In the Ruins

  “See who comes,” interrupted Hathui, lifting her chin.

  The centaurs had proved hardiest of all his soldiers. Like goats, they seemed able to eat almost anything, although he had never seen any of the Horse people eat meat. Capi’ra’s fine coat was discolored by streaks of grime, but she looked perfectly able to trample him on the spot if he gave offense.

  He nodded, acknowledging her. She stamped once.

  “It is time.” She gestured toward the east. “We turn east and follow the hills on our own path. We come to northern plains of Ungria and from there east to home. Our alliance is finished. Now we leave.”

  “I am sorry to see you and your people go,” he said, “but I know I cannot hold you here.”

  “That is right.”

  He smiled. She did not smile in reply, but neither did she frown. “What of the future?” he asked. “What of our alliance?”

  “I report on all we witness to the council, as you would say. The ones who lead us will discuss all that happened. The strong minds will decide. We, the rest, will follow.”

  “What of our daughter?” asked Liath.

  “I have not forgotten your daughter, Bright One. See who comes with me.” She flicked a hand up.

  There were some of the steppe-dwelling Kerayit among her dozen attendants, but to Sanglant’s surprise the shaman, Gyasi, had also come, together with a pair of Quman captains. He hadn’t noticed them at first because, not mounted, they weren’t yet wearing their wings, and judged by facial features alone they did not look so very different from the Kerayit tribesmen.

  The shaman and his companions knelt before Sanglant, tapped knuckles to foreheads as they acknowledged Liath’s presence.

  “We beg you, master,” said Gyasi, “let us return with the Horse people to our homeland. I will be your messenger. I will seek news of your daughter. I will bring her back to you if she still lives. My clan owes her our service, for as long as she lives.”

  Liath looked away, wiping a tear off her cheek. “She lives,” she muttered. “I saw her.” She swung back to face Sanglant. “I should go.”

  “No. I grieve for Blessing as well. I fear for her. But it serves no purpose for you to travel east on a journey that could take years. I weep for my daughter. I miss her. But if you go, it will not bring her back more quickly. And if she is dead—”

  “She is not dead!”

  “She is not dead if our wills make it true, but we don’t know. I trust Gyasi to find her and bring her home. Heribert is with her. That must be enough. There is too much at stake elsewhere, and I. Need. You.”

  She lifted a hand. She could not answer in any other way. It was not acquiescence, precisely. She was herself torn and indecisive.

  “Take what supplies you need, Gyasi. You take as well my heart, for my daughter is precious to me.”

  Gyasi nodded. “She saved my life and that of my nephews, Majesty. This obligation I owe to her. I am not a man unless it is discharged.”

  Even so, even knowing he did what was necessary, he found that he, like Liath, could not speak because of sorrow and fear choking the words in his throat. He, too, lifted a hand. The gesture must speak where he would otherwise break down. So much loss; Blessing might be the least of it.

  The shaman rose, but paused before he turned away. The centaurs and their attendants were already moving toward the pathless forest while Gyasi hummed a queer little tuneless melody under his breath. A twisting track opened between the trees, not quite seen, not quite felt, but present as mist rising from the hills at dawn. The fall of hooves, the rattle of harness, the soft conversations among men all vanished, bit by bit, as the party moved onto that path and vanished into the woodland. Behind Sanglant, the army made ready to leave, but men stopped in their tasks, hearing that uncanny music, and stared as the forest swallowed the centaurs and their companions. Last of all, Gyasi stepped onto the path, and the trees closed in behind him. At once, the forest appeared as an impenetrable tangle of fallen logs and stands of beech and fir grown among brambles and thickets of sedge and bilberry.

  “Their path will be swift, I’d wager,” murmured Hathui.

  “Let us leave this behind,” said Liath, more quaver than voice. “I will cry.”

  Every man and woman was eager to get moving, to reach home. To discover if home had weathered the storm. Many, like Liutgard and Burchard and what remained of their armies, had been away from Wendar for years, having marched south with Henry in his quest to restore Taillefer’s fallen empire. That was all gone now.

