In the Ruins

  “Make way! Make way!” cried his soldiers.

  He knew their voices. They did not sound afraid.

  He had glimpsed them sporadically on the march east. They spent most of their time hunting. Now they circled low, waiting for the square to clear before they swooped down to land next to the steps. Liath had risen. Folk scattered into the avenues and alleys of Gent, fleeing the monsters. A few foolhardy youths wavered at the edge of the square, measuring the response of his soldiers, who instead of fleeing had merely moved back to leave room for the griffins. Others crowded onto the porch of the church. Many cowered inside.

  He strode out onto the steps.

  The griffins hit hard and not particularly gracefully. Argent whuffed and spread his wings discontentedly. A handful of sharp wing feathers drifted down. Domina raised and lowered her gleaming head, bobbing up and down, stalking back and then forward. Her movements had the quality of a dance. At intervals she shrieked, and when she had done, she crouched and sprang into flight. The backdraft of her flight stirred his robes. Liath’s hair was swept back, then settled, as the two griffins circled once, twice, rising higher, before they caught an updraft and rose dizzyingly. Soon they were only specks climbing toward the clouds.

  “They’ll talk about this ever after,” remarked Waltharia, coming up beside him. Her voice trembled. Like the others, she had never become easy around the griffins, even though usually they kept their distance from all large habitations of humankind.

  The others surged out after her, chattering as they stared and pointed. Because of his presence on the steps, the townsfolk crept back into the square to see him standing before them robed and crowned in the vestments of kingship.

  “You have powerful allies,” said Mother Scholastica, who let no earthly creature frighten her. “The griffin is a heavenly creature that partakes of the nature of an eagle, a lion, and the serpent, who is sometimes also called a dragon. In this way, it reminds us of Wendar. Yet I wonder what this display portends?” She looked up at the sky, squinting as she attempted to trace the dwindling figures.

  “What do you think it portends, Aunt?”

  She measured him. “Some will say that this is a sign of God’s favor.”

  “And what will others say?”

  “That you are ruled by sorcery. Your legitimacy will always be in question, Sanglant. Do not believe otherwise.”

  “You crowned and anointed me.”

  “So the griffins remind me. Yet they may not always remain with you.” She looked toward Liath. “Choose your alliances wisely.”

  Gent’s biscop, Suplicia, came up beside them, shaking her head in wonderment. “Griffins! It is a sign of God’s favor.”

  A woman broke free of the gathering crowd and climbed the steps to kneel before Biscop Suplicia.

  “I pray you, Your Grace, let me speak. I am an honest and loyal merchant in this town.”

  “I know who you are, Mistress Weaver,” said the biscop kindly. “You are bold to throw yourself forward at such a solemn time. Remember, this is the king.”

  Robes and crown were a fine thing because they allowed him to remain silent and keep his distance, shielded by the aura of majesty.

  She looked at him but only nodded. What had once passed between them had left nothing more than a fleeting memory in her expression. She had moved on. Indeed, she looked indignant as she bent her head humbly and spoke before the church women.

  “I pray you, Holy Mother. Your Grace. Your Majesty. Many among us have wondered this day why a woman who has served God so well must kneel outside this holy place as a penitent. I speak of this woman, the Eagle. Know this, there are many here who were themselves saved or who have children or cousins or kinfolk who were saved because St. Kristine of the Knives chose to appear before that one. The blessed saint chose that woman to lead the children of Gent to a place of safekeeping. Why is she dishonored and humbled in this way?”

  “You trouble me with your bold speaking, Mistress,” said Mother Scholastica sternly. “What means this?”

  “Nay, it is true, although I did not witness the event myself,” said Biscop Suplicia. “It is a story told throughout the city by those who survived the Eika. If this is that same Eagle, then there must be many here who will be willing to speak. If you allow it, Your Majesty.”

