Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

  “True enough. Those who make trouble might begin to whisper that he has lost the regnant’s luck.”

  Some tone in his voice alerted her. “Are such words being uttered, Villam? Surely not.”

  “I do not like Aosta, and even less do I like the intrigues of Aostan nobles. There is something untrustworthy about the entire lot of them. Nay, Sister, I think we neglect the north at our peril. That is what I will counsel the king: that we should return as soon as possible.”

  “That will depend in part on the passes over the mountains. Some may be closed by snowfall.”

  “If that’s so, we must bide here until next spring.”

  “I’ve heard the western passes are still open,” she said.

  “Which lead to Salia. That is no route for a Wendish king and his army.”

  “Still, Their Majesties can campaign well into the winter if we’re forced to remain here. It may come about that Aosta will accede to their yoke before any decision must be reached about returning north.”

  “So we must hope, Sister.” But as he took his leave, he did not seem optimistic.

  At last she was free to return to her chambers, where she found Heriburg and Ruoda waiting patiently by the window, talking quietly together, while Aurea swept around the bed. Those two young faces, so eager and full of life, reminded her of her own youth, her first months at King Arnulf’s court. How strange and wonderful the king’s progress had seemed to her then! Yet despite the burdens that age and authority had brought in their wake, she woke every morning eager to be of service to the king.

  Anne’s words echoed in her mind. To the king, or to God? To whom was her first allegiance?

  “Fortunatus went out with Sister Gerwita,” said Ruoda, rising to kiss Rosvita’s hand. “Gerwita found something…. I don’t know what. He left this with me.” From her sleeve, she drew out the parchment map he had been given by Paloma.

  “Aurea,” said Rosvita, “see that no one interrupts us. Let Fortunatus in, if he comes.”

  “Yes, my lady.” She took her broom outside to sweep the corridor.

  “I pray you, Heriburg, unroll this and hold it open.” Now she could compare this map with the one she had seen in the Tile Chamber. “There, you see, girls,” she said with mounting excitement. “We count perhaps fifty stone crowns recorded throughout the lands, but there are only seven marked with seven stones.” They corresponded, more or less, with the seven spots marked on the other map. “Seven crowns, each with seven stones. What can it mean?”

  “Seven jewels in Taillefer’s crown,” said Ruoda promptly. “Six placed equidistant around the rim, just like this, and one in the center.”

  “Seven stars in the constellation called ‘the Crown,’” said Heriburg.

  “But they’re all jumbled together and it takes keen eyesight to see the seventh. I never have.”

  “Seven Sleepers,” murmured Rosvita. “‘Devils afflict me in the guise of scholars and magi… if only I would tell them what I knew of the secrets of the Seven Sleepers.”

  “They’re from St. Eusebē’s church history,” exclaimed Ruoda, “and maybe just a story told to reassure the faithful. What do they have to do with this map?”

  “Hush,” whispered Heriburg. “She’s thinking.”

  “She lied to me,” said Rosvita, letting her words lead her thoughts. “Lavrentia isn’t dead. Or wasn’t dead last year. Lavrentia became Obligatia. Obligatia, when she was Lavrentia, had two children, one a girl born to Taillefer’s only legitimate son, and the other a boy. What was it she said?” She placed a palm over the central stone crown marked on the map, concealing it. “She came to an estate called Bodfeld. There she met the nephew of the ruling lady, and in time they married and she gave birth to a child. Whom they named Bernard!”

  This triumph of memory gave her energy, despite the lingering heat. She left the map and walked to the embrasure, leaning out where the breeze could touch her face. The city lay hidden beyond except for occasional torches bobbing along a dark street and the beacon fires ringing the outer wall. Could it be? Yet Bernard was not an uncommon name. She had to dig, and dig, recalling the few meetings she’d had with Liath. The time she had followed her outside at the hunting lodge, wondering how a common Eagle was so learned that she could read Dariyan fluently. Where did she come from? Following that path of memory, she found it. Liath herself had spoken the damning words.

  Rosvita turned to survey Ruoda and Heriburg, who were regarding her with wide eyes and startled expressions. Lamplight played over their youthful features. “’I have been told I had cousins at Bodfeld!’ How could I have forgotten? Bodfeld.”

