Prince of Dogs

The ruins lay in a jumbled heap along the slope of land before them, crowned by a ring of standing stones. Once, buildings had stood here. Had they been built by the same people who raised the circle of stones, or was this a later fortress, built here to guard—or guard against—the influence of the crown of stones? With the nearby stream and cultivatable land, it made a good homestead, as the persistence of the villagers showed: Few people would willingly live within sight of a ring of stones unless they had a compelling reason to remain there.

  Henry dismounted and, with Villam beside him, made his way up through the ruins alone.

  “Now there’s two men still mourning the loss of sons,” said Brother Fortunatus, looking around the scene with interest. “Is this where the Aoi woman vanished?”

  “Up in the ring of stones, I should think,” said Sister Amabilia. “And poor Villam lost his son in a ring of stones.”

  “He did?” demanded Brother Constantine. “I never heard that story.”

  “That was before you came to us,” said Amabilia sweetly, never loath to remind the solemn young man that he was not only young but the son of a Varren lady sympathetic to Sabella. “Young Berthold was a fine young man, a true scholar, I think, though it’s a shame he was being kept out of the church so that he could be married.”

  “But what happened to him?”

  Brother Fortunatus wheeled around, excited by the prospect of gossip. “He took a group of his retainers up to explore the ring of stones above the monastery of Hersfeld …” He paused, relishing Constantine’s wide-eyed stare, and dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper. “… and they were never seen again.”

  “Hush!” said Rosvita, surprised at her own snappishness. “Berthold was a good boy. It isn’t right to make a game of his loss and his father’s grief. Come now.” She saw Hugh seat himself on an old wall somewhat away from everyone else and open his book. “You may look around, as you wish. Brother Constantine, you may wish to discover if there are any Dariyan inscriptions on the stones and whether you can read them. Do not approach the king unless he requests your company.” Together with Villam, the king had vanished into the circle of stones, a half dozen Lions and his favorite Eagle hard on his heels. “Go on.” They scattered like bees out to search for honey. Rosvita composed herself, then strolled casually across the ruins, picking her way over fallen stone and mounds of earth, until she reached Hugh.

  “Father Hugh.” She greeted him as she seated herself on a smooth stretch of wall. “You must be pleased at your mother’s loyalty, sending her physician so far away from her lands in order to attend Princess Sapientia.”

  As he turned to smile at her, he gently closed the book; she gained only a glimpse of a bold hand scrawled in uneven columns down the page. “Indeed, Sister. But I believe my mother intends to return to the king’s progress as soon as she has completed her business in Austra.”

  “Ah, yes, her marriage. Have you had any recent news?” Since any recent news would have spread to her clerics the instant it came in, this was pure gambit, and she knew it. Perhaps he did as well, but he was hard for her to read, never being anything less than polite and well-mannered.

  “None, alas. But perhaps,” and now he smiled with a sudden and winning shrewdness, “Brother Fortunatus has heard that which we are not yet privy to.”

  That made her laugh. Hugh had much the look of his father about him. The Alban slave Margrave Judith kept as concubine had still been a fixture at court when Rosvita arrived in the last years of King Arnulf. No young woman, even one pledged to the church, could have failed to notice him, although upon closer examination he had proved to be stupid and vain. But in the end he had died in a hunting accident and the boy child who had come some years previously of this begetting had been given to the church. Hugh did not have the sheer breathtaking beauty of his father, but he was handsome enough that it was no wonder Sapientia had seduced him. If, indeed, the seduction had been one-sided, which Rosvita doubted. For all his arrogance, Hugh had always been noted as a dutiful son to his mother; by becoming Sapientia’s favorite and adviser, he enhanced his mother’s strength among the great princes of the realm.

  “It is a fine day, is it not, Father Hugh?” She lifted her face to the sun.

  “I am only sorry the king should find sadness on such a favored day.” He indicated the ring of stones above. Henry and Villam could be seen moving slowly among the stones. Henry had an old rag pressed to his face, dabbing now and again at his eyes.

