac that Folquin now led Hanna.


    Six campfires burned merrily to mark out a circle. In their center sat Lady Bertha and her favorites, drinking what was left of the mead they¡¯d commandeered from a Salavii holding two days before. Usually Hanna could hear them singing all the way up in the vanguard, for they were a hard drinking, tough crew, but tonight they sat quietly, if restlessly, and Lady Bertha bade them be still as she listened to Prince Ekkehard.

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    ¡°It¡¯s the same story he¡¯s been telling every night,¡± whispered Folquin. A dozen or more Lions had come to stand here as well, positioned out of the smoke that streamed south-east from the fires. Those nearest turned irritably and told him to be quiet so that they could hear.


    Prince Ekkehard was an attractive youth, still caught on that twilight cusp between boy and man. With his right arm up in a sling and his hair blown astray by the cold wind, he made an appealing sight. Most importantly, he had a bard¡¯s voice, able to make the most unlikely story sound so believable that you might well begin to swear you¡¯d seen it yourself. He had his audience enraptured as he came to the end of his tale.


    ¡°The mound of ashes and coals gleamed like a forge, and truly it was a forge for God¡¯s miracles. It opened as a flower does, with the dawn. Out of the ashes the phoenix rose. Nay, truly, for I saw it with my own eyes. The phoenix rose into the dawn. Flowers showered down around us. But their petals vanished as soon as they touched the earth. Isn¡¯t that how it is with those who refuse to believe? For them, the trail of flowers is illusory rather than real. But I believe, because I saw the phoenix. I, who was injured, was healed utterly by the miracle. For you see, as the phoenix rose, it gave forth a great trumpeting call even as far as the heavens, and we heard it answered. Then we knew what it was.¡±


    ¡°What was it?¡± demanded Lady Bertha, so intent on his story that she hadn¡¯t taken a single draught of mead, although she did have a disconcerting habit of stroking her sword hilt as though it were her lover.


    Ekkehard smiled sweetly, and Hanna felt a cold shudder in her heart at the single-minded intensity of his gaze as he surveyed his listeners. ¡°It was the sign of the blessed Daisan, who rose from death to become Life for us all.¡±


    Many in his audience murmured nervously.


    ¡°Ivar¡¯s heresy,¡± Hanna muttered.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t the skopos excommunicate the entire Arethousan nation and all their vassal states for believing in the Redemption?¡± demanded Lady Bertha. ¡°My mother, God rest her, had a physician who came from Arethousa. Poor fellow lost his balls as a lad in the emperor¡¯s palace in Arethousa, for it¡¯s well known they like eunuchs there, and he came close to losing his head here in Wendar for professing the Arethousan heresy. It¡¯s a pleasing story you tell, Prince Ekkehard, but I¡¯ve taken a liking to my head and would prefer to keep it on my own shoulders, not decorating a spike outside the biscop¡¯s palace in Handelburg.¡±


    ¡°To deny what I saw would be worse than lying,¡± said Ekkehard. ¡°Nor is it only those of us who saw the miracle of the phoenix who have had our eyes opened to the truth. Others have heard and understood the true word, if they have courage enough to stand up and bear witness.¡±


    ¡°Are there, truly?¡± Lady Bertha looked ever more interested as she swept her gaze around her circle of intimates. After a moment, she settled on a young lord, one Dietrich. Hanna recalled well how much trouble he¡¯d caused on the early part of their journey east from Autun last summer, when she¡¯d been sent by the king with two cohorts of Lions and a ragtag assortment of other fighters as reinforcements for Sapientia. But at some point on the journey he had changed his ways, a puzzling change of heart that hadn¡¯t seemed quite so startling then as it did at this moment.


    Slowly, Lord Dietrich rose. For a hulking fighting man he seemed unaccountably diffident. ¡°I have witnessed God¡¯s work on this Earth,¡± he said hesitantly, as though he didn¡¯t trust his own tongue. ¡°I¡¯m no bard, to speak fine words about it and make it sound pretty and pleasing. I¡¯ve heard the teaching. I know it¡¯s true in my heart for I saw¡ª¡± Amazingly, he began to weep tears of ecstatic joy. ¡°I saw God¡¯s holy light shining here on Earth. I sinned against the one who became my teacher. I was an empty shell, no better than a rotting corpse. Lust had eaten out my heart so I walked mindlessly from one day to the next. But God¡¯s light filled me up again. I was given a last chance to choose in which camp I would muster, whether I would chose God or the Enemy. That was when I discovered the truth of the blessed Daisan¡¯s sacrifice and redemption¡ª¡±


    Hanna grabbed Folquin¡¯s arm and dragged him away. ¡°I¡¯ve heard enough. That¡¯s a wicked heresy.¡±


