In the Ruins

  “This storm may not have touched Ungria! It’s so far away.”

  Geza stopped for long enough to look at Sapientia with disgust. “Only a fool would not recognize this storm for what it is. As soon as my soldiers are ready, we march.”

  “But you promised me—!” She choked on the words. She could not get them out of her throat. “I married you!”

  “Come with me, then. Once Ungria is safe—”

  “What of my kingdom?” she exclaimed.

  “By the blessed Name of God, woman! All that lies south of here is blasted, so the scouts say. To the west, toward Aosta—who can see for the smoke and fire? Do not be blind. I will not ride to Wendar. I turn my back on Aosta, just as God has.”

  “You promised me!”

  Hanna wanted to shake her, but King Geza was faster, and less patient than Prince Bayan to be sure.

  “Then I divorce you, Sapientia. Go on your way as you please.”

  “Divorce me?”

  “I divorce you. Must I repeat myself? Ah! Captain! What news?”

  “We’re ready, Your Majesty.”

  “Then we go.” He gestured. The captain shouted a command in Ungrian, and half the men milling around scattered so swiftly that Hanna felt spun in circles although she didn’t move.

  “But what about me?” cried Sapientia plaintively.

  “I divorce you. It is done. Feh!” He strode off, talking in a low voice to his captain. He didn’t even look back as the handsome bay was led up for him to ride.

  Sapientia stood gasping, her hands opening and closing although she had nothing to grasp onto.

  Hanna whistled under her breath and began to retreat out from the chuckling, staring crowd of Arethousans, softly, slowly, taking care not to draw attention to herself, just a quiet hound slinking off to do its business, nothing worth noticing. Off to the right she heard the shouts of men and the jangling of harness as a large troop moved out. Lord protect them! Geza had abandoned his bride and his allies without a moment’s hesitation. She knew she had to get back to Sister Rosvita quickly. She knew what the answer was, now, to their predicament.

  Move fast, and get out of the way.

  “There!”

  She spun, but it was too late. Sergeant Bysantius strode up with a dozen guards at his heels.

  “Eagle! Come with us.”

  They had already surrounded her. She saw, around them and beyond them, the steady tidal flow of troops and servants toward a distant goal. Bysantius grabbed her elbow and towed her along with him.

  “They’re wanting you,” he added.

  “What about my companions?”

  “They’re not wanting your companions.”

  Lady Eudokia was seated on a stool under a torn awning fixed in place by four men holding up poles tied to each corner of blue silk. The fabric echoed the clear heavens they could no longer see. Her young nephew clung to her robes, face hidden in her lap. She sipped from a cup while Lord Alexandros spoke to a trio of captains, all of them pale with ash and looking as dour as any farmer who has just seen his field of rye marred by the black rot. Beyond, wagons rumbled into place in a line of march. A rank of mounted soldiers trotted past, heading for the front of the line, which was obscured by haze. The Arethousan army was moving out.

  “Exalted Lady.” Sergeant Bysantius dropped to both knees, bowed, and rose. He shoved Hanna forward. “The Eagle, as you requested.”

  She tripped over her feet and barely had time to right herself before the general whistled, listening to the report of one of his captains.

  “Geza’s gone already? Hsst! We’ll leave a small rear guard behind to bring any who scattered in the night. Bring the horses!” He saw Hanna, but nodded toward the sergeant. “That was fast.”

  “I found her wandering, Your Excellency.”

  “She’s too valuable to lose, as we agreed before. You’ll be in charge of her, Bysantius. It will be your head if she escapes.” He turned away and walked to his horse.

  It was strange how easily she understood Arethousan now, as if the scent of camphor tossed into the flame to let the lady and the general see what she saw had at the same time opened her mind and let it steal words out of theirs.

  “I pray you, Your Excellency,” she cried, starting forward. “Exalted Lady. I pray you, my companions … I know where they are. If you’ll just let me go and make sure they’re with one of the wagons—”

  He paused, turning back to frown at her. “You misunderstand us. We do not need your companions anymore. They are of no use to us because our circumstances have changed so greatly.”

