Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

Sanglant sighed, and for the first time he looked directly, and beseechingly, at Bayan, who had spoken not one word since the council began.

  “If it is true,” said Bayan finally. He paused. Every soul fell silent. It was easy to see who really commanded the army, although by every right and privilege the Wendish folk, at least, belonged to Sapientia. “If it is true we can trust this Eagle’s sight, who says to us that for months there lies a cloud of sorcery over the land that hides Bulkezu. But I know the power of magic. None better than I! Maybe now the cloud parts and the Eagle gets a look. So. If it is true Bulkezu rides north along the Veser, then what prevents him from swinging wide, around this city, and going on his merry way, as Prince Sanglant says? Bulkezu can leave a force of small size camped outside the walls, and with this force he can trick Duchess Rotrudis so she will believe he sets a siege at her gates. Then, if she so believes, she will not harry him until for her and for Saony it is too late.”

  “And he can do as much damage as he likes,” agreed Sanglant. “Or he could strike west before he even reaches Osterburg and go for Kassel or the Rhowne heartlands near Autun. The best we could hope for in that case would be that he drives all the way to the western sea and spends his fury laying waste to Salia.”

  “What do you think we should do, Prince Sanglant?” asked Captain Thiadbold from where he stood behind the seated ladies and lords.

  “I say we march hard and try to reach Osterburg before he does.”

  “Impossible,” protested Lady Brigida. She giggled, as she was wont to do when she became nervous.

  Lamps lit the interior of the spacious tent. By their fitful light, Sanglant saw the faces of the others, most of them regarding him with interest and mounting excitement. On the table around which they sat the leavings of their evening’s feast congealed on platters of brass and pewter: chicken and goose bones; an eviscerated bread pudding with only the crusty sides and burned bottom left; fried griddle breads; small, sweet honey cakes; and berries flavored with a mint sauce—the kind of things easily prepared on the march. “Then even if Bulkezu strikes west, we’ll still be in position to pursue him no matter where he rides before autumn rain and winter snows make the roads impassable.”

  Soldiers nodded. Lords and ladies murmured noises of assent.

  Bayan coughed, clearing his throat. “I have to piss,” he said cheerfully, standing, “but how I hate to piss alone! Prince Sanglant, will you join me?”

  Sanglant laughed. “Ah, my friend, what man could turn down such a proposal?” He rose, drained his cup, and only staggered slightly as he made his way through the assembled crowd in Bayan’s wake.

  Bayan’s boisterous humor vanished as soon as they got outside. His faithful Ungrian guards, the kind of hard, hearty men who would rousingly toast you with a beaker of strong ale one moment and beat you to a pulp the next if you offended their master, kept watch as Bayan strode over to the horse lines. He did his business quickly and waited, whistling softly under his breath, until Sanglant was done as well.

  “Now, my friend,” he said quietly, “we must have the talk.”

  “Ah, the talk. Which talk is that?”

  “You are not a fool, my good friend. So I will not insult you with lies, but I will speak the truth.”

  “You’re scaring me, Bayan. Are you going to tell me I have to sleep with Lady Brigida lest she take her retinue and ride home in a rage? I’d sooner sleep with Bulkezu than with her. Or maybe with her warhorse.”

  Bayan snorted, amused, but he shook his head and paced down toward the end of the horse lines, Sanglant following alongside, careful not to step in any fresh manure. The night was cloudy, although comfortably warm, lit only by sentry fires, the dozen lamps hung around the periphery of the royal tent, and the distant reddish flare of a bonfire burning away the remains of the dead at Machteburg. South, Sanglant could see the scattered fires of the merchants’ camp up on the rise where the ancient ring fort lay.

  “So.” Bayan hadn’t Sanglant’s height but he was as broad through the shoulders, not at all gone to fat as some noblemen his age often did. He turned to face Sanglant squarely. In this dim light Sanglant could not make out his expression. “Do we agree that Bulkezu threatens Wendar?”

  “Of course.”

  “This other cataclysm you have mentioned. But I cannot see it. The fire of Bulkezu’s army burns too brightly before me. What does it matter if your sorcerers intrigue if we all are heads dangling from Quman belts?”

  “True enough. What did you bring me out here to tell me?”