  “I see the strategy unfold,” said Mother Scholastica, glancing at her nephew and again at Liath, who had not moved since the departure of the griffins. “You knew this would happen.”

  “I hoped it would,” he replied.

  The handsome Suzanne kept her gaze lowered, but she heard him. “Many will speak if they are allowed, Your Majesty,” she said without looking at him. “Your Holiness, I beg you.” She lifted her right hand. A dozen worthy and prosperous-looking people ventured forward from the crowd and knelt on the steps below her.

  “I am called Gerhard, of the tanners, Your Holiness. I know of fourteen young people whose lives were saved by this woman.”

  “I am called Gisela, of Steleshame, Your Holiness. I witness that many took refuge in my steading who were saved by the intervention of the saint through this woman.”

  “I am called Karl, Your Holiness. I am a blacksmith …”

  So they went on, a solemn procession of sober-minded responsible folk who, by the work of their hands, had caused Gent to prosper in the years after the Eika invasion. The most noble abbess and biscops and church folk heard them out. As they spoke, one by one, others, more humble, crept forward from the crowd to place flowers and wreaths at Liath’s feet before scuttling away as though they feared lightning might strike. They spoke softly to her, but he could hear them because his hearing was as keen as a dog’s.

  “Do you remember me?” they would whisper.

  “This is my brother. He and I—we remember you, Eagle.”

  “God praise you, Eagle.”

  “I followed you out through the crypt. Lady save you, Eagle.”

  It was this crowd, more than that of the prosperous merchants and artisans, that attracted Sanglant’s notice, a tide of common laborers and craftsmen, most of them very young. Fully half of them wore at their necks crudely fashioned necklaces from which hung two charms: the Circle of Unity and a flowering bird. He knew the symbol. He had seen representations of it elsewhere, carved in similar manner.

  It was a phoenix.

  3

  IT was late. The feast had ground on for hours, pleasantly enough. The beggars had eaten a most noble portion. Bread had been passed out to the multitudes waiting outside the mayor’s palace. Sanglant retired after the singing, but he could not sleep and so pulled on his tunic, laced up his sandals, and slipped back into the great hall with Hathui and Fulk padding at his heels.

  Dogs slept in the rushes. Beggars snored beneath trestle tables. What else stank in the hall he did not care to identify. It would be swept out at dawn in preparation for tomorrow’s second feast.

  “Where do you mean to go, Your Majesty?”

  He threw his cloak over his shoulders.

  Hathui did not ask again after he did not reply, but a look was exchanged between her and the captain. Four soldiers appeared, two bearing lamps, and followed him as he went outside. As always, the sky was dark. No moon or stars shone down on them. The light of the lanterns rippled over the courtyard as he walked to the palace gates, once shattered and now rebuilt. Gent would always haunt him. He had suffered too much here. Like the buildings, he had scars, but he had prospered nevertheless.

  Beyond the palace gates he walked the cold streets. It was dark and dank, and his feet slopped in mud. In the handful of years since Bloodheart’s ouster there had been time to rebuild walls and residences but not yet the plank walkways that had once kept men’s feet out of the muck.

  Wind moaned through eaves. A smattering of rain kissed his face. All the smells of the city drifted on that night air: offal and sewage, fermenting barley and rancid chicken broth, the rank savor of the tannery and the slumbering iron tang of t
he blacksmith’s forge. The old marketplace had been reconstructed as a row of artisan compounds. The old mint was still a ruin, a jumble of charred pilings and shards of lumber too badly burned and broken to be scavenged for other buildings. Eyes shone in lamplight, and feral dogs growled as he and his escort passed. He growled back. They slunk away into the shelter of overhangs and collapsed walls.

  “Amazing they haven’t been killed,” said Fulk. “I’d think it would be good sport for the lads in the town to hunt them out, vermin like that.”

  “No doubt they’ve tried,” replied Hathui. “It’s hard to kill them all.”

