“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.
“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—the son of Taillefer and Radegundis—and 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.”
“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 ligh
t 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—”
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—”
“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.”
“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—not 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 he
r.
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—
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?”
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—”
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.