The Burning Stone

  “Not everything,” she admitted. “I can’t trust him, even though he freed me from Hugh. But I don’t dislike him. Yet whom can I trust? Who will not condemn me for what I am? Who will not call me a maleficus?”

  “I will not condemn you.”

  “Will you not?” she asked bitterly, and she told him about the burning of the palace at Augensburg. “That isn’t all. While riding to Lavas, I burned down a bridge in the same way. I saw the shades of dead elves hunting in the deep forest. I’ve spoken with an Aoi sorcerer, who offered to teach me. I’ve been stalked by daimones. One of them was as beautiful as an angel but a monster nevertheless for having no soul. You could see that in its eyes. It called for me in a terrible voice, but it passed right by and couldn’t see me though I sat in plain sight. I was too terrified to move. Ai, Lady! I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what Da hid from me!”

  “Hush.” He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her helpless fury. “But Wolfhere is right: You need teaching.”

  “Who on this earth will teach such as me without condemning me? Without sending me to the skopos to stand trial as a maleficus?”

  “Your mother?”

  “Wolfhere wouldn’t tell me where she is. I don’t trust his secrecy.”

  “Nor should you.”

  “And I don’t know—I just don’t know— It seems so odd for this news to come now, after Da and I struggled so many years alone.”

  “Then we must find out who can teach you without condemning you. You’re like a boy who is quick and strong and gifted, who’s taken up a sword but has had no training. He is as likely to hurt himself and his comrades as fell his enemies.”

  “Sanglant,” she said softly, “why aren’t you afraid of me? Everyone else seems to be!” Her hand wandered to splay itself across his left shoulder blade. He became overpoweringly aware of every part of her, all that was soft, all that was hard, pressed against him.

  The absurdity of it made him laugh. “What more can you do to me that you haven’t already done? I am at your mercy. Thank God!”

  He literally felt indignation shudder through her. He understood at once that she did not know how to be laughed at. But even after that year among the dogs, he remembered something of the intricate dance eternally played out between female and male. There are places a woman’s indignation can be taken, and he knew how to get there.

  3

  LIATH woke with a strange sensation suffusing her chest and limbs. Sanglant slept beside her, touching her only where an ankle crossed hers, weighting it down. In fact it was too stifling within the curtained bed to press together. She had no cover drawn over her, yet even so, something lay on her so calming that the sweat and stuffy heat did not bother her. It took her a long while, lying completely still so as not to scare it away, to identify what it was.

  Peace.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. A rooster crowed outside. A flea crawled up her arm and she pinched it between two fingers.

  Sanglant bolted upright, arms raised defensively, and almost hit her as he growled. “I can’t see!” he hissed desperately.

  “You aren’t in Gent.”

  “Liath?” He sounded more astonished than pleased. He groped, caught her, and hugged her against him so tightly that she choked out a breath. “Ai, God! You’re real.”

  “What did you think I was?”

  He was weeping. “I dreamed of you so often in Gent, I forgot what was dream and what was real, and then I would wake up. Ai, Lady. That was when it was worst, when I would wake up to discover I was still Bloodheart’s prisoner.”

  “Hush,” she said, kissing him. “You’re free.”

  He only shook his head. He rocked back and forth, unable to keep still, but with her still clasped in his arms. Then, as suddenly as he had begun, he ceased and lifted his face to look at her. Light seeped in where wooden rings fastened the curtain to rods attached to the ceiling; she saw his expression as a gray mask, bewildered, joyous, determined.

  “Make no marriage, Liath,” he whispered, echoing words he had said to her a long time ago, before the fall of Gent. Then he smiled. “Unless it be with me.”

  “Foolhardy,” she murmured.

  “What is?”

  “This. Marrying.”

  His voice sharpened. “Do you regret it already?”

  She laughed. It was spectacularly disconcerting to have this need consume her. She just could not keep her hands off him. “Oh, no. No. Never.” It was a different kind of fire, just as intense but more satisfying. He did not try to resist her even knowing that the village woke beyond the curtains as a new day began, but he was far more restrained than she was—although now and again he would forget himself and nip.

