Hathui did not look impressed. “When you’ve learned to handle a spear on horseback, you’ll be able to boast. But an Eagle unhorsed in bad company is most likely a dead Eagle. What the sheep admired will do you little good here.”
Hanna only laughed. “I have ridden hard for ten days and not given up, although the Lady alone knows the blisters I have, and where I have them! I can learn this, too, by Our Lord.”
“And you’ll still have to learn swordcraft, even so,” continued Hathui as if Hanna hadn’t spoken. The hawk-nosed woman still looked dour, but there was almost a smile on her face.
“Come inside,” said Wolfhere.
Liath ducked under the lintel, built low as an added means of protection, and immediately sneezed. She wiped watering eyes and blinked as Wolfhere lit a brand and searched back into the far shadows of the chamber. Everything was neatly stored away here: sacks of onions and carrots; baskets of beans and peas and apples; jars of oil; wooden barrels of chops packed in lard. Something had gone rancid. Beyond the foodstores of the householder lay five chests closed with hasps of iron. One was inlaid with brass lions. This one Wolfhere opened. The hinges were well oiled, opening without a squeak.
Liath picked her way across to him, once stepping on something that squashed under her boot and sent up the sickly sweet scent of rotting fruit. A fly buzzed in her ear.
“Hathui notes you are adept at knife-fighting, which skill I suppose you picked up from your father Bernard as you traveled. I believe there is an old sword here, still serviceable. It was recovered from the fort.”
“Which fort?” she asked, then knew what he meant: This fort, the old Dariyan fort built by order of Arki-kai Tangashuan seven hundred years ago, reckoning by the calendars she knew. Now of course it was known as Steleshame, a small estate under the authority of the freeholder Gisela that was also an official posting stop for the King’s Eagles and thus under the king’s protection rather than that of the local count.
Wolfhere lifted out a bundle wrapped in cloth, and slowly unwrapped it. “It’s shorter and blunter than the swords we are used to, but perhaps you will find it a good tool to use as you become accustomed to swordcraft. Hathui mentioned you wield a butcher’s knife with great skill.”
As he pulled the last layer of oilcloth off, she looked down into the chest and caught her breath. On yellowed linen lay a bowcase, in it rested an unstrung bow. The case was made of red leather. Worked into the leather was a portrait of a griffin, wings outspread. The creature held in its beak the head of a deer, but the tines of this deer’s antlers were transformed into the heads of crested eagles, as if, being devoured, the deer was in the act of transforming into the predator that had killed it.
“May I?’ she asked.
“What is it you see?” Wolfhere asked, but she had already reached in and drawn out the bowcase. “Ah,” he said. “Barbarian work. Look at the shape of the bow.”
The unstrung bow curved the wrong way. But Liath knew this kind of bow well enough. She turned the leather case over. No decoration adorned the other side of the bowcase, but there were ten symbols pressed in a circle into the leather, like runes. “Are these letters?” she asked. Wolfhere shrugged. “This is like the bow my father had. He said it came from the east. Da always said this kind of bow had the greatest range and the odd property of being effective from horseback. He taught me to use it, because when we were traveling—” She broke off and looked down at Wolfhere, who still knelt on the dirt floor, a short sword laid on oilcloth at his knees.
“You were traveling?” he asked quietly. “You and Bernard journeyed for a long time, Liath, and never stayed in any one place for too long.”
“Until Heart’s Rest,” she said bitterly. Until she had begged him to stay just one more season, and then another, until what Da rightly feared had happened: His enemies caught up with them. Why not tell Wolfhere the truth? He had not been there when Da was killed. She was in his power now, in any case, if he wished her ill. “We were running. Always running.”
“What from?”
His calmness only made her terrible anger—at losing Da, at all the years of fear and hiding that had come to nothing in the end—stand stark in contrast. “Maybe from you.”