  “Surely you don’t mean to abandon them!”

  He shrugged and walked away.

  “Sergeant! Exalted Lady!”

  Lady Eudokia sipped at her cup and ignored Hanna’s cries.

  “No offense,” murmured Bysantius, gripped her arm, “but you’d do better to come quietly.”

  “I can’t abandon them! They’ll die!”

  “It’s out of your hands, Eagle. You are the prisoner of Lord Alexandros now.”

  She ripped her arm out of his grasp and bolted, but two of the guards tackled her. She went down hard, but kept fighting until they pinned all her limbs. They stripped her of her weapons, tied her hands and feet with rope, and threw her in the back of a wagon as it lurched past in the train of Lord Alexandros. Scraped, bloody, and bruised, she wept with fury, hating herself for her helplessness.

  4

  HANNA did not return. They waited for hours at the edge of camp, hoping not to be noticed, and indeed it was as if they had become invisible. No one paid them the least mind. There was no telling what hour of the day it was, or what service they ought to sing, because the clouds never lifted and the light kept its smoky, sullen glow, scarcely enough to read by.

  At intervals they watched vague shapes that seemed to be troops moving in the distance, perhaps a line of march receding toward the northeast, but the haze obscured most movement beyond an arrow’s shot. Their eyes stung and their noses ran from the constant irritation of falling ash and blowing grit. Yet the patter of ash fall eased by the time Fortunatus sighed and turned to Rosvita.

  “What if she is not coming back, Sister? Should one of us go look for her?”

  “We will not split up. What happens to one, happens to all.”

  “We have waited here long enough,” said Mother Obligatia. They had set her litter across the wagon and shielded her with a canvas awning so that the ancient nun could ease up on her elbows and survey the scene. “Night will come and find us standing like dumb beasts in the field.”

  Rosvita smiled, feeling how stern her heart had become. Smiles meant something different here in the aftermath; they betokened not happiness or laughter but determination. “You are right. We must make a decision, or others will choose for us.”

  They had taken turns circling out from their position, venturing only to that point where they could still see back to the group as they searched in the wreckage for food and water. They had found five corpses, put one dreadfully injured dog out of its misery, and managed otherwise to collect a small store of provisions and, most importantly, a score of sacks and leather bottles filled variously with wine, sweetened vinegar, and a nasty-tasting liquid that stank of aniseed but was something they might be able to drink in dire need.

  The wagon under which Aurea had sheltered was too heavy to drag, but Hilaria discovered a handcart in decent shape, needing only a small repair to the axle because it had tipped over and spilled its load of bundled herbs.

  “Some peddler following the army,” said Aurea as she helped the girls gather up what could be salvaged: lavender, mostly, sage, tufts of bay and basil, and feverwort. “A bag of chestnuts! Why would anyone abandon such treasures?”

  “Perhaps the peddler is dead,” said Ruoda sharply. Gerwita began to snivel.

  “We’ll stay together,” said Rosvita, seeing that tempers would run high with exhaustion and fear driving them. “Take turns hauling the c
art.”

  They set off with Rosvita in the lead beside Diocletia. Behind them, Fortunatus and Teuda carried Mother Obligatia’s litter. Heriburg followed with the precious books slung over her back. Ruoda and Gerwita shepherded Petra, while Jerome and Jehan took turns pushing the cart. Tireless Hilaria paced up and down the line to spell those who needed a rest, and Aurea set herself as their rear guard. They had no particular destination but made their way through rippling lakes of torn and crumpled canvas, past discarded shoes and forgotten harness, an iron kettle, a red cap, and a broken leather strap affixed to a bronze Circle of Unity in the Arethousan style with crossed bars quartering the interior. The armies had left an eerie silence in their wake but for the wind grumbling through scraps of canvas and a dog snuffling at an overturned wagon, trying to dig its way in to something caught underneath.

  But for the wind and the dog, nothing and no one moved in the haze. Those folk the armies had not taken with them had, evidently, fled the scene, fearing worse to come. It was difficult to imagine what could be worse than what they had suffered during the night.

