by Kate Elliott
“I feared for you,” he said, “when we heard the Lost Ones.”
“Sorgatani?”
“Unharmed. As am I, as you see.” He looked toward the walled convent. A score of heads had appeared along the wall, watching them, but no one ventured out. “She walked, last night, for we knew they would attack you.”
“Did she scatter them? We heard an ungodly wailing.”
“I know not what that was. Will you come? Liath did not return. Best we look for her.”
“Ai, God,” she whispered, sick at heart, with a dull grinding pain in her belly. Well, no doubt the worst would please Ingo, she thought furiously, hating him.
“We’ll search more quickly with more scouts,” he continued, “but if the Lost Ones bide in the woods, then they’ll kill them.”
“They did not kill you, walking here.”
“I am no threat to them. They may fear Sorgatani, as they should.”
She nodded. “I’ll come alone, and Sorgatani will search with us.” She ran back to the gate and told Ingo what she meant to do, and when he began to protest, she cut him off. “Let no man walk beyond these walls lest he see what will kill him. Believe what I say, and if you will not believe me, then believe Aronvald or Sister Rosvita. Stay close.”
The path lay quiet. Nothing disturbed them, although water dripped now and again from branches. She stopped once to drink from a brutally cold stream. She had forgotten how thirsty she was, and she gulped down the water and felt her head ache as if the iciness of the water were trying to freeze it.
Sorgatani waited by her painted wagon, anxious as she scanned the forest. “They are gone,” she said to Hanna without turning to see who it was.
“Are you sure?”
She pointed. “Liathano went in that direction. Come.”
They made of themselves a line with Sorgatani in the middle and Breschius and Hanna to either flank. Moving into the trees, they found no bodies. If Sorgatani had killed any, then some had survived to carry away the dead. The light trailing through the trees had a brighter edge today, although haze again covered the sky. Was it thinner? Was there hope that the weather would change?
“Here!” called Breschius.
Hanna beat a path to him with her staff, cutting through thickets and slogging through a patch of mud that slimed her boots. He stood in a clearing staring down at an object hidden by grass. Sorgatani stood beside him; she hid her eyes behind her hand, as if she did not want to see but knew she had to look. Hanna came up to them.
Liath’s bow could never be mistaken for any other. It lay, strung, in the grass, carelessly dropped. Beside it her quiver rested untouched, still full of arrows. A polished black beetle crawled across the clustered shafts of arrows, then balked as it tested the cruel ledge made by a griffin feather.
“Do you think …” whispered Breschius, as if the words actually hurt “… that the galla caught her?”
The beetle vanished down the shaft of one of the ordinary arrows, hidden by the stirring of grass as the wind gusted and died. A weight settled on Hanna’s chest and she could not shake it loose. But she must observe. She must report. Such was her duty. She released a clenched hand and bent to pick up the bow.
“There would be bones. That’s all the galla leave of their victims.”
“Where is she gone?” Sorgatani scanned the forest. Only the wind cried in the trees.
Hanna steadied herself. The bow hummed in her grip, as though trying to communicate. Its touch prickled her skin rather like the wasp sting that bound her to Sorgatani. Magic lives here, she thought, setting down the bow. She hoisted the quiver, and strained because of its unexpected weight. Tucked in with the arrows, wrapped in oilcloth, rested another object whose dimensions were familiar to her. She unwrapped it to glimpse the cover, but she already knew what it was. How had The Book of Secrets come back into Liath’s possession?
No matter. Seeing it, she despaired.
She looked at her companions. “Liath would never have left these things behind of her own choice. Never.”
“Is she dead?” cried Sorgatani.
“The simplest answer is usually the best one,” said Hanna. “Though it makes me sick at heart to think of it. Because it would also explain why the raiders disappeared.”
“Ah,” said Breschius.
She nodded. “They captured her, and ran with their prize.”
“How could they have captured her?” demanded Sorgatani. “She is too powerful for them to bring down.”
