Maríana made a slow turn where she stood, one hand with the knife held over her head, the other pointing at the ground. Her eyes closed, but Richard could see them moving behind the lids. When she stopped turning, she bent down and drew patterns in the snow, the knife dancing in an undulating wave as she walked, moving in a spiral outward from where she stood. Blood trickled down her legs, tracing its own red-brown pattern upon the snow.
She was humming. No words, just tones that rose and fell, then floated upon the air. Richard's arms still hung useless at his side, inert and heavy. His knees were locked. He looked up at Leila and Iranzu. Leila's face was fixed somewhere between horror and pity. Iranzu gazed down at his feet. Richard looked back to Maríana. He remembered the green-gold light she had held between her hands, how he had broken her spell, how she had sent the light away. But whatever power held him in its grip would not release him.
She had already covered the space of a small chamber with her spiral. The tones emitting from her throat were deeper. He could feel them in his feet.
The air was stretching. Something unwound, coiled around him in a lazy, exultant shimmer. He could feel its pressure against his skin; its breath hissed in his ears. A guttural cry sounded across from him and he looked up to see Leila holding her ears. Her mouth was moving, but he could not hear her words above the throbbing murmur that emanated from the ground, climbed into the air.
Words spilled around him, yet he could not grasp their meaning. They seemed to come from the air itself, but it was Maríana's voice he heard. She was standing now at the edge of the spiral she had drawn, the knife in her left hand, arm raised to the sky. The earth beneath him shrugged in a pulsing ripple.
Then silence. The air around him held only snowflakes, tracing moist, icy kisses across his face.
Whatever held him relinquished its grasp. He bent and grabbed the mantle, strode over to where Maríana shivered, her legs wobbling, arms wrapped across her chest.
As he drew the woolen cloak around her shoulders, she whispered, "The dogs will not find us."
But her voice was sad.
Chapter 27
THE BLASTED snow had covered everything; obliterated all tracks. Henri waded across the wide ledge to where his men had gathered near a huge oak tree, its branches heavy with the snow that was everywhere. One of de Reuilles' men led the two hounds they had brought. The dogs whined and strained on their leashes. It was early afternoon, but they had already traveled for hours. Henri approached Guillaume, leader of the team of expert climbers. "Well?" he asked in irritation. "What have you got?"
"It's the dogs, my lord," the man with the hounds answered. "When we got up here they went crazy."
"Indeed?" Henri said. "But what have you found?"
The man spoke again. "It looks like someone was here by the tree," he said. "Not long ago, either."
Henri gave him a sharp glance. "Where? Show me."
The man handed the leashes of the hounds to Guillaume and led Henri to where the gnarled roots of the tree parted to reveal bare ground covered with only a dusting of snow.
"A footprint," the man said. "We would have missed it, but the dogs came over here right away and started digging in the snow." He knelt and traced the footprint with his finger. "We removed the rest of the snow and found this."
Henri looked at the footprint. "Small," he said. "Perhaps a woman's foot?"
"Maybe," Guillaume said, shifting from side to side.
Henri could see that the men were afraid, their eyes kept darting around, and Guillaume's hold on the dogs' leashes was so tight his knuckles were dead white. "All right," Henri said, clasping Guillaume's shoulder. "Out with it. What is bothering you?"
Guillaume's tongue darted out, moistening his lips. He was sweating, his forehead beaded with it. "I don't much like this place, my lord, can't say exactly why."
Henri turned to the other man, brows raised in question.
"It... it's like a vibration," the other man said, and both nodded. "Or a sound you can feel but not hear." He knelt down and placed his hand flat on the ground, then jerked his hand away and stood up, shaking. "Like drums beating inside the earth," he finished.
Henri sighed, but he also kneeled down and placed his hand against the ground. "I see." He could feel something of what they were describing, a sort of rumbling shudder. "Probably water running underground." He shook the dirt off his hand and stood up to see the two men grinning, their faces shining with relief.
"Yes, my lord, that must be it," they both said in unison.
"Is that all?"
"No, there is a place over there." Guillaume pointed to a clear area several paces from the oak. "The dogs keep wanting to go there, but whenever we get closer to it they veer away."