  “Look!” murmured Diocletia. “There’s someone—there!”

  A figure huddled in a clearing notable for the lack of debris on all sides except a single expanse of splotched canvas that had once been a grand tent and a scattering of spears tumbled on the ground. The creature crouched with its head buried in its dirty riding skirts and its arms wrapped around its knees, like a child.

  Rosvita gestured for the others to halt. She ventured forward cautiously with Diocletia beside her. The nun paused to pick up a spear, and Hilaria and Aurea hurried up beside her to gather up the rest. They walked softly, but even so, the person seemed utterly lost not to have heard their approach. They halted a body’s length from her—it was now obvious it was a woman—and Diocletia moved sideways so that if the woman was armed and dangerous she might not strike them both dead with one blow. How had it come to this, that a holy nun should think like a soldier, weighing tactics? Was this to be the fate of all humankind in the weeks and months to come?

  “Friend,” said Rosvita in Arethousan, as gently as she knew how. “We will not harm you.”

  At first, she gained no response. But at last that dark head stirred and a woman raised a tearstained face to stare at her with an expression of such hopelessness that Rosvita felt tears in her own eyes drawn out by that naked anguish.

  She was stunned as she recognized the other woman. “Your Highness,” she said in Wendish. “I am Sister Rosvita. Do you remember me? Where is King Geza?”

  “I divorce you,” said the princess, each word formed so precisely that it seemed she was repeating a phrase spoken by someone else. Her gaze was bleak, and her hands were dirty, as if she had been digging.

  “Are you alone, Your Highness?”

  Sapientia’s laugh was that of a madwoman, quickly cut off. “A prince without a retinue is no prince!”

  “We are your retinue, Your Highness.”

  Sapientia stared at her for a long time without answering. Rosvita began to doubt the princess had heard her.

  Fortunatus crept up beside Rosvita and leaned to whisper in her ear. “There is no one left, Sister. She’s been abandoned, just as we were.” He sounded as shocked as she felt. “She is King Henry’s daughter! What will we do?”

  “We must take her with us.”

  A robed person swept past them and heedlessly knelt down within range of the princess. “Come, little lamb,” she said in Dariyan. “You’ve strayed far, but we’ll take care of you now.”

  It was Sister Petra. Her expression was calm, almost blank, but her voice had a soothing gentleness. If Princess Sapientia understood her coaxing, spoken as it was in Dariyan, she made no sign, but she allowed herself to be helped to stand, she allowed herself to be herded along without protest. She said not one word more as they made their way through the wreckage of the camp, always moving upslope and away from the distant ocean, until they came at long last to a pine wood whose sparse canopy gave them a measure of shelter as the light changed and became rather more dense. Night was coming on, although a glow remained in the sky, painting the heavens a deathly orange-red. They rigged up a serviceable shelter and dined sparingly on a stew of leeks and turnips flavored with a bay leaf and cooked over an open fire in the kettle they had found in the deserted camp.

  “We are well set for a hike in the woods,” said Fortunatus, attempting levity although there wasn’t much to be had.

  Rosvita smiled gratefully at him. They had a single spoon, which they passed around between them to eat out of the kettle. “We have provisions, and freedom. It is more than we had before.”

  “Best be grateful for each least blessing God grant us,” agreed Mother Obligatia. She was so tiny and so frail that the power of her voice always amazed Rosvita. She was actually sitting up for the first time in many days, as if the terrible night had strengthened her.

  Her words awoke someone else. Sapientia had let the spoon pass by without acknowledging that it, or anything, existed. She had walked in a trance, pressed along by the constant attentions of Sister Petra, whose entire being was focused on her helpless charge. The glow of the fire painted shadows on the princess’ face, making of her a mask whose expression could not be fathomed because it was so empty. But the mask spoke.

  “A prince without a retinue is no prince,” she repeated.

  Rosvita knelt beside her. “We are your retinue, Your Highness.”