Breschius knelt, reached, and brushed his hand over the grass where, having some time ago been flattened, it was slowly springing back. “Blood.” He sniffed it, but did not taste it, turned his hand up so the two women could see the red stain on his fingers.
Sorgatani tilted her head back and without warning trilled a high, long, keening wail that made Hanna shudder to her bones. Folk might cry so over the grave of one lost.
“She is always vulnerable to arrow shot,” said Breschius pointlessly, since they could all see for themselves, “if she is taken unawares.”
“Oh, God.” Hanna collapsed to her knees. She thought she would faint, but she did not. She held on. “A poisoned arrow would kill her!”
“Stay, now.” Breschius steadied her. “Why, then, would they take the body?”
“To prove they killed her,” said Sorgatani. “Such is the custom among my people. A trophy. A prize.”
How had it come to this, that she had found Liath only to lose her?
“This is not news that I look forward to bringing to Prince Sanglant,” Breschius added.
She shook her head and rose. After all, she would go on. It’s what she had done before. It’s what Eagles must do, even if their hearts were broken. “You don’t have to, because I will do so, as is my duty as the King’s Eagle.”
5
THE king’s progress arrived in Quedlinhame late of an afternoon to find an Eagle waiting in the audience hall of the old ducal palace, dozing by a warm hearth. She had been wounded in the left shoulder, and although she wore clean, mended clothing and a linen bandage over the wound, it was clear she’d been lucky to survive an arduous road.
“What news?” he asked her, before tasting the drink offered him, before taking off his armor. His courtiers crowded into the hall, a smoke-stained structure about half the length and breadth of any of the newer palaces built by either of the Arnulfs. It dated from a time when the lords of Quedlinhame had more modest ambitions. “When did you arrive?”
“Four days ago, Your Majesty,” she answered, overawed by him. If she wondered what had happened to King Henry, she knew better than to ask him. He had a vague memory that he had seen her years ago, younger, less weathered, but he did not clearly recall her name or her origin. Elsa, maybe, something common. “Ill news, I fear. I barely escaped with my life, as you can see. Kassel is fallen to treachery.”
“Kassel!” Liutgard grasped Theophanu’s arm to steady herself. “What news?”
“An unexpected attack by Lady Sabella’s troops, out of Arconia. They arrived asking for guest rights. Lady Ermengard offered them respite for the night. There was talk that the company had been attacked. They said creatures lurking along the forest road assaulted them with poisoned arrows. Maybe that happened, or maybe it was a lie. At night, they rose up and killed most of the palace guard and took your daughter prisoner. The steward—that is, not her, but her son Landrik—got me out, with a horse, but he was shot down defending me so I could escape. I was wounded.” She touched her bandaged shoulder, but it was obvious that the injury pained her far less than did the memory. “I knew some little-used paths, so I evaded them who pursued me. My lady, your daughter was alive last I saw her.”
Having spoken, she wept.
“Let her sit down,” said Sanglant. “What is your name, Eagle? You’ve done well.”
“Elsa, Your Majesty,” she said through tears. “Of Kassel, years past, before I became an Eagle.” Ambrose led her to a bench.
Liutgard let go of Theophanu and gripped Sanglant’s elbow so hard he winced. “This I paid for following your father to Aosta on his fool’s errand,” she said, her voice hoarse and her expression grim. “One daughter lost, and the other in the hands of a woman who has proclaimed herself my enemy through her actions!”
“Sit down, Liutgard,” said Theophanu in her calm voice.
She allowed Theophanu to lead her to a bench, where she sat staring accusingly at Sanglant.
He nodded, acknowledging her anger. “We ride on in the morning, Cousin. I will not fail you.”
By the door, Mother Scholastica watched them. She looked stern and annoyed and superior—and not one whit surprised.
He woke at dawn out of a restless sleep filled with the noise of horses being saddled and men making ready to ride. The bed he lay in had seen a hundred years of restless sleepers, no doubt. Boxed in and placed under the eaves at the midpoint of the hall, it had recently been furnished with a new featherbed and feather quilt, which kept him as warm as anything could, although he never really felt warm unless Liath lay beside him.