Wolfhere considered her words for a while, then shrugged his shoulders and rose, lifting the short sword in both hands. “It was said of Bernard that he roved to far and exotic places as a young frater. He was sent out into the dark lands to bring the Holy Word to those who live in night, but I know little of those journeys.”
“Da was a frater?” Startled, she gaped at him.
“You did not know this, child?”
She shook her head.
“Where do you think he was educated? Do you not know his kin?”
Again, a mute no. She had wondered if Wolfhere knew her father’s history, but she dared not ask—in case he asked questions of her in his turn—and she had not expected him to volunteer any information.
“Not a strong lineage but known to be of a family that came east in the time of Taillefer’s empire, when the emperor set out to bring Wendar under his authority. That Taillefer failed is not to his discredit, for the Wendish tribes in those days were lawless and had not yet come into the Light of God. Bernard’s people built estates in what were then wild lands even as King Henry sends freewomen and men into the lands beyond the River Eldar so he can extend the kingdom eastward, into what are still barbarian lands.”
“I have kin living?” She had been alone for so long, first, in faint memories, in the villa with her mother and father and then on the long road with Da, that she could not imagine having kinsmen and women to whom she was bound by ties of blood and obligation.
“Most of that lineage went into the church, so they did not produce many children. In the succession crisis of the elder Arnulf they supported, alas, a claimant against Arnulf and thus lost the royal favor and a not insubstantial portion of their lands. Bernard has a cousin yet living, though the estates she administers are sadly diminished from what they were under their common grandmother. She has a son who rides with the King’s Dragons, whom I imagine we shall soon see. Another son is a monk at St. Remigius Cloister. There was also a daughter, who surely is married by now.”
“Where is this estate? How do you know all this?” And the question she could not ask: Why did Da never tell me any of this?
“Near Bodfeld. It has long been my business to know of your background, Liath.” The way he said the words, sternly, almost mercilessly, made her shiver and pull a step back from him. “But I was your mother’s sworn comrade in other pursuits, and thus I am bound to her in ways you do not yet understand.”
“What ways?” she asked, not wanting to ask but unable not to ask. There was so much she wanted to know about her parents.
“Your mother was one of those who are called magi. And so, in a meager fashion, am I.”
“Then—” She barely managed to get the words out through her choked throat. You are deaf to magic, Liath, Da always said. But she had burned the Rose into wood, without bearing flame in her hand. “Then why are you in the Eagles?”
“A good question. I was sworn into the Eagles at much the same age you are now, child. Once given the badge of an Eagle, you can never truly leave them. It is the same with those men and few women sworn into the service of the Dragons, where it is said they are more likely to die than retire from that service. So it is said with the king’s guard of foot soldiers, the Lions, although it is also said of them that an old Lion is likely to be found at rest in his fields while his wife administers the work.”
“Then how did you come to know my mother and father?”
“Our paths crossed. What do you know of magic, Liath?”
“N-n-nothing.” But her tongue skipped betrayingly over the word.
“You must trust me, child.”
“How can I trust you, or anyone?” Suddenly it poured out. She tightened her grip on the bowcase, felt the smooth wood of the bow pr
essing against her hip. “Da and I ran all those years, for nothing. I don’t know who killed him. It might have been you, or people working for you. It might have been someone else, someone to whom you are opposed. But I can’t know! Da only taught me a scholar’s knowledge. He taught me little enough of the world. I didn’t even know he had a cousin living, a home we might have fled to—” She broke off, seeing Wolfhere’s expression, his wry smile, his small shake of the head.
“When Bernard left the church, he was disowned by his kin. He left for a shameful reason, for the love of a woman—your mother, Anne.”
She flushed with the heat of her own shame. “Many in the church claim to devote themselves only to Our Lady and Lord and yet do not hold to their vows.” She had to look away into the shadows. She began to tremble all over, and her hands went cold. Hugh.