  They did, finally, have to dress. They could hear Mistress Hilda and her household moving around, hear the soldiers moving restlessly outside the longhouse, talking and joking, although no one dared disturb the two hidden behind the curtains. She was embarrassed when they at last drew the curtains aside. Sanglant did not seem aware of the stares, the whispers, the giggles, the jocular congratulations. He wound up his leggings and laced up his sandals with intense concentration, obviously making plans. He took in a deep draught of air and held it, then shook his head as a dog shakes off water.

  “Nothing,” he murmured. “I do not smell his scent here.”

  “Whose scent?”

  “Bloodheart’s.” He belted on his sword. “Bloodheart laid a curse as a protection against any person who sought to kill him. Your hand drew the bow whose arrow struck him down.”

  Mistress Hilda bustled over with two cups of cider. As they drained the cups, she surveyed the tangled bedcovers with satisfaction.

  The bite of the cider cleared Liath’s head. “A curse is woven of magic,” she said in a low voice, “and Da protected me against magic. It can’t harm me.”

  He swore. “Rash words!”

  “I don’t mean them to be! You didn’t see the daimone stalk past me, calling my name and yet not seeing me. That’s not the only time it happened.”

  “That you were protected from magic? What do you mean?”

  “I suppose the way armor protects you from a sword blow. It’s as if I’m invisible to magic.”

  He considered this seriously. “Do you remember when Bloodheart died?”

  She touched her quiver, propped up against the bed. “How could I forget it? When I first saw you—” She broke off, aware that her voice had risen. Everyone had turned to watch them: children, adults, slaves; even the soldiers who had crowded to the door as soon as they heard Sanglant’s voice. It wasn’t every day that such folk got to witness a royal marriage.

  “Ah,” said Sanglant, looking embarrassed—but she had a sudden feeling that it wasn’t their audience that bothered him but the memory of Gent and the bestial condition in which she and Lavastine had found him. He headed for the door, and Liath hurried in his wake, not at all sure where he was going. But he was headed for the three Eika dogs, who barked and scrabbled to reach them as he approached. He cuffed them down, then retrieved the handsome reinforced pouch. Inside she saw The Book of Secrets, but he did not remove it; instead, he pulled out his gold torque, the sign of his royal kinship. He turned.

  “This is all I have to give you. My morning gift to you.”

  The assembled audience gasped at the magnificence of the gift, although Liath knew that among the nobility such a piece of jewelry, while very fine in its own right, would be but one among many such gifts—except that only women and men born into the royal lineage had the right to wear a torque braided of solid gold.

  “I can’t—” she choked.

  “I beg you,” he whispered.

  It was all he had.

  She received it from him, then flushed, humiliated. “I have nothing to give you—” Nothing but the gifts given to her by Lavastine and Alain the day before, and to hand them over now seemed demeaning, to him, to her, and to the lords who had rewarded her. She glanced toward the wait
ing soldiers, and inspiration seized her. “But I will have, if you are willing to wait.”

  His laughter came sharp and bright on the morning air. “I have learned to be patient.” He sobered, seeing the soldiers waiting, horses saddled, everyone ready to go, and the villagers waiting expectantly. Thunder rumbled again as rain spattered down on the dirt.

  “What do I do, Liath?” he muttered. “I’ve nothing to gift them with for their night’s hospitality. I can’t just leave without giving them something. It would be a disgrace to my reputation—and my father’s. Ai, God!” He winced, hid the expression, then abruptly unsheathed his knife and pried the jewels off the fine leather case in which he carried the book, muttering under his breath as he did so. “Wolfhere was right. I’ve nothing of my own. Everything comes at my father’s sufferance.”

  She didn’t know what to reply. She, too, had nothing—except the book, the horse, and her weapons. Yet in truth few people possessed so much. Still, would it have been wiser to go to her mother, who presumably had the means to feed and house and teach her?