  The central square of Gent opened before them. The soldiers swept the lantern light in swathes across the stones, but the square was empty. Everyone had gone home or found lodging. They mounted the steps, but these, too, were deserted. A single flower petal lay forgotten on stone. Otherwise, every wreath and bouquet brought here earlier had vanished.

  “Where is Liath?” He took a lantern. “Wait here.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Fulk, but he looked at Hathui as with a question, and she nodded back at him, and abruptly Sanglant wondered if there was some deeper intimacy going on between those two.

  Never mind it. He was not the right person to judge.

  Folk slept restlessly in the nave. Once, years ago, refugees had gathered here. This group were commoners who, having walked in from outlying areas to witness the anointing and crowning of the regnant, had no other place to stay before they set out for the journey back to their homes in the morning. He kept the lantern held low so none would mark him, and made his way to the stairs that led down to the crypt.

  The stairs took a sharp corner, here, which he remembered as clearly as if it had been yesterday. A spiderweb glistened, spun into a gap in the stones. He halted at the bottom of the stairs. A field of tombs faded into darkness. Beyond the halo of lantern light, it was utterly black.

  “Liath?” he said softly, but there was no answer.

  He waited, listening, but heard nothing. He smelled the aroma of clay and lime but no scent of oats. Instead, the fragrance of drying flowers brushed him. The bones of his Dragons had been thrown down into this holy place. In a way his old life, that of the King’s Dragon, Henry’s obedient son, had died here, too. The old Sanglant could not have taken on the regnant’s mantle despite Henry’s desire to raise him to that exalted state. It was Bloodheart’s captivity that had changed him. How strange were God’s ways!

  “‘Be bound as I am by the fate others have determined for you,”’ she said.

  “Liath!” He shifted the lantern, but he still could not see her. The pit of darkness had swallowed her.

  “Do you remember?” she asked. “That’s what you said to me, that day.”

  “I don’t remember saying it. I remember following you down here. God know I remember the day well enough. I died that day, or would have, if my mother hadn’t cursed me. And you lived.”

  “I remember something else you said,” she added, and he heard amusement in her tone. She was laughing at him.

  “What is that?”

  “‘Down that road I dare not walk.”’

  He laughed. “Not here among the holy dead, at least. But there is a cold bed waiting to be warmed if you’ll come with me.”

  “Not tonight, beloved. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “So you say. I’ll not ask again if it displeases you.”

  “Nay, don’t scold me, Sanglant. I’m still reflecting on my sins. What do you think happened to Wolfhere?”

  “What has that to do with your sins?”

  “I’m not sure, but I feel sure there is a connection. Do you think he’s dead?”

  “If he is, I will not mourn him overmuch, considering he tried to murder me when I was an infant. He was taken with Blessing, though. So much so that he tried to kidnap her.”

  “Blessing said otherwise, so you also said.”

  “That he protested against her being taken? She can’t be expected to have understood the whole.”

  “Brother Zacharias ended up with Hugh. So I must wonder, where did Wolfhere end up? Will we ever know?”

  “A mystery,” he agreed, but he was getting restless again. His legs had a way of getting twitchy when he needed to move. “Do you mean to stay down here all night?”

  “The griffins have left.”

  “What?”

  “So I believe. They made their farewells, and flew east.”

  “Why would they desert me now?” he demanded, thinking of Mother Scholastica’s words.

  “Spring is come. They’ll want to rebuild their nest and mate.”

  “So do all creatures! This one not least among them!”

  She laughed but, infuriatingly, did not move forward to where he could see her. He thought he caught the fine scent of her now. He smelled the bouquets and wreaths that had surrounded her before: a tincture of violet, the earthy aroma of bracken, the comfort of woodruff and heal-all. She liked to wash her hair in water scented with lavender, to make it shine, and she had always a clean, dry smell about her that reminded him of the way stones smelled on a hot summer’s afternoon when the sun’s light has glared down on them all day. It was a good scent, an arousing scent.

