The queen’s gaze sharpened as movement darkened the opened double doors that led onto the colonnade fronting the hall. Antonia was seated to her right but at an equal height on the dais. From the doors, they would be seen side by side, neither given pride of place: the secular hand in hand with the sacred, as God had ordered the world below.
General Lord Alexandros entered with a brace of men to either side. Three carried decorated boxes in their hands and the fourth an object long and round and wrapped in cloth. All were dressed in red tabards belted over armor, except for the general himself. He wore a gold silk robe belted up and cut away for riding but still marked at the neck and under the arms and around the hips with the discolorations of the armor he’d been wearing over it. He had just come from the saddle, had only taken time to haul off his armor, but Adelheid had wished for this advantage: that he not be allowed any time to prepare himself but would be thrown headlong in all his travel dirt fresh into the melee.
The empress did not rise. Naturally, neither did Antonia.
He paused to survey the hall and the folk crowded there. That half were servants and commoners he would not know just from looking; all were handsomely dressed, and the lords and ladies who attended stood at the front of the assembly. He had, indeed, but one eye, that one a startling blue. The other was covered with a black patch. He was swarthy, in the manner of Arethousans, not particularly tall but powerfully built through the shoulders and chest, a man confident of his prowess in battle.
“Now we will discover,” murmured Adelheid, “whether his wits are as well honed as his sword is said to be.”
She raised a hand. He strode forward, his men coming up behind. He alone was armed, with a sword sheathed in a plain leather scabbard. Of the rest of his men, none entered the hall.
He stopped before the dais, snapped his fingers, and mounted the steps as the attendant carrying the long object unfolded the cloth and opened it into a sturdy stool. As the general reached the second step, the man quickly placed the stool to the left of Adelheid’s throne and scurried back to kneel with the others.
General Lord Alexandros sat down.
Such audacity! Antonia found herself speechless. Indignant!
In the hall, folk caught their breath. Every gaze turned to the young empress.
Adelheid lifted one brow and measured him, and waited.
He snapped his fingers again. One by one the other men came forward, set their boxes at her feet, and opened them by means of cunning mechanisms fitted into the inlay decorating their exteriors.
From the first emerged a songbird, painted bright gold. It sang a pretty tune and turned back and forth, bobbing up and down as though alive. Adelheid forget herself so much that she clapped her hands in delight.
The second box revealed a rope of pearls of indescribable beauty. Each one was beyond price, and yet here were strung a thousand together. Light melted in their curves. Adelheid lifted up the rope, not without some effort, and let them slide across her lap.
General Lord Alexandros lifted two fingers, and the third man opened a jeweled box and displayed its contents to Antonia.
On a bed of finest gray silk lay the complete bones of a hand, fastened with gold wire.
“A song, to entertain,” he said in Dariyan, indicating the cunning songbird with a gesture of his hand. His accent was coarse, but Antonia expected no fine words out of a lying Arethousan. “Pearls, of beauty and richness. For the Holy Mother of your people,” he finished, pointing at the skeletal hand, “a precious relic.”
“A relic?” Antonia examined the bones. They had no shine to them, nothing to indicate their special holiness. “Any man may sell a finger bone and say it is the relic of a holy saint.”
He shrugged, and it angered Antonia to see that her comment amused him. “So I am thinking. Perhaps it is only the bone of a cow herder. But it come from the most holy sanctuary of the Patriarch of the True Church. This is the hand of the St. Johanna the Messenger, a holy discipla of the blessed Daisan. Still, if you think it a fake, I will take it away.”
Adelheid’s eyes widened. She still held the pearls, but her gaze fixed on the hand. “A precious relic, indeed!” she breathed. “How came you to have it, General? Why bring it to us?”
He gestured. His four attendants touched their heads to the floor in the servile eastern style, backed away, and knelt at the foot of the dais.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Holy Mother. I have no fine words. I am only a soldier. I speak with plain words, if you please.”