    The light of many fires gave Folquin¡¯s expression a fitful inconstancy. ¡°You don¡¯t think it might be true? How else can you explain a phoenix? And the miracle, that all their hurts were healed?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll admit that something happened to change Lord Dietrich¡¯s ways, for I remember how you Lions complained of him on the march east this summer. Is it this kind of talk that people are fighting over?¡±

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    ¡°Yes. Some go every night to hear Prince Ekkehard. He¡¯ll preach to any person, highborn or low. Others say he¡¯s speaking with the Enemy¡¯s voice. Do you think so, Eagle?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen so many strange things¡ª¡±


    The horn call came, as it did every night. Men cried out the alarm. Ekkehard¡¯s audience dissolved as soldiers grabbed their weapons, lying ready at their sides. Out beyond the wagon lines, winged riders broke free of the storm to gallop toward the rear guard, but only a few soggy arrows skittered harmlessly into camp before Lord Dietrich and his contingent of cavalry chased them off with spears and a flight of whistling arrows.


    By the time Prince Bayan arrived from the vanguard to investigate, all lay quiet again except for the ever-present wind and the hammer of rain off to the southeast. He rode up with a small contingent of his personal house guard, a dozen Ungrian horsemen whose once-bright clothing was streaked with dirt. Foot soldiers lit their way with torches. Bayan had the knack of remaining relatively clean even in such circumstances as this¡ªin the torchlight Hanna could see the intense blue of his tunic¡ªand the contrast made him all the more striking, a robust, intelligent man still in his prime whom adversity could not tarnish.


    ¡°Fewer attacked tonight,¡± said Lady Bertha, handing him an arrow once he had dismounted. ¡°It may be that they¡¯ve fallen back so far they¡¯ve given up catching us. Or perhaps they mean us to grow complacent, until they attack in force and take us by surprise.¡±


    Prince Bayan turned the arrow over in his hands, studying the sodden fletchings. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he echoed skeptically. ¡°I like not these attacks which are coming each night same time.¡±


    Lady Bertha had the stocky build and bandy-legged stance of a person who has spent most of her life on a horse, in armor. She looked older than her twenty or so years, weathered by a hard apprenticeship fighting in the borderlands. ¡°I¡¯ve sent three scouts back to see if Bulkezu¡¯s army still follows us, but none have returned.¡±


    Bayan nodded, twisting the ends of his long mustache. ¡°To Handelburg we must go. We need rest, repair, food, wine. With good walls around us, then can we wait for¡ª¡± He turned to his interpreter, Breschius, a middle-aged cleric who was missing his right hand. ¡°What is this word? More troops to come.¡±


    ¡°Reinforcements, my lord prince.¡±


    ¡°Yes! Reinforcements.¡± He had trouble pronouncing the word and grinned at his stumbling effort.


    Lady Bertha did not smile. She was not in any case a woman who smiled often, if at all. ¡°Unless we can¡¯t get word out from Handelburg because Bulkezu has used the cover of this storm to move his army so that he surrounds us.¡±


    ¡°Not even Quman army can ride all places at one time,¡± replied Bayan just as he caught sight of Hanna loitering in the crowd which had gathered to observe the commanders. ¡°Snow woman!¡± His face lit with a bold smile. ¡°Your brightness hides here. So dark it has become by my campfire!¡±


    Hanna felt her face flame with embarrassment, but luckily Bayan was distracted by Brother Breschius, who leaned over to speak to the prince in a low voice.


    ¡°Ekkehard?¡± exclaimed Prince Bayan, looking startled.


    Hanna glanced over at the ring of campfires, but Prince Ekkehard had vanished. She grabbed Folquin¡¯s sleeve and slipped away, eager to be out of Prince Bayan¡¯s sight. She had sustained Sapientia¡¯s anger more than once and didn¡¯t care to suffer it again as long as she had any choice in the matter.


    By asking permission of Sapientia to continue searching out news of Ivar, she kept a low profile in the last days of the march until they came to the frontier fortress and town of Handelburg. From the eastern slopes, as they rode down into the valley of the Vitadi River, she could see the walled town, situated on three islands linked by bridges across the channels of the river. West lay the march of the Villams, which stretched all the way to the Oder River. To the east beyond sparsely inhabited borderlands spread the loose confederation of half-civilized tribes known as the kingdom of the Polenie.


    The biscop¡¯s flag flew from the high tower to show that she had remained in residence in her city despite the danger from Quman attack. All the gates stood closed, and the few hovels resting along the banks of the river, homes for fisherfolk and poor laborers, sat empty, stripped of every furnishing. Even crude furniture could be used for firewood in a besieged city. Fields had been harvested and the riverbanks stripped of fodder or bedding: reeds, straw, grass, all shorn in preparation for a Quman attack. In a way, the countryside surrounding Handelburg looked as though a swarm of locusts had descended, eaten their fill, and flown on, leaving not even the bones.