“This is certainly grave news, but what am I to tell the people of Gent? Given enough time, the Eika army outside will burn and batter down Gent’s bridges, and when they have done that, they will have free passage up the Veser whether we will it or no. If they sail far enough up the Veser, then it will scarcely matter what the Lady Sabella demands, since the heart of Wendar itself will be at risk.”
“You would counsel your father to consider this the greater threat? But always in other years, Prince Sanglant, the Eika have raided and left, content with whatever gold and slaves they could carry away in their ships.”
The prince glanced out the window, although only rain and the timbered roof of the mayor’s palace were visible. Distantly, Liath heard drums. “This is not ‘other years.’ This is not a raid. Already the envoy for the Eika general has refused Mayor Werner’s offer of ten chests of gold and one hundred slaves as payment for them to leave.”
Wolfhere chuckled suddenly. “I hear two things in your words I can scarcely credit. One is that a man sits as mayor in a city. The other is that the Eika have a general. They are bandits, nothing more, with perhaps a captain to lead each ship, if we can even dignify their packs with such a word. More like the strongest beast who keeps the others obedient by threat of claw and teeth.”
Sanglant turned his head to look directly at Liath. She squirmed, horribly uncomfortable; his eyes were so bright and his features so strange and sharp. He examined her with obvious curiosity for so long that she felt the stares of his men, behind her, on her back, as if they, too, wanted to know what interested their captain. For so long that Wolfhere finally glanced over to see what the prince was looking at.
What crossed Wolfhere’s expression Liath had never expected to see: He was angry.
Sanglant smiled slowly at her, perhaps with invitation. When he smiled, he had a sudden bright charm, so powerful she felt herself blush. Beside her, Manfred muttered something inaudible under his breath. Sanglant grunted, almost laughing, as if in response. Then, with a shrug and a stretch of his shoulders, he looked back at Wolfhere. The older man’s expression was now entirely bland.
“Mayor Werner is an interesting man, overly fond of his family’s riches. Is it not said Our Lord judges the worth of his earthly sons by the measure of their generosity to their companions and to the poor? So King Henry would say. Werner’s mother was mayor of the town before him, and he was her only surviving son. And, it is said, always her favorite, though certainly the staff of authority should have gone to one of her daughters, his half sisters.” He said these words with a trace of bitterness, and yet he also seemed to be laughing at himself. “So far the people of Gent have found no reason to be displeased with his stewardship and thus throw him out in favor of a woman whose authority is, as you say, more likely to receive Our Lady’s Blessing. As for the other—” He put out a hand, and the woman handed him his helmet, now bright, the gold face of the dragon like cold fire burning on the hard surface of iron. As he spoke, serious now, he ran his hands over the helmet, tracing the delicate gold work with long, dark fingers.
“There is an intelligence out there which directs these Eika. I have felt it. It knows of me just as I know of it, and we are bent, each of us, on the other’s destruction.”
“A human man, do you think?”
“I think not. And who better than I to know, my friend. Is that not right?”
Wolfhere bowed his head in acknowledgment.
“But whether it is an Eika unlike in mind and craft to the others, or some different creature entirely, I cannot say. I have fought King Henry’s wars for eight years now, since I came of age and was given my Dragons to be captain of. As is my birthright, the child born to prove the man worthy of the throne of Wendar.” His tone was as cold as a stinging winter’s wind. “But the others were ordinary wars, raids by the Quman horsemen, Duke Conrad’s rebellion, Lady Sabella’s revolt, which I saw the end of.”
“Her first revolt,” said Wolfhere quietly.
“Rumors do not a revolt make,” said Sanglant, equally quietly, then raised a hand to forestall Wolfhere’s comment. “But I trust your judgment in these matters, Wolfhere, if you say she is again fomenting rebellion against the king. You have served the throne of Wendar faithfully. Or so I have always heard.”
“As have you,” said Wolfhere, baring his teeth. “Or so I have always heard.”