  “He must lay the prince to rest in his own heart,” she said, forgetting her own purpose for a moment, “before the prince can go to his rest above.” She gestured toward the sky.

  “Can he?” asked Hugh suddenly. “He is half of elvish kin, and it is said they wander as dark shades on this earth after they die.”

  “Only God can answer that question. You and Sanglant were of an age, weren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, the words clipped short.

  “But you attended the king’s schola, and he did not.”

  Hugh looked away, up toward the stones. He was tall, though not as tall as Sanglant had been, and fair-haired where Sanglant had been dark. As a churchman he went beardless, and in this way he might be said to resemble the dead prince; in all other ways they were utterly unlike. Indeed, Rosvita knew very well that Sanglant had been a favorite at court in his youth; Hugh, while tolerated, envied, and sometimes grudgingly admired, had never inspired liking—not until now. “There is no virtue in speaking unkindly of the dead,” he said at last. His hand shifted on the book he held, bringing it back to her notice.

  “True words, Father Hugh,” she said, seeing her opening. “What book is that you carry?”

  He blinked. Then he glanced at the book, tucked his fingers more tightly around its cracked leather binding, and returned his gaze to her. “It is a book I have been studying for some time.”

  “How curious. I could swear that I saw that book before Princess Sapientia returned to the king’s progress. Before you came back to us with her. Yes.” She pretended to consider, then carefully looked away, surveying the ruins and the fine view of trees and stream and distant village as if the book was of only passing interest. After a while of basking in pleasant silence in the spring sun, as if she had just that instant recalled their conversation, she turned back to him. “I must be mistaken. I saw a book like to this in the possession of one of the Eagles. What was her name? These Eagles all run one into the next.”

  He raised his eyes to look at her but said nothing. She found a cluster of white flowers growing out from a crevice within the stones that was filled in with dirt. Plucking them, she pressed the rustic bouquet to her nose.

  “Liath,” he said finally, so baldly that she was startled, and showed it.

  “Ah, yes, Liath,” she managed, lowering the flowers. “A curious name, Arethousan in origin, I believe.” He did not reply. “Didn’t you serve as frater in the north, Father Hugh?”

  “I did indeed, in that region called Heart’s Rest, just south of the emporia of Freelas.”

  “Now there is a strange coincidence. The Eagle, Liath, and her comrade, Hanna—who is now Sapientia’s Eagle—both came from Heart’s Rest.”

  “That is where you come from as well, is it not, Sister?”

  “So it is.”

  “You are the second child of Count Harl, I believe.”

  “Of course you would be acquainted with my father and family, if you resided there.”

  “I have met them,” he said with a hint of condescension—something he normally never showed toward her, the favored cleric among Henry’s intimate advisers, his elder in the church, and a woman.

  “Did you bring the two young women to the notice of the King’s Eagles, then? It was a generous act.”

  His pleasant expression did not waver—by much—but a certain hard glint came into his eyes. “I did not. I had nothing to do with that.”

  Had lightning struck, she could not have been more surprised by re
velation. The memory of their visit to Quedlinhame last autumn jolted her so hard she lost her grip on the flowers, and they fell to scatter over her robe, the stones, and the soil.

  Ivar, talking to Liath in the dark sanctuary of a back room in the convent library. Liath had said, “I love another man.” And that had made Ivar angry. Whose name had he spoken?

  “Hugh.”

  Liath had not denied it, only said that he was dead. Now, with Hugh regarding her as innocently as a dove, she was angry with herself for not questioning Ivar closely about the incident.

  “I am confused, then, and I beg your pardon, Father Hugh,” she said at last. “I had thought you must have known the young women, as well as my brother, Ivar, when you were in Heart’s Rest. Thus my curiosity about the book, which resembles one I saw Liath carrying.”

  He toyed with the book, tucked it more firmly against his thigh, and sighed deeply as at an unpalatable decision. “She stole it from me. But now, as you see, I have gotten it back.”

  “Stole it from you!” That she had suspected as much—that Liath had stolen the book from somewhere—did not make the fact any more pleasant to hear. “How did she steal it? Why?”

