by Kate Elliott
Wind rustles in leaves, indifferent whispers so unlike the ones that follow his every movement among the courtiers—the one they think he can’t hear.
Each day of the king’s progress unfurls, flowers, and fades as in a haze. He waits.
Among the dogs, he has learned to be patient.
“That which binds you,” said the sorcerer, but whether with surprise or recognition she could not tell.
“I made him a promise.” As the vision faded, its passing throbbed in her like a new pain.
She knew better, she knew what she ought to do, what Da would tell her to do. But none of that mattered. For a year she had thought him dead.
“I have to go back.” Then, hearing the words as if someone else had spoken them, she hurried on. “I’ll come back to you. I swear it. I just have to go back—” She trailed off. She knew how foolish she sounded.
He merely let go of her hand and regarded her. He had no expression on his face except the quiescence of great age. “It is ever such with those who are young. But I do not believe your path will be a smooth one.”
“Then I can come back?” Now that she had made the choice, she regretted having to go. But not so much that she could bring herself to stay.
“I cannot see into the future. Go, then.”
“But there are creatures pursuing me—”
“So many mysteries. So much movement afoot. You must make your choice—there, or here. The gateway is closing.”
The flames flickered lower until they rippled like a sheen of water trembling along the surface of the stone. If she waited too long, the choice would be made for her.
She reined the horse around and slapped its rump with the trailing end of her reins. It bolted forward, light surged, and her sight was still hazed with dancing spots and black dots and bright sparks when her shoulder brushed rough stone and they broke out of the ragged circle of stones with a flash of afternoon sun in her eyes.
Disoriented, she shaded her eyes with a hand until she could make out the road below. It was not yet twilight; an unseasonable chill stung the air. The Bretwald lay beyond the road, alive with birds come to feed at the verge. Crows flocked in the treetops. A vulture spiraled down and landed on a heap of rags that littered the roadside.
Of the fell creatures that had stalked her, there was no sign.
What had the old sorcerer said? “The measure of days and years moves differently here than there.”
Had she arrived earlier than she had left? Was that even possible, to wait here beside the road when she was herself riding on that same road, not yet having reached this point? She shook herself and urged the horse forward, looking around cautiously. But nothing stirred. The crows flapped away with raucous cries. The vulture at last bestirred itself and flew, but only to a nearby branch, where it watched as she picked her way up to the roadside and dismounted to examine the litter: a jumble of bones scoured clean; damp tabards wilted on the turf or strewn with pebbles as though a wind had blown over them; and weapons left lying every which way. With her boot she turned over a shield: A white deer’s head stared blankly at her.
She jumped back, found shelter in the bulk of her horse, who blew noisily into her ear, unimpressed by these remains.
The men-at-arms she had seen had borne shields marked with a white deer’s head. And she had heard screaming. How long could it have been? It would take months for a body to rot to clean bone.
The light changed as a scrap of cloud scudded over the sun, and she shivered in the sudden cold. She mounted and rode on, northward, as she had before. As dusk lowered, she studied the heavens with apprehension throbbing in her chest. Stars came out one by one. Above her shone summer’s evening sky. Had she lost an entire year?
Ahead, a torch flared, and then a second, and she urged her mount forward, smelling a village ahead. A low, square church steeple loomed, cutting off stars. They had not yet closed the palisade gates of the little town, which protected them against wild animals as well as the occasional depredations of what bandits still lurked in the Bretwald. The gatekeeper sent her on to the church, where the deacon kept mats for travelers and a simmering pot of leek stew for the hungry.
Liath was starving. Her hands shook so badly that she could barely gulp down stew and cider as the deacon watched with mild concern.
“What day is it?” Liath asked when at last her hands came back under her control, and the sting of hunger softened.
“Today we celebrated the nativity of St. Theodoret, and tomorrow we will sing the mass celebrating the martyrdom of St. Walaricus.”
Today was the nineteenth of Quadrii, then; the day she had fled the creatures had been the eighteenth. For an instant she breathed more easily. Then she remembered the bones, and the party she had almost met on the road.
