by Kate Elliott
It called her, alluring, not unmusical, with that awful throbbing bass vibrato in its tone. It wanted her to answer. It compelled her to answer.
But Da had protected her against magic. Silent, as still as stone, she did not move. She held her breath. A leaf blown free by the wind fluttered over her arms and came to rest on the open book, and then a second, as if the earth itself collaborated in hiding her.
The creature stalked past her, still calling, and went on up the road to the south and, at last, out of her sight. A single white feather swirled in the eddy left by its passing and drifted down to the ground. It was so pale that it shone like purest glass. Where she had tied it to a leather cord to hang around her neck, the gold feather left to her by the Aoi sorcerer burned against her skin as if in warning.
Still she did not move. She was too stunned to move. She sat so still that eventually a trio of half-wild pigs, all tusks and bristles and sleek haunches, ventured out onto the path to investigate this bright interloper. But as soon as the lead pig nudged the white feather with its snout, the feather spit sparks, flashed and, with a whirlpool of smoke, dissipated into the air. The pigs squealed and scattered.
Liath laughed almost hysterically, but as soon as the fit passed, she was swept by such anger that she could barely get the book back into the saddlebag because her hands shook so. Was it such a creature that had murdered Da? Even that very one? Anger and terror warred within her, but anger won out. It hadn’t seen her. Da’s magic still protected her; whatever spell he had laid on her long ago had not died with him.
With anger came revelation: All those years she had thought him a failed sorcerer when instead he had poured that power into keeping her hidden.
“I swear to you, Da,” she whispered, standing beside her horse with her eyes turned to the heavens where, perhaps, his soul looked down upon her, trapped on the mortal earth, “that I’ll find out what it was that killed you.”
“Nay, Liath, you must be careful,” she imagined him saying to her. He was always so afraid.
And for good reason. Was it the aetherical daimone itself that stalked them, or a human sorcerer, a maleficus, who had drawn it from its sphere above the moon and coerced it to do his bidding?
“I’ll be like a mouse,” she murmured. “They’ll never see me. I promise you, Da. I’ll never let them catch me.” With that, in her imagination, he seemed to be content.
A distant flock of sheep crested a rise and disappeared out of her view, an amorphous body herded by unseen dogs and a single shepherd. She did not want to stay here, where the creature had come so close. Apprehensive now and still unnerved by that unearthly sight and by the horrible, sick fear that had come over her when its inhuman voice spoke her name, she mounted and rode on. On this, her third day out of Quedlinhame, she could expect to come by nightfall to the palace at Goslar, so Hathui had told her. Please the Lady that she did; she did not want to sleep alone this night. And from Goslar, if the weather held, another four days of steady riding would bring her to Osterburg, the city and fortress favored by Duchess Rotrudis.
But when she rode into Goslar that evening, it was to find a large retinue already inhabiting it. A groom took her horse and she was brought at once into the great hall. There, seated on a chair carved with dragons and draped with gold pillows embroidered with black dragons whose curling shape and fierce demeanor echoed those of the King’s Dragons, waited Duchess Rotrudis herself.
“What message does Henry send to me?” she asked without preamble as soon as Liath knelt before her. She did not resemble those of her siblings Liath had seen: Henry, Mother Scholastica, and Biscop Constance; she was not handsome nor had she any elegance of form. Short, stout, and with hands as broad and red as a farmer’s, she had a nose that looked as if it had been broken one too many times, and old pockmarks scarred her cheeks. Even so, no one would have mistaken her for anything but one of the great princes of the land.
“King Henry speaks these words, my lady,” began Liath dutifully. “‘From Henry, King over Wendar and Varre, to Rotrudis, Duchess of Saony and Attomar and beloved kinswoman, this entreaty. Now that winter is upon us, it is time to think of next summer’s campaign. We must drive the Eika out of Gent, but for this endeavor we will need a great army. Fully half of my forces died at Kassel. I have taken what I can out of Varre, and asked for more, but you, as well, must bear this burden with the others. Send messengers to your noble ladies and lords that they will increase their levies and send troops to Steleshame after the Feast of St. Sormas. From this staging place we will attack Gent. Let it be done. These words, spoken in the presence of our blessed mother, represent my wishes in the matter.’”
