Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

  The headland emerged from a low-lying mist. Chalk cliffs gleamed invitingly where the sun lit them. Clouds scudded away northwards. Gulls screamed.

  Stronghand raised his standard once more. The haft hummed against his palm as though a hive of bees lived within, but it was only the voice of the magic, always aware, always alert. Always awake.

  The magic that protected him never slept, and never dreamed.

  “Summer wanes,” he said softly, making his commanders strain to hear him above the pound of the surging sea against the rocks and constant blowing rumble of the wind. “Alba waits. And they can do nothing to stop us.”

  6

  IT all happened so fast: Henry’s and Adelheid’s triumphant entrance into Darre, Adelheid’s labor pangs and her delivery of a healthy daughter in the presence of a dozen witnesses on the sixteenth day of Cintre, a mere twenty days after their arrival. The queen was too exhausted to be moved; the rigors of the mountain crossing in the fullest months of her pregnancy had worn her down. Henry could not wait, nor did Adelheid counsel him to tarry in the palace while she recovered.

  So it was that a month later Rosvita found herself once again at the head of a triumphal procession riding into Darre. King Henry had made a brief progress through the northern counties and dukedoms of Aosta, restoring daughters and sons that Ironhead had held hostage and allowing the ladies and lords to feed and house his impressive army. Every gate opened to admit him, although it was by no means clear that every count, lord, and duke was overjoyed at the prospect of Queen Adelheid restored to her throne at the hand of the Wendish king. But the northern lords did not want to fight.

  “As long as they don’t want to fight this year, then we can hope for peace while Henry establishes his power in the south,” said Villam as they halted an arrow’s shot from the massive gates of Darre.

  The magnificence of Darre still awed her. The city was built on five hills, with the two palaces—representing spiritual and temporal power—sitting at the height of Amurrine Hill. The city walls remained more-or-less intact from the time of the old empire, repaired and rebuilt over the course of the four hundred years since the last empress had died defending her throne from the invading Bwr horde. The Bwr army had left the walls intact and razed the temples instead, to show their hatred for the empire’s bloodthirsty gods. Cut from huge stone blocks quarried to the east, the walls rose to the height of ten men, and it was said that a person might walk five leagues on those parapets and not come to the end of them.

  Villam, too, admired the walls, but he hadn’t done speaking. “A good harvest, a mild winter, the Jinna bandits beaten back out to sea—all these will pacify the Aostan nobles more than any battle can.”

  “So we must hope,” replied Rosvita, “because if reports are true, the southern counties will not yield easily. Is that the queen come to welcome us?”

  Henry looked eager, seeing the crowd of folk gathered at the gate, but he was quickly disappointed.

  “Clerics all,” said Villam, surprised enough to show it.

  Hathui rode forward to meet the welcoming party halfway. Presbyters in red cloaks and clerics garbed in robes of white sang a hymn of praise in strong voices. Incense rose in clouds from gold thuribles; even at this distance, the heady scent made Rosvita dizzy, or perhaps that was just the scorching heat of the summer sun. She had grown accustomed to wearing a broad-brimmed hat, like those Aostan clerics favored, but it was so hot that even such shade gave trifling respite from the heat. Fortunatus had remarked several times that it was so hot that not even flies troubled them.

  The Eagle returned, escorting a single man resplendent in rich vestments surmounted by a scarlet cloak trimmed with gems at the collar. The blazing sun was not more golden than his hair. He knelt in the dirt before the king.

  “Your Majesty, Her Most Blessed Majesty Queen Adelheid has sent me to receive you into the city and to escort you to her. She awaits you in the Ivory Pavilion.”

  “I had thought she would greet me herself, at the gates of our city,” said Henry in a dangerously low voice. “I did not march the breadth of Aosta on her behalf only to be brought before her like a mere prince come to pay my respects.”

  Hugh wore no hat. Sweat gleamed on his brow, but he looked otherwise cool and collected as he lowered his voice to speak in a voice meant to carry no farther than the king and his closest companions. “The queen is well, my lord king, after the rigors of birth, but her physicians still confine her indoors in this heat. She had a pair of fainting spells some ten days after the birth, and they fear the sun might cause another.”