  He closed his eyes a moment. It was difficult for Rosvita to imagine what thoughts might be going through his mind. Like the book, like a veil drawn to hide the chamber behind, he was closed against her. He had completely given up abbot’s robes and now dressed like any fine lord in embroidered tunic, a short cloak with a gold brooch, silver-banded leggings, and a sword; one knew he was a churchman only by his lack of beard and his eloquent speech.

  “I do not speak easily of this,” he said finally. “It pains me deeply. The young woman’s father died in severe debt. I paid it off because it was the charitable thing to do, as you can imagine, being a Godly churchwoman yourself, Sister. By that price, she became my slave. She had no kin and thus, really, no prospects, so I kept her by me to protect her.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Rosvita, thinking of Ivar’s protestations of love. Of course a count’s son could never marry a kinless girl who was also another man’s slave! He should never even have considered it. “She is a beautiful girl, many have noticed that, and has an awkward smattering of education. Enough to attract the wrong kind of notice.”

  “Indeed. That she repaid me in this manner …” Here he broke off.

  “How then did she come into the Eagles?”

  He hesitated, clearly reluctant to go on.

  “Wolfhere,” she said, and knew she had made a hit when his lips tightened perceptibly.

  “Wolfhere,” he agreed. “He took what was not his to have.”

  “But only free women and men may enter into the Eagles.”

  Elegant, confident Hugh looked, for an instant, like a man stricken with a debilitating sorrow. “My hand was forced.”

  “Why do you not tell the king? Surely he will listen to your grievance?”

  “I will not accuse a man if he is not beside me to answer in his turn,” said Hugh reasonably. “Then I would be taking the same advantage of Wolfhere that he took of me, in a sense, when he claimed the young woman in question for the king’s service without letting the king judge the matter for himself. Nor do I wish to be seen as one who takes unseemly advantage of my—” He smiled with that same shrewd glint. “Let us be blunt, Sister Rosvita. Of my intimate association with Princess Sapientia.”

  “No one would fault you if you brought the matter before the king now. It is generally agreed that your wise counsel has improved her disposition.”

  But he merely bowed his head modestly. “I would fault myself.”

  4

  THEY gathered an army and, helpless, he watched them do so. By the angle of light that shone through the cathedral windows and the sullen warmth that crept in through the vast stone walls during the day when the doors were thrown open to admit sunlight, he guessed that spring had come at last. With the spring thaw running low, the winds would give the Eika good sailing out of the north.

  From the north they came, droves of them, collecting at the foot of Bloodheart’s throne like so much flotsam cast up by the tide.

  That day, when the rebellious son returned, he knew he had to act. When even rebellious sons return to the fold, it means great movements are afoot, even so great as to attract back those who once were condemned to leave. Even the priest, crouching just out of range of Sanglant’s chains while he taught him to read the bones, turned to stare at the unexpected sight of the young Eika princeling who wore a wooden Circle around his neck.

  “Why have you come back?” roared Bloodheart in the human tongue, confronting the slender Eika who stood, proud and unflinching, before him.

  “I bring eight ships,” said the son, gesturing to certain Eika who stood behind him, representative, perhaps, of soldiers who remained outside. There were by now in Gent too many Eika to all crowd into the cathedral. He could smell them; their metallic scent permeated the air. “These two, from Hakonin, these two, from Skanin, and this one, from Valdarnin. Three more sailed with me from Rikin. These will swell the number of your army.”

  “Why should I take you in, when it was my voice and my command which sent you home without honor?”

  Sanglant measured the distance between himself and the priest, then patted the rags draped over him that had once been clothing. He slid a hand under cloth and pulled out the brass Eagle’s badge. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed it at one of his dogs, to his left. The sudden growling movement of two dogs leaping to growl over the badge startled the priest enough that he jumped sideways.

  With that jump, the priest came for an instant within reach of Sanglant.

  He sprang. As his hand closed on the Eika priest’s bony arm, he jerked the knife out from under his tunic. Yanking the priest around hard, he dropped his grip on the creature’s arm and snatched the little wooden chest out of the crook of its elbow.