"Show me," Henri said.
Guillaume brought the hounds to the clear space in the center of the ledge, Henri following close behind him. They were nervous, these hounds. One dropped its head and growled, pulling on its leash.
"Let him go," Henri ordered.
Guillaume hesitated briefly, then released the hound. Once freed, the dog went to one area and sniffed along the ground, following some scent around and around in the snow as the other dog hid behind Guillaume and shivered. It was uncanny, the way the dog circled around in a spiral. Its back legs were shaking so hard its rump kept hitting the ground. Suddenly the dog stopped dead in its tracks, lifted its muzzle to the sky and gave a long, mournful howl. Henri shivered. The dog turned and showed its fangs. Then it bolted over the edge and down the mountain in a streak of brown fur.
"Get him!" Guillaume shouted. But the dog had disappeared.
Henri turned to Guillaume. "Try this one," he said. "But keep the leash on him." Guillaume nodded and brought his hound over to the spot. The dog whined piteously at first, then started sniffing around the same circular pattern the first dog had taken. Guillaume had wound the leash around his wrist and he could barely keep up. This dog's legs did not shake. But it gagged and vomited upon the ground. "Let up on his leash," Henri ordered. There was no need to choke the poor animal. Guillaume loosened his hold and the dog lifted its nose, gave an eerie, barking howl, a howl that was answered in the distance. Then it turned on Guillaume, fangs bared, low rumbling growls emitting from its throat. Guillaume backed away and was shaking so hard that when the dog fled, the leash whipped over his wrist and slid right out of his hands. As he reached out to grab it, he fell onto the ground.
"Well!" exploded Henri. "There go our dogs." Wonderful! What else could go wrong? He marched over to the edge just as de Reuilles was swinging his ungodly long legs over the top.
"What is going on up here?" Louis-Philippe asked as he rose to his feet. "We saw both the dogs run past us as if the devil himself were after them." He looked back over his shoulder. "The first dog fell most of the way down."
"They have never done this before," Guillaume said as he picked himself up off the ground and dusted snow off his cloak. "But what is this?" He pointed at the ground where he had fallen.
Henri got down on one knee, brushing aside more of the snow. There were red-brown lines on the ice underneath. "What the devil?" he muttered, then looked up in surprise as several men approached Louis-Philippe, jabbering away in that ghastly southern tongue, waving their hands wildly. Louis-Philippe merely nodded and gestured toward the slope they had just climbed.
"Come here, de Reuilles." Henri stood and motioned to him. "What do you think of this?" He watched as Louis-Philippe knelt down and frowned, then brushed at the snow with his gloves, uncovering a swirl of rusty lines, peppered with dark red splotches.
Louis-Philippe raised his glove up to his nose, then jerked his hands away from his face and out of his gloves, dropping the gloves in the snow. "Blood!" he exclaimed, looking at Henri, then, "Are you all right?"
Henri stumbled back and fell to his knees. Blood on the snow. His heart raced; he willed it to slow. It could be animal blood. A wolf's kill. Wolves often drag their prey away. But wolves also k
illed people. Maríana was such a little thing. She could never fend off a wolf.
The sharp trill of a hawk brought his head up. He watched as the dark wings beat, then held rigid, riding the winds. Hawks often flew near wolf kills. Most people thought that hawks were noble creatures. But after wolves had eaten their fill, hawks and vultures both would feast on the remains.
Henri lunged toward the blood, his arm flailing across the snow in a desperate sweep. What could they do if there were bits of cloth, clumps of auburn hair among the blood? He set his jaw against the acid that spilled into his mouth. All he could see was Maríana, her body torn and bleeding, her eyes closed forever.
"Henri."
Someone called him, but he could not seem to stop the motion of his arm. A hand touched his shoulder now, took hold of his arm.
"What?" He turned to see Louis-Philippe staring at him.
"Bauçais." Louis-Philippe's blue green eyes reached into him. "This is no wolf kill."
Henri looked down at his hands, rolled them into fists to stop his shaking. Louis-Philippe squeezed his shoulder. "Stand and look."