He sat up and drew one curtain aside to see that someone had already thrown the doors open. Cold air blasted in as folk rose from their bedrolls and prepared to travel. Many still slept. All those up and moving wore Fesse’s sigil.
Hathui walked in from outside. Seeing him awake, she hurried over. She smelled of the stables.
“Your Majesty.”
“What news?” he asked her. “Any news of Liath?”
“None, Your Majesty. You can’t expect to hear from her for many days.”
He shut his eyes. He had abandoned his own daughter, as God witnessed. He had himself made, after all, choices no different than those Liath had made years ago, the same choices he had been so angry at her for making. So be it. At this stage of the journey, there was no going back.
“She will be well,” he said hoarsely. “She is more powerful than any of us.”
Hathui nodded, although she seemed pale. “Yes, Your Majesty. What is your wish?”
He beckoned to his servants, who came forward bearing his clothing and armor. “We can’t wait here. Liath must follow us, as she’ll know to do. We ride west, to Kassel.”
VII
A CHANGE OF DIRECTION
1
SHE burned.
As she twisted in the flames, she saw the face of Cat Mask hovering above her. First he was a cat, sleek and bold, and then he was a man, proud and handsome, with that beautiful reddish-bronze complexion she adored so much in Sanglant and the broad cheekbones and broad shoulders of a man who is not a hunting cat but only looks like one sometimes, as he did now. He had changed again.
He did not speak, but she heard him or she heard others speaking as she floated in a bed of fire. The words came to her as through a muting veil. The hiss of their voices reminded her of the sound of water ebbing along a sandy shore.
“The poison should have killed her.”
“She has sorcery in her blood. She walked the spheres.”
“Walked the spheres? She was sacrificed? What can you mean?”
“When we lived in exile, some who studied magic walked the spheres. They walked up into the heavens. I don’t understand it, but it happened. Most who tried it died, but Feather Cloak survived. That is how she grew so powerful.”
“This one did such a thing? I don’t believe it. Walking up into the heavens! She was only lucky. Not all of the arrows are poisoned.”
Cat Mask’s voice was the only one she recognized. “All mine were poisoned! Why would a shallow arrow wound plunge her into this delirium? It is sorcery that spares her from the poison.”
“She fell so fast. How could she have had time or opportunity to twist sorcery to save herself?”
“Maybe not sorcery but something deeper saved her. Secha—who was Feather Cloak before—banished this one when she walked in our country. Secha said this one had more than one seeming. More than one aspect.”
“Abomination!”
“She said this one was heir to the shana-ret’zeri.”
“Let her die!” murmured the other voices. “The blood knives can take her, and her blood will feed the gods.”
“We can’t give her to the blood knives,” said a woman’s voice, spiking over the others. “This is the prize he wanted.”
Cat Mask’s scorn was unmistakable. “You care for what that Pale Hair wants?”
“His knowledge is a weapon. It has already aided us. We sealed an alliance. Go to the stones and wait for him. When he comes, tell him what we have.”
Cat Mask snorted in the manner of a proud man who has turned stubborn. “I will not act as his procurer. You do it yourself.”
“Better yet, better yet,” said a new voice. “Let Feather Cloak decide.”
“Yes. Yes. Let Feather Cloak decide.” Their voices caught her as on a breaking wave and drove her under.
2
THEY called him “count” and “my lord,” and he rode at the head of the procession beside Lady Sabella and Duke Conrad and their noble companions, all of whom were eager to take part in the sport of capturing a guivre. The dirty and dangerous work would be done, of course, by the men-at-arms marching behind them, but this hunt had attracted an unusual crowd, several hundred folk at least. Duke Conrad ordered fourscore eager soldiers to remain with the force garrisoning Autun, and they went with frowns and sighs of displeasure but did not disobey.