  “Have you cousins at Bodfeld, Sister?” asked Ruoda. “I thought you came from the North Mark. I didn’t know the Counts of the North Mark had kin in eastern Saony.”

  “Nay, they don’t, child.”

  “Shhh!” hissed Heriburg to Ruoda. “She’s still thinking.”

  “After the death of her husband, the child was taken from her and given to a monastery to raise. And the girl called Lavrentia was sent south—found by Wolfhere and sent south!—and so came by accident, or by God’s design, to St. Ekatarina’s. Maybe the only place she could have remained safe.”

  “Safe from what?” asked Ruoda. Heriburg kicked her in the shin.

  “That is the one terrible secret that would destroy her position. That would force the council of presbyters to revoke the ring.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Heriburg, as though the words had been forced out of her. “You’re talking about the Holy Mother.”

  She realized, then, that they were staring at her, aghast. “Daughters, you must speak of this to no one. Truly, you can see how ugly and destructive rumor can be. I have no proof. I have only suspicions. I may be wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?” demanded Ruoda. “What is the terrible secret?”

  “Ai, Lady,” Rosvita murmured. “Sin laid upon sin. Tomorrow, my children, I must ask you to do a horrible thing, to soil your hands with binding and working—”

  “Sorcery?” asked Ruoda eagerly.

  “We must all have amulets of protection, of concealment.”

  A sharp rap on the door caused them all to start, as though God in Their guise as Eternal Judge had come calling on account of their sinful thoughts. Heriburg actually shrieked, so startled that she let go of the map, which rolled up with a snap. But it was only Fortunatus, wiping sweat from his brow, winded and distraught. He hurried in, stopped dead, and looked at each of them in turn. “What’s happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Having come so far, even knowing that it might be possible for Anne or any other adept to be watching her right now, she had to speak.

  “Sister Clothilde is dead, and so is Fidelis, and the hapless nephew from Bodfeld. All the other principals. Only Anne and Lavrentia—and Wolfhere—remain. That is why they are looking for her. To make sure no one discovers that Liath’s father was Anne’s half brother.”

  “Incest!” whispered Ruoda in the tones of a gardener gratified to find all his roses in glorious bloom.

  “May God have mercy,” murmured Fortunatus.

  “Terrible enough,” continued Rosvita, “horrible, indeed. But there’s still a piece missing. Why did Sister Clothilde remove an unimportant girl from a convent near the seat of the Counts of Lavas? Why does that nag at me? It might only be coincidence.”

  Fortunatus grabbed the map off the table and slid it up his sleeve, as if he expected guards to tromp in the next instant and arrest them all for treason. “The hounds. That hound the skopos keeps by her. Doesn’t it look like Count Lavastine’s hounds? Aren’t the Lavas hounds very like the ones described in the poems about Emperor Taillefer?”

  “You see them in all the tapestries,” said Ruoda. “I never thought about it before, but that hound the skopos keeps by her is very like the emperor’s famous black hounds.”

  “’He and his daughters led their black hounds with leashes around their necks, and in
their excitement the hounds snap at any person who comes near them except for their master and his children, for even the dogs in their dumb loyalty bow before bright nobility.’” Heriburg blushed when the other three looked at her. “I beg your pardon. I knew the entire poem by heart before I entered the convent.”

  “No.” Rosvita stepped away from the window. “We’re asking the wrong question. We should be asking not how the black hound comes to attend the Holy Mother Anne, granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer. We should be asking how, and when, such hounds came to attend the Counts of Lavas.”

  A scratch came on the door and Aurea peered in. “My lady!”

  “Ai, God,” swore Fortunatus. “I forgot Sister Gerwita. She was quite out of breath.” He was sweating, if possible, even more than before.

  “You have news, Brother,” said Rosvita, not needing an answer. His expression was answer enough.

  Aurea opened the door all the way to admit poor timid Gerwita, who was indeed panting so hard that Rosvita herself hurried over to help her to the bed. “Dear God, child, I hope you are not falling ill.”

  “Nay, Sister, it was just the stairs and the heat. In truth, my heart aches for the suffering I’ve seen. There is so little we can do to help them.” She wiped a tear, or sweat, from her cheek. The lamplight washed her thin, pale face to ivory. “Alas, Sister, that we come bearing such tidings. Brother Fortunatus told you… didn’t he?”

