The Gathering Storm

  “Who are you?” the man asked in his prim voice, his lips set in a terse line. “Too late for questions, since you have already seen me.” A breath of wind teased his ear. A flutter of breeze wrapped around his face and choked off the air. Light crackled before his eyes. Faded.

  He fell.

  Woke, sick to his stomach and with the ground heaving beneath him. He rolled backward, bumped up against a lumpy sack, and opened his eyes. It was dark except for a dull glow beyond his feet, too diffuse to make out. He could not tell where he was, but the splintered wood planks stank of old vomit and dried piss and the floor kept tilting gently up and down, up and down.

  He heard footsteps, the scrape of an object dragged over the ground, and hurriedly shut his eyes.

  “I’ll search him, then.” That was the cleric speaking in his thickly accented Wendish. Zacharias willed his breathing to slow, his body to relax, so the cleric would think him asleep. Hands patted his body, an intimate but efficient touch. “God have mercy. Does the man never wash?”

  “He doesn’t like his disfigurement to be seen, so I suppose that accounts for him not bathing. I told you it was rash to grab him, Marcus. Couldn’t you have left well enough alone? Now we’ll have to kill him.”

  Even after the years he had survived as a slave, the years he had learned to absorb whatever humiliation was meted out to him, it was hard not to suck in his breath, not to whimper in fear.

  That was Wolfhere’s voice.

  Hadn’t he guessed all along that Wolfhere could not be trusted?

  “I take no chances,” said the other man, not to be distracted from his search. “He saw me with you and might carry tales back to the prince.” Quickly enough those hands found the little pocket sewn into Zacharias’ robes; those hands extracted the folded parchment and retreated. By some miracle, Zacharias kept his breathing steady, did not open his eyes.

  Do not let them know. Wait it out. Patience is its own reward.

  “Do you recognize this?” asked Marcus.

  “The scratchings of a mathematicus. You know I am not skilled in calculation.”

  “Nor in intrigue. This bears the mark of Liathano’s idle musings. How did the eunuch come to possess it?”

  “I do not know. He is a secretive man, much taken by an interest in arcane matters. He believes he has seen some vision, a glimpse into the secret nature of the cosmos. I do not claim to understand it. But he will ever have at me, wanting to be taught the hidden knowledge of the universe.”

  “Is that so? Hmm.”

  Wolfhere’s laugh was sharp. “Do you think to recruit him? He is a coward. Not to be trusted. He says so himself. I have witnessed his cowardice with my own eyes.”

  “I was thinking more of throwing him over the side once we are well out at sea. But I wonder what it is that he thought you could teach him. Why he thought you were traveling with Prince Sanglant.”

  A good question, but Zacharias could scarcely concentrate; it was hard enough to hold his bladder so he wouldn’t piss himself from fear. “Throwing him over the side.” No wonder the ground rocked beneath him. He was on a ship.

  “One of us must watch those who present the most danger. Hasn’t that always been my task? I am the messenger who rides in the world.”

  “Not you alone. I have done my part among the presbyters and clerics in Darre.”

  “It is not the same.”

  “No, it is not, for they are all cultured men and women. You have fulfilled the part your birth suited you for. Now you are needed to play your part elsewhere, Brother Lupus.”

  “I am needed here. Prince Sanglant poses a threat. One of us must watch him.”

  “I do not disagree with you, but we no longer have the luxury of letting you range at will. The wheel of the heavens turns, whether we will it or no. You know what part you are meant to play.”

  “Is there not another one who can be trained? Surely there is still time.”

  “Unlike Eagles, Sleepers do not retire, Brother. They die and are replaced. Sister Zoë no longer stands with us. Alas.”

  “She is truly dead?”

  “So she is, in the same conflagration in which we lost Liathano. I will miss her, the good woman. But we have found a strong mind to replace hers. He is called Hugh of Austra. Perhaps you know of him.”

  “Hugh of Austra! Margrave Judith’s bastard son?”

  “The same. With his help, Anne has unlocked the secret of the crowns and how the movement of the stars acts in concert with the stones. Now we are close to understanding the weaving by which our ancestors rid themselves of the Lost Ones.”

