by Kate Elliott
“Nay. An adder? Here?” That was a Lion, the red-haired one.
“Ach, yes. Bit one of Count Lavastine’s hounds and then vanished. Stablemaster sent men to beat the bushes all round and smoke out any snake holes, but the local folk say they’ve not seen vipers ’round here for years and years. Still. It weren’t no rat that bit that hound.”
A thrill of alarm stung him. He staggered up to his feet, surprising his father. “What is this talk of an adder and Lavastine’s hounds?”
Henry recovered his composure quickly, mingled affection, grief, and surprise smoothing back into the mask of stone, an expression that gave away nothing of his inner thoughts: Henry at his most cunning. “Indeed.” He related the story, what he knew of it. “It happened at dawn. Men have beaten through the palace grounds. But none have scoured these slopes or this land here along the river.” He sighed expansively. “Nay, what use? The creature has long since escaped into earth or brush.”
“Not if I hunt it.” Sanglant flung back his head and took a draught of air, but he smelled nothing out of the ordinary: sweattinged men, an aftertaste of frankincense from the dawn service, a dead fish, the evanescent perfume of lavender and comfrey growing along the far bank, manure and urine from the distant stables, the dense, faint underlay of women’s holy bleeding, cook fires from the palace and the searing flesh of pork.
“Go, then,” said the king quickly. “Send those Lions back, for they’ve been at their watch all night, and they’ll send others to take their place. Where will you start?”
“Here at the base of the bluff. It may have come down through the brush.”
“Take care you’re not bitten, Son.”
“And if I am?” he retorted bitterly. “Female and male God created them. It can’t kill me.”
“Search with my blessing, then.”
But Sanglant had already begun the hunt, and gave no further thought to his father’s swift retreat.
5
HANNA waited for Liath outside Count Lavastine’s chamber. Liath was still stunned from the rain of gifts that had been showered on her inside. Ai, God, had Count Lavastine really given her a horse? She clutched Alain’s ring in her hand and stared at Hanna, speechless.
“You’ve been called before the king.” Hanna kissed her, they embraced, and then Hanna pushed back to survey Liath critically. “Everything looks in place.”
“Called before the king?”
“Liath!” Hanna’s tone made her jump. “Run if you want, or face it with courage. How you present yourself to the king will make a difference in whether he rules in your favor—or in Father Hugh’s.”
It was good advice, of course, but Liath had a claw stuck in her throat and could not get any words out.
As they walked to the great yard, they passed several Lions loitering as if waiting for her, among them her acquaintance Thiadbold. He winked at her and said, “You know where we are if you’ve need of aught, friend.”
Did everyone know or suspect? But it took far more caution than she and Sanglant had shown to keep something secret on the king’s progress. That Hugh had hidden his interest in her, until now, only betrayed how cunning he was.
“You’ve gained their regard,” observed Hanna. “But then, you saved the lives of Lions at Augensburg.”
Yet killed more than she had saved.
It was midmorning, just after Terce. The king held court out in the yard, his throne set up in the shadow of the great hall. From the kennels she heard barking as huntsmen readied hounds. Hugh and Wolfhere knelt in front of the king, Hugh somewhat closer to Henry than was Wolfhere, as befit his higher rank. Wolfhere marked her briefly; his composure irritated her. Hugh did not look toward her as Hanna walked forward beside her and then peeled away to go stand in attendance on Princess Sapientia, but Henry examined her keenly as she knelt. She was careful to keep Wolfhere between her and Hugh. Nobles surrounded Henry’s seat, spread out like wings arching away from his chair: Sapientia, Villam, Judith, Sister Rosvita, and others, faceless to her dizzied sight. The eager crowd stirred like a nest of hornets swept by a gust of smoke.
She did not see Sanglant.
Trembling, she slipped Alain’s ring onto a finger.
“So this is the Eagle who has caused so much agitation in my court. You are called Liathano. An Arethousan name.” Henry had a leash in one hand, studded with brass fittings, and he played with it as he studied her. “What am I to do with you?”