Henri rose and looked down upon the area he had uncovered. Louis-Philippe still had his hand on Henri's shoulder. The firm grip steadied him. "And not much blood, see?" Henri followed the motion of Louis-Philippe's finger as he pointed to the pattern on the snow. There were marks scored into the snow, and the blood curled around in a spiral.
"I do not know what this is," Louis-Philippe said. "But we must continue our search."
Henri shuddered. De Reuilles was right. His eyes swept the ledge. There were only a handful of men left there. He counted seven. "Where did the others go?"
"The others are afraid of this part of Irati. We are too close to Canigou." Louis-Philippe bent and retrieved his gloves. "They will go no farther."
"Canigou?"
"Another mountain farther on." Louis-Philippe nodded toward the slope that swelled behind the massive oak. "They call it the Lady's mountain, but Canigou is not a lady you would like to meet."
"Well." Henri looked at the cluster of men. Guillaume was still there and several of the squires. Henri caught the eye of his own squire and gestured for him to come forward. He was aware of the eyes of all the men upon him. A deep breath steadied his shaking hands. He raised his voice. "We will continue on up the mountain," he said, then turned to Louis-Philippe. "Who is your best climber?"
Louis-Philippe regarded him for a moment, his eyes cool and assessing. Then he nodded shortly and waved his hand at Guillaume. "Guillaume shall still lead." He extended his hand to Henri. "Come," he said. "We will climb."
RICHARD awakened with a jolt. His ears rang and his mouth tasted of rancid butter. He could hear the others breathing, but his own breath caught in his throat. The air was bad. He leaned toward the reed they had worked through the laced slit that sealed them in the tent. Looking through the tube, he saw nothing. Snow must have covered them. Iranzu had said this might happen. Richard drew in as deep a breath as he could manage and blew with all his might into the reed, then inhaled in relief as fresh air flowed through.
He blinked at a circle of light that shone on his hand beneath the reed. Peering through it again, his eyes were dazzled. How long had they slept? Richard looked at his three companions. Iranzu was wedged next to him, and Leila was on the far side of the cramped space. Sheltered between Iranzu and Leila lay Maríana. They were still asleep. Why not let them rest a while longer?
He closed his eyes and drifted. Everything that had happened whirled around in his head, all of it jumbled into a dance of images. Maríana shivering in the cloak he had wrapped around her. Leila ordering him to dig a grave between the roots of the oak. She had brewed a pungent drink over the embers of their fire, had made everyone down the bitter brew.
Leila had taken pity on him. She had pushed a steaming cup of the vile stuff into his hand after he had dug down a full measure, had ordered him to drink it and to help Iranzu take down the shelter, while she buried the baby. The drink had revived him somehow. It was the most amazing thing, this drink that tasted of tree bark and rotting weeds. Richard had been certain that Maríana could not take another step. Yet she had climbed steadily beside him through the remainder of the night, over ground that glimmered in the half-light of clouds reflected off icy slopes.
As the sky grew lighter, they had pitched Iranzu's goat skin tent beneath a twisted pine. Iranzu had put Leila and Maríana in first, then had climbed in after them, leaving Richard to follow, showing him how to lace the opening together and position the reed through the slit so they would not smother.
Iranzu had told him that he hoped snow would cover the tent, that the Jakintzas often traveled in winter and used the small tents, pitching them where snow would insulate them and disguise them. Their tents were small and the goat skin was tough and black. When covered with snow, the tents looked like rocks.
It was good to sleep in such tents, even though everyone must curl into a sphere in order to fit. Richard moved his elbow now and held his breath as the elbow joint made an audible crack, then his heart skipped in his chest when he heard something outside. A bear? Leila had told him there were bears up there. He held his breath and listened. No. It was footsteps he heard. Footsteps crunching in a regular gait through snow drifts. And voices.
"Not here, my lord," he heard, then very close, Baron de Reuilles' voice.
"Check over there, will you? I will search this area."
Maríana's father. Surely they could go to him, couldn't they? But no, Maríana had told him Louis-Philippe's name was on the Inquisition's list. Richard pulled his lip between his teeth when he heard more footsteps and another familiar voice.
