Child of Flame

  “An excellent idea,” cried Bayan. “My lion queen has a keen eye for worth. It is you who must pick out the ones who can fight and serve.”

  “Think you so?” she asked, a flush making her cheeks bright as she turned to gaze at her husband. Sanglant had seen besotted women before; his sister looked no different, although she managed to keep her noble dignity intact as they walked together into the market.

  Sanglant had never thought much one way or the other about merchants who trafficked in slaves. The heathen Jinna empire and the crafty Arethousans had an unending appetite for slaves, preferably boys cut to become eunuchs. Neither did Wendish merchants shy away from selling captured heathen tribespeople out of the east into servitude in the civilized west. These merchants had other wares available as well: linen and wool cloth; furs from the north; casks of salt; spoons of wood or ivory or tin; sickles, scythes, and hatchets of iron; whores, herbs, and spices, some more sweet smelling than others. But after a year confined by Bloodheart’s chains, Sanglant could not help but notice the suffering of their human merchandise.

  Blessing tugged him and Bayan over to a ragged group of captives bound hand and foot. They had the look of defeated soldiers, the kind of troublemakers who needed to be trussed up so they couldn’t escape on the long march.

  A Polenie merchant hurried up, bobbing up and down anxiously as he took in Sanglant’s Wendish clothing and noble bearing and Bayan’s Ungrian flair. He wore the typical Polenie hat, a pointed leather cap with a folded brim. “Your Most Excellencies,” he cried in passable Wendish, “here have I strong men who I take south to the slave markets of Arethousa. Have you a care to purchase them now? I can give you good price.”

  Blessing marched up to the youngest of the captives, a lad of perhaps sixteen years with a blackened eye, bare feet, and the scarring of frostbite on his nose and ears. “I told you I would come back.” She turned to the merchant, expression fierce. “Thiemo is mine.”

  “My lady—” began the merchant, glancing at Sanglant, not wanting to insult a prince’s daughter.

  The youth began to weep, although it was hard to tell whether his tears were those of joy or thwarted hope. “My lady, is it true? Have you come to ransom me and my comrades?” Then he, too, noticed Sanglant and Bayan.

  “Your Highness!” cried the lad, flushing hotly. Five of the men with him dropped hard to their knees. Under their dirt, Sanglant recognized the tabards of Lions.

  “God save us,” murmured Bayan. “The heretics.”

  Sapientia came up beside Bayan. She frowned, and when she narrowed her eyes in that particular way one could almost actually see her thinking. “Can it be? Are these the heretics banished after the trial at Handelburg? How did they get here? Where are the rest of them?”

  “Dead,” said the eldest of the Lions. “Or better dead, considering what we ran into. Your Highness.” He bowed his head respectfully toward Sanglant. “I know you are Prince Sanglant. It’s said you’re a fair man. I pray you—”

  “Daddy, I want him.”

  “I don’t know.” Sapientia wrung her hands. “Biscop Alberada excommunicated them for heresy. How can we go against the church? We could be excommunicated, too. It’s God’s judgment upon them that they be sold into slavery as punishment for their sins.” But she wasn’t sure. Sanglant saw how she looked at Bayan, waiting to see what he would say. She was afraid to pass judgment herself.

  Sanglant turned to the merchant. “These men are King Henry’s Lions. I will ransom them from you for a fair price.”

  “One nomia apiece,” said the merchant instantly.

  “Remember,” said Sanglant with a warning smile, “that I have an army and you have twenty guards. I could take them as easily as buy them, and since we stand on Wendish ground, I would be well within my rights to restore their freedom because they are Henry’s sworn soldiers.”

  “Forsworn,” objected Sapientia, “because of heresy—”

  “As long as the Quman army rides on Wendish soil, I do not care if they are heretics, foreigners, two-headed, or painted blue, as long as they will fight loyally for the king.” He turned to the old Lion. “What is your name?”

  “Gotfrid, my lord prince. We are none of us disloyal to the king. What God chose to reveal to us has nothing to do with how faithfully we’ll fight.”

  Sanglant called to Heribert, who had been trailing behind with the rest of his retinue. “Give the merchant ten sceattas for his trouble.”