  Nay, he’s had no chance.

  “We found her, Sister.” Gerwita sighed heavily, shoulders drooping.

  “Gerwita found her,” said Fortunatus sternly, never one to take credit where he had not earned it. “She was the only one not afraid to tour the plague houses and the poor houses and the infirmaries. She only took me there to identify the body.”

  “God have mercy,” breathed Rosvita, seeing all too clearly where this would lead. “Go on.”

  “Found who?” asked Ruoda.

  Gerwita waved a languid hand, unable to speak. Fortunatus went on. “Paloma, the lay sister from St. Ekatarina’s Convent. Dead of the summer fever, so the sisters at St. Asella’s infirmary reported. But she had none of the bruising on the cheeks. Her eyes weren’t sunken in. You know how they look. I think she was murdered, Sister, for when I met her yesterday before Lauds, she was as healthy as I am.”

  3

  IT was obvious even from the outside that Osterburg’s walls were in poor repair. But a mob of prisoners, whipped forward with the lash, could not breach them, not with so many determined defenders pouring hot oil and a rain of arrows down on their hapless foe. Most of the captives died in agony at the base of the walls while Bulkezu and his army watched in a silence tempered only by the whisper of their wings in a steady autumn breeze. There was nothing Hanna could do to stop the killing, nothing she could do to save them.

  Nothing.

  By the time rudimentary siege engines were brought forward on the third day of the siege, the defenders had plugged the gaps with piles of rubble and quickly erected palisades. To Hanna’s eyes, it looked as though they had ripped down entire houses for the beams and planks thrown up to fill in the weak spots, but of course from this distance it was hard to tell.

  All she could do was pray that Osterburg would not fall too soon. All she could do was pray that what she had seen with her Eagle’s sight two weeks ago had been a true vision, not a false one.

  “Eagle.” Prince Ekkehard’s concubine, Agnetha, had been weeping. She wiped at her eyes as she joined Hanna on the slope between the begh’s tent and the prince’s. The guards glanced at her and away, pretending disinterest. “Tell me what I must do, Eagle. They took my uncle away yesterday. I was barely able to save his sons from being sent out as well.” Two dark-haired, ragged boys knelt on the dirt outside Ekkehard’s tent, heads bowed in prayer or in grief. “But they took Uncle away for the attack. I know he must be dead now.” She began to cry again. “I should have gone in his place. Look at how many are dead, and I’m safe and dry and not hungry.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done.” But her words sounded hollow. In truth, she felt hollow. “Nothing.”

  Even had she demanded that Bulkezu cast her back into the crowd of prisoners, that he let his soldiers lash her forward with the rest, he would not have done so. That one night she had spent in the mob had only been a ruse to catch her out, to see what magic she might be hiding. After that, he had reeled in her leash once again and kept her close by his side, always close. She had never known that hate, like a fever, could burn you out until you were only a husk.

  She had seen so much death and cruelty that she wondered if it had crushed her heart. She hated herself for ever thinking of Bulkezu as a handsome man. Outward beauty meant nothing if the heart within was misshapen and monstrous.

  Bulkezu’s pavilion and the main encampment stood on a low rise overlooking the river valley from the west. The Veser River flowed northward, mighty and broad, meeting a tributary that flowed in from the east through rugged countryside right where the fortress city had been built to take advantage of such a good defensive position. The Quman army had trampled the fields outside of the city, on the west bank of the Veser, although most looked as though they had already been harvested.

  “They must have good grain stores,” said Agnetha suddenly, betraying her background as a practical farm girl. Not even the rich gowns that Ekkehard dressed her in could disguise the strength of her callused hands. No doubt she had hoed many a field and wrung many a chicken’s neck in her time, before she’d been forced to accept the privilege of gracing a captive prince’s bed. “And with rivers on two sides, good access to water. They’ll be hard to take, as long as the walls hold.”

  Hanna glanced at her, surprised. “You’ve learned a thing or two about war.”