“What year?”
“An odd question,” said the deacon, but she was a young woman and not inclined to question a King’s Eagle. “It is the year 729 since the Proclamation of the Divine Logos by the blessed Daisan.”
One day later. Only one day. The bones she had seen by the roadside had nothing to do with her, then. They must have lain there for months, picked clean by the crows and the vultures and the small vermin that feed on carrion.
Only later, rolled up in her blanket on a mat laid down in the dark entry hall of the church, did it occur to her that the clothing left behind with the bones on the roadside was damp but not rotted or torn. Had it lain there for months or years, it, too, would have begun to rot away.
3
THE hunting party burst out of the forest and then scattered aimlessly into small groups, having lost the scent. The king rode among a riot of his good companions, all laughing at a comment made by Count Lavastine. Alain had fallen back to the fringe, and now he reined in his horse to watch a trio of young men fishing in the river an arrow’s shot upstream. Hip-deep in water, they flung nets wide over the glittering surface.
“Alain.” Count Lavastine halted beside him. The black hounds snuffled in the grass that edged the cliff, which fell away about a man’s height before hillside met river. A rock, dislodged by Fear, skittered down the slope, stirring up a shower of dust, and the other hounds all barked in a delighted frenzy as they scrambled back.
“Peace!” said Lavastine sternly, and at once they quieted, obedient to his wishes. He turned his gaze to Alain. “You must come ride closer to the king, Son.”
“Their task seems easier than mine.” Alain indicated the fishermen below. Stripped down to their breechclouts, the fishermen enjoyed the purl of the water around their bodies and the hot sun on their glistening backs without any thought except for the labor at hand. He heard their laughter ringing up from the distant shore.
“A drought, a late freeze, a rainy Aogoste. Any of these could ruin their crops.”
“But at least the rivers always breed fish. I’m never quite sure what the noble parties are hunting.”
“You do not like the form of this hunt. But it is one you must learn, and you must learn to judge which party will succeed and which will fail. In this way we make our alliances. The prince favors you.”
“The princess does not.”
“Only because you are favored by the prince.”
“Because I am a bastard, as he is.”
“Were,” said Lavastine with a sudden bite to his tone, like a hound’s sharp nip, more warning than attack. “You are legitimately claimed and honored now.”
“Yes, Father,” said Alain obediently. “But when she sees me and then sees Lord Geoffrey, it reminds Princess Sapientia that the king may choose another claimant over her when it comes time to anoint his heir.” The hounds sat, panting, in the sun: Rage, Sorrow, Ardent, Bliss, and Fear. Terror flopped down. Only Steadfast still sniffed along the verge of the bluff, intent on a scent that did not interest the others. A stone’s toss back from the bluff, King Henry and his companions conferred, pointing toward the dense spur of woodland that thrust here into a scattering of orchard and fields of
ripening oats cut into a neat patchwork by hedgerows.
“I have never much cared for the king’s progress,” said Lavastine finally. He, too, looked toward the forest. The bleat of a hunting horn floated on the air.
“You don’t like the king?” asked Alain, daring much since they were alone, unheard except by the hounds.
Lavastine had a hard, compelling gaze; he turned it on Alain now. “The king stands beyond our likes or dislikes, Alain. I respect him, as he deserves. I hold no grievance against him as long as he leaves me and mine alone—and grants me that which I have won.” The flash of approval in his eyes did not extend to his lips. “That which we won at Gent, you and I. There are many young men and some few women who would gladly join the ranks of your entourage, Alain, if you were to show them your favor. You have learned your manners perfectly, and you carry yourself as well—or better—than most of the young nobles whom we see here at court. You have done well to remain above their games and useless intrigues. But now it is time to build your own retinue.”
Alain sighed. “My foster family brought me up to work and to be proud of that labor. Yet here, should I only gossip and hunt and drink? In truth, Father, I don’t feel at ease in their company. But if I don’t indulge in these amusements, then I fear they’ll think me unworthy.”