  So much else was gone, he thought, brooding as they rode at a steady pace along the road. Often they had to halt while those in the vanguard cleared the road. The storm had torn through this countryside, leaving debris everywhere. No one would lack firewood for burning this winter, had they any game to roast over the flames.

  “You are quiet, Your Majesty,” said Hathui having given up her attempts to get Liath to speak.

  “What have we left?” he asked her. “What was once an alliance is now, again, only loyal Wendishmen and march-landers.”

  “Isn’t that for the best?”

  “Is it? Did we not have strength in numbers? Did we not have strength because we reached across the old boundaries? My father was not foolish in thinking that empire would make him strong.”

  “It killed him.”

  Hathui’s tone surprised him, but as he examined her face, he saw neither anger or resentment, only sadness.

  “Did it? That he marched south to Aosta—perhaps. Yet any of us might die, on any day.”

  “Perhaps not you, Your Majesty.”

  The barb had a sharp hook. “That may be, yet I pray you consider that my father might have died in his bed, or fighting against his enemies in Wendar, as easily as he was captured by the queen’s plots.”

  “Do not forget Hugh of Austra, Your Majesty.”

  Ah.

  He glanced at Liath, but she seemed far removed from their conversation. She had light hands on her mount, a submissive mare who was content to follow where the rest led. She was far beyond him, a world away, judging by her frown and the unfocused nature of her gaze, not quite lighting on tree or earth or cloudy sky.

  “I have not forgotten him, Hathui. Where he is now, I cannot say.”

  “Dead, I hope,” muttered Hathui. “I saw him murder Villam with his own hands. I will never forgive him that, although my forgiveness is not a thing a man of his station cares about. If he lives, he will have found refuge. I hope he is dead.”

  “I would just like to know.” He laughed. “Better to know that there’s a man in the dark stalking you with a knife. Even if you can’t see him. Yet what do you make of it, Hathui?”

  “Of Hugh’s plots and Queen Adelheid’s treachery?”

  “Nay. Of this new alliance.”

  “What alliance, Your Majesty?” She looked around, as if expecting a pack of wolves to lope out of the surrounding woods. As they moved down into the bowl of a valley, beech and silver fir gave way to spruce. The dense boughs of spruce had absorbed the heavy winds better than most trees. Although the road was darker, often shaded and dim, few broken branches and fallen trees blocked their path.

  “That between the Quman and the Horse people.”

  “Is there one?” Liath had been listening, after all. She spoke as if the question had been addressed to her. “The Horse people are few, so they say. If they do not make allies of the Quman, they will end up fighting them. So they have done for generations, surely, with the aid of sorcery.”

  “So they have done, but it is not clear what will become of sorcery now, or how the balance of power will change with the return of my mother’s people. If I were one of the leaders of the Horse people, I would seek allies. It may be they will seek an alliance with the Quman. It may even be they will seek an alliance with the Ashioi.”

  “The Horse people and the Ashioi were enemies.”

  “Long ago.”

  “I have met Zuangua, as have you, S
anglant. To him, to the many who lived in the shadows all that time, it is not long ago but yesterday. Even to the ones who were born in exile, it is within the living memory of your grandfather, who can tell the tale.”

  Sanglant had only the vaguest memory of his father’s father, Arnulf the Younger, but Henry’s mother, Queen Mathilda, had patted and cosseted her young grandson as affectionately as could so reserved a woman. All her love was held tight for Henry. She had admired Sanglant, but his birth had meant most to her, he suspected, because it gave Henry his claim to the regnancy.

  So it was strange to think of having a grandfather, so old a man that he had seen the world almost three millennia ago. He could not grasp such an expanse of time. He had never been one to hoard grudges or dwell on the past. He refused to live in Bloodheart’s hall forever, chained down with the dogs.

  “That may be true,” he replied, “but enemies can become allies if a greater threat rises.”