  Perhaps.

  But as she watched Sanglant distribute this largesse—and jewels certainly impressed the villagers—she could not imagine any decision other than the one she had made last night.

  They rode out of Ferse with the wind at their backs only to find that the ferryman wouldn’t take them across the water. So they huddled under the trees while the storm moved through, brief but strong. Rain lashed the ground, pounding dirt into mud. Wind whipped the river into a surface of choppy waves. She used her blanket like a cloak to cover herself while Sanglant walked out in the full force of the rainstorm, heedless of the rain pouring over him. It drenched him until his hair lay slick along his head and his clothes stuck to him in a most inviting fashion. The fresh scar left by his slave collar stood out starkly against his dark skin.

  “You left behind Bloodheart’s collar,” she said suddenly.

  He mopped rain from his forehead and flicked a slick mat of hair out of his eyes. “The villagers will make use of it.” Then he grinned, the familiar charming smile she had first seen at Gent. At once he began bantering with the soldiers who, like Liath, huddled under the tree in the vain hope of staying dry. He soon had them laughing—eating out of his hand, as Da had once said years ago when they had watched an Andallan captain-at-arms ready his men to march into battle—and the delay passed remarkably swiftly.

  With all the horses, it took six trips to get them over on the ferry, and even then seven of the horses balked at getting on board the rocking ferry and had to be let swim across. Sanglant and two of the soldiers stripped to go in with the horses, and Liath had to look away with her face burning while she listened to their companions, now unable to restrain themselves, making jests about wedding nights and “riding” and other coarse jokes.

  “I pray you,” said Sanglant sternly when he rejoined them, “do not make light of the marriage bed, or my bride, who will have a difficult enough time at the king’s court as it is.” They looked a little shamefaced, but he soon pried them out of it by asking each man about his home and family and what battles he had fought in.

  Mud and a second squall made for slow going, and Sanglant seemed in no hurry to return. Nor was she. The farther they rode the more nervous she got. But nevertheless they came within sight of Werlida by midafternoon. Even from the road beneath the ramparts it seemed a veritable hive of activity—more so than when she had left.

  At the gates, guards greeted them. “Prince Sanglant, you have returned!” They looked relieved.

  “What’s all this?” Sanglant gestured toward the lower enclosure, which was bustling with movement. Just ahead a herd of squealing pigs had been confined in a fenced enclosure from which they were now being removed one by one to be slaughtered.

  “They rode in not one hour before you, my lord prince!” exclaimed the guards.

  “Who did?”

  A horn blasted from the road behind, and two dozen riders wearing the sigil of a hawk galloped up behind them, looking irritated to be kept waiting—until they recognized the prince.

  Sanglant began to laugh. “Lady Fortune is with us this day. My father will be far too busy to remember me!”

  The hawk: symbol of the duchy of Wayland.

  Duke Conrad had arrived at last.

  4

  DUKE Conrad had arrived at last.

  King Henry was in a foul mood, furious about Sanglant’s disappearance. Rosvita feared it would bode ill for Conrad when Henry, upon being told the news that the duke of Wayland would arrive soon after Nones, smiled grimly. He went at once to pray and refused to break his fast at midday, since it was his habit to honor God in this way before wearing the crown.

  “Will there be some kind of ceremony?” asked young Brother Constantine, who had only seen the king crowned and robed in splendor once, at Quedlinhame.

  Brother Fortunatus shook his head. “He means to show his displeasure by meeting Conrad in full royal dignity.” He clicked his tongue softly. “Poor Conrad.”

  “Poor Conrad!” objected Sister Amabilia. “Do you suppose Duke Conrad is a fool? I don’t think he is.”

  And indeed, Conrad the Black was no fool. He rode in at the head of a magnificent procession, befitting his dignity and his rank, and beside him in the place of honor—and on a very fine white mare—rode Princess Theophanu fitted out in equally fine clothing, obviously a gift from him. She looked at her ease, handsome, vigorous, and elegant in her composure—thank God!