“I beg you, Your Majesty,” said Hugh. “This woman is my slave. She came to me because her father died leaving a debt, which I purchased. As his sole heir, she inherited the debt and could not pay it—”
“I could have paid it if you’d not stolen Da’s books—!”
“Quiet,” said the king without raising his voice. “Go on, Father Hugh.”
She clenched her hands but could do nothing.
Hugh inclined his head graciously. “As his sole heir, she inherited the debt, which she could not pay, and because I paid the debt, she came legally into my keeping. I knew very well that a young woman left alone without kin to watch over her would be in danger, especially in the north. I did what I could to make her safe.”
“What are these books she speaks of?” asked Henry.
Hugh shrugged. “All acknowledge the right of the church to confiscate books that may prove dangerous.” Unexpectedly, he sought approval from a new quarter. “Is that not so, Sister Rosvita? It was first stated at the Council of Orialle, was it not?”
The cleric nodded, but she was frowning. “This right the church has kept in its own hands.”
“And in my capacity as an ordained frater, a servant of God, I judged these works dangerous to any not educated in their use. I acted as I thought proper. In any case, it is not yet clear to me that the books rightfully belonged to her father at all.”
“That’s not true—!”
“I have not given you leave to speak,” said Henry without looking at her. “But her charge of theft is a serious one, Father Hugh.”
He sighed, with a tiny, sad frown. “It is indeed a serious charge, Your Majesty. But there remains another charge as serious: that I purchased her father’s debt price, and thus her bond of slavery, illegally. I am sworn to the church. It is slander to suggest that I dealt dishonestly or unfairly in such a transaction.” For an instant, she heard real anger in his voice, honor stung by false accusation. He did not look at her. She looked away from him quickly and became aware all at once that many people in the crowd were watching her watching him. What had her face revealed? More than his did, surely. He went on. “As for the books, to whom could she have expected to sell books? And for what price? To a freeholder to burn in the hearth for heat over the winter? I must point out that after the sale of his remaining belongings, her father still left debts totaling fully two nomias—”
Murmurs arose in the crowd. People pointed. Whispers buzzed.
“Two nomias! For a slave! That’s as much as for a fine stallion!”
To one side, she glimpsed Count Lavastine slipping into place among the crowd of nobles.
“In truth, Your Majesty,” Hugh went on smoothly, “she could not have met the debt price, books or no books, no matter what she believes—or wishes to believe. I kept her safe, clothed, fed, and housed. And I was repaid in this manner: Your Eagle, Wolfhere, stole her from me without my consent—and, evidently, without yours.”
“I pray you, Your Majesty!” The words burst out of Wolfhere. “May I speak?”
The king considered for a long time. Finally, he lifted a hand in consent.
Wolfhere spoke crisply. “Liath came with me freely. I paid the full debt price that Father Hugh had taken on himself: two nomias. The transaction was witnessed by Marshal Liudolf of Heart’s Rest, and sealed with your own mark—the mark of the Eagles which you grant to each of us who serves the crown of Wendar and Varre. It is well known that your servants hold the right to take what they need when they need it. I had need of more Eagles
, in such troubled times. Liath and Hanna served me well, and indeed I lost two Eagles at Gent, one of them my own discipla. I did not purchase Liath’s freedom trivially, but out of necessity. She has served you well, Your Majesty. I beg you to take her service into account.”
“But she was still taken without my consent,” said Hugh quietly. “I did not take the nomias that were offered me. I did not agree to the transaction.”
Henry shifted in his chair. “Do you begrudge me a gift as insignificant as this girl?”
“Not at all, Your Majesty,” he replied without missing a beat. His golden-blond hair gleamed in the sun, as did he. “But I dislike seeing such disgrace brought onto your Eagles, for isn’t it true that Eagles must be free men and women to ride in your service?”
“Freeborn men and women,” said Wolfhere quickly. “It was no fault of Liath’s that her father died in debt. But she is freeborn.”
“How do we know that?” asked Hugh.