  “The seven circles—”

  “We are far beyond that. Seven circles, each of seven stones. We were deceived by erroneous notions. Sister Anne believed that the crown at Verna was the key, but it is not. Meriam now believes that the crowns were laid out to surround the land of the Aoi, that in this way the ancient sorcerers bound that land within the circle of the spell. Therefore, there must be at least one crown south of the middle sea, one east of it, one west, and so on. We have discovered unexpected allies in Alba among the tree sorcerers and their queen. With their help, we know where the westernmost circle lies. Brother Severus will journey there after he has identified the second circle, which we believe lies in southern Salia. I have myself in the course of my long search for you discovered a crown here in the east, in the wilderness between Ungria and Handelburg, at a place called Queen’s Grave. Do you know of it?”

  “Bayan and Sapientia fought the Quman at a spot called Queen’s Grave about three years ago. There was a tumulus there erected in ancient days, so I heard—”

  “The same. I ventured into the burial chamber, but it had been disturbed by grave robbers. I also saw the leavings from the battle, bones of horses and men picked clean, countless shards of arrows. There is a crown on top of the hill. The local folk were easily persuaded that it was in their interest to hoist the fallen stones upright with rope and dirt ramps, under my supervision. Yet you were not there when the battle was fought, were you, Wolfhere? How is it that we lost track of you? I see that you wear an amulet to protect yourself from aetherical sight. Are you hiding from us?”

  “Nay. I was trapped by the cunning of one of my own comrades, an Eagle. My old nemesis, who hates me sorely. She retired to the service of Waltharia, the eldest child of Helmut Villam. When we passed by that way, she convinced Prince Sanglant that if he sought to act against sorcerers he must protect himself by means of such amulets. I couldn’t refuse to wear one without making him distrust me.”

  “You should have left him months ago. It serves no purpose.”

  “Do you think Prince Sanglant poses no threat to Sister Clothilde’s hopes and plans?”

  “I think even if he can succeed in gaining allies, and these griffin feathers you speak of, that it will be too late, and too little, against us.”

  “Perhaps. But how will we know how great a threat he poses if none of us are witness to what he is doing?”

  “Any person can spy on Prince Sanglant.”

  “Not any person can gain his trust.”

  “That may be. I do not know how much of a dog’s instinct he has for enemies. But it matters not, Brother.”

  “If you think it does not matter, then you are a fool.”

  “You forget yourself! You were raised as Anne’s servant, not as our peer!”

  The silence stank of anger and old resentment. Zacharias might have cheered to see Wolfhere spoken to in such a way, but he had himself been born to freeholders who had risked farming in the marchlands in order to be beholden to no lord, only to the regnant.

  “I crave your pardon, my lord,” said Wolfhere at last in a tight voice.

  “So you must. I expect you not to forget your place again. Now. As soon as my servant returns with slaves, we will cast off. There’s little enough tide in these waters.”

  “Where do we go?” Was Wolfhere’s tone ironic? Or angry? Did the needle of rank still jab him?
Was he humbled by Marcus’ disdain? He had such a hold over his emotions, and the muffling effect of the dark hold muted his voice just enough, that Zacharias could not guess how he felt. “Do we return to Darre?”

  “Nay. We are to journey south to assist Sister Meriam in her search in the lands south of the middle sea. We hear stories of a crown set near the ruins of Kartiako. Meriam believes that another crown must lie south of the holy city of Saïs. It will be a pilgrimage into a new land.”

  “A dangerous one. Jinna idolaters rule those lands.”

  “It is difficult to know who truly rules the desert. But first I must deliver my cargo, and the child, to Darre.”

  “The child.” The words, spoken so softly, barely reached Zacharias’ ears although he lay not a body’s length from the two men. “I am against it. It is dangerous to act so boldly.”

  “As the time approaches, we must not fear to take risks. We have hidden for too long.”

  “If we kidnap the child, Prince Sanglant will not rest until he recovers her.”