  “Let us speak bluntly. She has not your charisma. She has not your prowess on the field, and not your intelligence. But you are a bastard, and I am Sapientia’s husband. Henry named her as his heir, not you. What if you raise your sword and demand to lead the army? Maybe even you have no intention to cause her soldiers to stand behind your banner, but if you do so, then you shame her. If you shame her, she will have no choice except to withdraw. And so, my friend, will I.”

  “I’m not accustomed to being commanded by anyone except the king.”

  Bayan shrugged. “So. If there is to be no agreement between us, then we must split our armies.”

  “We have a better chance of defeating Bulkezu if we hit him with our forces combined. You know that as well as I do.”

  “So I do.”

  “And you know our wisest course, if what the Eagle says is true, is to ride west to Osterburg and use it as our base to hunt down Bulkezu’s army.”

  “So I do. But I am the one who married the heir to Wendar and Varre. I did not marry her so that it falls to me to stand back and allow a bastard to command me. I mean no offense to your mother or yourself, you understand. I give you the truth because I respect you. I am knowing you well, Sanglant. You will do what is best for your father’s realm.”

  The heady courage given him by too much strong wine made him reckless. “Do you know, Bayan, that my father wished me to marry Adelheid of Aosta and take the king’s crown in Darre?”

  “Your father is a wise man. You would have done well to heed him instead of running off after a witch. Then you would have been fighting in Aosta and Henry would stand here to drive out the Quman.”

  “Nay, my friend, it’s not as simple as that. It’s but a small step from reigning as king in Aosta to reigning as heir to the Holy Dariyan Emperor.”

  “This is only a story, I think. You are not married to Adelheid. Your father is. You are not in Aosta, taking the king’s crown. Your father is. That still leaves you and me out here, on this fine summer’s night, taking a piss by the horses.” He neatly sidestepped a pile of stinking manure, as graceful as ever. Bayan was not a man, Sanglant reflected, to challenge to a drinking contest. “Tell me what you intend, Sanglant. Will you contest your sister’s authority? Or will you yield to her?”

  “Ai, God! You ask too much!”

  They had walked far enough that a nearby sentry fire illuminated Bayan’s face as he smiled wryly, with the barest edge of anger, carefully honed. “Wendish pride.”

  A rent in the clouds revealed the quarter moon rising along the treetops. The charnel smell from the funeral pyre tainted the air as the wind shifted, then died. Sanglant shook his head, but as much as he fought to remember what it had been like to be the King’s Dragon, whose life was forfeit for Wendar’s safety, he just could not go back, not anymore. “There’s sense in what you say, but you ask too much. Am I to bow my head when I’ve never bowed before any person but my father? Not even for you, Bayan, and there’s few people in this world I respect as well as I respect you.”

  That edged smile did not waver. Bayan’s lips ticked up, briefly, as if in a spasm of anger, but he did not lose control. “I will not ask you to bow your noble head, even to me, although by right you ought to. But if our armies will join, then there can be only one commander. That one must be Sapientia.”

  “God have mercy, Bayan, let’s not mince words, if you insist. That one may be Sapientia in name, but it will be you
in fact. As it is now.”

  “So, how does this trouble you? You will have as much chance to influence her as I do, will you not?”

  Sanglant laughed harshly. “I’m not sleeping in her bed, God forgive me for suggesting such a thing.”

  “Bowing the head is not easy to learn, so I admit. Then let us here agree to defeat Bulkezu together. We go our separate ways after. Sapientia also is Margrave of Eastfall, I think you remember. When she becomes queen, I can persuade her to grant the margraviate of Eastfall into your care. I want Bulkezu dead. I want to drive the Quman back east where they belong. And so do you, Sanglant. If you did not, you would not be here now.” They had reached the end of the horse lines and crossed now, by unspoken consent, toward the first line of sentries. “But I do not forget your Wendish pride.”

  “Nor your own damned Ungrian conceit.”

  “Henry accepted Ungria’s offer, not Salia’s. Thus did he choose a consort for to marry his eldest legitimate child.”

  The night air had finally cleared the cobwebs from his mind. He halted, tipping back his head to watch as clouds swirled over the face of the moon, hiding it again. “I never had a child before,” he said softly.