“I will swear it on the Holy Verses!” cried Liath fiercely. “Both my mother and father were freeborn—”
“Peace,” said the king softly, and she winced, cursed herself. Could she never just keep quiet? This was not the way to win the king’s favor. He regarded Hugh and Wolfhere with a frown, but she could not guess at his thoughts. Finally, he gestured toward Sister Rosvita. “You wish to speak, Sister?”
“Only in this way, Your Majesty. I advise you to send this young woman to the convent of St. Valeria.”
That surprised him. “I begin to think there is more here than meets the eye. St. Valeria! Why should I send her to St. Valeria? To see why Theophanu is delayed for so long there?”
“A good enough reason, Your Majesty. One that will serve the purpose.”
“You speak in riddles, my good counselor. Is there more you would say?”
Rosvita hesitated. Liath’s heart beat so hard she thought everyone around her could hear its hammering. Rosvita knew what was written in The Book of Secrets; her testimony alone could condemn Liath.
“Nay, Your Majesty,” she said at last, and reluctantly. “There is nothing more I would say in such an assembly.”
Whispers threaded through the crowd like a weaving gone awry. Hugh’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the cleric; then he recalled himself and bowed his head modestly. He did it so well. Never a hair out of place, never a smile too many or a frown at the wrong time.
Henry chuckled, but more in exasperation than good cheer. He gestured expansively. “Are there others who wish to speak?” he demanded.
That brought silence. No one was foolish—or brave—enough to speak into such silence.
Until Count Lavastine stepped forward, unruffled although he immediately became the center of attention. “I see that this Eagle has caused a great deal of disturbance on your progress, Your Majesty. But she served me well at Gent. If you wish to be rid of her, I will take her into my retinue.”
“Would you, indeed?” The king quirked an eyebrow, curious, not entirely pleased. “So many show such an interest in a simple Eagle,” he mused. His tone made her nervous, and as if her fear attracted him, he looked right at her, the gaze of lightning, blazing, bright, and overwhelming. “Have you anything to say to this, Eagle?”
She blurted it out without thinking. “Where is Sanglant?”
“Sanglant is not here, because I have ordered it so.” There was nothing more to be said, no petition, no recourse. She bent her head in submission. What else could she do? “Wolfhere leaves today to ride south to Aosta. You have served me well, Liathano.”
To hear her name pronounced so firmly in his resonant baritone made her shiver; Da would have said: “Beware the notice of those who can seal your death warrant; if they don’t know you exist, then they’ll likely ignore you.” But the king knew she existed. He knew her name, and names are power. She waited, toying with Alain’s ring, praying that it might miraculously protect her. What else could she do?
“You have served me well,” he repeated, “so I offer you a choice. Remain an Eagle and continue to serve me faithfully, as you have done up to now. If you so choose, you will leave with your comrade Wolfhere this morning. Renounce your oaths as an Eagle, if you will, and I will return you to Father Hugh, as he has asked. This is the king’s will. Let none contest my judgment.”
He spoke the words harshly, and the instant he uttered them she could have sworn the words were meant for his absent son. A kick of rebellion started alive in her gut. What had the king threatened Sanglant with to make him stay away?
But as the silence spread, waiting on her choice, she heard Hugh’s ragged breathing; she heard murmurs and the distant sound of dogs yipping. A horse neighed. A drover shouted in the lower enclosure, so faint that even the scuff of her knee on the dirt made a louder sound.
“I will ride with Wolfhere, Your Majesty.” Each word stabbed like a knife in the heart.
Hugh stirred. She knew he was spitting furious, but nothing of his rage showed on his fine, handsome face. Ai, Lady! She was free of him at last. But all she felt was a cold emptiness in her chest.
“Take what you will in recompense from my treasury, Father Hugh,” continued Henry. “You have served my daughter and my kingdom well, and I am pleased with your counsel.”
“Your Majesty.” Hugh rose gracefully and, as he stepped back, he bowed in submission to the king’s decree. “‘In his days righteousness shall flourish, and prosperity abound until the moon is no more.’”
“You may go,” said the king to the two Eagles in the tone of one who has been tried beyond his patience.
“Come, Liath,” murmured Wolfhere. “We have outstayed our welcome.” But he did not look unhappy.