Rotrudis snorted, took a draught of wine, and called for more wood on the hearth. “Fine words,” she said indignantly, “when it is my duchy that the Eika ravage now. They are not content with Gent. My own city of Osterburg has been attacked!”
“Attacked!” The memory of Gent’s fall hit Liath as hard as a sword’s blow, and she swayed back, horrified.
“We drove them off,” said the duchess bluntly. “It was only ten ships of the damned savages.” She handed the gold cup to her cupbearer, a pretty young woman dressed in a plain gown of white linen. With a grunt, she heaved herself up and walked over to look down on Liath. Pressing the tip of her walking stick under Liath’s chin, she lifted the Eagle’s head up so she could examine her face. “Are you some relation to Conrad the Black?” she demanded. “His by-blow, perhaps?”
“No, my lady. I am no relation to Duke Conrad.”
“Well-spoken, I see,” said the duchess. “Too old to be his get, in any case.” She had a limp and one swollen foot, and when she sat heavily down in her chair, the pillows sighed beneath her. A servant hurried forward to prop the foot up on a padded stool. All along the walls rich tapestries hung, a sequence depicting a band of young ladies on the hunt, first after a stag, then a panther, and last a griffin. “You tell this, then, to my dear brother Henry. Good God, where is he now, dare I ask?”
“He and the court have ridden south—”
“To hunt in Thurin Forest, no doubt!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“While my villages burn under the raids of the Eika! Ah, well, no doubt he’ll claim he must meet and trouble every southern lord in order to get them to pledge troops for next summer’s war. A war every summer, that is Henry for you.” She put out her hand and her cupbearer placed the gold cup in her hand. The duchess examined its contents, then frowned. “Here, child, my cup is empty.” A boy dressed in a neat white linen tunic rushed over, took the cup away, and returned with a full one. A cleric leaned over and whispered into the duchess’ ear.
Liath wished the noble lords would think of placing carpets or pillows down in front of their chairs so that her knees might have some respite.
“True enough,” commented Rotrudis to the cleric before returning her attention to Liath. “Tell Henry that I expect more help from him. These Eika are like flies swarming around fresh meat. What if I can’t wait for next summer?”
“I have no further message from the king, my lady. But—” She hesitated.
“But? But! Go on. I’m no fool to think Eagles don’t notice that which others might miss.”
“It’s true, my lady, that Henry’s forces were badly hurt at Kassel. His complement of Lions went from perhaps two hundred men to a bare sixty, and though he has sent for more centuries from the marchlands, there is no guarantee those men can march so far so fast or that the marchlords will be able to let them go.”
“Huh. The Quman haven’t raided for years. I think there’s no threat there. But go on. What of the Varren lords?”
“They, too, suffered at Kassel, though under Sabella’s banner. But the king has collected levies from them and expects more to be sent in the spring.”
“That isn’t good enough! I’ve had to send my own son Wichman and his band of reckless young gadflies to Steleshame to restore order. What has Henry risked?”
/>
This was too much. Furious, Liath lifted her gaze to stare straight at the duchess. “King Henry lost his son at Gent!”
Courtiers murmured, shocked at her tone, but the duchess only laughed. “Here’s fire for you! Well then, it’s true enough that Prince Sanglant died at Gent together with the Dragons, but that’s what the poor boy was bred for, wasn’t it?”
“Bred for?” said Liath, appalled.
“Quiet! You have spoken enough. Now you will listen to my words and carry them faithfully back to my dear brother. I need more help, and I need it soon. According to my reports, there’s not a village left standing within a day’s ride of Gent, and half the livestock stolen from the villages within three days’ walk likewise and my people slaughtered, frightened, and running with a scant harvest to feed them this winter and no chance to sow in the spring, if the Eika aren’t driven out. These Eika raid up the Veser as they wish, although winter’s ice may dull their oars in the water, and none of the waterways are safe—nor will they be after the thaw come spring. Tell Henry this: I know where our royal sister Sabella is. If he cannot help me, then she will—and bring me those lords who pledged loyalty to her, if Henry can’t.”
