by Kate Elliott
Stronghand bared his teeth as the two men turned, utterly surprised, and stumbled back from him in terror. Humans were so physically weak, and these weaker than most, unarmed and unprepared.
Yet it never served to underestimate them.
“There is an easy solution to your problems,” he said in his perfect Wendish, before they could shout for help. He touched the wooden Circle that hung from his neck. “Make a new alliance.”
2
SANGLANT rode at dawn into the council circle with his sword sheathed, his back straight and shoulders squared and strong, an orderly retinue of some twenty attendants and noble companions behind him, and a satisfied smile on his face. The centaurs had shown him scant respect when he first arrived, but that was before he had seen Bulkezu killed, hooded a griffin, and bedded his wife.
The smile faded as he surveyed the waiting centaurs, a score of them led by the ancient shaman, and the wagon that concealed the Kerayit witchwoman, herself attended by a dozen men armed in the steppe way with short bows, spears, and curved swords.
To these foreigners he was about to give his beloved daughter—their price for alliance. Blessing was the sacrifice, and it tore his heart knowing that without their help she would certainly die. Might be dead already.
He glanced back to the wagon trundling along, Liath riding guard beside it together with Anna, Matto, Thiemo, Heribert, the Kerayit healer, and a pair of soldiers.
Li’at’dano had freshened the paint on her torso. The green-and-gold stripes made a stark contrast to her silver-gray coat. She carried a bow, with a quiver slung across her back, and her attendants were armed in a similar fashion, although a few held wicked-looking spears, half tipped with obsidian and the rest with cruel steel points. They had striped their torsos as well and decorated their faces with chalky lines and ocher dots. He could imagine them, in their thousands, in a wild rampage through the streets of ancient Dariya, burning, pillaging, and killing.
Li’at’dano looked him over as she might a wild dog that has crept into camp hoping for scraps, and she waited with obvious indifference to his presence until Liath reined her horse up beside his. Only then did she stamp one foreleg to acknowledge their arrival. The other centaurs repeated the gesture and whistled softly.
Behind him, the two Quman who had agreed to come with him echoed that whistle. A partridge burst out of the grass, flying low over the ground, wings whirring as if in reply, and as it disappeared from view all the noise of their movements and voices faded until the only sound was that of the wind muttering through the long grass. Bugs chimed. Otherwise, it was silent.
Liath rode out into the gap between their two parties. She lifted a hand to gain their attention.
“We have little time, and few enough to undertake a dangerous task. This is what I know. Two thousand seven hundred and two years and some seven months ago the Ashioi were cast out of this world by human sorcerers working in concert through the stone crowns and under the guidance of a powerful shaman.”
She did not turn to look at Li’at’dano, but Sanglant did. The old centaur merely watched. Did she feel emotion in the same way humankind did? He doubted it.
“That spell caused untold destruction throughout the lands, and it did not work in the manner they had hoped it would. It did not cast the land of the Ashioi into the void forever. Even now the land of the Ashioi follows a path twisted back on itself that brings it home again to Earth. According to Brother Breschius and Brother Heribert, who have kept track of the passing of days, today is the nineteenth day of Yanu, in the year seven hundred and thirty-four after the Ekstasis of the blessed Daisan. When the crown of stars crowns the heaven, on the tenth day of the month of Octumbre in the year seven hundred and thirty-five, the spell will be complete. The land inhabited by the Ashioi will return to the roots from which it was torn free. According to the workings of the universe, all things must return to their rightful place.”
As she spoke in Wendish, certain centaurs murmured a running translation to their comrades as did Gyasi to the Pechanek Quman—one man and one woman—who had braved the displeasure of their tribes’ mothers to follow him. Now and again Liath would pause to let them catch up, but always, inexorably, she went on in that same calm voice, detailing the approaching storm.
“In nineteen months there will come death and there will come destruction. We have no way to escape the consequences of what was put into motion so long ago.”