  “May God bless you, Your Highness,” said Gotfrid. “We’ll serve you well, I swear it. And so do these others swear.”

  The other four swore oaths hurriedly, with every appearance of gratitude and sincerity. Only the merchant didn’t look happy, but he knew better than to protest.

  Bayan stepped forward and spoke to the redeemed captives in a low voice. “The Eagle? Prince Ekkehard?”

  Beneath the grime, Lord Thiemo’s clothes had the cut, color, and richness of a lord’s garb, and when he rose to his feet he had the slightly bow-legged stance of a young man who has grown up spending more time in the saddle than walking. “Dead,” he said raggedly.

  “Is this true?” asked Bayan.

  “I fear it must be, my lord prince,” said the old Lion. “It was winter. It was snowing like to drown us. And we were attacked by shadows.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he glanced around as though expecting to see them materialize out of nowhere. “The Lost Ones.”

  Flushing, he struggled to contain the memory, and the fear. His companions murmured to each other, huddling together as if the mere mention of the creatures who had attacked them was enough to bring down a snowstorm.

  Gotfrid went on harshly. “I never knew what happened to the others, except for two of my men who were cut down by elfshot in the forest. We got scattered. We found Lord Thiemo, here,” he nodded toward the youth, “in the woods, and escaped as best we could. In the end we got taken by bandits. They were merciful. They took our weapons, cloaks, and belts, but they sold us to the slavers instead of killing us.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “That Eagle, she was a good woman. It pains my heart to have lost her.”

  Bayan murmured under his breath so softly that Sanglant knew the words were not meant even for Sanglant’s ears. “As it does mine.”

  “Ekkehard is dead?” asked Sapientia. “Young fool.” She wiped a tear from her eye as though she’d copied the movement from the old Lion.

  “I heard otherwise,” said Sanglant. “There’s a rumor heard as far north as Walburg that Ekkehard has turned his coat and is riding with Bulkezu.”

  Lord Thiemo leaped up. “It’s not true! Ekkehard would never act the traitor. He’d never betray the king. If his father had only given him what he deserved—”

  “Quiet!” Blessing’s voice cracked like a whip over the youth’s protest. “Don’t yell at my Daddy. I don’t like that.”

  Just like that, the youth dropped to one knee before her and bowed his head obediently. “Yes, my lady.”

  No one snickered or even grinned as Blessing extended a hand to touch him lightly on the head. “Stand up, Lord Thiemo,” she commanded. “But don’t yell.”

  “I think such rumors are not true,” said Bayan. “Maybe he fell, and his armor off his body was took, and now is being worn by a Quman thief.”

  “I think it’s true,” muttered Sapientia, “or at least that it could be true. If you dangled enough sweets and enough flattery in front of Ekkehard, I swear I believe he would do anything.”

  “Even that?” demanded Sanglant.

  “You don’t know him as well as I do.”

  It was hard, seeing the resentful purse of her mouth, the weakness that had troubled her heart for her entire life, to believe that she knew what she was talking about. She was always afraid that the person next to her at table was going to get a bigger cut of beef than she did.

  “Come, Sapientia,” said Bayan hastily, appearing to know his wife’s moods very well, “you will judge which prisoners come free
to serve in our army.”

  “Come! Come!” echoed Blessing, dancing from foot to foot. “I want to see.” Not waiting for the others, she raced ahead, Anna and, belatedly, Lord Thiemo hurrying after her. “What’s that?” the girl shrieked, pointing toward the far wall of the old hill fort where, seen through various carts and stalls, the palanquin belonging to Bayan’s mother had come to rest. Her four slave bearers had hunkered down to wait. With the curtains pulled closed it was impossible to know from this distance what the Kerayit shaman was looking at, but Sanglant felt sure she was examining something worthy of interest. With Bayan and Sapientia beside him, he hastened after his child. His companions followed him.

  Here in this quarter of the little market the slaves included Quman prisoners trussed up or shackled; even the children were considered dangerous enough to be bound. As they approached, poor Zacharias began nervously twisting one hand about the other wrist, as if remembering the chafing hold of a shackle. His right eye blinked alarmingly the closer they got to one sullen display of Quman prisoners.