  Only now, seeing her, did Rosvita realize how deeply she had missed her composed and sometimes ironic presence over the past months.

  Because of the uproar surrounding Sanglant, Rosvita had only that morning discovered among the capitularies sent from the schola the letter from Mother Rothgard and its terrifying contents: malefici—malevolent sorcerers—lurking in the court! Mother Rothgard named no names, and perhaps knew none since she had written the letter while Theophanu was still gravely ill, but Rosvita had recognized the panther brooch sketched onto the parchment. Only the margraviate of Austra and Olsatia displayed a panther as part of its sigil.

  “This is a matter for the church,” Mother Rothgard had written after detailing her suspicions and what manner of instruments and bindings a maleficus would have hidden about her person. “Speak to no one until my representative, a certain Sister Anne whose integrity and knowledge are irreproachable, reaches you. Without her aid, and with no experience in these matters, you will not be able to defeat the maleficus, and will indeed be at her mercy. Once you have the support of Sister Anne, then together you must decide what action to take, if indeed you can flush the maleficus from its lair. This is not a matter for the king’s justice.”

  She dared not show the letter even to Amabilia or Fortunatus. Now she had to wait until the audience had finished, when she could hope to speak privately with Theophanu.

  The king received Duke Conrad in kingly state, crowned, with scepter in hand and his entire court in attendance. The yard in front of the great hall was mobbed with people; the king had had his throne brought outside and raised up on a hastily-built platform. To his right sat Princess Sapientia, the only person so honored among the company.

  Into this assembly Duke Conrad rode with all the pride of a prince born into the royal kinship. He had a nobleman’s seat on a horse, easy and natural, and a soldier’s broad shoulders and tough hands. He was a good-looking man, striking in appearance, with all the vitality of a man in his prime—he was not over thirty years of age. Conrad’s dark complexion and black hair were indeed startling, but he had keen blue eyes and a wicked grin, which he used now to swift effect on Princess Theophanu as they halted before the king. Rosvita found him rather more to her taste than young Baldwin, who was all beauty and no stature. A servant supported his foot as he dismounted. He himself assisted Theophanu to dismount.

  “Your Majesty.” He did not kneel. After all, he wore the gold torque—in handsome contrast to his smoky-brown co
mplexion—around his neck to mark his royal kinship. “I give you greetings, cousin, and I bring these gifts to honor you, and I bring as well your daughter, who has ridden beside me from St. Valeria Convent.”

  Henry gestured to a servant, and a chair was squeezed in to the left of his throne. Theophanu climbed the two steps to the platform and knelt before her father to receive his blessing and his kiss. Then, coolly, she kissed Sapientia on either cheek, and sat down. She had not changed in outward appearance, except perhaps for a flush in her cheeks when she glanced at Conrad; after that, she kept her gaze fixed on the horizon where forest met sky in a haze. Seeing her so healthy, it was hard to believe that she had almost died at St. Valeria Convent of a fever brought upon her by magic most foul. Yet Mother Rothgard had no reason to lie.

  Conrad waited until she was seated, then made a sign to his retinue. Servants came forward with boxes and chests. The display took some time, all of it artfully handled with clasps undone, cloth unwrapped and wafted aside, fine tapestries unrolled to reveal more precious treasures inside. Conrad had not stinted in his offerings: carved ivory plaques; gold vessels; a dozen finely-crafted saddles; glass pitchers packed in wood shavings; tiny cloisonne pots filled with spices; silver basins so cunningly worked that entire scenes from old tales could be read on their sides; and two delightful creatures he called monkeys that chittered excitedly and gamboled in a large cage.

  Henry regarded this munificence without expression. When Conrad had finished, Henry merely raised a hand for silence. The assembly, whispering and jostling the better to see, quieted expectantly.

  “Is this how you hope to expiate your treachery?”

  Conrad’s nostrils flared, and his shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t join Sabella!”

  “You didn’t join me!”

  He regained his composure. “Yet I am here now, cousin.”