She let them consider as she herself glanced over at Sanglant. He didn’t smile at her. He didn’t need to. He knew what he needed most to know of her: that she had changed and that she had not, the familiar weaving of her shot through with new threads.
That didn’t make what he had to do today any easier.
“The mathematicus known as Sister Anne intends to weave this ancient spell again, to banish the Ashioi and their land from Earth a second time. Of a certainty I know it will condemn the Ashioi. Their land has been cut off from Earth for so long that it dies. They are few, and they are weak. There are almost no children.”
Here she hesitated and, with an effort obvious to her husband although others might think she merely paused for breath, she did not look toward the wagon where Blessing lay dying.
“Perhaps there are those among you who care nothing for the fate of the Ashioi. Let me argue, then, in this manner. What effect Anne’s weaving will have on Earth itself I do not know, but I believe it will condemn many, many more people to die, countless people, and bring about wholesale destruction on a scale we cannot fathom. I have seen—”
She faltered as she was overwhelmed by memory, but she swallowed firmly and began again.
“I have glimpsed the past. I know what immense destruction the spell caused then. I believe that if it is woven a second time, it will cause a terrible disruption in the fabric of Earth far greater than if the ancient spell, the first spell, simply ran its course. Many will die regardless; no one can change that now. But what Anne intends is not only wrong but will bring upon us all ruin arid desolation.
“I cannot command any of you. I only command myself. I have seen Taillefer’s crown spread across the land. I have a good idea of where each stone circle lies that Anne must control to weave the spell. Yet since the spell needs seven crowns to function, it may be possible for us to disrupt it by halting the weaving at one or two or half of the crowns. I will travel as quickly as I can to the central crown, where Anne will lead the weaving. I will stop her. Or I will die.”
Resuelto flicked his ears back as Sanglant’s hands tightened on the reins.
“Aid me if you wish. If you will not aid me, then I beg you, stand aside and do nothing to hinder me.”
She let out a great breath and lifted her chin. She was so bright as the sun’s light cast its brilliance over her. She was so beautiful. As much as Sanglant simply lusted after her, he gazed at her now with much more complicated emotions: desire, love, anger still stirring in its dark pit, but respect as well and pride in her strength. A little awe, perhaps, for the dazzling promise of the power she had unlocked within herself.
It was true she could not command men, but she would go where she meant to go and by having the courage to take that path, others would follow the trail she blazed. He could not battle Anne on any sorcerous plane, but without the strength of an army to back her up, Liath might never reach Anne, and certainly she could never control the chaos and dissolution that would inevitably erupt across Wendar and the other countries in the wake of the cataclysm.
Maybe God had a hand in bringing them together—for surely without each other they could not succeed.
“I have spoken as clearly as I am able,” she finished. “I have told you what I know, as simply as I can. I must set forth soon, and quickly. Today if I can; tomorrow if I must.”
She looked toward the wagon where Blessing lay surrounded by her faithful attendants, but she set her lips together in a thin line and lowered her hand. “That is all I have to say.”
S
ilence followed her speech except for the ever-present drag of the wind through the grass. It was not warm, but today’s strong blow did not make his bones ache with cold. Clouds gathered along the eastern crags, breaking up into smaller clots as the peaks tore them apart. Nothing else moved.
“You know I am with you.” Sanglant let Resuelto take two steps forward before reining him in. His voice carried easily. “I will do what is necessary to stop Sister Anne.”
“What role do we play?” demanded Wichman, behind him. “I don’t like all this talk of sorcery.”
“Sorcery will not protect us from an arrow in the back. Anne will protect herself with soldiers as well as magic. That is why we need both griffin feathers and sorcerers. Without soldiers of our own, we are too vulnerable to those who possess Henry’s army.”
Wichman grunted, and there was murmuring among those assembled to listen.