She paused, sipped wine, winced as she shifted her foot on the stool. “Now then, have you understood it all?”
Liath could barely speak, she was so astounded at the reference to Sabella. “That’s the message you wish me to take back to King Henry?”
“Would I have spoken it if it were not what I wished delivered to him? Your duty is not to question, Eagle. Yours is to ride. Go on, then. I am done with you.”
Liath rose, backed away, and retreated to the farthest corner of the hall. Was she meant to ride out immediately into the twilight? Where anything might await her? But a steward led her to a table placed in the back of the hall while the nobles began their evening’s feast. Here, with some of the other servants, she was fed royally, a fine meal of goose, partridge, fish braised in a tart sauce, mince pie, and as much bread as she could eat together with a sharp cider. The nobles’ feast went on forever, what with singing and dancing and tales, and even when the last platter of food was taken away, they still drank so heavily that Liath was surprised they hadn’t emptied the cellars.
She crept away from the table at last and curled up in the corner, and yet woke intermittently throughout the long night, roused by their laughter, each time seeing through the haze of smoke and torchlight the nobles still drinking, singing, wrestling among the young men, and boasting while they paced the floor and drank again. Only at dawn, when she struggled to her feet and made ready to ride, had they at last given up the night’s carousing and themselves gone to their beds.
2
KING Henry and his court were out hunting when she rode into the broad enclosure that formed the northernmost of the royal hunting lodges in the Thurin Forest. It had taken her seven days to ride here, pushing her pace and changing horses at Quedlinhame. This time, at the monastery, she had been restricted to the stables; she’d had no chance to contact Ivar again. On the road, she’d seen no trace of the mysterious creature who had passed so close by her before.
Great hall and barracks, kitchens, smithy, storerooms, stables, and a few guest houses made up the hunting lodge. A large grassy field surrounded these buildings, bounded by a steep-bedded, narrow river on one side and the palisade wall on the others. Servants scurried here and there about the lodge. Liath heard the squeal of pigs being driven to slaughter for the night’s feast. A veritable army of servants swarmed around the cookhouse—set well away from the great hall in case of fire—and farther, down a grassy slope to the river, servants aired linen and featherbeds and washed clothes.
Once she crossed under the palisade gate, a groom took her horse and informed her that the king was gone for the day. Liath was glad to miss the hunt. She could take no pleasure in hunting some poor, terrified creature—it reminded her too much of her own life.
She settled her saddle and harness in the same empty stall where she found Hathui’s familiar gear, saddlebags and rolled-up wool blanket. Hathui had gone out with the king. She crouched to open the bag, set her hand on the book within—and hesitated. Had the daimone appeared—tracked her down—because she had opened the book out on the road? Or because she had, in her thoughts, recalled Da’s death? Or had it only been coincidence that the creature had appeared then? She closed the flap and tied the pouch shut, shoved the saddlebag under her saddle, then went outside.
It was a fine blustery autumn day with clouds aplenty and the scent of cooking fires heavy on the wind. Brittle leaves of faded yellow and orange rolled across Liath’s boots, blown by the wind. Goats grazed on the verge of the forest on the other side of the river, attended by a solitary shepherd. No one marked her. They were all too busy.
The morning’s sun which had shone on her earlier had now vanished, shrouded by the wings of a coming storm. This was the season of storms, blown in one after the next. She shivered, thinking of the Eika, themselves a storm blown in from the north; it was still painful to remember the fall of Gent.
Yet the world beyond seemed far away, here deep in the heart of the forest. No one lived here, no freeholders or peasants working a noble lady’s estate or church lands farmed the steep hills and densely wooded valleys. The Thurin remained a forest wilderness, and here the king hunted most autumns.