She was nothing, an empty vessel drained dry, all her hopes gone for nothing, but Da hadn’t raised a fool. She insisted they stop at the count’s stables, and here she took possession of her fine horse, her saddle and bridle, rope and saddlebags, a quiver’s worth of arrows, and the beautifully worked leather belt by the renowned Master Hosel, whoever he was. Wolfhere was astounded by this largesse, but he raised no objections. He was too eager to leave.
She cried soundlessly when they rode down through the ramparts of Werlida and set their horses’ heads to follow the southern road, but she dared not look back.
IV
THE SCENT OF BLOOD
1
THROUGH birch and spruce he runs, aware that another runs behind him: Second Son of the Sixth Litter, the least of his enemies because of all the brothers he is the first to stalk him. The others deem him so worthless that they will leave him until the end. But he has planned it out all carefully: the first, and least, of the traps will be good enough to dispose of the least of his opponents.
Along the ground a wealth of ferns shatters under him; sedge and bramble give way as he leaps up a slope. He hears the roar of his pursuer, who is tired of running and wishes simply to bring his quarry to bay and fight to the death. May the strongest win.
Ahead, a boulder painted with lichen shoulders up out of the undergrowth: his marker. Beyond it a thick stand of trees awaits. He can almost feel the breath of Second Son on his back, feel the swipe of a clawed hand stirring the delicate links of his golden girdle as Second Son lunges—and misses.
Too late. He cuts in among the trees to a clearing hollowed out by dense growth shading away bracken. Old needles give him spring as he jumps, tucks, rolls in the air and out onto safe ground just as Second Son blunders into the clearing and roars triumph …
… and the ground shudders beneath him as ropes slither up on all sides, tugged into the trees by ten slaves hidden in the branches. The trap closes, a net sewn with fishhooks, and Second Son is tumbled into it. He writhes, howling in fury.
As he fights to free himself from the net, fishhooks bound along the rope catch against his skin with each twist and turn Each barb finds purchase under the finely-layered scales that protect his hide. As he fights, more catch and tug and tear, yet it is not the pain that makes Second
Son howl but the knowledge of defeat. He thrashes helplessly, gets a claw loose, and begins to rip at the rope, woven of kelp and flax and strips of bark and hair blessed by the Soft Ones’ deacon. But his arm catches on more fishhooks; as each one sinks in, it sticks stubbornly, and he must rip his skin free in order to begin again.
For one moment Fifth Son allows himself to watch the shuddering of the net in the air. Through the branches he sees his slaves straining to hold it taut while the net convulses around Second Son. Struggling in a net woven of ropes sewn with fish hooks is like struggling against fate: Resistance only sinks the barbs in more deeply.
He steps forward onto ground churned and disordered by the sudden hoisting of the net. Second Son spits curses at him but has no power to make those curses stick. He is helpless, and in moments he will be dead. Fifth Son steps close and unsheathes his claws.
Alain blinked, dizzy, and came abruptly awake out of an uncomfortable doze. He heard clerics singing the service of Nones, but the music rang in his ears like a dirge for the forgotten dead and he was pierced with such a vivid memory of Lackling joyfully feeding the sparrows that he thought his heart would rend in two from sorrow. Afternoon light splashed across the chamber. Ardent lay still beneath his hands, and he moved to shift her gently off his legs—only to bruise himself, crushed beneath her weight. She might have been stone.
“Son.” Lavastine stood at the window and now hurried over to brush a finger against Alain’s cheek. “Don’t fight her weight. I didn’t want to disturb you before. She’s rested so peacefully because she lay with you. There, you see. She’s almost gone.”
Ardent whimpered softly, but as he stroked her head, he could see the suck of her lungs grow shallow.
“Where is Tallia?” he whispered.
“When you slept, she took her attendants and went to pray in the chapel. It is better so. God have mercy.” Only the scrape in his voice revealed his grief; his expression was as smooth as Ardent’s coat. He sat on the bed, rested fingers lightly on her muzzle as she stiffened entirely and, at last, ceased to breathe.