  “So I’ve had to,” replied Agnetha bitterly. “Prince Ekkehard and his companions talk of little else.” Although she was already speaking in a low voice, she leaned closer and whispered so softly in Hanna’s ear that Hanna strained to hear. “He’s terrified. That’s his aunt’s city, and you can see by the banner that she is in residence together with his cousins. All he’s done the last three days is pray to God to not force him to commit treason against his own kin.”

  “It seems late to worry about that.”

  “That may be, but what else was he to do, taken prisoner and all?”

  “He could have refused to fight on Bulkezu’s behalf.”

  “And been killed instead? His own kin haven’t treated him with respect, have they? Why shouldn’t he resent them?”

  “Is that what he tells you?” asked Hanna.

  “Why shouldn’t he tell me? Who else will listen to him?”

  Hanna examined the pretty young woman. Not even red and swollen eyes could ruin the promise of her full lips and fuller bosom, nor tarnish the glory of her thick, dark hair. For all Ekkehard’s faults, he was still a prince of the royal house, with fine manners, an elegant figure, and his own share of Henry’s charisma. Thrown together with him in desperate circumstances, learning the best ways to smooth his feathers when he became agitated, comprehending that his protection could perhaps save her remaining family: nay, she could not find it in her heart to blame Agnetha for becoming his champion, in her own way. People did what they had to, to survive.

  All the ferries and fords upstream along the Veser River were in Quman hands, and no doubt Bulkezu was in the process of sending out soldiers to take over those ferries a day’s ride downstream of the city as well. The army fanned out along the eastern bank of the Veser, striking east into the forested country that lay between the two rivers, probing, burning, killing any poor soul unlucky enough not to have heard the warnings and retreated to the safety of Osterburg’s decrepit walls. The main part of the force waited outside the city, ready for another assault once the siege engines had done their work.

  “There are so many of them,” whispered Agnetha hopelessly. “No one can ever defeat them.”

  Despite everythin
g, Hanna still hoped a fierce hope. “They just look like so many because of the way they swarm over the ground. Look there.” She pointed to the three fires burning about a stone’s throw from Bulkezu’s pavilion. “Haven’t you seen how they signal to each other, using smoke?”

  One of the boys kneeling by Ekkehard’s tent leaped up and raced over. “You better come.” He pulled at Agnetha’s sleeve. “His lordship wants you.”

  With a glance, a murmured word that Hanna could not understand, Agnetha hurried away. As she went, the distant “thump” of the two catapults being released shuddered through the air. Hanna held her breath, trying to keep her gaze on the missiles rising, and then falling. A cloud of dust rose from within the walls, followed by a stream of smoke as the fire rags caught in thatch.

  So it went as the morning passed and the afternoon bled away. Smoke rose at intervals but always got put out again. Hanna paced, four guards in ever-present attendance on her. Prince Ekkehard and his companions stayed in their tent, praying. Now and again she caught sight of Bulkezu’s griffin wings below as he rode down to the ferry, over to the catapults, and then vanished north of the city. Cherbu rode beside his brother, easily identifiable because he wore no wings. A few pathetic prisoners, bloody and limping, fled west into the woodlands beyond the open fields, but Quman scouts rode after them and herded them in, driving them back toward the main encampment. At last, Hanna walked with a sick heart to the prisoners’ compound, a makeshift corral guarded by the youngest and most inexperienced Quman soldiers, the ones who would more likely overreact to any least sign of activity among the prisoners and who were therefore the most dangerous sentries.

  She did what she could, bringing water to the prisoners, tending wounds. Her guards watched without interest and made no move to stop her. They knew that any of these little things she did were useless. But she had to do them in order to live with herself, in order to sleep at night.

  She had to listen to their stories, in order to report them to the king. Surely the king would be as horrified as she was, hearing of his loyal subjects driven forward at spear point to take the brunt of the assault, caught between a sure death, if they did not advance, and likely death if they did. One man had spent the night buried among the dying, hearing their screams and moans; even as he spoke, he kept slapping his ears as though he still heard their cries. Another had crawled to safety through a field of blood; his skin was covered in it, cracking and flaking off when he clenched and unclenched his hands. A woman had seen her own son fall with an arrow in his eye, and during the night she had crawled among the dead, searching hopelessly and desperately, until her sobbing brother had dragged her away before she could get cut down by the defenders on the wall or the Quman in the field.