There was a hiss, an intake of breath, from those of the Dragons close enough to hear the comment. But Sanglant smiled his charming smile, tossed the chess piece carved into the likeness of a King’s Dragon up toward the rafters, then grabbed it out of the air as it fell. The movement made the helm roll off his lap, and the scar-jawed woman caught it before it struck the floor.
The prince opened his hand and displayed the chess piece. Its ivory gleam, oiled from much handling, set off the bronze tone of his skin. Half human, Liath thought, and then was ashamed of herself: Was she not also different from the rest, with her skin always burned so brown? But at least slaves who worked all day in the fields were burned as brown as she was at summer’s end, if they were not burned to blisters. And Da had told her of people living in lands far to the south, where the sun was hotter and brighter, who had skin burned darker even than hers. Was it then better to be fully human but a slave or a heathen, rather than a half-human prince who could never be fully trusted?
I have already been a slave. She wrung her fingers through each other. Her back prickled, as if thinking of those days meant Hugh was watching her. He is watching me. Like the intelligence that waited, out among the Eika, dueling with Prince Sanglant, so Liath knew Hugh waited, always aware of her no matter how far away she might be from him. He waited only until she came again into his grasp.
I am still a slave, because I fear him. Tears burned her eyes and she ducked her head down so no one would see. But Manfred’s hand brushed her leg, as if to reassure her. She swallowed, gathered courage, and looked up. No one seemed to have noticed her lapse.
“Like this chess piece,” said Sanglant, “I exist only to be moved by another man’s hand.”
Wolfhere smiled thinly. He looked very old, suddenly, as he lifted the piece out of the prince’s hand. “You are young to be so old in wisdom, Sanglant.”
“You flatter me. I am but four and twenty years of age, by the calendars of my father’s people.” This was spoken tartly, almost defiantly.
“In the ruins of the old empire there is another calendar,” said Wolfhere, “one that marks its time by the journey of bright Somorhas, who is both evening and morning star, and by the ascension of the seven stars that make up the seven jewels in the Crown of Stars. A child reaches for that Crown. Who knows what will happen when the Crown of Stars crowns the heavens?”
Sanglant stood up stiffly, regally, like a king about to pronounce judgment. “I have never known my mother, Wolfhere. Nor has she appeared to me, in mist or in night or by any enchantment I know of. She abandoned me when I was not yet two months old. If she left me here, if she allowed my father to get me on her, for her own purposes, for some plot spun and set into motion by her people, then I am ignorant of it and of them and of my place in their plans. Indeed, there is little enough trace of the Lost Ones in these lands, though I have heard that in Alba they are more likely to walk abroad in the deep forests. You have said these things to me before, or hinted of them, and I am tired of it and I am tired of your insinuations. I am a soldier. I am captain of the King’s Dragons, as is my right, as was the right of those who served as captain before me, Conrad the Dragon, Charles Wolfskin, and the left-handed Arnulf, all of us bastards of the reigning sovereign. In that service I have left behind me fields covered with blood, so I might prove myself worthy of the name my mother gave me at birth. I have watched my own men die as they fought to protect me and to protect the king’s interests. I have killed the king’s enemies without mercy and spared none I could find. Hear me now: I serve the king and no one else. Believe in your plots and plans and i
n the secret workings of the heavens, if you will. But leave me out of them.”
He grabbed his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and walked the length of the attic and down the stairs. Only two Dragons followed him: the scar-jawed woman and a blond man who walked with a limp.
When they had gone, it was silent except for the sound of rain and the sloppy clop of ox hooves on the wet street outside. Then there was a rustling, a sigh as of let-out breath, and the men went back to their tasks.
Wolfhere set down the chess piece. Manfred rose, brushed straw from his tunic, and moved to stand beside the old Eagle, who looked out the window for a long time. Then Wolfhere also rose. Liath scrambled up and, keeping her head down, followed Wolfhere and Manfred to the stairs and down to the stables below. She felt as if every man there watched her pass. She wanted desperately to ask about her kinsman, but after the accusations Sanglant had made, she dared not.