  “Who would that be?” demanded Hathui. “If the stories are true, humankind and the Horse people moved heaven and earth in truth to cast away the Ashioi. If I were one of the Lost Ones, I’m not sure I could forgive that. If I were one of the Horse people, I’m not sure I would expect to be forgiven.”

  He laughed. “We are not the Horse people. They are not like us. Li’at’dano said so herself. She said that humankind have driven them far into the east, and decimated their herds through disease and conflict.”

  “The Quman did that,” said Hathui, “who hate and fear them.”

  “And others. But Capi’ra and her troop have seen the west, now. Wendish folk defeated the Quman. Anne and her sorcerers raised this great storm. If I were one who leads among the Horse people, then I would fear Wendar.”

  “There is another power that you neglect,” said Liath suddenly. “Anne did not raise the storm. The ancient ones did. Li’at’dano did. The Ashioi land would have returned in any case. Anne meant to exile them again, to destroy them for all time. That she did not, that worse destruction did not overtake us all, is due to the voices from the north. There is power there we must not ignore.”

  “The Eika?” Hathui asked. “They are barbarians. One chieftain might strike and lay waste along the coast, but I recall how Count Lavastine held them off with his local milites. A strong Wendish and Varren resistance will beat them back.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sanglant. “It bears watching.”

  “There is so much we do not know,” murmured Liath, “and it will be more difficult to learn now that we are blind.”

  2

  WHEN they stopped at nightfall, Hanna left her guards while they argued over whether or not to set up a tent for the night, and staggered over to a trickling stream. In the midst of a crowd of hot, thirsty, complaining Arethousan soldiers she splashed water on her face and slurped down as much as she could hold in her cupped hands. Soon the water became murky from so many stamping through the shallows. A man slammed into her shoulder as he pushed forward toward the stream. He muttered a curse, looked at her once, then a second time, and called to his fellows.

  “The Wendish bitch! See here! She’s slipped her leash.”

  All at once a half dozen of them pressed back from the water to encircle her. She had overreached because her thirst had driven her forward rashly. She turned her wrists in toward her body to grip the chain, ready to use it as a weapon.

  Sergeant Bysantius appeared beside her with a quirt. “Back! Back!” he cried as he slashed left and right, driving the soldiers away from her.

  Her heart was still racing, and her mouth had gone dry, so she pretended to a calmness she did not feel as she sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead as well as she could with her wrists manacled. “I thank you, Sergeant.”

  He raised one eyebrow, then pointed behind her with the quirt. “I didn’t come for you. See, there. General Lord Alexandros waters his horses.”

  They marched these days through dry, hilly countryside devoid of habitation. This stream poured out of a ravine. Except at this ford, its banks were too steep for horses to drink. Muttering, the soldiers headed back to camp.

  “Up!” Sergeant Bysantius grabbed her elbow and pulled her upright. “Out of the way.”

  She shook her arm out of his grasp before he could lead her away. The chain that bound her ankles allowed her to walk but not run, and she was unable to avoid the rush of horses brought to the stream by the general’s grooms. Alexandros himself rode a chestnut mare with a pale gold coat. His entire string had chestnut coats, most pale and a few richly dark in shade. He pulled up, dismounted, and tossed his reins to a groom before walking over to Sergeant Bysantius.

  “Sergeant, bring the Eagle to me at my tent.”

  “Yes, my lord general.”

  He strode away with a dozen men swarming in attendance.

  “He has no need to crawl for a taste of water as the rest of us do,” she said bitterly to the sergeant. “He has wine to drink while his soldiers go thirsty.”

  Bysantius scratched his cheek. “He has earned his rank and his privileges. He’s no better born than half these men.”

  She laughed. “How can that be? He is a lord.”

  “A man who commands an army is likely to be addressed as ‘lord,’ I’m thinking. Even by those who were born under a canopy boasting the imperial star. Especially if they need the men and weapons he can bring to their cause.”

  “The exalted Lady Eudokia needs him in order to raise her nephew to become emperor?”