  Henry had the grace to change color, and his mouth, tightened into a line of annoyance, shifted subtly to mark concern. “Escort me to her at once.”

  They rode into the city to the accompaniment of cheers and garlands, thrown by the populace. Clearly, Adelheid had won their love in the month Henry had been gone. They blessed the Wendish king, foreigner though he was, for freeing them from Ironhead’s tyranny.

  But Villam leaned toward Rosvita, speaking in a low voice. “Do you see how they call for ‘Father Hugh’? Look at their faces. The flowers are for the presbyter, not for the king.”

  Yet Hugh walked humbly enough beside the king, leading Henry’s horse as though Hugh were the king’s servant. He was, amazingly, barefoot, in the guise of a humble frater—except, of course, for the richness of his clothing.

  “Do you think so?” whispered Rosvita. How could she tell, as garlands fell onto the avenue, a mass of lilies and roses, poppies and narcissus, to make a sweet carpet for the triumphant king? Villam cocked an eye, looking skeptical. When had he grown so suspicious?

  The northern road struck straight through the city to the heart, where the twin palaces lay. Along the lower southern slope of Amurrine Hill, huge walls almost obscured the hill itself, but to the northwest a rocky escarpment fell away below the high parapets to the river beneath. The road ramped up, buttressed by a complicated series of arches, and they dismounted in the forecourt and gave their horses over to grooms.

  In the month they had been gone, all trace of Ironhead, his whores, and his furnishings had been swept out of the palace. Arethousan carpets ornamented the corridors. Brass hooks set into the walls supported oil lamps fashioned into the shapes of animals: roosters and eagles, griffins and dragons, a pair of phoenix, and a flock of golden swallows. Every shutter had been taken down, every room and chamber thrown open to the light. A crowd of servants beat dust out of tapestries. A trio of girls polished the brass fittings on the doors.

  The Ivory Pavilion was not the grandest hall in the palace, but the intimacy and richness of its furnishings gave it a grandeur that many a vast hall could not rival. Narrow window slits allowed a breeze to work through the chamber, but otherwise the thick stone walls as well as the shade of cypress trees in the gardens set to either side of the old building allowed the inhabitants some respite from the heat. They entered through a porch screened off by doors so cunningly carved in a pattern of intertwined roundels that those within could look out upon any courtiers who waited beyond, hoping for admittance.

  The inner chamber was dim enough to need illumination: six handsome lamps in the shape of leopards with the flame licking out of their snarling mouths. The wainscoting was all of ivory, each plaque detailing a scene: battles, the martyrdom of saints, the journey of Helen and her founding of the ancient city of Dariya, stories depicting the queens and kings of Aosta and the trials of the Holy Mothers of the church side by side with heathen tales of gods and magic.

  Queen Adelheid reclined at her ease on a couch, in the ancient Dariyan style, eating grapes and drinking wine while she conversed with a woman whose hair was as pale as moonlight. Rosvita would have thought her a simple churchwoman, except for the exceeding richness of her white cleric’s robes, ornamented by eagles and glittering circles picked out in red-and-gold thread on silk. A nursemaid dandled a plump baby nearby.

  The two women, one young and handsome and the o
ther impossible to put an age to, looked up at the same instant as Henry and his companions entered the chamber. Rosvita saw it at once. Even Hathui caught in her breath with an audible gasp.

  Adelheid, of course, wore no gold torque to mark her royal descent. It was a Wendish and Salian custom, one that had never migrated south of the Alfar Mountains. Nor could Aosta boast a true royal lineage. In truth, any of the noble families of Aosta might claim the throne for themselves, if they were strong enough.

  But the mellow gold of a masterfully crafted torque gleamed at the throat of Adelheid’s companion. The ends of the braided gold had each been formed into the face of an angel. The woman did not rise as Henry strode forward.

  Adelheid did.

  “Henry! I pray you, forgive me for not meeting you at the gates. My physicians—”

  He kissed her warmly on either cheek before insisting she sit. “Rest, my heart,” he said fervently, seeing that she was comfortably settled before he beckoned to the nursemaid. “Here is my sweet Mathilda. How fares she?”