“But they rarely leave the church. We all are dependent on the Grace and Mercy of Our Lady and Lord for forgiveness from our sins. A lapse may be forgiven, if one does penance. But Bernard turned his back on the church. As I understand it, he became involved with the Heresy of the Knife, and then he met Anne. To his kin, who count many holy women and men among their ancestors, he may as well have said he denied the teachings of the blessed Daisan and the Circle of Unity altogether.”
“That isn’t true!”
“It is often whispered of the mathematici, those who observe the heavens and chart their movements and their influence on the plane of this earth, that they worship not Our Lady and Lord but the daimones of the air whose knowledge is greater than ours and whose vision is keener, but who are as ancient as creation, lower than the angels, yet too proud to bow before Our Lady and Lord or to take their place within the Chamber of Light.”
“But it isn’t true of Da! That he believed any such thing. He was a good man. He prayed, as any other man might.”
“I did not say it was true. I only stated what other people often believe of those who are adept in the ancient knowledge of magic. You would do well to remember that, Liath.”
“So Da always said,” she murmured. “That people believed what they wanted to, whether it was truth or not.” She blinked back tears, wiped her nose with the back of a hand. “But I am deaf to magic, Master Wolfhere. So it does not matter what I know.”
“Does it not?” he asked softly.
“Are you not finished yet in there?” demanded Hathui from the door, peering in and turning her head to look toward the burning brand which Wolfhere had braced in an iron stand. “Poor Hanna is done for and needs to rest her bruises. Can you bring Liath out for me?”
Wolfhere rose, holding the short sword, and Liath followed him outside. She leaned the bowcase against the stone wall and took the sword, testing its balance. It was heavy, but not so heavy that she could not train herself to hold its weight.
“A good weapon,” said Hathui, coming over to examine the sword. “Forged for killing, not to be pretty for some noble lord who has others to do his fighting for him.”
“You are not of noble birth, Hathui?” Hanna asked from where she leaned against the wall of the tower. She looked tired but was clearly unwilling to sit down.
Hathui snorted. “Did you think I was? My mother is a freeholder, beholden to no lord. She and her sister and brother traveled east many years ago. That was when the younger Arnulf first offered land to those willing to cross the Eldar and build estates in heathen lands. My aunt is dead now. She was killed by Quman raiders. But my mother and uncle still work those fields. They have gotten more land under cultivation than any of the other freeholders in our valley. What is this?” Distracted, she rubbed at the blade where it was bound into the hilt. The sheen of her sweat on the iron blade made letters stand out for a moment.
“‘This good sword is the friend of Lucian, son of Livia,’” read Liath before she knew she meant to. Had this sword belonged to the same Lucian who had cut into stone his love for a red-haired woman? Then she realized the others were looking at her, surprised, all but Wolfhere. The three children who had been watching crept closer, staring at the strange sight of an exotic-looking young woman not in deacon’s gown who could read—and read such ancient words. Liath thought at once of Wolfhere’s words: “I only stated what other people often believe.”
“I did not know you were church educated,” said Manfred, so startled by this revelation that he actually spoke.
Hathui coughed abruptly and moved to chase the children farther back. “Church education won’t save your life when the heathen attack you.” She beckoned to Liath to step out into the stable yard, which Mistress Gisela kept almost as well swept as Mistress Birta kept her inn yard. “Bear in mind, girl,” Hathui added, perhaps sympathetically, “that a cherished weapon is the best kind. Now stand against me. I’ll run trials against you.”
Hathui was quicker, stronger, taller, and had by far the better reach with her broadsword, but after a few passes she announced herself satisfied that Liath would in time become proficient enough with the short sword to defend herself. Liath was breathing hard, sweating, and had a terrible bruise on her rump from a blow delivered by the flat of Hathui’s blade.
“Manfred will cut some wooden staves to the length of the weapons you’ve chosen,” added Hathui as Liath and Hanna exchanged grimaces, “and every day when we stop to rest the horses, we will practice with those.”