  He shrugged. “A strong hand rules where weaker hands sow only chaos. Come.”

  She followed up along the dusty ground on the trail of the lord general, now vanished into the glut of wagons, horses, milling troops, and canvas tents that marked the camp. Every night the camp was set up in the exact same order, every tent sited in relation to the emperor’s tent according to its inhabitants’ rank, position, and importance to the royal child. This night, they had halted in the middle of what had once been a village.

  Three brick hovels stood in the midst of a dozen ancient olive trees, but the tiny hamlet appeared abandoned, perhaps yesterday, perhaps one hundred years ago. In this dry country it was impossible to tell.

  Bysantius paced himself so as not to get ahead of her. Over the last ten or so days she had accustomed herself to the chains so that she could walk without stumbling.

  “I thank you,” she repeated.

  “For what kindness?” he asked, almost laughing.

  “For saving me from whatever unkindness I might have suffered from those soldiers.”

  “The general wants you unharmed. You’re no use to him dead.”

  She was, apparently, no use to him living, but she forbore to say it, knowing it foolish to remind her captors that they might be better off saving for their own men the bit of food they fed to her each day. “Is it true of all of you, that you serve the lord general and not the exalted lady?”

  Now he did laugh. “The priests teach us that we serve God, is that not so? God served humankind by walking among us for a time so He could lead us into the Light.”

  “That is a heresy.”

  “Nay, you Darrens are the heretics. You say that the blessed Daisan was only a man like you and me.” He spoke without heat. He was not, apparently, a man made passionate by religious matters.

  “The deacons of my own land taught me that the blessed Daisan prayed for seven days and nights and was lifted up to the Chamber of Light by the Mother and Father of Life. You don’t believe the tales of his martyrdom, do you?”

  “No, not his martyrdom.” Yet he frowned. “The blessed Daisan holds two natures within him, for how else could he have been translated into the Chamber of Light while still living? Still, folk do talk of this martyrdom, how his skin was flayed from his body.”

  “I’ve met more than one person in the west who whispers the heresy of the Redemption. I didn’t know folk spoke of it here, too.”

  He slapped his quirt against his thigh and glanced first l
eft, then right, as they made their way through camp. Exhausted, men sat on the ground or reclined on blankets or cloaks. “Anyone might hear. The Patriarch has spies among the troops.”

  If that were so, it must mean that the Patriarch feared the power of the heresy. Why spy out what you did not fear? Yet surely the heresy Ivar professed had come from somewhere. Why not from the east? It was the most likely story. Despite what Bysantius said, they were heretics here anyway with their talk of “two natures.” Once that door was opened, as Deacon Fortensia used to say in Heart’s Rest, any shameless layabout could creep in and pretend to be a holy saint.

  “You ever put thought to what you’ve hope for, if the lord general grants you your freedom?” asked Bysantius as they approached the general’s big tent, just now shuddering into place as soldiers and servants raised the canvas over the frame and staked it down.

  “What I’ve hope for? I hope to go home! I serve the emperor, Henry.”

  “Scouts say the land is blasted west of here. That ash and dust and fire parch the air. I don’t think the Wendish king has an empire left. You’d do better to stick it out in civilized country.”

  Her eyes burned. She wiped away tears as she struggled with dismay. “I hadn’t heard those reports.” In her own country, she would have. Eagles talked to each other and knew everything, as much as anyone could know. They knew almost as much as the regnant, because they were his eyes and ears.

  “You’re a prisoner,” he replied, gaze bent on her, “but you might be otherwise.”

  “Otherwise?” She sniffed back her tears, hating to show weakness.

  “I’d marry you, if you were willing.”

  “Marry me?” The incongruity of the comment dried her tears and her anger, then made her laugh. “Marry me?”

  “You’re strong, capable, smart. The exalted Lady Eudokia tells me you’re still a virgin. You’d make a good wife. I like you. You haven’t given up.”

  Now she burned but for other reasons. How could the exalted lady know?