  The sleeping Mathilda looked healthy, red-cheeked like an apple at first blush, her limbs plump and her downy cap of hair as dark as her mother’s.

  “She fares well,” said Adelheid proudly. “She eats well, and grows quickly.”.

  “But not as quickly as your granddaughter,” said the cleric seated on the couch next to Adelheid’s.

  Henry gave the baby back into the nursemaid’s arms and examined this woman who had not shown him the least deference. King and cleric studied each other. A difficult winter and spring waiting in Wayland for the passes to clear, a grueling journey over the mountains, and a month spent in almost constant motion winning over or, at times, intimidating the Aostan nobles had not wearied Henry as much as his new bride, new child, and new throne had uplifted him. He had more silver in his hair but, like a crown, it ennobled him. A man half his age might well wish for as much vigor as the king possessed. Certainly Adelheid had never complained of his bed, and even now she gazed at him admiringly, seeing what a fine figure he cut in a rich tunic and with his hair still tousled from the day’s ride.

  But the cleric had vigor also. She wore arrogance with an ease that betrayed high birth and an expectation that others would bow to her authority. And she had stillness. She sat, hands clasped in her lap, and regarded the king with a thoughtful gaze unblemished by strong emotion. If she felt fear, or anger, or joy, no hint of it touched her eyes.

  “Who are you, who sits while I stand?” he asked bluntly.

  “I pray you, Henry,” began Adelheid, reaching for his hand.

  At the same moment, Hugh came forward. “Your Majesty, if I may be given leave—”

  “Nay, Hugh,” objected Adelheid, addressing him in a most casual manner. “It must be done, and done quickly.” She turned to Henry. “We have had word from the south. Ironhead’s cousin has raised an army to avenge him. Jinna raiders have put to shore in both Navlia and Tratanto. The Arethousan emperor claims the entire province of Aelia, and the Count of Sirriki begs for our aid in fighting off the pirates who have besieged his ports. Six of the northern lords refused my summons to come to court to make their submission. Untimely rain threatens the grape harvest in Idria, and the stores of rye here in Darre have all been taken by rot. Two deacons in Fiora were struck dead by lightning. There are rumors of a heresy taking hold in the northeast. Meanwhile, Mother Clementia is dead these three months or more, and the throne of the skopos remains empty.”

  “Surely the presbyters meet and hold council, as is their tradition,” began Rosvita.

  “The council of presbyters may argue for months,” said Hugh quietly before bowing his head to await events.

  Adelheid glanced at Hugh, as if expecting him to go on, but he kept his gaze lowered modestly, fixed on the parquet floor and its two tones of wood, blond and ebony, spreading out from his feet in a pattern of repeating squares. Like good and evil, the warring inclinations stamped into every human soul.

  “The presbyters weave their own intrigues that have nothing to do with the security of Aosta,” continued Adelheid fervently, taking Henry’s hand again. “Many of them do not care to act in favor of restoring the empire. Yet those same clerics will not necessarily move against a strong hand setting the emperor in place.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Henry.

  But Rosvita already knew, with that sudden, sure instinct that causes dogs to shy and birds to twitter in the hour before an earthquake hits. She had heard Sanglant’s testimony. It did not take any great wisdom to add two to two and count up four. “You are Sister Anne, of St. Valeria’s Convent.”

  “Liath’s mother!” murmured Hathui, standing just behind the king. “I see no resemblance.”

  Henry was not slow to catch their meaning. “Are you the woman who claims to be the granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer?”

  Anne did not rise. She lifted a single hand, like a queen calling for silence. “What need have I to claim such a thing when it is truth? Why else would I wear the gold torque of royal kinship?”

  This argument stymied Henry, but Villam could not remain silent. “Any woman or man might put a gold torque around their throat and say what they will. In the marchlands, imposters sometimes ride into villages and claim to be clerics, or lords, or heathen sorcerers with the power to make birds talk and the rivers run with gold. What proof have you?”