  Then he leaped back into the protection of his dogs—barking and raging wildly now—as a roar of fury broke from Bloodheart’s throat and all the Eika in the hall began shrieking and howling at once, their dogs echoing them until Sanglant was deafened. He had only moments to act before he would be overwhelmed.

  There was no time for finesse, but then, there rarely was in a pitched fight.

  He hacked violently at the hasp of the chest. The knife, little used, still bore a good edge. The hasp snapped and wood splintered as he struck down and again, with all his strength, then wrenched the lid open and dumped the contents out on the floor.

  He didn’t know what an Eika heart would look like. But where else would Bloodheart keep his heart if not close by him? Why else would the priest carry a chest night and day, never letting it leave his side?

  But all that spilled onto the floor was a bundle of down feathers and a white hairless creature smaller than his hand. With rudimentary ears and eyes, a nub of a tail, and four limbs, it looked like the premature spawn of an unholy mother, a ghastly colorless thing without defined features and with no recognizable parentage. It fell with a sickening plop onto the flagstone floor and lay there, limp, unmoving.

  Dead.

  Never trust the appearance of death.

  He raised his knife.

  A spear haft hit him broadside and then, as he spun, he felt a second spear pierce him in the back, just below the ribs. He jerked forward, brought the knife down as his dogs swarmed forward to attack his attackers. But his vision had gone awry; the world spun and staggered before him.

  A shift of sunlight spilled over the stone floor, its golden touch illuminating the tiny corpse. With a shudder, the embryonic creature stirred, curled.

  Came alive.

  It darted away just as the point of his knife stabbed and skidded on the stone floor where it had lain.

  Bloodheart screamed in rage.

  The spear point was yanked out of his flesh and he staggered forward to keep himself upright; his neck snapped back when, at the limit of his chains, the iron slave coll
ar brought him up short. The priest yipped wildly, scurrying after the slender dead-white creature now scrambling away between the feet of the Eika soldiers who had dashed forward to mob him.

  Bloodheart, still roaring, his own dogs at his heels, slapped his howling soldiers aside as he shoved his way through. Blood streamed down Sanglant’s back, coursing over his buttocks and down his thighs. He faltered and fell to his knees, knife raised before him.

  “Dog! Son of dogs! The heart you seek with that blow lies far away from here, hidden among the stones of Rikin fjall. For this sacrilege you will pay the price in blood.”

  Bloodheart struck, but Sanglant was faster. He jumped up and sank the knife into the Eika chieftain’s shoulder and hung there as two packs of dogs swarmed forward. At once he and Bloodheart were surrounded by a maelstrom, all teeth and tails and claws.

  In this whirlpool Bloodheart grabbed Sanglant by the iron collar at his neck and hoisted him into the air. With his other hand, he took Sanglant’s wrist, where he still held the knife, and twisted it hard.

  The snap of bone and the wash of hot pain almost made him pass out. But he did not let go of the knife, not until Bloodheart ripped it out of his own shoulder and shook it free of Sanglant’s grip. He tossed Sanglant back, flipped the knife to hold it, jeweled hilt in his huge scaled hand, and struck furiously to either side at the ravening dogs, then leaped in among them.

  Sanglant groped, found the brass Eagle’s badge, and hauled himself to his feet. This tiny shield he held before him, like a talisman, but it was useless. Bloodheart’s fury had passed the point of thought. The Eika stabbed the knife again and again into Sanglant’s chest.

  Sometimes the remains of his chain mail turned the point, but at the ragged ends it could not protect him. The knife pierced him repeatedly, tearing him inside, shattering him, until his dogs leaped howling and biting and Bloodheart was forced to defend himself against them. He let go of Sanglant, who could not stand, could not even kneel, could only fall to the floor as his dogs drove back the mob that had come howling to watch him die. He could only watch as spears and axes fell on his dogs and the other dogs indiscriminately, splitting them open, spattering viscera and green-tinted blood and the wet matter of brain over him, over the floor, over everything. He could only feel the press of bodies and the sting of their whipcord tails as the last of his dogs pressed in around him, defending him even until the bitter end—as had his Dragons.