  “Then he cannot hunt griffin feathers and sorcerous allies in the east, can he? He will have to choose. One, or the other.”

  All at once, Zacharias realized that he lay not against a sack but against a body, limp and small. It was Blessing, unconscious and, presumably, tied up as he was. With some effort, he wiggled his arms until his hands touched her body. His searching hands brushed her fingers.

  She responded. Her small hands, tied back as his were, clenched hard, tightening over his thumb. She squeezed again, a signal, and he squeezed back, then traced the pattern of the rope binding her wrists, seeking the knot. She made no sound, nor did she move except for that brief, fierce, silent communication.

  The rope was wet and swollen, impossible to unknot especially at the angle he was forced to work on it. He despaired. He would be thrown to the fish, and she carried off to Darre as a hostage. Prince Sanglant had fought so hard to protect her, but it appeared that, after all, the sorcerers would win.

  A ghost of a breeze tickled his nose, making him sniffle and snort.

  “What’s that?” asked Marcus, standing.

  Footsteps sounded on the deck above them and a voice called down through the hatch in clear but understandable Aostan. “Your man has returned, my lord cleric. He’s brought a dozen likely looking slaves, half of them Quman by the looks of them and the rest foreign creatures from the east. It isn’t often we get a coffle of only male slaves. Most buyers prefer women. Shall we quarter them below, or on deck?”

  No breeze could penetrate belowdecks, but a breeze played around him nonetheless. As Marcus moved away to the ladder, Blessing whispered.

  “Yes. Free me.”

  Of course he would try, but he could not work miracles! God had forsaken him, or he had forsaken God….

  She was not talking to him. She was talking to the spirit of air that played around his head. A cool touch swirled around his fingers. The strands of rope that bound her hands softened and parted, unraveling like so much rhetted flax. She flexed her wrists, and the rope fell away, leaving her free.

  “Yes.” Her voice had no more force than the stirring of a breeze against the skin. “Him, too.”

  His bonds loosened and he slipped swollen hands forward to his chest. A sensation as of a thousand pricking needles infested his palms and fingers as the blood and humors rushed back.

  Free.

  But still trapped.

  Chains rattled above.

  “Anna says you’re a sinner and an unbeliever,” murmured Blessing under cover of the thump and scrape of chains on the ladder as slaves descended into the hold. “Are you?”

  “I don’t know what I believe, Your Highness,” he whispered. “But I think we had better consider how to escape rather than whether I’m apostate.”

  “But what about your soul? Won’t you be cast into the Abyss? Doesn’t that scare you?”

  “Nay, Your Highness. I have seen a vision of the cosmos. I am not afraid.”

  “Aren’t you? Everyone says you’re a coward.” She said it without malice.

  He twisted to see. The hold lay low and long, its far end shrouded in gloom. The cleric stood with his back to his prisoners, directing his own servant as that man prodded the slaves forward into the hold. Poor suffering souls. Zacharias wondered briefly what horrible fate awaited them at the hands of their new master.

  Wolfhere stood in profile, but he turned his head and noticed Zacharias’ movement. Lamp glow and shadow mixed on his face, making his expression impossible to read. He did not move.

  “Be ready,” whispered Blessing.

  A shout rang out from the coffled slaves. Chains clattered to the floor as iron manacles fell open. Blessing leaped to her feet.

  “Follow me!” she shouted, jumping for the ladder. “You are free!”

  Zacharias found himself on his feet before he realized he meant to obey. The slaves hesitated, dumbfounded or in a stupor. How long had they been captives, heeding the call of the whip, the binding of shackles?

  Marcus spun around as Blessing reached the ladder. He leaped forward to grab the girl around the legs. Zacharias charged past the motionless Wolfhere and slammed into the small cleric. All three—cleric, frater, and child—fell sprawling on the floor. One of the slaves bolted, striking down Marcus’ servant, and in his wake the others erupted into motion. Trying to untangle himself from Marcus, who lay on top of him, Zacharias saw only a blur of bodies before a figure paused beside him, legs wreathed in the tattoos marking those Quman who had chosen the shaman’s path.