  “They stink so effusively,” said Heribert, waving a scrap of linen cloth in front of his nose as they approached the wagons belonging to a Wendish merchant, a stout woman with the gaze of a stoat spying on an untouched nest of eggs. “Is there any way to clean them up?”

  Zacharias’ giggle was cut through by hysteria, barely suppressed. “Throw them in the river. They hate water.” He wiped his brow and looked ready to jump in the river himself.

  “Courage, Brother Zacharias,” said Sanglant softly. Zacharias glanced at him in surprise and, with an effort, steadied his breathing and squared his shoulders like a man preparing for battle.

  The merchant hurried forward to greet them. “My lord prince, I pray you are well come to this terrible place, and that you may find what you need here among my wares. I am called Mistress Otlinde, out of Osterburg, where your most noble aunt, Duchess Rotrudis, rules her subjects with a steady hand. My lord Druthmar! I have bided several times most rewardingly in the fine town of Walburg. Perhaps you may recall the fine silver silk damask my lady Waltharia selected from among my wares for your youngest son’s naming day?”

  “Alas,” Druthmar replied, with a pleasant smile, “I do not.”

  Mistress Otlinde looked like the kind of merchant who recalled every least transaction she had ever made, not to mention the exact count of eggs she had sucked dry. “I pray you, let my son bring you ale. How may I help you?”

  Sanglant’s attention was caught by his daughter, who had bolted away from Bayan and gone to examine the palanquin and the four male slaves. Without warning, she grabbed the edge, hoisted herself up, and slithered in through the gaudy draperies protecting the woman concealed within.

  Anna shrieked in protest. The Ungrians called out in shock and dismay, and Bayan grabbed for Blessing’s small shod foot, just missing it as it vanished behind the curtains. The slaves leaped to their feet, as distressed as fowl caught napping by a fox. Bayan swore in Ungrian. He touched the curtain, jerked as if he’d been stung, and leaped back, face white.

  “God have mercy!” cried Sapientia, not without satisfaction. She saw Sanglant and gestured broadly. “Look what trouble the child has caused already! How can we ever repair such an insult to a Kerayit shaman?”

  Maybe she hoped to shame him into admitting he didn’t understand the powers of a Kerayit shaman, but he’d ridden with Bayan before, and where Bayan rode, his mother was never far behind. He reached the palanquin at a run only to be stopped by Bayan, who thrust out an arm to hold him back.

  “Nay, my friend, I beg of you, go not to make it worse.”

  “My daughter—” began Sanglant.

  “Please, Daddy, can you wait?” Blessing’s voice sang out from behind the curtains, as cheerful as a sunny summer day. “I’m talking with the old lady.”

  Sweating, Bayan wiped his eyes and called for a cup of ale. His interpreter, Brother Breschius, drew him aside and they fell into a whispered conversation until a soldier hurried up with a cup and a pitcher. The filled cup was passed around the assembled lords, drained, and filled again.

  As they drank, there was silence except for the click and clack of beads swaying as the bearers shifted position again. In this summer heat the four slaves wore little enough clothing that Sanglant could not help but imagine Waltharia admiring them. Strange to think that an old woman like Bayan’s mother might have something in common with Villam’s heir, even if it was only a lascivious eye for the male figure. Not many women, or men for that matter, possessed Waltharia’s easy authority, blunt common sense, and playfully sharp disposition. How many times had he inadvertently found himself comparing Waltharia to Liath over these past weeks? Liath had none of Waltharia’s winning qualities: she was secretive, serious, and not one bit accustomed to presiding in authority over anyone except perhaps herself. But she was still the most glorious woman he had ever met, and even to think of her made him heartsick with longing.

  Yet did she think of him and the child at all, wherever she had gone?

  He heard Blessing’s voice chattering away and the occasional murmured reply, but something about the heavy curtains around the palanquin or the haze of magic known to a Kerayit shaman kept him from understanding their words. By his daughter’s tone it was quite obvious that she was in fine fettle, babbling happily. What on Earth could she and the old shaman have to talk about?