  Anne was neither amused nor angry. Her calm ran as deep as the ocean. “What proof do you desire? Is it not obvious?” She whistled, an unexpected sound coming from that ageless, composed face. A huge black hound trotted into view, emerging from behind a carved wood screen. Servants shied away, but it approached meekly enough and lay down submissively at Anne’s feet.

  “That looks like one of Lavastine’s hounds,” said Henry, examining the hound with the keen interest of a man who keeps a large kennel and knows the names of all his dogs. “I thought they were all dead.”

  “I do not know where the beast came from,” said Anne, “only that it did come to me one day to offer its obeisance. I believe this hound is descended from the black hounds who were loyal to Taillefer. They are spoken of in poems, and I have seen them depicted in tapestries.”

  “There is one carved in stone in Taillefer’s chapel at Autun, faithful in life as in death,” said Rosvita, and while it was true that one might mark a resemblance, too much time had passed between the reign of Taillefer and this day to know whether this fearsome creature was itself the descendant, many dog generations on, of the emperor’s famous hounds.

  “Nay, Your Majesty.” Villam crouched to get a better look, although he did not venture too close. “This is indeed one of Lavastine’s hunting hounds. I recognize the look of it. The ears. The size. The breadth of its chest. It might as well have swallowed a barrel. I respected those hounds too well to forget them now.”

  “What do you want?” asked Henry.

  “To serve God,” said Anne. “That is all.”

  “If queen and king agree, then there can be no impediment to Sister Anne’s crowning as skopos,” said Adelheid.

  Anne did not smile. “If I am skopos, then I cannot contend with you for the imperial throne that is rightly mine.”

  Henry smiled sharply. He eased his hand out of Adelheid’s grip and gestured to his servants. Two stewards had already hurried in, and they hastily set up his traveling throne, with the dragon arms, the eagle-wing back, and the lion legs and paws to support it. Sitting, he set chin on fist and elbow on knee, regarding Anne more with curiosity than with animosity. “With what army do you mean to contend for the imperial throne?”

  “God’s favor and the right of birth ought to be army enough. So have you put forth your own claim, I believe.”

  He glanced at Hathui, who fingered her Eagle’s brooch self-consciously, her expression fixed like stone. What was the Eagle thinking? What did Henry mean to do?

  Like a good commander, he attempted a flank attack. “Is it true the woman named Liathano
is your daughter? Do you know what became of her?”

  “No more than I know what became of your bastard, Sanglant.”

  “Who does not trust you and spoke most damningly of your powers and your intent. You are a sorcerer, I believe, a mathematicus. There was talk of a cataclysm soon to engulf us. The return of the Lost Ones. A war, perhaps, or some other disaster.”

  “I pray you, King Henry, do not mock what you do not understand.” As they had spoken, it had grown dark and the chamber dim. Wind rustled through the cypresses outside. Adelheid’s banner, hung from the wall behind the couches, stirred, the cloth sighing up and settling down as though an invisible daimone’s hand toyed with it. No one had lit lamps; even the servants watched in anticipatory silence as king faced cleric.

  Even the servants understood that something monumental was at stake. Servants could smell the heady brew of a silent struggle for power sooner than anyone else.

  “Very well,” agreed Henry softly. “It’s true I understand practical matters better than sorcerous ones. I know that a woman may not rule as queen regnant in Salia. But if you are indeed Taillefer’s granddaughter, then you might well gain adherents enough to drag Aosta into a long struggle over the crowns, which none of us desire. Your aspiration seems reasonable enough, Sister Anne, but of what use can you be to me if I support your election as Holy Mother, skopos over all the church?”

  Anne lifted cupped hands. A silvery sphere of light spun into being just above her palms. Villam muttered a prayer under his breath. Adelheid sighed sharply, like a woman in the throes of pleasure. Henry remained silent, watching.

  Anne raised her arms and, as a woman tosses rose petals to the wind, flung up her hands. The silvery globe dissolved into sparks of shimmering white light, each one a butterfly swooping and fluttering throughout the chamber. The winged light threw the scenes carved onto ivory into relief: a lady with her falcon; the entombment of St. Asella; fair Helen on the walls of Ilios, calling the troops to battle; the tortures of St. John of Hamby, each one depicted in exquisite detail.