Antonia began to reply, knowing him impertinent and proud, but Adelheid forestalled her. The young empress was of that type of woman who is susceptible to the appearance of physical strength in a man, thinking that strong arms are preferable to strong faith and a righteous heart.
“Go on, General. I am listening.”
When he met Antonia’s gaze, it was clear he knew she did not approve of him. He judged her, as a man sizes up his opponent before opening battle, and made his attack.
“I ride a long road to come to Aosta. Many bad things I see. There is wasteland, a land of smoking rock. There is drought, dry land, sickness. There is empty land, all the people run away. There is starving. Above, we see no birds but one time a great beast which has brightness like gold. We are attacked three times by beasts, these who have the form of men but the faces of animals. They are wearing armor which I see in the ancient paintings in the halls of Arethousa. The Cursed Ones are returned to Earth. Now they stalk us.”
“These are evil tidings,” agreed Adelheid. “Yet much of this we know ourselves, here in Aosta.”
“This we suffer together.” He nodded.
“What do you want?” demanded Antonia. “You are a heretic, apostate, an Arethousan who lies as easily as breathes and who, like the fox, will steal eggs from a mother’s nest to feed your own kits.”
Adelheid’s hands clenched on the pearls as she rounded on Antonia. “I pray you! Holy Mother, let him speak. I sent envoys to inquire about an alliance. I did not expect the lord general himself to answer my call,”
“What lordship has he?” Antonia inquired sweetly. “Your proud lineage is known to all, Your Majesty. I am a daughter of the royal house of Karrone. What is he?”
He flexed his arms a little. By the breadth and thickness of his hands, one could read his lineage: a man of the sword, grown with the sword, risen by the sword, a general who had fought his entire life. “I married a noble wife,” he said. “Born into the house of Theophanes Dasenia. She is cousin of the last emperor. Also, she is cousin two times removed to the Princess Sophia who marries your King Henry in early days. A clever, industrious woman, proud, a giver of alms. Noble in all ways.”
His breath caught. The assembly was quiet, hearing in his voice a grief that made Antonia, for a moment, feel an inconvenient thread of sympathy wrap her heart. Quickly severed.
“Dead, now.” He was pale. Adelheid, too, had lost her color, and yet in all ways her looks had changed utterly since the general had entered the hall. His interest made her seem younger.
He looked at the empress, but what he saw Antonia could not read in his expression. “Arethousa is fallen, Your Majesty. The city is destroyed. Its people are exiles, those who live. Many more are dead. Even the great church is ruins.”
Adelheid nodded, as if this did not surprise her. Why should it? She had seen Darre.
“What of the young emperor, General Lord Alexandros?” Antonia asked. “Does Lord Niko live?”
He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the queen as on the spear of his enemy, which might pierce him at any unguarded moment. “The emperor lives under the skirt of his aunt, Lady Eudokia. She and I were allies once.”
“Once?” Adelheid asked quickly. “No longer?”
He smiled, as if Adelheid’s question were suggestive of brilliance. How easily men of a certain age were dazzled by young, pretty women. Henry had fallen in just such a manner, it was said.
“This is wh
at I say,” he continued. “Lady Eudokia prefers blindness. She walks in the ruins and calls them a palace. I cannot be blind to what I see.”
“What do you want, General?” Antonia asked, seeing it was wise to intercede before the conversation ran out of her control. “I believe that the Empress Queen Adelheid has made a rash suggestion that her daughter might marry the boy who is now Emperor of Arethousa. Is that what you have come to speak of? If so, let us move directly to the point. Speak bluntly, as you soldiers phrase it!”
That one good eye fixed on her briefly and disconcertingly, and he marked her and acknowledged her, but he shifted his attention back to Adelheid.
They always did! Men were fools, not to see where the true power lay. They were unbelievers, not placing their trust in God’s servants first. Not reaching for faith before earthly lusts. Always humankind failed, and it irritated her so much!