Lavastine smiled slightly. “You are not swayed by their levity, as you should not be. You have made a name for yourself in war. Others have noticed that you also apply yourself to the study of scientia. It’s such practical knowledge that will allow you to administer Lavas lands as well as I have done in my time. Your serious manner proves in the eyes of the worthy that you are cast of noble metal.”
The praise embarrassed Alain. He did not feel worthy. Below, the fishermen had hauled their nets out into the shallows and now shouted and whooped with the good cheer of young men who haven’t a care in the world as they tossed fish into baskets that rested on the rocky shore. A few fish slipped from their hands in twisting leaps that spun them back into the river and freedom. But the baskets were by now almost full; their contents churned and slithered, scales flashing in the light like liquid silver.
The horn rang out again, closer. A large animal erupted from cover and scrambled into the orchard. The king’s huntsmen began shouting all at once, bringing their hunting spears to bear. Lavastine’s hounds sprang up and tore away, only to stop short when Lavastine whistled piercingly. They barked furiously as a huge boar appeared in the distance beneath the shelter of a cluster of apple trees.
At that moment, two parties of about equal numbers galloped free of the woods, one from the southern edge of the spur of woodland and the other from its center. Princess Sapientia led the first party. Her banner rippled blue and white from a lance carried by a servant, and her companions thundered along beside her so colorfully outfitted that they obliterated the serenity of cultivated land. Some few even jumped hedgerows and trampled fields in their haste to reach the boar before the other party did.
That other party had come clear of the woodland closer to the hunted beast, but their leader made such a clear point of avoiding any stands of oat and bypassing one stoutly growing field of beans that they closed on the boar from the north just as Princess Sapientia and her entourage circled in from the south. For an instant the two parties faced each other, as do enemy forces in a skirmish: the princess small and fierce on a skittish gelding rather too large for her; her half brother so at his ease with a hunting spear in one hand and the other light on the reins of a magnificent gray that he seemed to shine under the glare of the sun.
The king raised a hand, and his own companions paused, holding back. Everyone watched. The boar bolted away toward the river, the only stretch of open ground left to it.
At once, Prince Sanglant galloped after it, leaving his party behind. He had so much natural grace that Sapientia, racing after him, had somewhat the appearance of a mongrel chasing a sleek greyhound. No one rode after them: to the victor, the spoils.
Sanglant broke wide to drive the boar back from the bluff and cut in from behind. Then he deliberately reined up to let Sapientia take the kill, as if it were her prerogative. As if he did not want what he could easily take.
She saw only his hesitation, his turning aside. The boar bunched, charged; she thrust at its ribs and lodged the point of her spear behind its front shoulder, but the beast got under her horse and the horse went crazy, bucking while she clung to the saddle.
Huntsmen came running, their brindle boarhounds coursing ahead. Sanglant vaulted off his horse and sprinted for the wounded beast. It saw his movement, and in its blind fear and fury charged him. Distantly, Alain heard King Henry cry out. But the prince only braced himself, showing no fear. The boar impaled itself on his spearpoint and drove itself into the lugs. Sanglant plunged his dagger into its eye to kill it.
Sapientia had calmed her horse and now claimed first blood. The boarhounds leaped yelping and biting in a mob around the dead boar, but they slunk back, whimpering, ears pinned down, as Prince Sanglant laid about him with his fist, battering them back as if he were the beast being hunted.
Only when the other riders approached did he shake himself, like a dog newly come from water, and step away to become a man again, tall and handsome in his fine embroidered tunic and leggings with a gold brooch clasping a short half-cloak across his broad shoulders. Yet the iron collar he wore at his neck instead of a gold torque of royal kinship looked incongruous; that, and the odd habit he had of scenting like a hound for smells on the air and of starting ’round like a wild animal at unexpected movement behind him.
Princess Sapientia cut over to Prince Sanglant, but before she could swing down beside him, she was distracted by her chief adviser, Father Hugh. With elegant grace he lured her away to the heady congratulations of her entourage.