The cool bluster of the day drove her to seek shelter in the great hall. But to her surprise and dismay, clerics tenanted the great hall, half a dozen garbed in neat robes. She had thought they, too, would be out hunting.
Instead, they sat quietly at the long tables where, in the evenings, the king and his court feasted. They went about the king’s business while the king went about his pleasure. Goose quills bobbed evenly, dabbed in ink, letters curving across parchment or vellum.
Liath took a step back, but it was too late. At the chair nearest the door sat Ivar’s sister, Rosvita. She looked up, caught sight of Liath, and beckoned to her. A bound book, parchment pages folded into a quire, some of them not yet cut, lay open on the table before her. Her fingers were stained with ink.
Cautiously, Liath ventured closer.
“You are back, Eagle,” said the cleric.
“I am, Sister. I bring a message from Duchess Rotrudis for the king.”
“You left Quedlinhame swiftly,” observed Rosvita, “and must not have tarried there long on your way back.”
Ai, Lady! In all that had happened since, Liath had scarcely thought about poor Ivar. What was it Da had always said? “When the wolf has your arm in its jaws, then use the other to tickle its belly.”
“What are you writing?” Liath asked, but the words written in fresh ink caught her in their spell and she read out loud:
“Then Henry, born to Kunigunde, Duchess of Saony, and her husband, Arnulf of Avaria, became duke by reason of his mother’s death and his elder sisters having died before him. But Queen Conradina, who had often tested the valor of the new duke, was afraid to entrust to him all his mother’s power. By this attitude the queen incurred the indignation of the entire Wendish army. She then spoke many words in praise of the new and most noble duke, promising to bestow on Henry great responsibilities and to glorify him with honor. But the Wendish soldiers were not deceived. The queen, seeing that they were more unfriendly than usual, and realizing that she could not destroy the new duke openly, tried to find a way to have him slain by treachery.
”She sent her brother with an army into Wendar to lay it waste. But when he came to the city which is called Gent, it is related that he boastfully stated that the greatest trouble he anticipated was that the Wendish would not dare show themselves before the walls so that he could fight them. With this boast still on his lips, the Wendish came rushing upon him and once the battle was joined they cut down his army of Arconians and Salians and Varingians with such slaughter that, as the bards tell us, the Abyss must indeed be a large place if it can contain so great a multitude of the slain.<
br />
“Eberhard, the queen’s brother, was freed from his fear that the Wendish would not put in an appearance, for he saw them actually before him, and he fled from them.”
“A history!” Liath exclaimed. She turned her gaze to Rosvita only to see the older woman staring at her with an ominous smile touching her lips. All the other clerics had ceased their writing to stare at this oddity, a King’s Eagle who could read the language of educated church people, Dariyan.
Ai, Lady. She had betrayed herself again, and this time in front of the king’s schola, his retinue of educated clerics.
“I am working on a history of the Wendish people,” agreed Rosvita without any sign of astonishment, unlike the others. “I am relating here the story of how the first Henry, Duke of Saony, became King of Wendar upon the death of Queen Conradina.”
“What will you write next?” Liath asked, hoping to distract her.
Rosvita coughed politely, and the other clerics hastily and obviously went back to their work. She set down her quill—a magnificent eagle’s feather, surely the mark of great favor from the king or his mother—beside the book. “Queen Conradina was herself wounded in battle, and thus finding herself burdened with disease as well as the loss of her earlier good fortune, she called her brother Eberhard to her side and reminded him that their family had every resource that the dignity of the rulership demanded—every resource except good luck. She gave to Eberhard the insignia of their royal ancestors—sacred lance, scepter, golden torque, and crown—and told him to take the insignia and give them to Duke Henry along with his allegiance. Soon after this she died, a brave and valiant woman, outstanding both at home and in the field, well known for her liberality—”
“Both in and out of bed,” said one of the clerics, and others laughed and then quieted when Rosvita signed for Silence.