“This I hear also on my journey,” he said. “Darre, this great city, also lies in ruins. Poison smoke kills the people who live there. Every person must flee. The city is dead.”
Adelheid did not move, not to nod, not to shake her head. She had grown tense. The pearls pooled in her lap, but she was no longer touching them but rather the arms of her throne as she glared at him.
“What do you want, General? Have you come to mock me?”
“I want to live.” He patted his chest. “I—and you, Your Majesty—stand atop these ruins. Two great cities. Two noble and ancient empires. All ruins.”
She nodded but did not trust herself to speak. Tears filled the queen’s eyes. She had seen so much and lost so much, and his words affected her deeply. All there, in that assembly, strained to listen. He had that capacity, as did Adelheid: that he could draw to him those willing to follow. Like the pearls, he had luster, difficult to see when one first looked at his stocky body, bushy black beard, and terribly scarred face.
“Ruins, yours and mine. To the north, these Ungrians and Wendish, perhaps not so badly harmed. To the east, the heathen Jinna and their fire god. These also, perhaps, have not suffered so badly as we do, but it is hard to say. Last, heed me. Listen well. To the south, the Cursed Ones return. There is land where once there is sea. Already they raid into the north. When they gather an army and move in force … we will be helpless.”
So silent was it in the hall that Antonia heard horses stamping outside. So silent was it that when someone coughed, half a dozen courtiers started as at a thunderclap. It was almost dark now and in this silence a score of servants began lighting lamps.
“This I know,” said Adelheid at last. “There is long enmity between your people and mine, General. There is the matter of church doctrine, not easily put aside. But these are things, now, that matter less than the evils that besiege us. This is why I sent my envoys to ask for an alliance.”
He nodded again, as if to seal a bargain. “For myself, I admit I care little what the priests and deacons sing. I care little whether the blessed Daisan is a man such as myself or mixed with the substance of God.”
Before Antonia could speak, Adelheid reached to fasten a hand over the skopos’ wrist. Such a tiny, petite hand, to have such an iron grasp. Antonia did not like this man, but she knew that to object now would destroy her tenuous alliance with Adelheid. How bitter it was to rely on earthly power! If only God had given her the means to smite her enemies more comprehensively than with individual galla, she would take to the task with a vengeance.
The general nodded as if to show he understood Antonia’s disgust. He indicated her with an open palm, showing respect in a way that won her grudging admiration. “Here are those who will fight for God. Let them battle where they can do good. As for me, I will use my sword where I can and my wits where I must. Are you agreed to the marriage?”
It was a swift thrust, but it did not take Adelheid by surprise. “My daughter Mathilda, to be betrothed to the young Emperor Niko. Yes. She is young yet, not more than five, but she will grow.”
His good eye narrowed. Where the scar damaged his face, he had no expression. It appeared that the muscles were somehow paralyzed. “Your daughter is of no use to me. She is a child. You are a woman.”
That fast, everything changed. Just as a wind will overset the careful preparations of a farmer who has not yet bundled his hay, so the plans agreed between Antonia and Adelheid flew away to nothing.
The empress laughed. Her nearest courtiers, seeing and hearing the words not spoken, set hands to faces, or hid their eyes, or chortled, or exclaimed, each according to their nature.
Antonia fumed. She must remain silent or lose all. She saw her own power eroding so quickly that she knew she must cling to the shoreline before the entire sandy cliff collapsed beneath her. It was no good to protest that the queen must not trust Arethousans or that her beloved Aostans would never trust her again should she marry one, because she had already considered and approved the idea of marrying her young daughter to one of them. To a foreigner! A heretic!
Here he sat as if he already ruled by Adelheid’s side.
“Betroth your daughter to the young emperor if need be,” he went on. “This is also good. But the power of yours and of mine—the power to keep our empires alive—must be joined. Otherwise we will die and our empires will die. Do you want this, Your Majesty?”