  “Now do you understand me?” Bayan stood beside him, also watching the moon as it slipped free of the cloud cover, a trembling light drifting hazily behind misty streamers of night haze. “A child of my blood will ascend to the throne of Wendar and Varre. Beware what words you teach your small daughter, Prince Sanglant. The great Emperor Taillefer has been dead for a long time. His power fled with him to the grave. But few, I think, forget the noble feast he presided over. Be cautious, I pray you, in parading a child who has learned to say those sweet-smelling words, ‘I am the heir of Emperor Taillefer.’ The wolves are always hungry.”

  3

  POOR Lord Manegold, vain and shallow, had to carry Bulkezu’s standard when they rode down from their position on the ridgetop to the parley. He looked like he’d rather be dead, no matter how many encouraging words Ekkehard muttered privately to him before the prince was escorted away to wait nervously with an honor guard close around him, just to make sure he didn’t attempt to escape.

  The negotiations for the parley had taken an excruciating day conducted first through scouts, then through emissaries sent from camp to fort and back again with various demands, offers, and compromises.

  Bulkezu went in full battle array, wings gleaming in the steady summer sunlight. He descended from the ridge with one hundred picked riders at his back, Lord Manegold at the front holding up his standard, and Hanna beside him, her hands bound to make it clear she was his prisoner. Boso had dressed himself in the richest clothing he could scavenge, and he looked as ridiculous as a dog fitted out in a lord’s cloak and jewels, trotting along at his master’s heels.

  Midway between the ridgeline and the outer palisade of the fort stood a large pavilion, sides raised up like wings to let the breeze through, the neutral ground on which both parties would meet. A force of one hundred mounted men waited beyond the pavilion.

  Princess Theophanu had already arrived. Her face was as expressive as the blank mask-visor on Bulkezu’s helmet. Only the crease of her mouth held a gleam of emotion, difficult to interpret, as they approached over the grass and crossed into the shade afforded by the raised wings of the tent.

  The princess had Henry’s cunning. Seated in a chair almost as elaborately carved as her father’s traveling throne, she allowed Bulkezu to come before her as though he were a supplicant. Duke Conrad the Black fidgeted at her back with the same kind of restless energy Prince Sanglant had, a man who would rather be fighting than standing. There were, besides them, two noble companions in attendance, a richly-dressed girl of ten or twelve years of age who stood behind an empty chair placed next to Theophanu’s, and three stewards ready to serve goblets of wine.

  Bulkezu’s riders halted the precise distance back from the pavilion as Theophanu’s cavalry waited in the other direction. He rode forward with Hanna and Boso to his left, three of his captains to his right, and Cherbu at his back. The wind moaned through the wings of his riders. Light rippled along iron coverts as the breeze coursed through his griffin wings, lifting a seductive melody into the air. He surveyed the positions of his troops, and of hers, the placement of her chair and of the one set ten paces away, facing her, that remained empty for him. With his helmet on, it was impossible to see his face. He looked back toward Cherbu, and the shaman made a sign with his hand, briefly noted. Satisfied, Bulkezu pulled off his helmet and tossed it to one of his captains, who caught it neatly and tucked it under his arm.

  Theophanu remained silent. Conrad watched, shifting restlessly as Bulkezu dismounted and indicated that Hanna and Boso should dismount as well. The second captain took their horses’ reins and led them to one side, out of the way.

  Hanna met Conrad’s gaze briefly; the power of his physical body was mirrored in the keen strength of his gaze. He had very dark eyes, almost black, the legacy of his Jinna mother’s ancestry. The girl rested a hand on the back of the chair while she examined Bulkezu with a scornful expression similar to that of the duke. By coloring and features, it was obvious that she was his daughter.

  Boso stepped forward. “His Magnificence Prince Bulkezu hears your pleas with interest and a kind heart, and by reason of his generosity and liberality has chosen to hear you out rather than attack and destroy your army outright.”

  “He wants gold,” muttered Conrad darkly.

  Theophanu’s expression did not change. “I pray you, Prince Bulkezu, please be seated and let my stewards serve you wine.”