  Unable to wait patiently, he examined Mistress Otlinde’s wares, laid out over racks: tabby linens and diamond twills from the island kingdom of Alba, marten, beaver, and fox pelts from the Starviki chiefdoms, and a pair of small tapestries depicting the fall of the Dariyan Empire to the Bwr horde. Somewhere she had found two score of Quman, mostly women with tangled, greasy hair and stick-thin children scratching fleas and sores who sat huddled abjectly in the dirt, having long since given up any hope of escape or succor. But among them stood a dozen Quman men with deceptively bovine stares, as concealed, in their own way, as Bayan’s mother was concealed behind her curtains. He knew that look; he’d seen it in other prisoners, the most dangerous kind. Any one of these men would happily claw out his eyes if he only got close enough to let them do it.

  Zacharias glided up beside him, trembling a little, and spoke in a low voice. “They’re out of the Shatai tribe. You can see the cloven hoof of the red deer cut into that man’s shoulder.”

  “Are they allies of the Pechanek?”

  “Nay, they never have been. There has been fighting in the Karkaihi pasturage the last few years. That’s almost to the Bitter Sea.”

  He examined the prisoners. They eyed him, silent, betraying neither hate nor fear. He admired the grim aloofness with which they endured their fate. He’d never hated the Quman, not like Bayan. Years ago Bulkezu had ruined his voice and killed too many of his soldiers, but the Quman had never done him any greater harm than had most of his other enemies. They’d done no greater harm to him than he’d done to them in his turn.

  “A Quman warrior takes hardship as well as any soldiers I’ve ever seen. How can I win their loyalty?”

  Was that sweat breaking out on Zacharias’ forehead. “What do you want of them, my lord prince?”

  “If there are any willing to swear allegiance to my cause, why not take them into my army?”

  “My lord prince!”

  Captain Fulk had heard, as had Lord Druthmar, Lord Hrodik, and several of the other noblemen.

  “Do you think it wise to allow Quman into our ranks, Prince Sanglant?” asked Druthmar. “What’s to prevent them from murdering us in our tents at night once they have the run of camp?”

  “Come, Brother Zacharias,” said Sanglant, “how can I convince Quman soldiers to ride in my army, under my command, without having to watch my back ever after?”

  “Will they take gold?” asked Lord Hrodik.

  Zacharias laughed. “Yes, they’ll take it and then murder you afterward to see if you’re hiding any more on your person.”

 
“Might they swear a binding oath?” asked Captain Fulk, “as a good Wendishman would?”

  “They’d swear an oath as easily as they’d spit in your face just before they cut off your head.”

  “Are they such savages that they can’t be trusted at all?” demanded Lord Druthmar. He was an able man and a decent enough companion on the march, but Sanglant had discovered that he lacked imagination and ambition.

  Zacharias laughed, a choked sound that annoyed Sanglant. “I pray you, forgive me,” he said at last, shuddering. “Griffin feathers, my lord prince.”

  “Griffin feathers! Like those my mother had at Verna, when she shot the creatures that attacked us.”

  “Just so. Bulkezu’s feathers, those were.” A nasty gleam lit Zacharias’ gaze as he savored a memory. “I remember how she defeated him.”

  “Truly, a remarkable feat. If only she would have stayed to lend some of her skills to my cause. But she never told me it was Bulkezu she had bested.”

  Zacharias smiled wryly. After all, he, too, had been abandoned by Alia when she no longer needed him. He surely had no illusions about her loyalties. “Nay, my lord prince, do not think she tried to deceive you. I doubt she ever knew or cared about his name. But he’ll not have forgotten her as easily as she forgot him.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “He’s a madman, my lord prince. Nay. Do not shake your head as if I were a poet crowing for my supper. I mean it in truth. He is mad.”

  “So was I, for a time. But he wasn’t so mad that he couldn’t stalk and kill a griffin.”

  Heribert was listening. “It seems to me that a man must be mad to stalk a griffin. Are you really saying, Zacharias, that the Quman will follow a man wearing griffin wings even if he has nothing else to offer them? What of loyalty? Necessity? Family honor?”

  “Have you ever seen a griffin, Heribert?” asked Zacharias.

  “I have not.”