"Find anything?" It was Bauçais. Richard knew this voice, the northern inflection rendered in a low rumble. His blood chilled. Bauçais wore the red and white of the soldiers of Christ. Richard had heard stories of the swath they had cut all across the south, of mutilations and burnings. As he had traveled through Provence on his way to Bourdeilles, he passed more than one manor house that was no more than a blackened skeleton against the golden hills.
He reached for his sword where it lay at his side.
"No, we are just about done with this area," Louis-Philippe was saying. "Maríana must have traveled all night."
"She is not alone." Henri's voice sounded strained. "My squire found tracks, underneath the pines back there, that the snow had not covered."
Richard heard a heavy scraping, then the walls of the tent quivered. He clutched the hilt of his sword, drawing it up to his cheek and feeling the chilled metal against his skin. Bauçais must have leaned against the tree that stood beside their tent.
"We think there may be two or three others who are with her," Henri was saying.
"Perhaps we will catch up with them," Louis-Philippe said. "But we must be cautious. If she has been taken for ransom, she will not be harmed. If we alarm whoever has her, they may panic. I would rather pay the ransom."
"Do you still doubt that she was taken?" Henri's voice was louder the louder of the two, with a rasping edge.
"There was no ransom note."
"They still may send one."
"I have left instructions with Johanna on what to do if she receives one."
"But you believe Maríana was not taken." Henri's voice was barely a whisper now.
"Not out from under our noses, no." The tent shifted again. Richard was holding his sword so tightly his fingers were going numb. He forced his grip to relax. Louis-Philippe was speaking. "If she were taken when she was outside the walls, yes. But everything we have found so far tells me that she left of her own will." Silence now. Richard kept his ear by the reed. He heard the steady drip of melting snow. The sun must be high, the day warm.
"Why would she leave?" Richard could not tell who was speaking. The voice was ragged and hollow.
"I cannot say for sure." This was Louis-Philippe. "When her mother died, I gave Maríana to Johanna and my sister to raise. From a
ll they have told me about my daughter, she is very like her mother. Stubborn, but strong."
There was a long pause. Voices floated on the air. Richard tried to distinguish them, to count the searchers, but Louis-Philippe's voice cut across the others. "They never saw her cry, not once." Another stretch of silence followed, then, "I believe that if she fled, she had good reason."
There was silence for a few heartbeats, and Richard heard Henri again. The iron was back in his voice. "But we will continue to search."
"Yes." Footsteps now. "We are finished here, but there is a place over there that..." The voices faded into the distance.
Richard let out the breath he had held. If the searchers came for them he could cut through the laces, roll out of the tent and come up swinging and take several men down before he fell, but could Maríana and the others escape? How many knights were there? Of the four of them, Richard was the only one who was armed. He listened. There was shouting in the distance, Bauçais was yelling out orders, and closer, the tapping of water against crisp snow. Richard took several deep breaths to slow the speeding of his heart. Then he shook Iranzu's shoulder. "Wake up!" he whispered. "It is daylight and some people were here."
"Who?" Iranzu whispered back.
"The Baron and Bauçais. And maybe some other men," Richard said quietly. "They may come back. We need to get away."
Iranzu reached over and touched his two granddaughters. "Maríana," he said. "Can you travel?"
"Yes."
The tent shifted as Leila felt Maríana's forehead, her wrists. "She is fine. When do we move?"
"Soon now. But we must take down the tent and gather all our things in perfect silence," Iranzu warned. "Even if we are out of their sight, sound travels far in winter stillness." He touched Richard's knee. "We will travel northeast to Canigou. You must follow us and keep watch behind. But do not speak. Speed and silence are our only hope now."
A moment later the four flowed out of the tent. Richard saw tracks everywhere. He could not tell if the tracks were made by many men, or by a few walking over their own footsteps. There was no time to assess the marks they had made, but he could not see anyone nearby when he peered around the dense pines. From time to time voices drifted to where he stood, setting his heart racing. Yet each time he heard them, the voices seemed to be receding.
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