  Boso translated while Bulkezu kept his gaze fixed on a point midway between Conrad and Theophanu, that remarkably believable look of blank incomprehension on his face. Once Boso had finished, Bulkezu gestured, and Boso hurried to fetch a folding stool. Saved from the abbot’s chamber out of a burning monastery, the wooden stool had caught Bulkezu’s fancy because of the griffin heads carved into either end of the side rails, each one plated with gold. On this seat, Bulkezu deigned to sit. His wings rustled as he settled into place, refusing with a raised hand the silver goblet of wine brought forward by a stone-faced servant. Boso took it instead, draining it too quickly.

  Conrad, at last, dropped down into the chair placed next to Theophanu. The three regarded each other in silence. Bulkezu had a slight smirk on his face.

  At last, Theophanu spoke. “Tell your master that I prefer to negotiate bluntly. We will offer him two thousand pounds of silver to leave Wendar and Varre.”

  By now, Hanna recognized a few of the words as Boso translated, but only a few; Bulkezu made no effort to teach his prisoners his language, thereby allowing Boso more authority over the slaves because he was the only go-between. Once Boso had finished, Bulkezu lifted a hand. His third captain hurried forward to offer him a gold cup filled to the brim with fermented mare’s milk, which he sipped at thoughtfully before he replied.

  Boso translated. “His Fearsomeness, Prince Bulkezu, wishes you to understand that your noble brother, Prince Ekkehard, is even at this moment a prisoner with his army. Here is his ring and his banner.”

  The ring was displayed, the banner unfurled, and then put away.

  Duke Conrad muttered something under his breath, and his daughter patted her father on the shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear, an intimate gesture so endearing that Hanna was stricken by a sudden longing for her own father.

  Theophanu’s expression did not alter. “A ring and a banner can be taken off a dead body.”

  Boso was allowed a short whip, which he used on his whores and on recalcitrant slaves. It was his only weapon. He prodded Hanna with the butt of the whip now. This was why she had been brought.

  She took a step forward. “I am known to you, I believe, my lord princess. I was taken captive west of Handelburg together with Prince Ekkehard and four of his companions. One of his retinue rides there.” She had to gesture toward Manegold with her chin because her hands
were tied. “I swear to you on my honor as a King’s Eagle that Prince Ekkehard is alive and in Prince Bulkezu’s hands.”

  Theophanu spoke softly to her stewards and they hurried forward to offer more wine, but Bulkezu again refused, and Boso again drained his cup. “Three thousand pounds of silver and one hundred gold nomias in exchange for your departure, and the return of Ekkehard and his companions.” For the first time Theophanu acknowledged her presence, a glance, no more, that touched and fled, light as a feather. “And the Eagle.”

  Boso spoke. Bulkezu replied. “His Gloriousness will not ransom the Eagle. Five thousand pounds of silver and an equal measure of gold for the prince. And Duke Conrad’s daughter, for his bed.”

  Conrad’s head snapped around as his daughter stiffened, looking indignant and frightened. Abruptly, the interpreter gave a grunting moan, grasped his belly, and without a word or excuse to anyone bolted onto the grass. He hadn’t gotten more than one hundred paces before he doubled over and began to retch. Bulkezu sipped at his mare’s milk. By the way his dimple flashed in and out on his cheek, Hanna could tell he was working very hard not to laugh.

  “Good Lord,” said Conrad, observing the stricken interpreter. “I’d heard rumors. Do you think they’ve brought the plague with them?”

  “You must consider it, Conrad,” said Theophanu. “All the more reason to make short work of this. The girl in exchange for their departure.”

  He rose threateningly, dark cheeks changing color. “Marry him yourself, Theophanu. You’ve wanted a husband for a long time now.”

  “When my father returns—”

  “If your father returns.”

  She went on as if he had not spoken. “When my father returns, I’ll do my duty at his command. It’s long past time for you to do yours and give your daughter up where she’s needed. Times are desperate.”

  “And will get more desperate still without my support.” The angrier he got the louder he spoke; they had given up murmuring as they argued. “Why should I aid you, Theophanu? Why should I aid Wendar at all, now that your father seems determined to desert us in favor of chasing down imperial feasts into Aosta? He’s stripped Wendar of its army, and cleaned out my warehouses and levies in Wayland, so what will you use to fight the invaders—”