“There is one at least,” said Lavastine softly, watching the scene through narrowed eyes, “who wishes for no reconciliation between brother and sister.”
After twenty days riding with the king’s progress, Alain could not bring himself to like, trust, or even respect the handsome, charming, and ingenious Father Hugh. But he felt obliged to be fair. “Father Hugh is well spoken of by everyone at court. Everyone says his influence has benefited the princess immeasurably.”
“Certainly his manners are excellent, and his mother is a powerful prince. I would not like to make an enemy of him. Nevertheless, he has thrown his weight behind Sapientia, and all that influence comes to naught if she does not become regnant after her father.”
“I don’t like him because of what he did to Liath,” muttered Alain.
Lavastine raised an eyebrow and regarded his son skeptically. “You have only her word—that of a kinless Eagle—that he behaved as she describes. In any case, if she was his legal slave, then he could do what he wished with her.” That easily he dismissed Liath’s fears and terrors. “Still, the Eagle has uncommon gifts. Keep an eye on her, if you will. We may yet use her again to our advantage.”
Prince Sanglant had retreated to the river, away from the kill and the commotion. His new hangers-on, uncertain of his temper as always, kept a safe distance although they made an obvious effort to distinguish themselves from those who flocked around Sapientia. The prince stood on the verge where the bluff plunged away to the water. The fishermen had stopped to stare at the sight of a noble lord and his fine retinue.
“He’ll go in,” said Alain suddenly, and as if his words—surely too distant for the prince to hear—triggered the action, Sanglant abruptly began to strip at the bluff’s edge.
Tittering came from Sapienta’s entourage. They had seen this behavior before: Prince Sanglant had a mania for washing himself. But to be without clothing in such a public setting was to be without the dignity and honor granted one by noble birth. Only common folk making ready to wash themselves or to labor on a hot day would as unthinkingly strip before all and sundry as kneel before God to pray.
The prince left his clothing on the
ground and scrambled down the slope into the water. He had an astonishing number of white scars on his body, but he had begun to fill out. Alain could no longer count his ribs.
As the wind turned and positions shifted, Alain heard Father Hugh’s pleasant voice on the breeze. “Alas, and like some dogs, he’ll leap into any body of water if not restrained. Come, Your Highness. This is not fitting.”
Sapientia’s party retreated to the woodland while the huntsmen dealt with the kill, although some few of the ladies with her could not resist a backward glance.
Lavastine sighed audibly. A flurry of movement came from within the king’s party as certain riders—mostly women—made to leave with Princess Sapientia’s party while others, including the king, began to dismount.
“Come,” said Lavastine as he signaled to his attendants. “I return now to the king. Alain, you must choose your place as you think fit.”
By this time half a dozen of Prince Sanglant’s entourage had begun to strip, to follow him into the water, and Alain saw that the king meant to bathe as well, as if to lend royal sanction to his son’s action.
Alain felt it prudent to stay near the king, so he followed Lavastine and in this way was able to jest with several young lords whom he had befriended. Steadfast forged ahead, still on a scent. She growled, and Fear padded forward to snuffle in the grass beside her.
Where the bluff gave way to a negotiable embankment, servants had come forward to hack through brush clinging to the slope to make a path for the king down to the water. The prince, waist-deep in the sluggish current, now plunged in over his head and struck out for the opposite shore. Upstream, the fishermen collected their baskets and made ready to leave. They lingered to stare as the king made his way down the embankment and left his rich clothing to the care of his servants while he took to the cool water. The splashing and shouting and laughter had long since drowned out any sound of Sapientia’s party as it retreated into the forest.
“Do you mean to come in, Son?” Lavastine swung down off his horse. As soon as the count’s feet touched the ground, Terror tried to herd the count away from a thicket of brambles while the other hounds set up such a racket of barking that the prince paused half out on the opposite shore to turn and see what the commotion was, and King Henry spoke a word to an attendant who scrambled back up the embankment.