“Let’s say it’s true,” said Lady Bertha, “for I’ve seen strange enough things that I’m less likely to doubt such tales than I was a year ago. Why should we help the Aoi? You say the land will return and that the one known as Sister Anne, who is also skopos over us all, will raise a great spell against the Lost Ones that will cause untold destruction. But what if this spell would make things better? What if it would banish the land of the Lost Ones so that we need never worry about them again? Wouldn’t that leave us free to fight our own battles and restore King Henry to Wendar? The Lost Ones have no allegiance to us. We can’t know how many of them there are, and whether they’ll be our allies or our enemies when they return.”
Liath nodded. “A fair question, Lady Bertha.” Recalling Eldest Uncle’s trick, she unbuckled her belt, holding it high in one hand. “Imagine that this side of the buckle represents the land in which the Ashioi dwell.” She spoke the words much as Eldest Uncle had, giving the belt a half twist and showing how a two-sided belt became a one-sided belt because of that twist, and how the Ashioi land would return to the place it started. “The spell Anne means to weave can only work if the land lies on Earth. This means that the destruction will happen twice—once when the land intersects with Earth, and a second time when the new spell casts it away from Earth again. This is what we must not allow. We must seek to mitigate the return, and fight to prevent a second sundering.”
Many among Sanglant’s retinue spoke at once, calling out questions, but their voices quieted as Li’at’dano paced forward.
“What has been done, is done,” she said. “I will aid you, Liathano, as well as I am able. Let me send my apprentice, Sorgatani, with you.”
“You will not come yourself?” Liath asked.
“My strength is bound to this land. If I leave it, I will die. I will send warriors in my stead, three hundreds of them, who will fight fiercely on your behalf.” She beckoned to a stocky mare with a cream coat and, on her woman’s head, startlingly black hair. “This daughter can be called Capi’ra. She will lead those who fight with you.”
“Does Sorgatani know that those who escort me stand the highest risk of dying? We will battle at the center of it all.”
“She knows.”
Liath nodded. “Then we march as soon as we break camp.”
Sanglant broke in before the shaman could answer. Liath had courage and power, but she had little idea of what made it possible to move an army. “We’ll need help if we are to survive such a long and arduous journey. Can you supply us with guides? Food? Supplies?”
Li’at’dano shifted her weight and made a gesture with her hands that finished with a touch to her bow strap. Had she been a horse, he thought, she would have flicked back her ears to show dislike. She addressed Liath, not him.
“Two days’ ride from here lies a stone crown. It is an ancient monument that was erected here long before my people came to these pasturelands. If you can weave the crowns, then you can travel from one crown to another directly.”
The glare of the sun sharpened. Wind snapped banners and pennants. He raced through the implications of the shaman’s statement, and had to restrain a laugh even as he wanted to cry.
“Why did you not tell me this before?” exclaimed Liath, almost shivering with excitement. “Anne will never expect an attack from that direction! I can do it!”
“With an entire army?” demanded Captain Fulk, then recovered and looked at Sanglant. “My lord prince, if I may speak.” He pressed his horse forward. When the prince nodded, giving him permission, the captain went on. “In this way Hugh of Austra saved Princess Theophanu and Queen Adelheid and their companies from an Aostan lord named John Ironhead, who meant to hold them as hostages.”
“Hugh!” One word from Liath, that was all. She looked away, hiding her face from Sanglant’s view.
“Go on,” he said curtly to Fulk. He hated talk of Hugh.
“Yes, my lord prince. We numbered seventy-five men and fifty horses, many fewer than we have here, and even so the path was fraying as the last of us crossed through, according to the report of Sister Rosvita. She was almost lost as the pathway collapsed behind us. I think it unlikely we can move an army of this size through the crowns.”
“It is not possible,” agreed Li’at’dano. “That any sorcerer accomplished what you speak of—to guide a group as large as the one you speak of—is astonishing. The crowns were meant to accommodate small parties only.”
“Hugh did it,” said Liath in a dangerously rash tone.
“With only seventy-five men and fifty horses,” said Sanglant. “We have near a thousand. And a griffin, whose feathers are proof against magic.”