Antonia seethed with a rage she could never express.
“No,” said the empress. “I do not want my empire to die. Yet if I make an Arethousan king beside me, my people may turn their backs on me.”
“‘King’ is only a title. I will be your consort, a simple lord. Call me what you will. What you must. But only you and only I, joined together, can save our empires.”
She took hold of his callused hand, hers so slight and his so large but surprisingly gentle as he touched her small fingers and smiled. By this simple means, they were betrothed in the sight of humankind.
But not of God.
He rose, and Adelheid rose with him. None spoke. The court was too stunned to speak, seeing what no one had ever expected: the empress of Aosta binding herself to a crafty Arethousan who by guile and wit and no doubt worse means had raised himself to become general and lord among that heretical people.
“Holy Mother,” he said, “I pray you, we throw ourselves on your mercy. Without your blessing, we are done. Without your blessing, the empires will fall, these two, who hold the ancient and true ways up as a light for all humankind.”
She was silent and stubborn. She could wait him out.
He had not done yet.
“Yours is the most power of all, Holy Mother. Yours, the right to strike first.”
Still raging, while displaying a calm face, she succumbed to curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“We are vulnerable to those who live in the north, if they choose to invade us while we are weak. You can weaken them. You alone have that power.”
A clever man, but naturally, he must be, because all Arethousans were clever, lying, unscrupulous creatures who drank bathwater and ate too much garlic and onions and dressed improperly, men like women and women like men, and pretended a false humility that was in truth nothing but pride. Yet she could not help herself. He had piqued her interest.
“What do you mean?”
“You are the Holy Mother. She commands the obedience of all children of God. Is that not so?”
“That is so. I am delighted that you, a heretic, can recognize my authority.”
He nodded, not quite bowing his head. He was a dangerous man as he had himself confessed. He did not truly believe; to him, the church was merely a tool.
A weapon.
“Those who are disobedient, what comes of them?”
“They are censured. They must do penance.”
“And after this? If they still disobey? I think you have the power to place them under a ban.”
“Ah!” breathed Adelheid, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as she understood him.
As Antonia did. “I could place them under anathema, if
they deserved such an excommunication, but how does this help Aosta? How does this help Arethousa? How does it help the holy church, which must be my sole concern?”
Because he was a dangerous man, he smiled. He shrugged. “One time, when I am young, I stand on duty at night. I hear a noise in the bush. It might be anything, but I thrust with my spear. I stab a man in the leg. So we discover this one I catch is a spy. He tells us where the enemy camps and what they intend. So we take the enemy by surprise. This is my first victory. It comes sometimes that a man must thrust his spear into the dark where there may be nothing but a rat. In this way, we strike even if we do not know what we will hit. It is better than nothing. It is better to do something than to stand and wait.”
“I am tired of being helpless,” said Adelheid. “I am tired of standing and waiting while others take action.”
“You believe I should place all of Wendar and Varre under anathema. If I do so, none may be blessed at birth or marriage. None may receive last rites. The deacons may not lead mass, and the biscops may not ordain deacons. This is a terrible thing, General.”
“They have acclaimed as regnant a man who killed his own father,” said Adelheid. “Is that not a terrible thing? Does it not go against God’s own Word? If we on Earth do not love, respect, and obey our own mother and father, how can we then love, respect, and obey the Mother and Father of Life?”
“I see,” murmured Antonia, and she did see. “There is merit in this plan. If they send word that a more worthy contender has been raised to the throne, then I will consider lifting the ban. If they persist in giving their loyalty to a half-breed bastard who murdered his own father, then I cannot.”
“You see,” added Adelheid triumphantly. “There might be more than one reason why Lord Hugh murdered Lady Elene. She is Conrad’s daughter. She had a claim to the throne, just as her father does. One that would have superseded any claim Lord Hugh might have hoped to put forward for Princess Blessing.”