  “Go oh, Sanglant,” she said, as if she could feel his desire through the air, which perhaps she could. “I’m trying to find the tomb of St. Kristine of the Knives. I want to place all the offerings there, in thanks.”

  “That was a miracle. She rose in a time of great need. You won’t find it tonight.”

  “Maybe not. But I have to look.”

  He knew enough of her now to know when she could not be swayed, and he respected her well enough to let it be as she wished. Even if it irritated him a little. Even if it made him think.

  “God be with you on your search,” he said, and turned away to climb up the steps.

  Outside, his escort waited. He caught them yawning.

  “Your Majesty!”

  “I have a wish to see the river gate.” He did not offer to let them return to their beds. He knew they would not go back to the palace without him.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Fulk, who seemed amused. Hathui hid another yawn behind a hand. The soldiers—tonight it was Sibold, Surly, Lewenhardt, and one of the new men, Maurits—set out with lanterns raised to illuminate their road.

  Here in the square he had mounted for that last ride with his Dragons. Now he walked, like a penitent, along the path he and his soldiers had taken that day. Then, hooves had rapped. Tonight, footsteps tapped. The main avenue that led to the gate was still intact, paved entirely with stone. Then, the city had breathed with fear. Tonight, only the wind stirred. All slept, sated with feasting or exhausted by standing in the streets for hours waiting to see the king and his fine procession and the grand ladies and lords and their entourages, so many visiting Gent that it must seem like a plague of nobles to the humble folk who must open their larders to feed them all.

  Would the crops grow this season if there was no sun?

  Could Liath learn the art of the tempestari in order to aid the kingdom?

  If sorcery had created this disaster, then wasn’t it necessary for sorcery to be wielded to correct it? Surely that would be no sin. Surely it were better for the church to lift the prohibition against weather-working than for people to suffer and die. And yet, once begun, where did it end?

  The avenue debouched into an open space before the eastern gate. When they had rebuilt the wall walk, they had put in steep wooden stairs in new locations, so it took them a little while, searching, to find their way up.

  A lookout was built out over the gate. Two milites, guardsmen from Gent, turned to challenge him, then recoiled in surprise.

  “Your Majesty!”

  “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty!”

  “Never mind it. It’s well you’re alert.” They moved back to let him look over the river and the eastern shore, although he saw only darkness.

  “
That is the future,” he said softly. “That which we cannot discern.”

  Had he listened to Liath, that day when Bloodheart’s army struck, none of this would have happened. It was difficult to know which decisions were God’s will and which merely human choice, a mistake made in this case because he knew too little of her to trust that she might be able to see what others could not: that is, what is truth, and what the lie. In a way, he saw as little now as he had then on that day the Eika had used magic to deceive their human foes into opening the gates to their own destruction.

  He wondered, sometimes, if Li’at’dano had known how vast a cataclysm the great weaving would create. If she had known that it would harm humankind as much as the Ashioi. Had she encouraged the mages of ancient days to open the gates to their own destruction? To weave the tides that would overwhelm them?

  He tasted the moisture of the river purling along below. Its tang tickled his nose.

  “There’s more salt,” he said. “I can smell the tides.”

  “Have you not taken a tour of the land hereabouts, Your Majesty?” asked the older guard.

  “I have not. What would I see?”

  “Terrible things,” muttered the lad.

  “Here, now, boy, be quiet! Begging your pardon, Your Majesty.”

  “Nay, you must tell me what you know and what you yourself witnessed.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “It was terrible!” exclaimed the lad. He shifted restlessly, mail rustling like the wind in dry leaves. “A great wave struck the shoreline. A score of fishing villages were wiped out, just like that, swept into the sea never to be seen again! I hadn’t any kinfolk there, but a fellow I know—he lost his entire family! Never saw them again! For seven days after the tempest, the river ran backward. It flooded fields all around the city.”

  “With seawater?”

  “With evil things—! Ow!”