For several days the cavalcade rumbled northwest—back the way Alain had come—along the main road. Of riders at the front there ambled two dozen noble folk on fine horses and behind them mounted soldiers. The wagons carrying hooks, nets, grapples, and the cage rattled along afterward, followed at the rear by the twoscore men-at-arms who would hunt on foot and three packs of hunting dogs with their handlers. The dogs barked incessantly, but no one minded, being accustomed to a clamor.
The first night they slept in comfort at an estate belonging to a royal monastery, the second at a lord’s outlying manor house. They camped a pair of nights, but on the fifth night they spread their company around a village, and in the morning carried supplies out of the village storehouse although folk wept to see their stores depleted, for Sabella demanded all of the sacks of grain.
“This is our seed corn,” said the man who set himself forward as their spokesman. He twisted his hands, fearful as he knelt before Sabella. He could not look her in the eye. “I pray you, lady. This is what we saved aside from last year, and not even all of it, for we’ve ourselves of necessity nibbled at it. With this weather! It’s almost Quadrii, but the frosts still hit us every night.” He gestured toward puddles rimed with ice. His hands were red from the cold. “We dare not plant.”
“Soon it will be too late to plant!” called a woman from the crowd.
“I pray the weather turns soon.” Sabella was already mounted, and impatient to depart. Her stewards would finish their provisioning and follow after the forward party. “I have need of these stores for the sake of the duchy.”
The man grimaced anxiously and spoke again, gaze fixed on the ground. “If we’ve nothing to plant, we’ll have no harvest. We’ll starve.”
“If we lose this war, if Wendish and Salians and bandits and Eika invade our shores and there is none to defend you, then your corpses will be rotting in your fields before you starve! Do not trouble me further!”
“I pray you,” said Alain, for all the company remained silent and the villagers knelt in the dust, “let them keep half of their stores. There is truth in what they say.”
She glared at him—she was a woman who did not expect or appreciate being questioned—but he did not cower.
At length he said, more softly, “Their sweat and toil makes you rich.”
Her expression tightened. Her courtiers hunched their shoulders, waiting for the blast, but it did not come.
Unexpectedly, she chuckled, not so much because he had amused her but because she was unused to being chall
enged. “Spoken like a frater. Very well. Let them keep half the stores. The rest we take.”
3
LIATH woke into darkness. Her thigh throbbed. When she rolled to shift position and ease the pressure, her stomach spasmed and she retched, although she had nothing to throw up. Not even bile.
She hurt all the way down to the bone. Her lungs felt as ragged as if she had been breathing smoke, and perhaps in some way she had. She was burned clean, made weak and thirsty, but she was still alive—or so it seemed to her, because she could feel the rise and fall of her chest with each inhalation, because she could feel the gritty rock under the palms of her hands, because there was dried blood on her cheek where she had scraped her face. She possessed nothing except her clothes and her life. Her bow, quiver, book, knife, sword—all this was gone.
She rested until her stomach quieted and risked sitting up. For a while after that, she had to swallow convulsively and repeatedly as she struggled to control the nausea. She was so exhausted that the simple act of sitting seemed impossible, but she braced herself on her arms and hung on until she could think. Even with her salamander eyes she could not penetrate the darkness. She must listen, and seek with her mind’s eye, but all she sensed was air and rock.
I am buried alive in a vast cavern.
She had not the strength to grasp the tendrils of fire that slept within the rock, so she lay back down and rested. She probed the rent in her leggings and touched dried blood. Tracing the contours of the blood led her inward to the wound itself: a shallow, ragged hole that hurt to press anywhere near it.
She grunted and withdrew her hand, thinking of those who waited for her: Sanglant. Blessing. Hanna and Sorgatani. A grandmother!
She slept.
Woke, hearing a noise, a stealthy murmur, a foot sliding along the ground. She sat up. She was still weak, but the nausea had lessened. She heard the sound again, although now it sounded more like someone sweeping, two scrapes, a silence, and a rapid series of scrapes.