“Ai, God,” murmured Liath. “I had forgotten the griffin. Can such a creature even pass through the crowns?”
“If I may speak, my lord prince,” said Hathui. “My lady. Consider this as well. Sister Rosvita told me that months passed in the moment that they stepped through the crown.”
Fulk nodded. “As many of us here can attest.”
She acknowledged him and went on. “In that same way, I suppose, four years passed here on Earth while you experienced only a handful of days passing in the world above, according to your testimony.”
“Do you doubt her?” asked Li’at’dano.
Hathui’s smile was sharp. “Nay, Holy One, I do not doubt Liath, for I knew her before, if you will remember, when she was one of that company to which I hold allegiance.”
“Go on, Hathui,” said Sanglant. He had primed her for a speech, although she had cleverly adjusted her terms with the unexpected introduction of the stone crown.
“Sorcery is dangerous, my lord prince, and uncertain. It seems unlikely the entire army can pass through the crowns in any case. In addition, if all of us travel together, then how can we alert our supporters elsewhere? We ought not to move in a single group. It would be better to split up.”
“To split up?” he asked, knowing his lines as well as Hathui knew hers.
“When the storm comes, my lord, no one will be safe. Those who support the king and Wendar must know what to do. If they are not prepared, then whatever force convulses the Earth will be echoed by terrible strife among those who suffer and are afraid.”
Li’at’dano beckoned Hathui forward. “You are wise, Daughter,” said the old shaman. “I would look at you more closely, for it is not given to every creature to learn wisdom.”
“I thank you, Holy One,” murmured Hathui, but she glanced at Sanglant as if to say, “save me!” No one doubted Hathui’s courage, but it was clear that the Horse people, and particularly the ancient one, made her nervous.
“Go on,” said Sanglant, not wanting any of his people to show hesitation, and Hathui—not without trepidation—nudged her horse closer to Liath’s on the grass between the two groups, human and centaur, allied, yet in so many ways separate.
The shaman examined Hathui for a space before turning to Liath. “She is a worthy daughter. Will you give her to me as part of our bargain?”
“She is sworn to the regnant,” said Sanglant irritably. “One of his chosen Eag
les. She must return to his hand at the end of her flight.”
“A pity,” mused Li’at’dano, but she made no further claim.
Liath saw the trap, but it was already sprung. “Will you and I not travel together?” she asked Sanglant.
Sanglant had never done a harder thing than what he did now. “To defeat Anne we need an army greater than the seven hundreds we have here. To defeat Anne we need an army greater even than that with which we defeated Bulkezu. A griffin brings me more than feathers to cut through the magic wielded by our enemies. It can bring me an army as well.”
Liath opened her mouth to protest, then fell silent. He went on.
“I must ride west to gather as many Quman as I can. Margrave Waltharia holds troops in readiness, waiting only for my return. From the marchlands I will turn south and draw more Wendish troops as I go. Brother Breschius assures me that the Brinne Pass remains passable for much of the year, if the weather holds fair. I’ll cross that way into Aosta, and march on Darre to free my father.”
“But—!” Color had leached from her face, leaving her gray with shock, and her hands clenched the reins until her knuckles turned white. Her horse minced under her, sensing her tension. “But that means we must—”
She could not speak the word. Neither could he. He could scarcely bear to think of it: That means we must part. Must separate again, not knowing how many months or years would pass until they met. Not knowing if they would ever meet.
It gave him no pleasure to twist the knife into her belly. “It has to be done this way. Do you believe that a griffin can cross through the crowns?”
She shook her head despairingly. “Nay. It seems likely its feathers will cut the threads of the spell. That way lies disaster for all who attempt the crossing.”
“Anne has woven her net well. She controls not just sorcery, and the crowns, but Henry’s and Adelheid’s armies as well. We must match her. This is the only way.”
She shut her eyes and said nothing, because she knew he was right. As much as he hated it, this was the only way.