She was, for the moment, afraid to ask Wolfhere anything, for fear she would not be able to resist asking him about the ancient calendar he had spoken of. The Crown of Stars she knew; it was a cluster of seven bright stars just outside the grasp of the constellation known as the Child, Second House in the zodiac, the world dragon that bound the heavens. She knew many of the names given by the ancient Dariyan mathematici to the stars, names different from those in common use in these days. But that the old Dariyans had marked time by a calendar markedly different from the one she knew … that knowledge Da had never taught her, if indeed he even knew it.
But the stars move in a fixed pattern. Given time and The Book of Secrets and paper to make the difficult calculations on, she could work out when next the cluster of stars known as the Crown of Stars would “crown the heavens.” She wasn’t sure what he meant by the phrase, but surely it had to do with a star reaching the zenith, the point on the sphere of the fixed stars where that star was seen as directly above the observer.
She kept silence as they walked through the stables. How many days had it been since she had been able to observe the heavens? During spring, as Da always said, the Lady clouds the skies so we remember to keep our eyes on the sowing. How many days since Wolfhere had freed her from Hugh? One day short of a month.
She shuddered. It was as if Hugh was speaking, braced outside the wall of the invisible city that protected her heart. Like the Eika who had thrown up earthworks against Gent, he besieged her, only she could see no end.
Thirty days since you were stolen from me.
“Are you well?” asked Wolfhere.
His tone was so gentle she started. They had reached a door. Manfred was about to dash outside; he hung back, looking at her with concern. He had kind blue eyes and a solemn face, not handsome, not ugly, just steady and quiet. A good comrade.
“A little hot.” She draped her cloak over one arm and shifted her saddlebags over her shoulder. Manfred darted out into the courtyard, running hard for the doors that led into the mayor’s palace. She pulled a corner of her cloak over her hair and started out after him. Wolfhere pulled her back.
“No need,” he said, “to bring your gear. We’ll be sleeping in the stables.”
She had to turn around and go back, of course. She dared not tell him she had the book. He already knows you are educated as a mathematici, she told herself as she slunk along, hoping no one would notice her. But it was quiet in the stables. The Dragons were either upstairs, taking their ease, or elsewhere, on guard or out in the city. But what if Wolfhere simply took the book away from her? There would be nothing she could do to stop him or to get it back, once it was out of her hands.
Next to their horses was an empty stall, well padded with straw. Manfred and Wolfhere had left their gear here, neatly stowed, leaving room for them to sleep. She heaped straw up, shoved the saddlebags underneath, frowned. Too obvious. Could not help but reach inside the leather bag and feel the cold smooth grain of the leather binding, the raised letters along the spine. She traced the letters, reading them with her fingers, and felt like the dry wings of a moth the parchment and paper leaves of the three books bound inside the cover.
“What happened to Sturm and his company?” asked a deep voice. “They never came in from patrol.”
“You didn’t hear that part? They stayed outside the walls to escort the two wounded Eagles and a deacon conveying a holy relic to a place of safety.”
“No, I didn’t hear.” This spoken a bit peevishly. “I was just coming up. Unlike you, I fought a few Eika in this melee and had a bit of cleaning up to do.”
The other man snorted. “You mean you let a few get some blows past your guard. I’m as clean as a saint, and the more likely to be blessed by Our Lady with a willing helpmeet for my efforts.”
“Hah! These Gentish women are as friendly as wild boars. Do you think he’ll pursue the pretty young Eagle?”
It took her a heartbeat to realize that they spoke of her.
“What? After arguing with the old master? I think not.”
“How can you say so? He plucked the young Villam heiress unbruised from the vine, and that after she was betrothed and her father had warned him off twice.”
She saw, faintly, their shadows drawn on the wall by the weak light shining through the stable doors.