  After a long silence, Sapientia turned her head and looked straight at the cleric, although Rosvita at first wasn’t sure the princess knew who she was. Behind her, Jerome slurped at the spoon.

  “You love my father, Sister Rosvita,” Sapientia said.

  “I love him and serve him, Your Highness.”

  “Do you love me, Sister?”

  “Nay, child, not in the same way. I have known your father for a very long time. He has my heart, but you have my loyalty. I will not abandon you.”

  Sapientia slammed fists into the ground and again, and again. “Not like all the others! My father! Bayan! Sanglant! The Pechanek mothers! Geza! Every one of them deserted me!” The storm broke over her. She sobbed in great heaves, trembling all over. Petra stroked her shoulders, murmuring words that made no sense, and after a while the princess calmed.

  Wind crackled through limbs. Among the trees a branch snapped and crashed down to the ground. Otherwise it was so quiet. Too quiet. They had seen no birds all day. No telltale rustling marked the comings and goings of the little nocturnal creatures who ought to be scuttling about their nightly rounds.

  Sapientia’s reaction was such a brief window, opened to show a light within and perhaps soon to be shut. Rosvita had to ask, although she feared the answer.

  “Your Highness. Did you see Hanna? The Eagle who was with us?”

  Sapientia did not raise her head. Her voice was hoarse and ugly. “She’s dead.”

  “Ai, God,” Rosvita whispered. “You saw her dead? You saw her body?”

  Sapientia refused to answer, only stared at the ground.

  “What will we do?” they asked, one by one, all but Mother Obligatia.

  “I should never have let her go off alone!”

  “Nay, Sister,” said Mother Obligatia, scolding her. “The Eagle did what she had to do. That was her duty. She knew it was dangerous.”

  Guilt burned. Rosvita thought of Hanna as one of her charges, now that they had traveled so far together. She could not find any ease in her heart by prating about duty. She rose and paced around the fire, examining each one who had followed her so far: Mother Obligatia with her ancient sorrows and dangerous past; the abbess’ three stout attendants in the persons of Diocletia, Hilaria, and the lay sister Teuda; poor Petra, now cooing and stroking the unresponsive Princess Sapientia; Rosvita’s faithful servant Aurea, with her strong arm and steady head; that gaggle of young clerics who admired her far too well, timid Gerwita, stubborn Heriburg, clever Ruoda, and the two young men,
Jerome and Jehan, still youths in so many ways. Last of all, she met the gaze of the one who was her secret strength: Brother Fortunatus. He nodded at her. He would never waver.

  “We rest as well as we can, for we will need our strength. It seemed to me that the light was better in the east, but that way lies Arethousa. Unless tomorrow brings an unexpected change, we must try our luck to the northwest. We must try to reach Wendar. God help us.”

  God help me, she thought, as they made ready to rest on the cold ground, arranging cloaks and canvas and blankets over themselves, a jumble of treasures they had salvaged out of the camp. They had provisions to last for perhaps five days. God help me, I pray you. I do not want to lose another one.

  Out in the forest, a twig snapped. All of them looked up, startled and anxious. They waited, but no further noise beyond that of the wind rattling in the boughs disturbed the evening silence.

  “What if there are bandits, Sister Rosvita?” asked Gerwita. Her voice was so soft it almost vanished under the sound of the wind. “We have no weapons to defend ourselves. We can’t use those spears.”

  The girl looked scared. The others stared at Rosvita, waiting for her answer.

  She caught Fortunatus’ gaze. He smiled bravely.

  “We have our wits, child. Let us pray they are weapon enough.”

  VI

  THE ENEMY’S HANDIWORK

  1

  “LOOK, Your Excellency. Can that be Darre?”

  The soldier shifted impatiently as his comrade led Antonia’s mule the last few paces to the top of the ridge. From this vantage point the plain of Dar could usually be seen in all its glorious expanse: the river, the towers rising on the palace rock, the domes of the two great cathedrals, the manifold streets as twisty as the Enemy’s minions, the western hills that blocked the path to the sea, the thousand fields on which the ancient city had first taken root and grown into an empire.