Liath limped back to the wall, nudging chickens out of her way with her feet, handed the sword to Hanna, and drew the bow out of the bowcase. Hand on the grip, she turned the bow slowly, examining it, then pulled it close. She could discern three layers, a wood core with two strips of horn glued to the belly and sinew layered along the back. The back had been painted crimson; many fine lines and cracks disturbed the sheen of paint. The tips of the bow wore bronze caps, molded into the shape of griffins’ heads. These beaks, a thin gash, held either end of the bow string. The bow looked sound.
Nestled in the bowcase she found a silk bowstring. She licked her fingers, then pulled the string through them to smooth down any frayed ends. Finally she braced the bow between right knee and left thigh and, with a grunt, strung it.
She tested the draw by sighting toward the palisade gate. And saw suddenly, on the inside, that the innermost layer of horn was carved all along its length with tiny salamanders twined together like interlinking rings, their eyes flecked with blue paint. Woven into them were ancient letters. She read them falling like the flow of water down the belly of the bow:
I am called Seeker of Hearts.
Hathui had gone over to the water trough to sluice water down her hair and face. Dripping, she returned and motioned Hanna to go do the same, but stopped to examine the bow as Liath lowered it.
“That’s a Quman bowcase,” said Hathui, not admiringly. “I recognize its type. We took enough of them off dead Quman soldiers. Then we’d scrape them free of the taint of their heathen hands, all that ugly decoration. The bow must be of their make as well. Their bows were shorter than ours and curved backwards. But they were deadly all the same. And their arrows poisoned, like as not. Savages!” She spit on the ground.
Certainly they resembled old Dariyan letters, but these letters were altered in subtle ways from the letters carved into stone in the old fort or scratched into the hilt of her new sword, from the letters written in old crumbling scrolls she had seen in the scriptoria of monasteries where she and Da had taken shelter as they traveled.
Seeker of Hearts. The words came to Liath’s lips, but she could not speak them out loud. No one else seemed to have noticed the strange delicate carvings. The back of the bow was unmarked except for the paint; only on the inner curve, facing the archer, did the bow speak. So did Liath also keep silence. For as Da always said: “Words spoken rashly can be used as weapons against you,” and also, many times, “Keep silence, Liath! To speak out loud your secrets is like to a merchant opening a chest of jewels to every passerby on the road and thereby announcing his wealth to bandits.”
Like The Book of S
ecrets. She did not glance toward the stables, where their riding gear was stowed. Surely Wolfhere suspected she carried the book with her; he had seen Hanna with it. He had never mentioned it, never asked any questions about it, and to Liath, this in itself was suspicious.
“Where did it come from?” she asked, indicating the bow.
“I haven’t seen this bow before,” said Wolfhere, “but it has been five years since I’ve ridden through Steleshame.”
“I was here two years ago,” said Hathui. “I remember nothing like. Manfred?”
He shook his head and extended a hand to take the bow. Liath hesitated an instant, then forced herself to give it to him. He turned it this way and that, examining it, took an arrow from his own quiver, and sent a shot at the palisade. The dull thunk of the arrow burying itself in a log sent the chickens scattering and set the dogs to barking and the children to shrieking.
He grunted, looking satisfied, and gave the bow back to Liath. He said nothing about the carvings.
Mistress Gisela emerged from the longhouse. Her court—the womenfolk of her holding—trailed after her. Liath had seen men and boys and other women at work in the village and fields surrounding Steleshame when they had ridden in that morning. Gisela was a stout woman with the bold gleam of authority in her blue eyes. She was holding a spoon still wet with broth. The smell made Liath’s mouth water. Behind her, half grown girls dropped spindles down, then pulled them up again, spinning thread from flax.
“I hope, Master Wolfhere,” said Gisela sternly, “that you do not intend to have sport within these walls. Sword practice I do not frown on, but archery belongs outside. My chickens and these children are very valuable to me.”
“I beg your pardon, Mistress,” said Wolfhere. He gestured toward the bow and case. “Do you recall when this came to Steleshame?”