“Nay, lad, you’ve come from outside the world of the court and don’t know its ways yet. What is said and what is done can be two different things. What the heiress and old Villam wanted was marriage to the prince, but King Henry can never allow the prince to marry. It makes the boy look legitimate, does it not? So words were said in public and a betrothal sworn to another family, and the girl got what she wanted and, so they say, a child to boot that was born after her marriage to another man.”
“And the prince? Did he get what he wanted?”
“Who can say?” replied the other man, who had the higher voice and the more confidence. “The prince does what his father the king tells him to do. I doubt he minded that engagement.”
“He did look,” blustered the first speaker. “At the young Eagle. She’s a fetching piece, all bright and warm. Why shouldn’t he pursue it? I didn’t like the way the old master spoke to him.”
“Nor did I. There is no better man than our prince.”
The other grunted angry agreement.
“But there is a world outside the Dragons, lad, which is easy enough to forget as a young hatchling like you. And harder work it is to know the rules for those battles than for the ones we fight against King Henry’s enemies. So. Listen to what I say. Never anger an Eagle. Never sleep with a woman if the price, in whatever coin, is higher than what the pleasure was worth. Now. In payment for those words of advice you can oil my harness tonight while I go out hunting wild boars.”
“Oil your harness!”
The other man moved. Liath shrank against the wall, tight in a corner, one hand still on the book, and thought hard of shadows and silence and invisibility. The two Dragons walked past the stall without noticing her, the younger man still complaining.
A moment later she heard Wolfhere calling her name. She shoved the saddlebags under straw and set her saddle and bedroll over them, then hurried out. Manfred had returned; his cloak was wet but the rest of him was reasonably dry. He actually smiled, seeing her. Conscious of his gaze, embarrassed by it, she picked at her hair, sure there must be straw caught in it. If only Hanna were here with her. If only she were sure Hanna was still alive.
“There you are,” said Wolfhere. “Mayor Werner asks us to sit down with him at this night’s feast. He honors us—or has no new and better guests to entertain.”
“Will the prince be there?”
Wolfhere raised his eyebrows. “I suppose he will. Mayor Werner would not dare not to invite him, even if they do not get along. Sanglant is too much a lover of good food and drink to stay away.”
And it was good food, an astonishing feast for a city under siege: a side of beef braised with spices Liath had never tasted before; a pudding; apple tarts; two roasted pigs; white brea
d; and a great deal of wine. Liath followed Wolfhere’s lead and drank sparingly, cutting her wine with water. The prince sat at the other end of the table from her and matched Mayor Werner cup for cup.
Manfred looked disgusted.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered to him.
“Come winter townsfolk will starve for want of these scraps.”
It was the longest string of words she had ever heard him speak at one time. “Surely they have their own food stores”
“Enough for a long siege?”
“Do you think the town will be besieged for that long? Surely Count Hildegard will lift the siege.” “If she can.”
The eating and drinking went on for what seemed to Liath an interminable time. An old man recited poetry in what he evidently conceived to be the style of the ancient Dariyans; Liath had read a copy of Virgilia’s Heleniad and cringed to hear him. But there were other poets who sang songs of their own devising that were more pleasing, songs about heroes of days gone by and episodes from the great epic, The Gold of the Hevelli. Musicians played on lyres and zithers. There was a juggler, and two girls who balanced and did tricks on a long rope held taut by two men.
But all in all, it was hot, smoky, noisy, and dull.
She excused herself, pleading a need for the privy. After she used it, she did not feel like venturing back inside. It had stopped raining, even cleared partially, so half the sky was stars. Liath clung to the shadows, breathing in the night air, the solitude; it was quiet except for the muted noise of the feast from the great hall and the distant tremor of drums. A quartet of women walked by, laughing merrily, headed for the kitchens, trays resting against their hips.
“A man’s a man because he grows a beard,” said one.
“But fraters and monks have no beards.”
“To make themselves more like women and thus more pleasing to Our Lady! They pledge their bodies and their honor to the church, by cutting off their beards. It is the mark of their service.”