  “The child,” said the man in a recognizable Quman dialect. “The child with magic saves us.”

  The sounds of fighting carried down from above decks. Marcus swore, kicking, as the slave tugged Blessing free. She shrieked with triumph and rushed up the ladder as effortlessly as a spider. Zacharias fought to his knees, lunged for the ladder as the last of the slaves made their escape.

  “Stop him!” barked Marcus. “Wolfhere! For God’s sake, go after her!”

  The servant raised his staff as Zacharias grabbed the rungs.

  A blow smashed into the back of his head.

  Then, nothing.

  VI

  A PROPOSAL

  1

  “MY daughter is out of control! How can it be that she escaped your care and was almost kidnapped?”

  Anna knelt with her back to Prince Sanglant, trembling, waiting for the switch to fall on her shoulders. He was in a rage like none she had ever seen. Matto had got twenty strokes, and Thiemo had demanded that he receive the same number even though as a noble lord he did not have to be humbled in such a way. She would have lost respect for him if he hadn’t shared the punishment. Both she and Thiemo knew who was truly to blame.

  Now it was her turn.

  “It was my fault, my lord prince,” she said through her tears. “I did not keep her at my side. She asked leave to go dice with the soldiers, but I didn’t go with her. That was when she ran away. She must have crept out through the drainage ditch.”

  She had been crying all day, first in anger because of the terrible fight that morning between Matto and Thiemo, then with fear when she had discovered Blessing missing, and later out of relief when the girl had returned late in the day with an unexpected retinue in tow. Now, at last, she wept silently, in terror. Better to crumble to dust than endure the prince’s fury.

  “And to add to the injury, this insult! Have you corrupted my daughter with these whispers about the phoenix?”

  At least the whole troop wasn’t looking on, only Captain Fulk, Sergeant Cobbo, Brother Breschius, and the Eagle, her face drawn and serious. In the distance she heard Blessing shrieking with thwarted anger. Sanglant had ordered the girl shut up in one of the little cells. Maybe he was ready to whip his daughter, too. Maybe he was going there next, once he had finished with her.

  The heat made the earthen walls and the dusty ground bake. The sun’s glare on her face made her squint. Sweat trickl
ed down her spine.

  “Is it true?” he roared.

  The switch whistled past her back. The tip stung a shoulder blade as it whipped past, barely touching her. She burst into tears, shaking hysterically.

  “I crave your pardon, my lord prince. But the words I spoke are only the truth.” Flinging herself forward onto the ground, she pressed her face into the dirt.

  He cursed so furiously that she imagined him transforming from man into rabid dog, back into a beast like the ragged, stinking daimone she had once thought him when she had seen him years ago as a captive in the cathedral of Gent.

  “My lord prince,” said Brother Breschius in the mildest of voices, “she is only a girl, barely a woman. What purpose does it serve to terrorize her in this way?”

  She sobbed helplessly as the prince slapped the switch into the ground, once, twice, thrice, to emphasize his words. Dirt sprayed up with each bite, spitting into her face.

  “My daughter is a willful. Spoiled. Impossible. Brat! Now it transpires that she is soaked in heresy as well. And has the nerve to tell her own father that I am damned!”

  “It cannot have helped to find her surrounded by a brace of slaves who worship her as the magician who freed them,” said Breschius. “It must be a frightening sight, my lord prince, to see your daughter growing into her heritage.”

  Sometimes silence was worse than shouting.

  All she saw were his boots, six steps, a sharp turn, and six steps back, turn again. Only a very, very angry man paced like that, each step clipped and short. Anger flooded out of him until she thought she would drown. Sobs shook her entire body no matter how much she tried to hold them in.

  Fully a woman now, in the old tradition. Oh, God, why had she done it?

  Now Matto and Thiemo hated each other, and she had selfishly and stupidly and dishonorably neglected her duty to Blessing. What did people do who were turned out in the midst of a foreign country with no kinfolk to aid them? Didn’t she deserve to be sold as a slave or murdered by beggars for her shoes?